Somebody's Crying

by Somebody's Crying (retail) (epub)

  ‘I don’t have a problem,’ he hears his old friend Tom snarl. ‘Seems like you do, though.’

  Oh shit, Tommo! Can he have really got that stupid in Jonty’s absence? Must have been a while since he’s dealt with a bunch of cretins. On cue, three of the heavies edge forward, singling Tom out. Jonty shakes his head. He’s done it now.

  ‘Hey, pansy!’

  ‘You got something to say, pretty boy?’

  All but one of Tom’s mates pull back and merge in with the crowd. Unfortunately the guy sticking by him is too small to matter. What is that guy’s name? Jonty recognises him but can’t recall.

  The cowardice of the others makes him want to crack up with laughter. He can almost hear what is going through their heads. Please don’t let me be associated with him. I don’t want my face broken! What pissants. Back at school, he and Tom used to hate guys like that. Occasionally he and Tom got into a fight. Never provoked one, but it would happen sometimes. Once Tom got his nose broken sticking up for Jonty. They both prided themselves on the way they never took shit from anyone. So where are your new friends when it matters, buddy? Jonty feels like jeering from the sidelines. Looks like they don’t want to know you!

  It suddenly hits him that he’s going to see the shit kicked out of Tom Mullaney and the idea is . . . well, kind of appealing. Jonty leans back against the wall. Call it karma! This will go down better than the concert . . . It starts quickly with three onto Tom.

  In spite of being off their faces, those heavy pricks know how to move into position when they want to. Jonty is still at the door so he doesn’t quite hear what has been said, but the three surrounding Tom have pushed him into the middle of the crowd. There is a lot scuffling and shouting. Jonty sees the security guys talking anxiously into their mobile phones. They must be calling for reinforcements from inside the concert hall. Jonty hopes one of them is ringing the police because they won’t be able to handle these guys. Suddenly all the noise is drowned out by a particularly loud number from the band inside the main hall, but the excitement in the foyer has nothing to do with music.

  The heavy one in front starts to push and shove Tom.

  ‘Ah, fuck off, you fat bastard!’ Tom yells. Jonty groans inwardly. Not a good idea!

  A hard jab to the chest catches Tom unawares. He falls backwards – Jonty can see he’s probably winded – almost onto the guy hovering behind, who uses the opportunity to smack Tom sharply around the head before he can even catch his breath. The little guy comes to Tom’s aid but he’s swatted off like a fly. Still, Jonty is impressed. Full marks for trying, shortie! The rest happens in a matter of seconds. Tom turns around and jabs a hard straight left to the fat prick’s chin, and you can see the surprise on the heavyweight’s face. Not a bad punch for someone who has been hit already. If it were just between him and this guy, Tom might have a chance, in spite of being half his weight. But the two sidekicks are standing by for such an emergency. They converge on Tom quickly and begin the clean-up. One grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back, while the other one punches into his ribs, then gets him fair in the face. Crack! You can hear his nose break. The gushing blood gets everyone screaming, as though they only now understand what is happening. To be fair, it has all happened very quickly.

  A couple of fresh security guys run out from the hall.

  ‘Okay now!’ they’re all yelling. ‘Break it up!’ But they’re worse than useless, in their neat blue uniforms. Tom is still being pummelled, smacked around from one to the other of the cretins, as the guards try to fight their way through the crowd.

  It is what happens next that Jonty can’t handle. Tom is on his knees and that fucking fat prick starts kicking him, a couple of times in the back and the ribs, then in the arse and then Jonty reckons that he must have got him in the balls because Tom lets out a horrible scream. He curls over onto his side and the crazy shit-for-brains continues kicking him. While he’s down! What a low dog.

  Jonty loses it. He doesn’t think at all, just runs full speed towards the fat guy and catches him completely unawares from behind. One in the side of the head, one in the eye, then one straight into his chin. Shit but it hurts! Jonty hasn’t punched anyone in a long time and his knuckles feel broken. But the heavy guy is falling backwards, so Jonty is able to deliver two more hard ones. He’s in luck, too, because by this stage, security have waylaid the moron’s mates so for five seconds it’s just Jonty and the fat prick, and Jonty is winning.

  The adrenalin kicks in and there is no pain in his hands any more. He doesn’t feel a thing except pure exultation. Boxing was the one useful thing his old man ever taught him. And Jonty passed on what he knew to Tom.

  Even though Jonty is way lighter than this guy, he knows how to use the weight he has. Being completely sober is a big advantage as well. He manages to dodge a couple of wild punches and place another two sharp uppercuts into the slack fleshy gut, then another fast hard jab to the rib cage. The big guy’s labouring breath is music to Jonty’s ears. He’d like to kill him now. Finish him off.

  Two security guys are pulling Jonty off when he gets in the best one yet, a truly beautiful left hook into the ugly fat mouth. It has the guy’s head flipping back like a ball tied to rubber. When he raises his head, Jonty sees his lip is bleeding from a gash about three centimetres long. The guy shakes his head a couple of times and spits big globules of bloody saliva onto the carpet. Along with that comes – joy of joys – a tooth, bouncing out onto the floor. Jonty hears the police sirens outside. He turns to Tom, who is trying to get up from the floor.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Jonty says, hauling him up by the back of his bloody jumper.

  Tom nods woozily and searches for a hanky to stem the blood from his nose.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Jonty says. ‘Come on!’ He pulls Tom back towards the side entrance he’d seen earlier. ‘Let’s get out before the coppers arrive, hey?’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  It’s freezing outside, but Jonty is so pumped he barely notices. He feels amazing. He’s walking on the moon. He’s got one arm around Tom’s shoulders helping him along but in his head he’s reliving those punches. The wind is howling, the rain is spitting down like ice needles onto his face and he’s really not thinking much about where they’re headed. Main thing is to get away so they don’t get caught up with the coppers, giving statements, being fined and all the rest of that crap. In spite of limping a bit and breathing hard, Tom’s clearly doing his best to keep up. The gasps and stifled groans tell Jonty he isn’t feeling too hot though.

  When they come to the end of the main street Jonty takes the left turn up the hill, away from the centre of town, towards where Tom lives. Once they’re out of the shopping precinct and into the quiet residential streets, he figures it’s safe to slow down a bit.

  ‘You okay?’ Jonty asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom says but it’s obvious he’s not. Jonty keeps his arm around his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll get you home,’ he says. ‘You can take it from there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They walk for a bit in silence. Gradually Jonty’s high begins to drain away. He can feel the growing stiffness between them. Up Manning Street they go, past the swimming pool, then along Russell Crescent up into the nice area of town. Jonty takes his arm away and looks around at the big houses set well back from the road. He hasn’t been up here for a while. His grandmother still lives somewhere around here, along with the doctors and lawyers and others with loot. Tom’s old man being one of them. Jonty used to virtually live up here with the Mullaneys when they were mates.

  Tom suddenly slows right down, then stops and bends over.

  ‘Jeez, I’m crook,’ he groans. He stumbles over to the edge of the road and then back again to the nearby fence.

  Expecting him to start puking into the hedge any minute, Jonty retreats. But Tom just slumps onto the fence. When he turns back, Jonty sees his face in the street light, streaked with blood. Swollen eye closing over fast.
Busted nose.

  ‘Be okay now,’ Tom says hoarsely, and then, as an afterthought, ‘Thanks, Jonty.’

  ‘I’ll get you home,’ Jonty says quickly.

  ‘Nah. It’s okay.’ Tom waves him away, turns his back and starts walking off, as wobbly and out of control as a drunk. ‘I’m just a few streets up. Thanks a lot though, Jonty.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jonty watches him teetering off, thinking that Luke’s house is actually at least half a kilometre away and the last bit of the walk is uphill.

  ‘You sure?’ Jonty calls uneasily.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ Tom yells back, without turning around.

  ‘Okay.’ Jonty watches him walk away, wretchedness seeping through him like foul water. It keeps on coming, deep and bitter, filling him up. He leans back against the fence totally overcome with it. Tom doesn’t want to know me, even after I saved his arse! Jonty tries to shake the feeling, tells himself it doesn’t matter, but it sits there like a thick, doughy and immovable growth in his gut. Cold. He feels cold. Goose bumps rise over his body and he clenches his teeth to stop them chattering. He is freezing hard against the wall. Worse, he knows he deserves it. He has lost his rightful place among other human beings. Has to be. If he could just remember then he’d go tell them all about it . . .

  Ah shit. Not all that again. Got to move on or he’ll go crazy. Got to get home and get warm then he’ll feel better . . . Jonty walks off back the way they’d come. There is something vaguely familiar about the street, but he can’t think what.

  When he comes to the kerb, something makes him turn back to watch Tom stumbling up the hill like a drunk. Right at the moment he turns the corner, Tom topples and falls, first onto his knees and then lower, his head right down on the pavement.

  Jonty hesitates only a moment then sprints back up the hill. Tom is lying curled up on the ground, spewing his guts out and groaning. Jonty grabs him under the armpits and hauls him into a sitting position against the fence. Tom sits gasping for a few moments, and then tries to stumble up onto his knees.

  ‘You need a doctor. Got a phone?’

  ‘Nah,’ Tom groans. ‘Didn’t bring the friggin’ thing.’

  Jonty bends to look into Tom’s face. It’s only half visible in the poor street light but he sees enough.

  ‘Should get you to the hospital,’ he says, straightening up and looking around at the surrounding houses for any sign of life. But there is nothing doing. These joints are big, with long driveways winding back from the road, the houses hidden behind trees and hedges. It is hard to tell if anyone is up and about.

  ‘I’ll go knock on a door and ask to use the phone for an ambulance,’ he suggests, not exactly relishing the prospect – rich pricks don’t like being disturbed. ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘Nah,’ Tom groans and waves off the idea irritably. ‘Just give me a minute will you?’

  ‘Don’t play the hero.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Tom says again. So Jonty squats down next to him. They say nothing for a while and gradually Tom’s heavy breathing eases a bit.

  ‘You did good back there, Jonty,’ Tom whispers at last. ‘Didn’t see you. Where did you come from?’

  ‘I’d just been for a piss and saw what was happening.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ Tom laughs. ‘That fat shit had lead in his boots.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your old man had his uses, I reckon!’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  ‘One, anyway.’

  Jonty smiles to himself in the darkness.

  Suddenly a taxi turns the corner and pulls up outside the massive place opposite. A door opens, spilling yellow light out over the street. The three passengers, all female, confer in loud voices about who owes what for the ride and when they’re going to see each other again.

  Jonty finds the sound of the taxi radio weirdly comforting. Someone else is alive at least. Only one of the girls gets out. She stands on the footpath and waves to her friends as they roar off. Then the dark figure of the girl in a long heavy coat moves off towards the front gate of the mansion and Jonty is on his feet.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he calls loudly. She doesn’t turn around, just hurries faster towards the gate. So he runs halfway across the road to get her attention. ‘Excuse me,’ he calls again, louder this time.

  She stops and turns around. He waits on the road, afraid if he goes any closer that she’ll be scared. ‘My mate is sick. Wondering if I could borrow your phone to ring an ambulance.’

  She walks back towards the road and when she passes under a streetlight, Jonty finally sees her face.

  Oh shit.

  It’s his cousin and that place opposite must be . . . his grandmother’s joint. That’s why it seemed vaguely familiar! The last time he was here was when he was about twelve. Jonty pretends not to recognise her as she slowly walks across the road towards him.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Her voice is sharp and suspicious. She hasn’t twigged who Jonty is yet, but she doesn’t seem too nervous, which is a relief. If you approach some females in the street at night they act like you’re about to rape them.

  ‘He was attacked,’ Jonty says. ‘Don’t really know how bad. Some moron was kicking into him.’

  She moves forward and her jaw literally drops in shock when she sees Jonty up close. Her former confident expression changes into a blank, deer-in-the-headlights kind of stare before her eyes start flitting about this way and that, as though she’s looking for some escape.

  Jonty wants to laugh. Yeah, it’s your own personal nightmare, babe! Mine too. But he doesn’t. He keeps his face absolutely straight. He can see she is seriously freaked, but what can he do? ‘He needs some kind of help,’ his voice peters away.

  Alice walks over to Tom – who is still sitting up against the fence, his head hidden between his knees – and bends over to take a look. She says something that Jonty doesn’t hear and Tom looks up. His blood-streaked face in the street light is suitably impressive and she gasps. Alice looks from Tom to Jonty and then back again, her face slowly closing over, but she doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Think I’ll be okay,’ Tom manages to whisper hoarsely.

  ‘Bring him inside,’ she mutters. ‘I’ll call a doctor.’

  So Jonty and Alice get on either side of Tom to help him up. He groans a bit but allows them to help him across the road and up through the huge wrought-iron gate, which opens easily. ‘What about your grandmother?’ Jonty say politely, on his best behaviour, trying to let her see she doesn’t have to be afraid of her infamous cousin.

  ‘My grandmother?’ she sneers sarcastically.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jonty takes a confused look at her. She’s angry as well as afraid. ‘Will she mind?’

  ‘She’s your grandmother too,’ is her sharp reply.

  Jonty reels slightly in shock. Fuck! ‘Will she mind?’ He keeps his voice low and calm.

  ‘Take a bombing raid to wake her up,’ his cousin snaps back.

  ‘Deep sleeper, huh?’

  ‘Drugged to the eyeballs every night.’ She gives a harsh laugh.

  They have made it up the long drive and are almost at the house. Stone steps lead up to the front entrance but she takes them around the side to a wooden door set in the stone building blocks under the verandah.

  A dim naked bulb spills light over a neat little room. A small square table and chairs, a sink, a stove and a couch. The low ceiling makes it seem as though it’s in miniature proportions, even though everything is of a basic size.

  ‘The slave quarters, huh?’ Jonty quips dryly.

  ‘Yeah.’ A sudden small smile hovers briefly at the edge of Alice’s pretty mouth, but she won’t meet his eyes. ‘You could say that.’

  She leads Tom over to a single bed covered in a rug under the window. He slumps down with a groan and curls up on his side.

  ‘I’ll call our doctor,’ Alice tells Jonty, matter-of-factly.

  Tom opens his eyes a bit and shakes his head. �
��Nah, don’t do that,’ he groans. ‘Can I just rest here a bit? I’ll be okay soon, I reckon.’

  Alice looks at Jonty but he can only shrug. They both know Tom should be checked out by someone – sooner rather than later. She looks at her watch. ‘It’s nearly midnight on a Saturday,’ she says. ‘Hospital Emergency will take forever. Our doctor will come any time day or night. In fact, he likes coming at night.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘More money in it for him.’

  Tom looks up at this. He obviously finds the girl baffling, too.

  ‘He likes keeping her alive,’ Alice adds grimly as she heads for the door.

  Jonty decides not to comment because he doesn’t want to get her offside. ‘Okay, then,’ he says. It’s the best solution. If Tom went to the hospital then he’d have to wait there with him and it could take all night. The police would probably get wind of everything, too. It could get very awkward for both of them.

  ‘Clean him up a bit,’ Alice orders, pointing at a door at the far end of the room. ‘The bathroom is there. I’ll have our doctor here soon.’

  ‘Okay. The patient is Tom, by the way. Tom Mullaney.’

  ‘I know who it is,’ she says over her shoulder, then closes the door quietly behind her.

  Jonty wants to go after her, tell her not to worry, that neither of them are people she should fear. Then the wretchedness is back, magnified by the small room and his cousin’s quiet contempt.

  He looks down at Tom, whose eyes are now open.

  ‘God,’ Tom mutters suddenly. ‘This is very fucking weird, Jonno!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jonty doesn’t know whether to laugh or howl. ‘Very fucking weird.’

  ‘How did we get here?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  TOM

  Tom opens his eyes. Where the hell is he? There are voices. Low. He looks around but sees no one. There is something hard on his face, spread out across his nose and cheeks. Feels like concrete. He raises one hand. It’s some kind of plaster bandage. He tries to sit up but everything feels tight. His face. His chest. His arse and legs. Everything hurts. Nausea rides in on a wave, but after a few dry retches it recedes. He has no idea where he is. This room, the low ceilings and the funny little pieces of odd furniture – it’s like a film set. Darkness, except for the hard bright slabs of sunlight shining through the blind slats and across the small table. Afternoon light, has to be. So how long has he been here? It’s not a proper bed, more like a settee. He feels like he’s been kidnapped. It’s the kind of place they’d throw you if they wanted information. What information have I got? Are his interrogators going to walk in any minute?