by Bill Condon
'Make sure you've got plenty of room to duck back down,' Troy warns. 'Wouldn't want to get your head stuck – might hurt.'
'You worry about your own fat head,' I say.
Here comes the rattler. Two or three hundred yards off yet.
Troy waves out to the driver, who sees him and blows the train whistle long and loud; keeps blasting it all the way along the track.
I'm not going to be the chicken this time. But neither is Troy.
A hundred yards.
It isn't slowing down.
Fifty yards.
Bugger it – I'm the chicken.
I dive for cover and a split second later so does Troy.
A thousand tons of train rumble above us.
And then –
Errggh! Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!
Troy almost splits his face, he's laughing so hard.
Someone went to the toilet on the train.
I got peed on!
'It's not funny, Troy.'
'It is from where I'm standin'.'
I wash my face and hair in the creek and Troy gives me his shirt when I throw mine away.
'Go on, admit it,' he says. 'It was fun.'
All the years I've known Troy it's been like this. I tag along behind him and I usually end up getting into trouble. Sometimes I even get peed on. But like I say to him, 'It's always fun.'
5
My life is neatly divided into two halves: home and school. There's nothing else.
Today it's school.
I'm sitting at my desk when I hear shouting in the quadrangle. Everyone swivels around to look out the windows. Our teacher, Mr Harris, is too busy having a good gawk himself to stop us from watching. We see two figures: Brother Mick, the Principal, and Zom Zeeba, who's in the same class as me.
No one's seen anything like this before. Zom swings wild punches. Mick can't get close enough to stop him. Broad daylight. Middle of the quad. A kid fighting a Brother – fighting the Principal. For a second I wonder if I'm dreaming it. Every one of us would love to knock Mick's teeth out. We're all too gutless – except for Zom. He's the last one anyone would expect it from. He's slow and sleepy-looking; plays the violin; chess is his favourite sport. Plenty make fun of him but he smiles it off. He's a loner and it fits him. I've never thought much about Zom at all, but if I had, I'd have seen him as being like me, another grey dot in the background. He's more than that.
Mick reminds me of a gnarly old tree, tall and tough; run up against him, you die. It's almost like two against one. He tackles Zom and wrestles him down. Drives a knee into his back. A few in our class shudder and moan as if they can feel the knee crunching into them. A few more murmur: threats and curses. Mick hauls Zom to his feet. The fight's nearly all blown out of Zom now. He staggers as Mick pins his arm behind his back and half-marches, half-drags him across the quad.
When Zom tries to pull away Mick cranks the arm up higher. Zom roars out his pain and anger. His voice rises louder and louder until clear across the school all we hear is the word fuck. He keeps on saying it, wailing it. It's like a one word language that expresses everything he feels. No one swears at our school. At least not loud enough for the Brothers to hear. You'd have to be out of your mind to do that.
Mick bellows back at him. It's an animal noise, nothing human. He takes Zom by the shoulders and shakes him, screaming into his face. Then he shoves him backwards and Zom stumbles around, reaching out, trying to find something to hold him up. He loses his balance and down he goes. A dozen classrooms circle the quad and from every one of them erupts the sound of pit-bull boys booing and shouting their hate.
The quad is suddenly full of swirling black habits that look like frenzied, wing-flapping birds; the Brothers running, their voices charging ahead of them: 'Stop! Stop! Noooo!'
Zom rolls himself into a ball as Mick stands over him poised to kick.
Mr Harris slams his cane against the wall. 'RETURN TO YOUR SEATS!' He grabs Stuart Whitmarsh by the scruff of the neck and heaves him towards his desk. Kennedy and Tukac get the same treatment. 'The show is over! Sit down – and do it QUIETLY!'
Harris rushes from window to window dropping the blinds with a crash so we can't see anything. But we've already seen it and it's never going to go away.
6
It's the only thing we talk about at the first break from class, replaying every scene like last night's best TV show. Simon Portelli is the star reporter. Before the action spilled into the quad there was an argument outside the Science block. Simon saw the whole thing.
'Mick starts goin' off at Zom about stealin' a wallet when we got changed for PE. Zom doesn't have a clue. He's like, "What wallet? What are you talking about?" Mick says, "You're a liar, son! A liar and a thief!"'
Portelli pauses to grab a fresh breath. His eyes dart around like a jittery animal at a waterhole. No Brothers nearby, so he launches himself into it again.
'You know how red in the face Mick gets? Well, it's like he's on fire this time. Completely loses it. Pushes Zom up against the wall. Jabbin' his finger into his chest. Keeps on at him – "Admit it, boy! You stole that wallet! Admit it! Admit it!" And when he doesn't, that's when Mick punches him. In the gut. Closed fist. Full on. Hard as he bloody can!'
After school, outside the gates, Zom slumps on the concrete with his back against the brick fence. He must have been sitting there for hours, waiting for us to come out. Still in his school uniform. Blood spattered on his white shirt. A group gathers around throwing questions at him. The fire that he had in the quad has vanished. He's the soft-voiced no one again, the chess player thinking through every word as though it's an important move. He speaks without any anger, without any feeling at all. It's as if he's describing someone else's fight, one that he's seen from a great distance.
I stop to listen but Troy doesn't want to be there. He squirms and fidgets before he nudges me, mouthing, 'Let's go.' I stay long enough to hear Zom fill in the only blank I wasn't sure about.
'I got expelled.' He shrugs. 'Just like that. All because of something I didn't even do.'
Troy edges away and I follow him. I'm the only one who knows what he's feeling. We're well clear of the others before he speaks.
7
'Christ, Neil. It wasn't supposed to be like that.'
'I know.'
'I don't even know why I did it.'
All I can do is nod as I think back to this morning. We'd just finished our exercise routines down in the huge old tin shed the Brothers call a gym. Most of the class was already on the way back to school but there were a few lagging behind, slow to change from their white shorts and T-shirts back into their uniforms.
Troy and I were there. We both saw Paul Burke drop his wallet on a bench. He had his back turned and was bent over, tying up his shoelaces. It took about one second for the wallet to disappear. Troy nodded towards the door and took off. I went with him, not sure what was going on. At first I thought he was only mucking around, thought he'd dangle the wallet in front of Burkie and say, 'Hey, look what I found' – something like that. But he got out of there fast and never looked like stopping. Zom blundered towards Burkie as we walked out. Just in time to be the prime suspect.
'I never knocked anything off before, you know that, right?'
'Sure, I do, Troy.'
'It was crazy. I dared myself to do it. It was so friggin' dumb!'
'Hey, Troy. It's okay. You can still fix this.'
'You think so? How?'
'Simple. Tomorrow you hand the wallet in to Brother Mick, that's how. Say you found it.'
'Aw, sure. It's that easy.'
'It is!'
'Yeah, and he'll know straightaway I took it.'
'How will he?'
'Where you been, Neil? Wake up! One look at my face and he'll know! They always know!'
'All right. Fine. But you have to do something. Sneak into his office. Leave it on his desk – you gotta get Zom out of this.'
'You think it'll change anything? He took a
swing at a Brother. I can't get him out of that. No one can.'
'You can try.'
'Just shut up about it, will ya? Leave it alone. Leave me alone. I don't want to talk about it.'
He only takes a few shaky steps before he turns to face me.
'I know what I should do,' he says. 'And I wish I could. But I just can't. All right? It's too big now, Neil. All I want is to forget it ever happened. You can understand that, can't you?'
In my mind maybe there's some hesitation, but I don't let Troy see it. He's my best friend.
'Yeah.' I walk on with him. 'I understand. It was just bad luck. Zom'll be all right ...'
Even as I say it I doubt that it's true.
'Thanks, Neil. I owe ya.'
Troy pulls the wallet out of his pocket and chucks it into the bushes beside the road. I see it land, the money untouched and jutting out from inside it. One lousy five dollar note.
8
I have this annoying problem that gives me a lot of trouble: a conscience. All afternoon it gnaws away, nibbling at my thoughts. After I leave Troy I decide to go the long way home – past Zom Zeeba's house. I don't want to do it. I hate the idea. But I don't think I've got a choice. I'm never going to tell Troy I did this. He might think it's some kind of double-cross. It's not. No way am I going to mention that wallet. I just think I should check on Zom, let him know that someone has his back – even if only for a little while. I'll spend five minutes with him at the most, so he knows that he's not alone, and then I'll go.
It sounds like a phony baloney exercise, I know, but I only want to cheer him up, I'm not signing on to be his best mate. Five minutes – in and out – and my conscience will be clear.
* * *
The door is opened with a whoosh, as if someone is trying to pull it off the hinges. In front of me is a short and chunky man; no hair on his head but plenty of it – grey and matted – on his bare chest.
His way of saying hello is a glare.
I tell him I'm a friend of Ray's – that's Zom's real name. I don't get any further than that.
'Raymond no live here no more. You see him at he sister's place. He disgrace. For himself, the family – disgrace. You know about this?'
It takes me a moment to assemble my thoughts – this has to be Zom's father – he's so full on he rattles me.
'Um, yeah,' I say. 'If you mean about the fight with Brother Michael. Yeah, I know about that. The whole school saw it.'
'Bloody. Bloody. You no hit man of God. You no hit man of God and live in my house!'
He's fired up and ready to attack. I don't like to contradict him, but I have to.
'It wasn't Ray's fault,' I say, too feebly. 'Brother Mick – the Principal – he was belting into him. Ray fought back, that's all. He didn't do anything wrong.'
'No? You think? Nothing wrong? Are you joke me? He hit man of God! You understand? Huh? Is disgrace!'
I take a step back so I'm out of his punching range. I want to tell him that Mick isn't a man of God, he's a bully and a dickhead. But I decide it's best to keep that information to myself.
'You want see Raymond?' His eyes are intense and furious. 'You go see he sister. Sylvana. Raymond there. I threw out. Out of my house! He no good!'
He stomps inside and slams the door.
Well, that was interesting. I've just been blown away by the human version of a cyclone. So that's where Zom got his fighting spirit from. Or his crazy streak. I feel relieved to be getting out of it all. I did my best. Copped a blast for my trouble. Okay, conscience, now you can go back to sleep. Yes, I feel sorry for Zom. He gets beaten up by a Brother, then expelled, then kicked out of home. I hope he's okay, but it's not my problem anymore.
'Wait. Please. You wait.'
I spin around and see a woman hurrying towards me. She's built wide and close to the ground. It's Zom's mum, for sure.
'You are Raymond friend?' she asks.
Zom hasn't got any enemies – he lopes along content in his own headspace – but he hasn't got any real friends either. I'd rather his mum didn't find that out – not from me at least.
'I'm sort of his friend. My name's Neil.'
For an awful second I think she's going to hug me, but she makes do with a very grateful smile.
'You forgive my Mario? Yes? I sorry. He upset today.'
'Sure.'
'Is what he was taught – the Church. You must honour. You know? Is terrible what happened Raymond. "Out of my house!" Mario say. "Out of my house!" He no listen me, no listen Raymond. Holy Mother! Is terrible.'
'I wish I could help you ... but anyway – good luck. Let Ray know that Neil said hi. Okay?'
As if I haven't spoken at all, she says, 'Number 23.'
'Right... what about it?'
'Morton Street? You know this one?' She points down the road.
'I know it.'
'Number 23, unit 8; my Sylvana's flat. Raymond, he with her. You go see Raymond now? Yes?'
I want to tell her that I can't do it but she's looking at me with so much hope.
Oh well. It's not much further to walk.
'Yeah. Of course I'll see him. While I'm here. Might as well.'
9
Unit 8 is perched on the top of four steep and twisty flights of stairs. A striped orange cat is parked outside the door like a furry doormat. I knock and hear footsteps inside. Locks are turned and the door opens. The cat darts in.
'Yes?'
A girl. She's probably in her early twenties. Way too old for me. She's pretty.
'Hi. My name's Neil Bridges. I was told that Ray Zeeba lives here. I'm in his class at school.'
'Ah.' She pokes her head back into the flat. 'Raymond. You've got a visitor.' And then she looks at me again, half smiles and opens the door wider. 'Come in.'
She's very pretty. I can't help but stare. Her dark eyes bore straight in to me. They stay there for three seconds, tops, before she looks away. Only three seconds but it's still a record. Girls don't usually bother to look at me at all. When they do I see a message flashing in their eyes that suggests now would be a good moment for me to drop dead. I don't get that this time. I see question marks. I feel she wants to know who I am, what I'm like. I have the same questions about her, but I don't think I'll ever find out the answers. Girls like her, they're way out of my reach.
She bustles ahead to scoop some clothes off the only chair that I can see. It's in front of the TV set. There's no other furniture. The room is small and stale.
'Raymond! What are you doing? Someone's here to see you. Come on.' She turns back to me. 'He won't be long. I think he was having a shower.'
'There's no rush.'
'I'm Sylvie. Raymond's – Ray's sister. He's staying with me for a while. Did you say your name was –'
'Neil – Bridges. Hi.'
'Hi, Neil.'
She puts out her hand and I hold it for a second too long, in some kind of first hand-holding trance, before I snap out of it and shake it as if it's just an ordinary hand.
'Did you hear about the problem Ray had at school?'
'I saw it happen. That's why I'm here. Wanted to know if he's okay.'
'That's nice of you.'
'I'm amazed that his dad kicked him out.'
'Yes, Dad can be a handful. Ray and I both love him to death but he's got some very old-fashioned ideas. I couldn't live up to his expectations either. I'm afraid I'm not the good Italian girl Dad was hoping for . . .'
Zom appears in the hallway, drying his hair after the shower.
'Ah, here he is,' Sylvie says, 'at last. You've got company, Ray.'
'Aw, Neil.' He gives me a nod. 'I didn't expect to see you here.'
He's got a curved red mark in the shape of a comma under one eye and his top lip is puffy.
'Thought I'd check up on you,' I tell him. 'See if you've booked a rematch with Mick.'
He grins at that – reminds me of a big shaggy dog wagging his tail.
Sylvie walks to the door. 'I'm ducking down to the
shop – we need some bread and milk. I'll leave you two to talk. Good to meet you, Neil.'
'You too.'
Her smile has warmed up. That first one she found for me was cautious. The latest is friendly and welcoming. I wish it was more than that.
10
Zom runs a hand through his brown jungle of hair. His hair's always like that, and he's usually got his shirt half hanging out, the way it is now. Some blokes come packed and ready for life; some are like Zom.
'I'm glad you came.' He squats down on the floor and I do the same. 'I haven't heard from anyone else at school. I don't suppose I will.'
I let that go past without a comment. But he's got it right. Most of the blokes in our class have a laugh at Zom's expense – I'm no exception. He gets singled out because he's backward in some things. I don't mean dumb or retarded. It's more that his thoughts take a while to drop into place. He thinks everything through – he's big on pondering. You tell a joke and he's usually the last one to get it. It could be because he wasn't born here and he's grown up with other kinds of jokes than the ones we tell. Or maybe Zom just listens and ponders because that's what smart people do. I don't know what it is with him – but he's different to us.
A few kids in our class saw The Night of The Living Dead and they came back to school the next day with his nickname: Zom, short for Zombie. They reckoned he was like one of the walking dead, the way he lurched along in a brain fog. He didn't mind it. Big joke to him. Insults bounce off Zom and never seem to leave a mark. He's like Superman for the Nerd team.
When you get someone like that, and you throw in hobbies like chess and playing the violin, well, he'd better like his own company.
'How did you know to come here?' he asks.
'Your mum gave me the address. I saw your father first. He's a piece of work, that bloke – almost took my head off.'
'Sorry, Neil.'
'Doesn't matter. He told me what happened. Kicking you out. That's a low act. Didn't he see how your face was cut up by Mick?'
'That didn't mean anything to him.' He shrugs. 'I understand how he thinks. It's black or white with him. No in-between. I hit a Brother. It doesn't matter why I did it.'