He parked the bus on the side of the road where Gosling wouldn’t see it and walked the remaining distance to the foreman’s home. Gosling’s house was prim and tidy and seemed anxious with the strain of being eternally on its best behaviour. He must have seen Satchel walking up the driveway because he came out to the porch wearing his dressing-gown and slippers, a stub-faced toddler lolling in his arms. “O’Rye?” he called. “What brings you here, at this time of the morning?”
Satchel stopped in the garden, hugging his coat around himself. “I’ve been thinking about that job with your brother-in-law, Gos. I’d like to take it, if I can.”
The baby was gumming a corner of her bib and Gosling prised the material from her grip, grinning and cooing at the child, but the face he turned to Satchel was solemn. “Mrs Gosling was speaking to Tom a couple of nights ago. Apparently he’s already got someone in mind for the job. He got tired of waiting to hear an answer from me. I’m sorry, Satch, I should have told you.”
Satchel felt as though the ground had rippled beneath his feet. “No,” he said, “he can’t do that. I’ve got to have that job, Gosling—”
“And I wanted you to have it, Satchel. But what could I say? A man can’t wait for ever when he’s got work to be done.”
Satchel glanced helplessly around the garden. Mrs Gosling grew fuchsias in the fashion that he hated, the foliage posted high on one thin brown stick. He couldn’t think of anything to say and he knew that if he did speak his voice would be high as a bell, taut as a wire. The baby gurgled wetly and Gosling jiggled her in his arms. “Has something happened, Satchel?” he asked.
Satchel looked down at the grass. His boots were soaked and he wondered distantly when they had become so. Water made his vision murky and he blinked it away. He heard the foreman ask if anything had happened to Laura, and shook his head mutely. “What, then?” Gosling demanded.
Satchel sniffed, and lifted his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I just needed that job, that’s all.”
Gosling regarded him, rocking the toddler absently. “I suppose I could phone Tom,” he mused, “find out what plans he’s made. Mrs Gosling might have got her story a bit fuddled. Tom’s a busy kind of bloke, he might not have got around to actually doing much. Might be thinking, not doing. Come inside and I’ll give him a ring.”
Satchel stepped onto the veranda and hooked off his shoes. Everything was as neat and sparkling inside the house as it was on the outside, and Mrs Gosling had rules that kept it that way. There was no sign anywhere of the children who lived here, no toys or scuffs on the walls. A woman who kept house so strictly, thought Satchel, was not the sort to get her story fuddled.
Gosling lowered the baby onto a rug in the lounge room and tickled her many chins. “It’s just me and Annabella at home these days,” he told Satchel. “Mrs Gosling goes to the shop and the kiddies go to school, and me and bubby have to take care of ourselves. Don’t we, bubba? Yeah, we do. You and your fat old dad.”
Satchel watched the baby pawing at its toes while Gosling went into the hall to make the telephone call. He wasn’t thinking anything, and his mind felt smogged and empty. When the child twisted and made to slap the hot bars of the heater it took him a moment to unlock his mouth and say, “No.”
The baby looked at him, her eyes a deep blue, lashy inheritance from her father.
Gosling returned, his brows drawn together. “Not answering,” he sighed. “Not home.”
Satchel nodded: it seemed a result he’d expected. “Thanks for trying, anyway,” he said. “I’d better go.”
“No, you wait.” Gosling shifted the toddler from her place near the heater, the child keeping her legs straight out before her while she moved through the air. The foreman sat on the couch and put his hands on his thighs, eyeing Satchel intently. “Something’s happened, I can see that. You don’t have to tell me what it is. You need money, do you? Or you need to get away from here? One or the other.”
Satchel shuffled his feet. The heater was roaring, scorching the back of his jeans. Gosling leaned into the couch and pondered the ceiling. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll ring Tom tonight and find out what he’s up to. If he’s got someone else in mind, if he’s already got the job fixed up, there’s not much I can say. It’s not fair to chuck a man out of work he’s already been promised. If, on the other hand, he hasn’t promised anyone anything, I’ll tell him that you’re ready whenever he is. All right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell him you can be packed and on your way within the next couple of days. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
Gosling looked sideways at him. “You promise me, O’Rye?”
Satchel nodded jerkily, and Gosling hefted himself to his feet. “Good,” he said. “I’ll do my best. Now, cup of tea?”
“No. Thanks, Gos. I have to go.”
Gosling ambled after him down the hall. “You ring me tonight,” he instructed, “after eight. I should have spoken to Tom by then.”
“All right.”
Gosling held the door open but stood, for a moment, blocking Satchel’s way. “You’re not in trouble, are you?” he asked. “You haven’t done something you shouldn’t have done, have you?”
Satchel smiled. “Kind of.”
Gosling shook his head sadly. “Well, you need me, you know where I am. We’ll go on the run together. You and me and Annabella.”
“I’ll speak to you tonight. Thanks again, Gos.”
“Yeah,” said Gosling, “that’s my pleasure. Take care.”
Satchel waved when he reached the front gate, and the foreman raised a hand in saluting reply.
He sat at the wheel of the bus and wondered where he should go. He supposed people were looking for him by now, determined to retrieve their bus. He smiled blackly to think of what they would say to each other: the men in the O’Rye family could obviously not be trusted around school transport. His mother, he knew, would be cross at him. She hated theft, and Satchel had stolen the bus. He could take it back, park it in the school yard and slink stealthily away, but that would leave him with no means of getting home except to walk, or catch the passenger bus. He was not in the mood to wait at the stop, shivering and exhausted, wrung with fretfulness. He started the engine and headed home the way he had come, keeping to the quietest streets until he turned onto the old road and the countryside opened around him, vacant as a desert.
He parked the bus outside Chelsea’s house, trusting she would know what to do with it, and walked to the main street. It was just over two hours since he had left his home and not all the shops had opened for the day, but Timothy’s Take Away rolled up its shutters at dawn and Satchel ducked through its doors. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty but when Timothy looked at him expectantly he ordered a toasted sandwich and took a seat at the table. It was cold inside the store because Timothy begrudged the expense of heating, and Satchel clasped his hands between his knees. If word had travelled about his theft of the bus Timothy would surely know of it and have something to say, but he said nothing, his bird-like back turned to Satchel as he grilled two pieces of bread. Satchel bowed his head and closed his eyes.
The buzz of the alarm at the door made him open them again and he saw Boxer Piper cross the floor, yank open the refrigerator and take from the shelves a carton of milk. He said with authority to Timothy, “And a packet of Winny Reds.”
Timothy scarcely glanced at the boy. Boxer waited, but the shopkeeper did not snake a hand into the cigarette shelves and finally Boxer kicked the counter peevishly, dumping from his fist a scattering of coins. He whirled, and spied Satchel. “Hey,” he chirped. “Heard about the bus, Satchy. Cool. That was so cool.”
He propped opposite Satchel and wiped away strands of his coppery hair. Boxer was twelve, and precocious. “All those kids are going to think you’re a legend, nicking the school bus. You shouldn’t have brought it back – you should have just kept driving and driving.”
“Hmm,�
� said Satchel. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Hate school. Not going any more. How’s the mutt?”
“OK.”
“Huh. Must be shitty, running over your own dog. Have you got a cigarette?”
“No.”
Boxer pouted. Timothy stalked to the table with the steaming sandwich on a plate and waited for Satchel to find some money. He could not find enough, and the shopkeeper’s face wrinkled. “You can pay the rest next time you come in,” he said.
“You maggot!” squawked Boxer. “You’re a prick, you are! How many years has Satchel been coming in here and buying your crappy food and you’re worrying about a few cents! I’m gonna open a shop one day and send you out of business.”
Timothy sneered. “You’re never going to do anything. You’re a waste of space.”
Boxer held up a finger and Timothy glared at it malevolently, evidently tempted to snap the digit from the boy’s hand. Then he turned and creaked to the kitchen, disappearing beyond the flyscreen strapping. Boxer grinned at Satchel. “We could piss in the deep fryer,” he said, “but I think he does that already.”
Satchel passed him a triangle of sandwich and the boy demolished it rapidly in wide famished bites, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s. The toast left a moustache of crumbs on his lip and he stuck out his tongue and brushed them onto it. Satchel asked, “Have you heard from Leroy?”
“Yeah, he phoned a couple of days ago.” Boxer found a lump of cheese congealing under a nail and nibbled at it with teeth too large for his head. “Says he’s got a girlfriend, but I don’t believe him. He’s just making it up. Chelsea believes him, though. Says Leroy’s voice was all gooey, so it must be true. Not that she’d know anything about girlfriends and boyfriends, but.”
“You shouldn’t be mean about your sister,” said Satchel.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s your sister. And she never says anything mean about you.”
“That’s because I’m so cool,” said Boxer.
Satchel dusted his hands over the plate. The toast had stuck in Boxer’s throat and he coughed raucously, pounding his ribs. Recovered, he asked, “So what are you gonna do now?”
“Go home.”
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. The cops might have staked your place out. You know what I reckon you should do? You should wait at the tracks and jump a train. I’ve been thinking about doing that. I’ve got it all planned out, I know the best spot to jump from. I’ll show you, if you want.”
Satchel smiled. He rested his chin in his hands. His mind seemed to be swimming through a quagmire strewn with metallic debris and he felt tired enough to lie down and sleep, right there at the table. Boxer waited for a reply to his offer and, getting none, pushed out his chair and hefted the milk carton. “If you need me,” he said, “you know where I am. I’ll see you later, Satchy.”
He went, the milk bumping against his bean-pole legs. Satchel sat alone for some minutes more, struggling against drowsiness. When Timothy came out to see what was happening, Satchel took his plate to the counter and shambled into the glare of the morning. He took the route he knew well enough to walk with his eyes closed: past the shops, past the houses, past clumps of fenced untended land and then, when he reached the sign that had once advertised the service station, cutting diagonally across the concrete yard and up the front steps of his home.
He was aware, immediately, of raised voices and a tightness to the air, as if the voices required more oxygen than the house could hold. He paused in the shadows of the hallway, sure the shouting was the end result of all that had happened to him that morning and knowing he could delay his fate, if he wanted, that he could sneak away easily and they would never know he had been here. He listened while he hesitated, and heard none of the words he expected to hear. It dawned on him what was happening and he was suddenly running.
The young electrician Jamie was bailed up against a kitchen wall. His washed-out eyes were bulging and his arms were raised defensively. William was storming back and forth in front of him, shouting, his voice throttled with rage. Laura was plucking at her husband’s sleeve and the words she was using to distract his attention were tripping from her frantically.
Satchel ducked past her and squared a hand against his father’s chest, forcing him away from Jamie. The electrician leapt sideways, the same movement mice make in a moment of freedom from the claws of a cat. “Dad!” Satchel cried. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t talk to me, Judas!” William bellowed back at him. “You traitor! You reprobate! How dare you ask payment for the things I do!”
Satchel closed his fingers in his father’s shirt, keeping his elbow locked and William effectively pinned. He glanced at Jamie, who was scuffling backward to the kitchen door. Seen by Satchel, the electrician blurted, “I thought you were joking. I thought you were – joking—”
“Go,” said Satchel. “Go, now.”
And Jamie went, in a streak of garish flannel, the screen door banging shut after him. Satchel turned to his father, who was not struggling. Laura, too, was standing still, a hand pressed to her mouth. Satchel’s heart was pounding, and for a moment the kitchen was quiet enough for him to imagine he could hear it thud tautly in his chest. Then, “Have you finished?” William asked frostily.
“Calm down, Dad—”
“I am calm. You can see I am extremely calm. While I am pinioned by Judas’s hand at my throat, what else could I be?”
Satchel released his grip and William straightened his snarled shirt. Satchel looked at his mother, who was blinking at the floor. There was money wafting over the boards, a blue note trapped under William’s boot. “Let me tell you what happened here this morning,” said William, and Satchel let him, although he already knew. “That young man, whom you have just seen flee, came knocking on our door some ten to fifteen minutes ago, wanting to pay me for repairing his father’s generator. I told him that I do not accept money for what I do willingly, but he claimed my son told him that, contrary to what I believe, I am always paid for the good work I do. He said my son joked that the money should be paid straight to himself, so he might go to a hotel and use it to buy alcohol. But the young man thought it best if I received the money directly, as it was I who repaired the generator.”
Satchel only looked at him, and Laura said nothing either, but William said, “Please don’t try to deny it. Please, do not insult my intelligence by denying what is cruelly obvious to me. My son has been taking money for what I do. You have betrayed my promise to God. I have kept the ways of the Lord, and have not wickedly departed from my God, and you, a devil, have made mockery of His kindness. You have prostituted me. You have sold my soul.”
“It’s not Satchel who’s—”
“Mum, don’t, be quiet—”
“No,” snapped Laura, jerking up her head, “I will not be quiet. Satchel is not the one who has taken money for your work, William. It was me: people pay me for what you do. I’ve been given the money, and what little there is of it I’ve used to buy food for you, and clothes, and to pay for the water you drink, for the electricity you use, for the petrol to drive you to church. I pay for your paintbrushes, for your haircuts, for your bootlaces, for your newspapers, for everything you prefer to believe has simply fallen from the sky. God hasn’t provided any of those things, William. I’ve provided them – I can remember writing the cheques. I can remember asking shopkeepers to give me just one more week to find the money, just one more day. I’ve kept you alive and clean and fed, William, for years. I don’t know what God has been doing all that time, but He certainly hasn’t been taking much notice of you.”
William watched as she got to her knees and began collecting the money, crunching each note in her hand. “Traitors,” he muttered. “Lord, hear me in my trouble. The Lord my God will enlighten my darkness. The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer. Hear me, Lord, for I am surrounded on all sides by traitors.”
“Yes, no doubt
you are. But we need the money.”
“My God, help me. For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me, they pierced my hands and my feet—”
Laura clicked her tongue impatiently. “Stop it,” she growled. “Just stop it, William. Go to your room and quieten down.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“I don’t want you to pray for me. Your prayers don’t go anywhere. They don’t do anything.”
William gasped: he made a move towards his kneeling wife but Satchel grabbed him, and spun him. For the smallest splinter of time father and son looked into each other’s eyes and Satchel saw that William was not angry, but damaged, and drifting, and old. He let his fist go through the air anyway, let it take with it all the distress that had collected in him that day and all the fury and frustration that had kindled in him over years. He hit his father as hard as he could, wishing he could hit harder, wishing he could hurt his father so much that the pain would never ease, that he would feel it every waking and sleeping moment for all his days that remained. It was a terrible satisfaction, to feel his knuckles collide with William’s skull.
His father dropped to the floor and rolled sideways, bumping against a leg of the table and curling around it like a worm. Blood was spurting from his nose and was smearing his neck and chin. Satchel’s hand smarted but the satisfaction he felt was suddenly not enough: engulfed in resentment and pleased by the sight of what he could do and wondering why he hadn’t done so years ago, he might have reached for William’s collar if Laura hadn’t shouted, “Satchel!”
She shepherded her son away from her husband and Satchel could see she was outraged: she batted at his face and shoulders and he dodged clear of her flailing arms. “What did you do that for?” she screeched. “You tell me, Satchel, why you would do such a thing!”
Satchel stumbled, and lied. “He was going to hurt you—”
Stripes of the Sidestep Wolf Page 12