April Fool's Day

by Bryce Courtenay

  Tom would often visit Damon after school when he was at home with a bleed and they became very good friends. We all liked him. He was always rather pale and very shy, but a nice boy with good manners and, quite frankly, we felt sorry and a little responsible for him.

  Tom felt about motorbikes the way Damon felt about a Ferrari and, sometimes, on weekends he’d arrive wearing a black leather bikie jacket. I know Damon secretly cherished the idea of a jacket but couldn’t admit to doing so, because Ferrari drivers didn’t wear jackets with a silver skull and crossbones painted on the back.

  One afternoon Damon arrived home from Cran-brook clearly distraught. He’d been away from school for a couple of days and, during this time, Tom and Jason, the son of a well-known Sydney academic, had broken into the computer room at Cranbrook and stolen four Apple Macintosh computers. The two boys had been seen and later identified by one of the gardeners and Mark Bishop, the headmaster, had instigated an inquiry at which both boys were to be represented by their parents. Tom and Jason were expelled from Cranbrook. Later Mark Bishop, the headmaster, told us that Damon had come to see him before the hearing and had admitted to knowing of the plot.

  “I asked him if he’d actually involved himself,” Mark Bishop said to me.

  “No sir, I had a bleed that day,” Damon replied.

  “Well, would you have been with them if you hadn’t had a bleed, Damon?” the headmaster then asked him.

  “I don’t know. Probably, sir,” Damon said, then added, “When you’ve got friends you have to stick by them.”

  Jason, a very clever boy, was accepted by another school and the incident faded into his childhood. But Tom never went back to school and started to hang around Kings Cross. Soon he was smoking pot and doing a fair bit of posing as a tough kid. Occasionally, he’d arrive late at night and tap on Damon’s window, and, unbeknownst to us, Damon would let him into his room to sleep on the carpet.

  Now, almost four years later, Tom was back. He simply arrived at the house in Talfourd Street one afternoon on a Yamaha 750cc to visit, having traced Damon’s whereabouts through a mutual friend. Soon Tom became a regular visitor to Talfourd Street and seemed to like being with them, saying very little but quietly enjoying the rowdy house. He also found Damon some hi-fi gear at a remarkably low cost through a contact he had in the Cross. The gear was obviously hot but Damon was much too anxious to have music back in his life to ask too many questions.

  That first time Tom visited, Celeste was very quiet all afternoon and during the evening when he stayed for dinner. Later, after he’d gone and she was sitting with Damon as he lay on their bed, Damon asked her what she thought of Tom.

  “He’s okay,” she said, dismissing the question with a shrug.

  Damon then told her the story of Tom’s expulsion from Cranbrook. “You don’t like him, do you, babe?”

  Celeste, who has great difficulty hiding her feelings, frowned. “No, it’s not that. It’s not even his expulsion from Cranbrook. My sister was expelled from Sydney High; anyone can be!” She screwed up her pretty face in a quick grimace. “It’s…well, I know his type. He’s like Davo, he’s from the Cross.” She looked up at Damon. “I’ll bet he doesn’t work at a gear shop like he said.” Then she added, “He ate nothing at dinner except a mouthful of pumpkin.”

  “He never ate much when he used to come home.” Damon looked up at Celeste. “Tom wouldn’t lie, I know that for sure. You know what he once did? When Mark Bishop, the headmaster at Cranbrook, asked him during the inquiry over the stolen computers whether I’d been an accomplice, or would have been had I not had a bleed, you know what he said? He said, ‘Damon would never have agreed to do it. That’s why we did it on a day when he had a bleed."’ Damon looked up at Celeste. “Why would he lie now?”

  Celeste smiled, “You’re probably right. It’s me, I think I’m a bit drunk…I’ve had too much of that white wine Tom brought.”

  Tom would sometimes be away for weeks then suddenly emerge without an explanation and they soon gave up questioning him. He’d sold his motorbike and would arrive by taxi, often in the early hours of the morning, unannounced. He’d simply work one of the windows open and be asleep on the battered old lounge when someone happened to walk into the living room. Once he broke a window to get in and Damon told him he’d have to stop coming. Tom fished into the inside of his leather jacket and produced a hundred dollars which he threw on the lounge. “Fix the bloody window,” he said and walked out.

  Damon felt guilty for days. In all the years he’d known Tom I’d never even heard Damon raise his voice to him. Although Tom was hyperactive and just naturally jumpy, with Damon he was always calm. Now Damon knew he’d hurt him terribly. So when Tom arrived back a couple of weeks later Damon was quite glad to see him. It was during the day when he was alone at home. Nothing was said about the window and Tom seemed his old self. It was Celeste’s birthday in two days’ time, on the Friday, and they were going to have a surprise party for her. Damon hadn’t told Celeste about Tom’s hundred bucks. He’d simply paid for a pane of glass and some putty from the local hardware shop and Andrew had fixed the broken window. The remainder of the money he’d kept to fund the grand surprise party. An invitation to the party seemed a natural way to square things between the two friends and Tom promised to come.

  On the morning of Celeste’s birthday Damon woke feeling rotten, his knee was playing up again and he gave himself an early transfusion in the hope that he’d be okay by nightfall. Sam, Paul and Andrew were given shopping lists for food and grog which they could get on their way home from tech and uni and Damon had given them all that remained of Tom’s money to buy the party stuff.

  Celeste recalls going off to uni worried about Damon, who seemed more distressed than usual and had almost forgotten to wish her happy birthday. Increasingly these days he seemed unwell – not his bleeds, which she was used to, but he simply felt unwell ("ratshit") and sometimes he seemed incapable of facing the day, as though a dreadful malaise had set in. He never complained and fought hard to overcome his feelings in front of her, seldom giving in, but often, by the time she returned at night from university, he’d be drained and exhausted. He was much less the old cheerful Damon she loved and sometimes she felt she couldn’t breathe with the anxiety she felt for him. It was as though her heart was being squeezed by a hand, not tightly, just sufficiently for her to feel that something was terribly wrong and slowly getting worse. Something over which neither of them had any control.

  Damon had planned a special present for Celeste. It was a small, original ink drawing of two zebras, which rather cleverly appeared to share the same head, rather whimsical though splendidly and authentically drawn; a well-known artist friend of mine had given it to him as a child. It was a piece he dearly loved and it had always taken pride of place above his bed at home. Celeste had admired it greatly and it had travelled with them, always resuming the same spot over their bed. Somewhere along the line a bit of damp had crept into the cheap frame, warped the paper and slightly discoloured a part of the picture. Celeste wanted the paintings re-framed properly but they never seemed to have the money. Now Damon had persuaded a local framer to take the painting in on the day of Celeste’s birthday and while she was at uni to re-frame it so that he could give it to her when she returned. As payment, he had printed five hundred invitations to an upcoming art show to be held at the framer’s premises.

  Damon had somehow to get to the framer, which was about a kilometre away and rather further than he could comfortably walk on crutches with his bad knee. Damon’s legs were getting worse and even on a good day a walk as far as this would be likely to bring on a bleed. But he’d given Sam all Tom’s money to buy things and he hadn’t any left to take a taxi. He spent the morning gathering his strength, cleaning the house as best he could and hoping the bleed in his knee would improve and that, generally speaking, he’d start feeling a bit better, but by early afternoon he could leave it no longer. It took him almost two hours t
o cover the kilometre or so to the framer’s and back and he was exhausted when he returned home.

  In the meantime Sam and Paul had returned with the food and grog for the party and were busy getting things ready. Damon tried to help but they could plainly see that he wasn’t well and both insisted he go and rest, Paul promising he’d get him up well before Celeste was due back.

  Damon was exhausted and, despite the pain and his feeling awfully unwell, he fell asleep. He awoke in the dark with someone shaking him gently. He was groggy and felt ghastly and his knee hurt enormously.

  “That you, Paul?"’ he asked.

  “No, it’s Tom. Paul sent me to wake you. The guests have all arrived and Celeste will be here soon.”

  “Thanks, Tom. Will you switch on the light, please.”

  Tom switched on the light and Damon tried to rise from the bed but he was too stiff and sore. Tom hadn’t seen him quite like this before. “What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed. “You look terrible.”

  “It’s nothing, just a bleed in my knee and I’m stiff. Give me a hand, will you?” Tom helped Damon sit on the bed. “Can you get my crutches please, mate?’

  Tom handed Damon the crutches which lay across the end of the bed and Damon rose unsteadily to his feet. “You’ll have to help me a bit, just hang on to my arm until we get to the living room.” Damon took a couple of steps forward then stopped. “Shit!” he groaned, then turned and took the two steps back to the bed and sat down heavily. He was panting slightly. “You go ahead, Tom. I’ll be okay in a moment. I just need to get a bit of strength.”

  Tom was clearly distressed. Damon had broken out in a sweat. “What’s the matter? Are you okay? Can I do something? Do you need an aspirin?” he asked.

  Damon grinned through his pain – it was more a grimace really. Then he gave a short laugh. “Aspirin makes my stomach-lining bleed. I’ve got some other stuff for pain, but I’ve run out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, Endone. I should have gone to the hospital dispensary for more but I forgot.”

  “I’ll be back,” Tom said.

  “You can’t get them from a chemist, they’re prescription only.”

  Tom laughed. “There’s nothing I can’t get,” then he was gone.

  He returned less than half an hour later. Celeste, later than she normally was, had not yet arrived. Tom went up to Damon’s room and gave him the pain-killers. Then he fished into the pocket of his leather jacket and brought out a twist of silver paper, undid the tiny parcel very carefully and picked out two tiny pills. “Here, try these,” he held the pills out to Damon.

  “What are they?” Damon asked.

  “Uppers! Amphetamines. I bought them from the guy who sold me the Endone. They’re much better than grog. You’ll have a good time.”

  Damon didn’t think twice. Celeste would soon be home and he was feeling like death warmed up; the Endone would kill the pain, but he didn’t feel like a party any more. Maybe Tom’s pills would help cheer him up.

  Tom returned with a glass of water and Damon took the two tiny pills, one purple, the other white. “It takes about fifteen minutes for them to work if they’re going to. That’s a good combo,” Tom said.

  It was almost eight-thirty when Celeste arrived and Damon met her at the door. He was smiling and seemed to be in a terrific mood. “Happy birthday, babe!” he shouted in an exaggeratedly loud voice, not a bit like Damon’s usual quiet though happy greeting. Celeste immediately suspected something, but before she could open her mouth, people popped up from everywhere and someone started to sing, “Happy birthday to you…Happy birthday to you!” Soon the room was filled with everyone taking up the song which was followed by three cheers and lots of laughter and the party was instantly under way.

  Late, very late, in fact very early on Saturday morning, Damon and Celeste were finally alone in their bedroom. He gave her his present. Celeste was a bit smashed and very happy. It had been a great party and Damon had been wonderful all night. She unwrapped the parcel and when she saw the elegant new frame around the zebras she looked up at him; her mouth quivered and she fought to control her tears.

  “It’s yours now, babe. Not ours, yours! I’m giving it to you to keep for yourself, forever! Nobody can take it away from you, not even your mother!” Damon’s eyes were shining and he was grinning like a chimpanzee.

  Celeste fell into his arms sobbing. “I love you so much, so very much. Please don’t ever leave me, Damon.”

  “I won’t, babe. I promise. I’m going to live forever. We’ll always be together. You’ll see.”

  Nineteen

  Teeth, T-cells, Squatting on a Building Site and a Job at Dinky Di Pies.

  Because of his arthritis, which got progressively worse and caused more and more pain, Damon would have great difficulty getting up in the morning and, to compensate, he would stay up very late, working when the rest of the house was asleep. Tom got to know this and took to calling around well after midnight. By now it was apparent that he was pretty well into everything, not just the usual recreational pills, but massive doses of codeine and Valium, in fact anything he could lay his hands on.

  He’d arrive totally zonked, staring glassy-eyed at everything, his speech patterns making little sense and after each flurry of words would come a high-pitched nervous titter. Damon would switch on the television and Tom would spend the night in front of it, the shimmering screen complementing the psychedelic storm happening in his confused head. Damon worked on, knowing his friend was safe as long as he stayed with him. Sometimes, though, Tom would be okay and he’d bring over a joint and the two of them would sit quietly and smoke. I’d like to think that Damon’s use of marijuana stems from this time when it would have been useful to him as a pain-killer, which was how it was later privately recommended to him by a caring medico.

  “Dope", as it is commonly called, has the ability, not only to dull pain, but seemingly also, to remove the body from the mind, so that awareness of one’s physical self is greatly diminished. A great many people with AIDS have turned to it for some relief from their tormented physical presence, allowing themselves to drift into the cocoon-like euphoria which it seems to induce.

  But I would be lying if I claimed the marijuana, or pot or dope or smoking a joint, was something Damon discovered after he was beginning to suffer from the effects of AIDS. After Tom was expelled from Cran-brook and started to hang around Kings Cross in a serious way, he’d occasionally knock on Damon’s window late at night to be let in, and that was when he’d first introduced him to marijuana. Damon discovered how very effective it was for him as a painkiller. He’d continued to use it during bad bleeds whenever he was able to get hold of it. I must be honest and say that it seems unlikely that he would simply have used pot in this way. Celeste testifies to the fact that they would smoke if it was offered casually, but even though marijuana wasn’t very expensive by drug standards, it was usually well beyond their budget.

  Tom was always welcomed at Talfourd Street even though they all knew he was a junkie. He never created a fuss and Damon was the sort of person who was pretty loyal to his friends. Tom was simply Tom, hyperactive, somewhat bent, hooked on pills, pale, often silent, but he was still Tom – harmless enough and in need of friends. He had a habit, which is not uncommon in some young Australian women, of ending every sentence with an interrogative inflection denoting doubt, as though expecting an immediate put-down after everything he said. It isn’t a common characteristic in Australian men, but it was in Tom and it used to drive Damon insane. “Tom, you have my permission to have an opinion. Stop ending every sentence with a bloody invisible query!” But Tom couldn’t help himself – he was lost even among his only friends, though the kids in Talfourd Street were much too nice and certainly too cool to want to judge him. Though Damon might smoke a joint if he could afford one or when he had a bad bleed, he would only take a pill when he faced a big social occasion such as a party.

  Even writing this I feel the
concern which drugs conjure up for many of my generation. I am quite aware of the double standard this indicates. I thought nothing of smoking five packs of cigarettes on a long day and consuming anything up to a dozen beers and probably a bottle of wine. I have, often enough in the past, arrived home sufficiently inebriated to cause distress to my family. Yet I was regarded as a social drinker, and wasn’t thought to have the slightest problem with alcohol. I simply behaved like all upwardly mobile, young Australian executives of my generation. Provided I didn’t beat my wife or abuse my kids, I was simply exercising my male rights and letting off a little steam after a hard day’s work. The idea of being judged a drug addict or alcoholic never entered my mind or anyone else’s.

  I still grow slightly cold as Celeste points out in her matter-of-fact voice that pills were cheaper than grog, that one had a better time on them at a party and didn’t suffer a hangover the next morning. She points out that “Ecstasy” (the “designer” drug) is so common at parties that it is almost unthinkable not to use it to have a really good time. “I can feel a glass of wine inside me,” she said, “two glasses and I can feel it in my head, it doesn’t feel safe. Drugs, not all drugs, but some, are clean, you don’t feel them harming you like grog.” This is a new generation, with new habits; for around the cost of a six-pack of Foster’s you can buy a tiny purple tablet that will keep you happy all night and leave you with a clear head in the morning.