Tom lies there waiting, trying to work out why he has a strong feeling that he’s just been through something big and extraordinary. The mixture of pain and excitement is intoxicating. Was he dreaming about Jonty and Alice? God! She looked so much like Lillian that day in his dad’s office.
Lillian. Ah! In spite of everything hurting, including his nuts, Tom notices suddenly that he’s aroused, and not in your normal, easy-to-manage way either. His cock pushes like burning steel against the zip of his fly. Like it’s got a life of its own, completely separate from the rest of him. There is nothing he can do about it. Even if he could use his hand without pain (which he can’t) he senses there are people somewhere nearby, though he can’t see them. What if they walked in to find him . . . jerking off? He squirms around a bit on the bed trying to ease the discomfort. Think of cold things: avalanches of snow, ice cubes tumbling into a huge glass on a hot day.
But it all rushes back. Lillian. He was dreaming of her. The way he used to. He had her in his arms. He was kissing her again and again, up and down her soft neck. She was pressing herself against him, laughing. He could feel those breasts, the hard little nipples against his chest. Her soft murmurs as he slid his hands over her arse and pulled her dress up. Oh, yeah. No stopping this time, because she wanted him just as he wanted her.
In your dreams, you moron!
When he and Jonty started going around to Lillian’s place after school on a Thursday afternoon to discuss the class coming up, it was just Cokes or cups of coffee for a long time. Sometimes they’d be a little stoned before they got there. She knew, but she pretended she didn’t.
‘None of that!’ she’d say, smiling, putting their little silver packets straight back into their pockets. ‘I will not be an accomplice!’
But when they started going around there at night, usually ten or eleven on Friday or Saturday after they’d been out somewhere else and she’d got home from work, that’s when things changed. Alice was in bed by then, or out for the night staying with girlfriends. Tom and Jonty had usually been smoking already but they’d do more at her place or they’d all drink. Lillian liked vodka. She had this beautiful little crystal glass she always used. She took it very slowly and never seemed to get drunk, but on the other hand she didn’t stop drinking for hour after hour.
Tom and Jonty would leave her place in the early morning. It was always quiet between them as they headed up the hill back to Tom’s place.
Lillian loved Jonty because he was her sister’s kid, and also because Jonty had the same kind of wildness in him that she had herself. But she was attracted to Tom. The physical pull was there all the time, but . . . way too dangerous to put into words. It was hidden under the surface for so long, he began to feel as though it would burst through of its own accord. And isn’t that what happened?
Tom grimaces with pain as he tries to shift into a more comfortable position. He would never tell boastful lies about her. He would never desecrate her memory. He and Jonty were kids in their teens and she was in her forties. Tom was never her lover. Not in any normal sense anyway . . .
It took the cops three weeks to build up a case against Jonty. They were both interviewed by the police a number of times. At first Tom had no idea what suspicions they had. Somehow they’d picked up that he and Jonty had become friendly with her over the past year. At first they talked to them along with a whole lot of other people. Neither Tom nor Jonty had the feeling that they were being singled out.
The first chats with the coppers were friendly. Not held in the police station or anything like that. They teed it up with both sets of parents and came to the house to talk, or else agreed to meet in a café down in the main street.
There were two main guys from Melbourne Homicide. Detective Lloyd Hooper had this really easy laidback style that was kind of entrancing. Not much over thirty, he was tall and handsome and had one of those heavy moustaches that on anyone else would have been totally bizarre but on him was simply eccentric . . . in a good way. He was friendly and personable and his questions always seemed totally innocuous. ‘Just need to get a picture of what was happening in her life, Tom,’ he would say time and time again. ‘We’re talking to a lot of people, as you probably know. Hope you’re fine with that?’
After the embarrassing business of having a close friendship with a forty-three year old woman was out to the way, it was all cool enough.
But Tom held back. Of course he did. He never came clean about his true feelings for Lillian, in spite of the detective telling him all kinds of shit that may or may not have even been true. ‘Hey, Tom, I remember having a big crush on an older woman when I was around your age. Think I was nineteen and she was thirty-eight, and, well . . . she lead me along a bit, I suppose. I didn’t know what was happening really . . . and we ended up in bed a few times. She was my first and I’m not ashamed of it. Just one of those things that happen in life. Did anything like that happen to you, Tom or was it . . . something else?’
‘Well, something else, I guess,’ Tom mumbled.
‘Yeah?’ Lloyd was so understanding. ‘So what was it Tom?’
‘Well, we were friends, and I . . .’
‘You said something else, Tom. Can you explain?’
But Tom couldn’t explain. He didn’t want to and . . . he never did. So he’d come out with some bit of bullshit about them both getting off on history and Shakespeare and the rest of it. Which was true, too. But the detective wanted more and Tom held out.
The other detective was a quiet little guy. His name was Rowen Hill and he seemed to be Lloyd’s sidekick even though he was quite a bit older. He wasn’t half as easy to be with because his eyes darted around all the time. But he stayed in the background mostly, and hardly said anything, so Tom tended to forget about him. Looking back now, he understands they were working him hard for any detail that he might let slip.
Neither of those detectives blinked when Tom told them about him, Jonty and Lillian smoking dope and drinking and dancing together. Lloyd wanted to know all about the poetry sessions and their views about Dickens and Auden and Shakespeare. He never made Tom feel that there was anything odd about any of it.
By the end of the second week it began to dawn on Tom that they were talking to him and Jonty a lot more than to other people, and by the end of the third week he could see that they were really interested in Jonty.
‘What kid of a guy is Jonno?’ Rowen asked. His colourless darting eyes made Tom think of the ferrets that his uncle kept in cages. Lloyd wasn’t there for some reason; maybe he’d gone out for a smoke. This guy was eyeballing Tom strangely, as though he knew about all the stuff that he was holding back.
‘Well, he’s my mate,’ Tom said uncomfortably.
‘Yeah, we know he’s your mate,’ ferret face snapped, ‘so how would you describe him?’
‘I dunno,’ Tom shrugged awkwardly, ‘he’s a good guy.’ But this was patently inadequate even to Tom’s own ears. Hopeless. Jonty wasn’t a good guy! Sure he was good-hearted, but he was also sharp and cool and funny and unpredictable and when they were together Tom sometimes felt as if he was living in a different realm to everyone else. It took up more energy being alive when you were around him. Jonty didn’t just bumble along from one thing to another like other people. He was never content to stay bored.
‘Tell me more about him.’ The ferret was smiling now, trying to make up for snapping.
‘Smart,’ Tom said honestly. ‘Very naturally smart.’
‘You’re close mates?’
‘Well . . . yeah,’ Tom was uneasy.
‘So what does that involve?’ the copper asked. ‘What kind of things do you do?’
‘Ordinary stuff,’ Tom muttered. ‘We just hang out together.’
‘You two get up to a bit, though.’ The ferret was laughing slyly.
‘Not really.’
‘How about that business in the local paper last year?’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Tom shrugged. ‘We were idiots.�
��
‘Pretty dramatic!’
Tom nodded. Panic was rising in him at this point and he wasn’t sure why. He’d already told Lloyd his version of that event and didn’t want to go over it again. But Rowen was chewing his thumb, waiting for him to continue. When Tom turned around Lloyd was standing in the doorway with a sharp watchful expression on his face that Tom hadn’t seen before.
Tom was suddenly absolutely freaked. In a police station, in his school uniform, answering questions about . . . his friends and his life because some woman had been murdered. This was no part of any plan he had for himself. This was . . . shit! How did this happen to me?
From then on he didn’t trust either of them.
And it was at that point that Tom had begun to deliberately disengage from Jonty. It was an almost physical feeling, a bit like the painful peeling away of damaged skin. And it took ages. They still hung out together, they talked and laughed about it all. They rented DVDs and talked about sport. On the outside at least, things were normal until Jonty was charged and put away. But from that moment in the interview room, Tom had been looking for a way out.
‘How about you tell us all over again?’
It was the end of Year Eleven – before they got to know Lillian – and very hot. Tom and Jonty had gone down to the river after school with the express purpose of getting stoned. After about an hour under the bridge they were both off their heads. They walked back into town laughing and kicking rocks, talking about movies they’d seen, singing lines of songs they loved and making plans for the summer holidays. There was a huge sheep transport truck parked on the highway, just outside the service station. The driver was obviously inside the roadhouse getting something to eat and drink.
Jonty stopped talking mid-sentence. He walked over to the back of the truck and peered in at the sheep, squashed together, their heads down, panting in the heat. Tom came up alongside him and peered in too. The smell of piss and shit and wool and misery was strong. Jonty was mumbling to himself as he circled around the truck, his face grim.
‘We should let them out,’ Tom joked weakly, wishing Jonty would hurry up so they could get out of the hot sun. But when Jonty came back around from the other side of the truck his eyes were ablaze with excitement.
‘He left the keys in!’
‘So,’ Tom shrugged. ‘I can’t drive a truck, can you?’
‘We’ll take it anyway,’ Jonty said.
‘How?’ Tom laughed uneasily.
‘Can’t be that difficult.’
But it was. It was very difficult. Crazily so. The bloody thing had fifteen gears! Neither of them had any idea at first, but of course it didn’t take Jonty long to work out the basics. Within a few minutes they were moving, with Jonty driving and loving the whole gear business more with every second that passed. By the time they’d edged the monster out onto the main road, laughter was bubbling and buzzing and fizzing through them like gasoline. Tom’s gut hurt, his eyes were streaming and for a while there he thought he was going to piss himself. Screaming like hyenas they headed straight into the centre of town. Luckily, it wasn’t busy.
Sitting up next to Jonty in that huge monster was something else. Some part of Tom knew what they were doing was totally insane but they were too far gone now to stop.
Jonty was crunching inexpertly through the gears, his face a study of exhilaration. From high up in the cabin, Tom’s home town looked different. Life was up for grabs. He wondered how far he could push out the edges of this boring school-boy existence.
‘Hey, Tommo,’ Jonty turned to him with a grin as they passed the familiar bluestone town hall where they had speech night every year, ‘wonder what this little town is called.’
‘Slumberland,’ Tom said, ‘or maybe Yawning Hills!’ They both cracked up again.
‘We might skip it, then,’ Jonty spluttered, sounding the horn recklessly as they thundered past the swimming pool and post office. ‘Got to be more exciting places! Whaddya reckon?’
Heads turned to watch them but Tom didn’t care. ‘Reckon you might be right there, Jonno!’
Jonty hadn’t quite mastered the brakes and at the corner of Miller and Poling Streets they almost collected a car. But once through that intersection they took the first left down a quiet street that led out to the highway, and were away.
‘Where will we do it?’ Tom said. ‘Not too far, or we’ll get caught.’
Jonty was getting used to the truck. Tom could see he was hell-bent on getting away from the rest of his life.
‘A bit further,’ Jonty grinned, ‘see where we land up.’
The countryside out of town was pristine that day. Green paddocks full of peacefully grazing cows, hardly a cloud in the sky. It was hard for Tom to believe they were doing anything outrageous at all. They burned along the highway for eight kilometres to the Hobson Bridge, and directly after it Jonty made a sharp turn to the right, off onto a narrow lane full of cracks and potholes. Oh jeez. Tom felt his first pang of real concern as he bounced up, his head hitting the ceiling of the cabin. They were going way too fast.
‘What’s this road?’
‘I dunno!’ Jonty laughed. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Slow down!’ Tom said sharply as he was jolted up again.
‘Once we let the sheep out we should just go on, Tommo.’
‘With the truck?’
‘Yeah. We could go north. Up to Darwin. Work it, you know?’
‘Work it?’
‘Hire it out!’
‘It’s registered, you stupid prick. They’d find us.’
‘Not if we take the plates off and . . .’
‘Paint it!’ Tom chortled. ‘Bright yellow!’
‘Yeah!’
The truck hit a particularly deep pothole and they both bounced again to the roof of the cabin. Jonty was finding it hard to keep the thing on the track he was laughing so hard.
Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on when exactly reality kicked in, but when it did if was like being dipped in freezing liquid. They were two seventeen-year-olds, in their school uniforms, without even one driving licence between them but with a wad of strong dope in their pockets. And they were roaring along a dirt track in a huge truck with hundreds of sheep in the back.
‘Hey, Jonty!’ Tom shouted. ‘Stop now.’
‘Gotta get them to water.’ Jonty was bending forward like a racing driver, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead. The little track was heading through dense scrubland and getting narrower and rougher with each minute. Overhanging branches scraped the windscreen from all sides. Then suddenly, to Tom’s relief, they were running alongside a creek. They came to a small bridge, and Jonty pulled up and opened his door.
‘This will do.’
They both got out and walked around to the back of the truck.
‘But how will we unload them?’ Tom asked.
‘Must be a ramp somewhere,’ Jonty scrambled up onto the back gate of the truck.
Then Tom spied a ramp attached to the underneath of the chassis. They fitted the ramp to the back of the truck and Jonty got up and guided the first few sheep down. It worked brilliantly at first with just a trickle of sheep venturing out, Jonty escorting each animal down until it was safely aground. But when the rest smelled freedom at the other end of the ramp they started to bolt. Jonty was pushed out of the way in the stampede and fell heavily on his arse. There were no sides to the ramp and the truck was high. Most of the sheep made it, but too many didn’t. By the time the last one was down, at least a dozen of them lay injured on either side of the ramp.
Tom wandered around trying to get the injured sheep up onto their legs again, but of course they couldn’t stand; their legs, and sometimes their necks and backbones, were broken.
Jonty simply sat there amidst the sheep, looking as though he’d landed on Mars.
It was very hot and there wasn’t much to say. They simply looked at each other.
Tom, suddenly hit with a raging thirs
t, blundered off towards the creek with the rest of the sheep to look for water. He lay down on his belly to drink at the dirty trickle, feeling the full catastrophe creeping in around the edges of his consciousness like a dark shroud. The dope was wearing off fast. This had to be some kind of nightmare!
When he got back from the creek, Jonty was in the cabin frantically looking through the glove box and behind the seats, throwing all kinds of stuff out onto the grass as he did so. Papers and half-finished bottles of soft drink, a bag of tomatoes and about six greasy half-finished takeaway dinners. Tom wasn’t much interested. He squatted in the shade against the truck and tried to think what to do next.
‘You haven’t got a pocketknife, have you?’ Jonty called above the din of the distressed sheep.
‘No.’
‘Here we go!’ Jonty jumped down from the cabin brandishing a large carving knife with a worn curved blade. ‘This will have to do.’ He jumped up again into the cabin and after another minute came down with a small black grinding-stone. He rubbed it vigorously on his jeans and then spat on it a few times.
‘What are you doing?’ Tom frowned.
‘We can’t leave ’em like this, Tommo,’ Jonty replied, rubbing the blade in slow circular movements against the stone, first one side and then the other.
Somebody's Crying Page 12