This is getting very stupid.
A short string of heavy impacts. An automatic rifle?
Perhaps you should warn Phan. He can’t run.
A man rushed at Brien, his mouth wide open and gasping. Brien could smell the sweat as the man bolted round him and away. He looked down at the camera and realised, dully, that he should have whipped it up to his face the moment the man had appeared. This was it, all that he could ever have hoped for: Brien’s private little war. All he had to do was just stay here and fill the films. Easy, wasn’t it?
A handful of children, a screaming woman, a bunch of men running low and fast, more children, more women and they were all jostling him, pushing him aside, running over him as if they could not see him. A quick hop and a stride and someone was firing a gun in his direction and he was only a part of the seething torrent of isolated people.
He felt his camera bag pounding hard against his leg, thought for an instant about throwing it away, then heard a shuddering string of explosions and almost beside him a man shouting once in anger and pain, and he forgot the bag. But he wasn’t in a panic. He was planning to run out of the crush so he could see what was going on. He just wanted a few moments …
The crowd suddenly reached the Café de La Bohème and the hospital and his car and began pouring into the huge trench the Thai army had dug to prevent the refugees from fleeing to Thailand. Brien swam against the flood for long enough to reach the front seat of the car. He threw his camera bag from his shoulder and fumbled after the keys without thinking …
A woman shrieked through the trees. There was more rapid shooting and an explosion. Getting closer.
Tried one key, tried another, but couldn’t find the lock.
A black wave of men flowed from the forest, eddied round the car and thrashed through the grass.
The key sinking in, turning, the starting motor rocking the car, pumping the accelerator.
Woman sprawled across the bonnet, staring with empty eyes.
The engine won’t fire. Brien took his hands from the key and wiped it on his shirt.
Rattle of gunfire through the trees, close enough to see.
Jesus, Jesus. Brien grabbed the key again, the engine turning, turning and beginning to flatten and wheeze. He kicked at the car.
A burst of fire from ten metres.
Brien threw himself across the seat. Someone panting up to the car. Jesus.
‘Allo.’ Phan, face gleaming with sweat and eyes alight. Leaning against the car with an automatic rifle in his free arm.
Brien pushed himself upright.
‘It will not go?’
Brien tried to say something, but his throat was blocked.
‘They want to fight. Good. You want to go? It is better. Huah!’ Phan shouted at the trench. Shouted again, in anger.
Slowly a man crept from the trench, followed by three others. They got behind the car and pushed.
‘No light, okay?’ Phan stepped from the window.
Brien released the brake and more men and women ran to get a handhold on the car. Brien turned and straightened, dropped the gear into second, slowly raised the clutch and heard the engine cough into life. For a few seconds the engine was drowned in shouts and whistles as the car moved away.
Brien looked into the mirror and saw the crowd evaporate, leaving a one-legged man standing alone on the track, leaning on a single crutch with a rifle in his hand.
He thought, you did it before, you can do it again.
And accelerated for home.
SNATCH
In 1988 the family – Lynne, 13, Peter, 7, Agnes and me – were touring Europe in a French hired car. We were robbed in Naples and Lynne tried to catch the thieves.
The traffic jam stretched from both sides of the winking lights. This side of the lights there was a block – two blocks – of clogged traffic; on the other side, was a stagnant river of dusty vehicles. Green, amber, red, it didn’t matter – the lights were impotent. A tired driver occasionally slapped his horn, but the rest slumped, sweated and pumped fumes into the thick morning air.
Just perfect.
Tony drifted from a grimy lane and onto the crowded pavement. He walked slowly towards the lights and studied the cars. They were nearly all local, which was bad. Even without looking at the number plates he could pick them from their wound-up windows and the bare interiors. But there was a stranger.
Tony stopped and wiped his hands.
Hire car. Family of four tourists with the windows wide open; better the hot petrol air than the sticky air of the cabin. Two kids in the back, and the girl had a bag between her feet.
Tony looked back at the lane, at Marce fiddling with his idling motor-scooter. Marce raised an eyebrow, kicked the scooter from its stand and slid onto the saddle. Tony took a short breath and stepped up to the hire car. He reached inside, brushed the girl’s knees, caught the straps of the bag and pulled.
The girl was screaming, but the bag was swinging from his hand and he was running. Ahead the scooter was roaring, moving.
‘Go, go, Marce!’ He was astride the scooter, catching the first surge with his legs. The scooter skidded sideways and leaped at a scatter of shouting people.
Tony clamped Marce’s waist to him, grinned and looked back, at a man swearing at them, a woman falling over a rubbish bin. Beyond the confusion the man driving the car was simply watching him, not quite aware of what had happened. But the girl had thrown open her door and was thrusting herself out of the car.
Marce slewed the scooter round a hairpin bend and up a steep hill.
The tyres squealed on the cobbles.
Tony looked sideways and down, and the girl was clawing straight up the slope. ‘Don’t slow, Marce! The kid’s after us!’
Another bend, and the rear wheel was slipping sideways. Tony could see the whirl of the girl’s dark hair, her hands clutching at the rocks and the grass. She was not looking up at them now, but she was getting closer.
‘Come on, Marce!’ There was a touch of fright in Tony’s voice.
‘No worry.’ The scooter roared and jumped as it reached a stretch of level road. Marce pulled the scooter round into the road.
‘No, Marce! There!’ A narrow street ran off the road, with a group of youths idling about.
Marce skidded into the street, lifting a hand in brief salute as they sped past a boy with hair set in a black helmet. The boy looked past Tony in slight surprise.
Tony swivelled in his saddle to see the girl pound into the street as the youths casually moved in her way. He tapped Marce on the shoulder.
‘Okay, we’re there. Take it easy.’
The black-haired boy stepped lazily in front of the girl. The girl darted to his left, ducked and ran on. Another boy thrust his leg out; the girl leaped. Youths reached for her; she slid, slipped, shimmied, tore away.
‘Get it going! Get it going, for Chrissake!’
The scooter roared, the wheels scudding on the bitumen.
The girl, very close now, stopped running, lunged and grabbed Tony’s right sandshoe. Tony stared at the girl’s face, which was black with anger and something else. He jerked his foot away and punched the girl in the face.
An instant of white fear.
The scooter rocked, then sped away down a dusty road. The girl dropped to one knee, covering her mouth with a hand. She kept her eyes locked on Tony until the scooter swerved into another street fifty metres down the road.
Tony’s hands were trembling.
Ten minutes later Marce wound the scooter up a steep hill to an abandoned warehouse. He cut the motor and rolled to the flame-haired girl lounging against a wall.
Anita, a splash of bright red lipstick on a pale face, hitched herself on an elbow. ‘You didn’t get caught, then?’
‘Never been, never will. Banditos of the road, hey.’ Marce kicked the stand down.
‘Whatcha got then?’ Anita studied Tony as he climbed from the scooter with the bag. He seemed to be more interested in his ankle.
> ‘The Crown Jewels?’ Marce clapped his hands. ‘It’s gotta be!’
‘I’m bleeding! The bitch clawed me!’ Tony showed them a trickle of blood on the back of his ankle.
‘See, we got something!’
‘Why?’
‘Tony scores from a kid in a tourist car. No big deal, snatch, vroom and off. Except this kid, she comes after us, right into outlaw country. Wolf’s hoods can’t even stop her. She catches Tony – all right, almost.’
‘So you got something special.’ Anita stared at the bag in Tony’s hand, eyes glittering.
‘It’s got to be.’
‘Come on, give us a look.’ Anita reached out for the straps.
Tony pulled the bag away. ‘Easy kid, no need to rush. No hurry at all.’
He idled over to a concrete slab near a leaning industrial waste bin, sat on the ground, held the bag before him and waited for the others to follow. Anita used Marce as a prop as she lowered herself with a yawn and a scratch.
‘The bag?’ Thin leather, scars. ‘Get something for it, but not much.’ Tony turned the bag in his hands. ‘It’s what’s inside that counts …’
He held it high as he reached inside, as if drawing a raffle. ‘Now, what have we here?’
A package of postcards slapped the concrete. Anita picked them up and pulled the elastic band from them. Pictures of statues, churches and ruins. ‘There’s writing …’
‘So we don’t sell them.’
‘Can you read any of them?’ Anita fanned the cards before Tony.
‘Easy! You think I’m stupid?’ Tony tried a high-pitched, terribly posh English girl’s voice. Gran, I don’t wish you were with us any more. See?’ He went on, slower, in a more natural tone. ‘It’s smelly, dusty and crowdy. Dad is getting mad at everyone, including me!’
‘She doesn’t like us,’ said Marce.
‘Ah, they never do. Myra! Just saw this great cat, metal blue and it walks around this castle like it was the owner, or king, or something. Would steal it away, but Mum would yell.’
‘I had a cat once …’ Anita sounded wistful. ‘Different coloured eyes, brown and blue. Then Pa hit it with a bottle.’
‘This kid’s got a guy! Hi Jeff, miss me? We’ve been having picnics all over – Dad’s as mean as ever, but it’s sort of fun, warm bread and the local cheese, sausage. But anyway we had lunch in a ruined church and I got thinking of us. Not the church, you clod! We had a great view of the countryside, and there was nobody there. Just birds and a few cows. Just thought what a wonderful place to have one of our swot binges, hey? Miss you.’
‘That would be sorta nice,’ Anita said. ‘Why don’t we go on picnics?’
Tony looked up at Anita and wiggled an eyebrow. ‘Reckon she’s doing it?’
Anita shrugged. ‘What else is in the bag?’
Tony flourished his fingers above the bag and pulled out a packet of tissues, which he flicked onto the concrete. He pulled out a small carved bird and placed it carefully next to the tissues. Anita reached for the bird, but Tony batted her hand away. A few rolls of films in their plastic containers, a plastic pen, lip moisturiser, a box of tampons.
Tony pitched the tampons onto Anita’s lap. ‘Now these you can have.’
Anita stared down for a moment, before moving the tampons aside.
She said nothing.
A Youth Hostel card: Therese MacDonald of Australia, with a small photo of a cheerful, almost laughing girl.
‘That’s the girl who scratched you?’ Anita sounded surprised.
‘She’s not the same crazy animal here.’
‘She doesn’t look all that different from me.’
‘Just rich,’ said Marce.
Tony continued: a lemon ribbon, a battered notebook, a leaf in plastic, sunglasses. Tony pitched the sunglasses to Anita.
‘Now you can look like the rich bitch.’
Anita put on the sunglasses, tried a movie star pout, but her lips sagged. ‘Not even polaroids.’
Tony pulled a black and yellow camera from the bag.
Anita lifted the sunglasses to her hairline and picked up the notebook. ‘Hey, this is a diary …’
Tony snatched it from her hands. ‘Heathrow – and this fierce woman keeps looking at me like I am carrying a machine-gun… and claws, kid, and claws.’
Marce picked up the camera and fiddled with it.
‘Hey, hey, Dad and Mum have stopped brawling —’
‘Brawling? This kid has got my family!’ Anita grinned.
‘— brawling, even walking hand in hand through Regents Park. Most embarrassing, I try to look like I am nothing to do with them. Isn’t that beautiful?’
‘Not mine,’ Anita said softly.
Marce raised the camera to his eye and pointed it at Tony.
‘Scottish castle, haunted – would you believe it? Anyway, it’s cold and I wish Jeff was about… She’s doing it!’
Anita looked at Tony from behind darkly lidded eyes.
Marce clicked the button.
‘What’re you doing?’ Tony threw a hand in front of his face.
‘Okay, okay.’ Marce opened the camera and pulled the film out, a black ribbon trailing over his shoulder. ‘All right?’
Tony nodded. ‘But don’t be so bloody stupid.’
Marce turned his hands to the sky, then frowned at the camera before him. ‘Tell you what though; this doesn’t look like the Crown Jewels.’
Tony looked again at the black and yellow plastic camera. No flash, no cover, no retractable lens. He lowered the bag to the concrete and tipped the contents out.
‘Oh sheet,’ Marce said.
A broken pencil, a comb, a small chipped mirror, a ring sparkling in the sun and a small ragged purse.
Marce picked up the purse, with nothing showing on his face.
Tony held up the ring, feeling the weight, watching how the brown stone and the flaring leaves took the light. He took Anita’s hand and slid the ring onto a finger. She looked at his face, not the ring.
‘There’s some American dollars. Tourist money.’ Marce was counting.
Tony squeezed Anita’s thigh. ‘There it is. Rich people’s money. We score again.’
‘Ten dollars. Ten dollars, and change for a bus.’
‘Whaddyou mean? There’s gotta be more! Eh!’
‘You count it! You think I can’t count?’
‘Don’t muck around with me!’
Marce hurled the purse at Tony’s chest. The purse fell to his groin, where the notes and the coins sprawled over his legs and stomach.
Anita looked at the money, at the hand on her thigh, at the ring on her finger. She sighed softly.
‘There’s got to be something else!’ Tony was yelling.
Anita lifted his hand from her thigh. ‘My leg.’ she said.
He blinked.
She slid the ring off her finger and pressed it into his hand. ‘Your glass ring. And you can have these, too …’ She reached back for the tampons and shoved them into Tony’s open shirt.
‘What’s with you?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Anita stood up and looked down at the confusion of Tony’s face. The anger faded a little. ‘It’s not a bad ring, a pretty thing. But you’re bad luck now, Tony. I’d be scared with it.’ She shrugged and walked away.
‘Where you going?’
She stopped for a moment, then returned and plucked the diary from the concrete slab. ‘Me? I’m going to find me a cat.’ She walked down the hill.
Tony stared after her before slowly turning to Marce. ‘What d’you think of that?’
But Marce was looking at the sprawl on the concrete and across Tony’s legs: ten dollars, crumpled notes, coins, a ring, postcards, a ribbon, tissues, tampons, lip moisturiser, a hostel card, curved bird, broken pencil, pen, comb, camera, films, mirror, a leaf in plastic, a purse and the battered bag.
He was shaking his head. ‘Why did that kid go crazy over such a little thing?’
Tony folded the d
ollars and pocketed them with the coins. He looked down the empty road. ‘Ah, they’re all like that.’
Tony and Marce gathered up the sprawl, shoved it all in the bag and dumped it in the waste bin.
‘What did she mean, we’re bad luck?’ Tony said.
‘Nothing, forget it. But what about we settle for the old tourists?
‘Just for a while …’
ONLY TEN
When a school in Sydney’s West invited me to talk about Little Brother, a teacher told me of a refugee boy he had taught.
We called him ‘The Shah’ at first. Not that we knew where he came from, just that he looked a bit dark, sounded funny and looked at us as if he was about to have us beheaded.
He didn’t talk much. Miss Ryan tried to get him going on the first few days but it didn’t work.
‘You all right, Hussein?’ Miss Ryan would say.
And he’d look up and say nothing.
‘How do you like the school, Hussein?’
And he’d say yes. Just yes.
‘Anything you don’t like, Hussein?’
And he’d shrug.
‘Oh, there must be something. I think the grounds are too small —’
‘Windows.’ Then he’d look away.
‘Windows? What’s wrong with them?’
The Shah stared through the windows at the asphalt, the fence and the road beyond. ‘They can see in here.’
Miss Ryan frowned and changed the subject.
We tried a bit more. Even tried to be friendly.
‘Where you from?’ asked Pearl. Pearl’s Chinese, ABC – Australian Born Chinese – but she reckoned that because they both looked foreign she had a toe in The Shah’s camp.
The Shah didn’t. ‘Why?’
‘Just wanted to know.’
‘Who are you going to tell?’
‘Is it a big secret?’ Pearl was getting annoyed.
‘Shh …’ Bruce suddenly looked about him like a furtive cartoon character. ‘The Shah is an undercover agent.’
‘Ah, Inspector Gadget!’ Pearl grinned.
The Shah stopped at the corner of the building, hesitated, then seemed to push himself around by centimetres. We waited.
A Taste of Cockroach Page 9