On the fourth Thursday, Shelley said, “Look, Darren, staring at the walls isn’t going to bring him back. You’re a good bloke, just like he was. Maybe, you should see someone. Talk it over.”
Irritated at her advice Darren looked up at the bar-maid and responded tersely, “The only cunt I want to talk to is the one who killed my mate, do you understand?”
Having said that, he slowly got up, and while his eyes were fixed on her he downed the schooner she had brought him. He put the glass down on the table and walked out. The bar-maid watched as her angry customer left; her eyes welled up. She momentarily excused herself from her work-station. Her co-worker passed her some tissues so she could wipe her tears before going back to pulling beers.
Walking down the street Darren felt the warm air remnant from the day’s heat brushing against his cheeks. He decided to head to Manly, his other stomping ground. A good walk would help clear his cluttered mind. Shelley was right, sulking and being angry was not going bring back his mate. He needed to figure out how to find Eddie and his mates, and make them pay for their cowardly act.
The first port of call would be his old boxing club. Start training. Get fit, so he couldn’t be worn down. Sharpen his fighting skills. Learn how to strike like a cobra. I’m coming for you Eddie. My face will be the last thing you see, my breath will be the last thing you smell, and my knife in your heart will be the last thing you’ll feel. Darren felt the blood in his veins warming.
After an hour’s walking he reached his destination. It was eight o’clock. Still ample daylight. He stood in front of the dark-green door. Darren’s nose picked up the smell of freshly coated enamel paint. The sign on the door read “Private”. Nothing’s changed. Good.
Darren didn’t have his key anymore, so he would have to knock. All members of the boxing club had a key; it guaranteed against unwelcome riff-raff walking in. Because you were only given a key, once it was established you were bona fide. The membership count was around thirty. There was only one girl, Sally. The rest were all blokes. No one ever cracked on to Sally, not only could she kick your balls through your nostrils from the inside up, she was revered as one of the boys.
Darren knocked hard. Nothing. He knocked again – this time with his closed fist, he banged so hard he shook the door in the jamb. Just as he was about to go at it again he heard the latch.
“Well I’ll be fucked, it’s Mango! Jesus Christ, mate, where have you been for the last year? Fucking come in, brother.” The stocky, bald-headed man with dark brown eyes and olive complexion bear-hugged Darren.
“It’s good to see you, mate. Heard about Johnno. Tragic. Terrible. Don’t know what else to say. Come through.” Carlos offered.
“Good to see you too, mate.” He followed Carlos into the gym area.
“See, everything is still the same. A few more members since you disappeared.”
“Yeah, guess I’ve been busy with work.” Darren tried to find a plausible excuse.
“And busy with Johnno. Word gets around you know.” Carlos continued in the direction of his office. “Don’t get me wrong. I liked the man. He helped me out many years ago, when I was a hoon, an idiot tearing muscle-cars around the streets of Harbord. Johnno was there the night my best mate Ziggy stacked his Torana. Slammed it into a power pole. Fuckin’ car split in half, along with Ziggy. Crazy motherfucker.” Carlos sighed and lowered his head, “Johnno helped me out with the coppers, stopped them from arresting me.”
“Bit before my time, but I’m sorry about your friend.” Darren commented.
“It stopped me dead in my tracks, I gave up the midnight drives, the muscle-cars. My parents were relieved, I think. They still let me rent this dive for fifty bucks a week. Good hey.” Carlos had a quick chuckle and rounded his desk to get behind it.
“So, Mango, are you coming back to train?”
Darren responded with the keenness of a recruit, “Yep, if you’ll have me back as a member, I’m training as soon as you’ll let me.”
“Tomorrow arvo?” Carlos seemed pleased.
“Sounds good, mate, but I’m probably working. I drive a cab for Pete, you know Combination Taxis, in Manly Vale. But I’ll be here often. Very often.” Darren trailed the last words.
“You’re on a mission?”
“Just want to be fit. Fighting fit.”
“A lean and mean fighting machine,” Carlos said half-joking.
“That about sums it up.” Darren replied with absent eyes as he gazed at the boxing ring from behind the office window.
“I’m giving you back your key. Tonight. Before you go. But first, you should meet some of the guys, and that one in particular.” Carlos pointed to a well-built, twenty-something, young man sporting a light-brown crew-cut, dancing around the ring. “Just watch him for a minute. He has a unique style.” From his office window Carlos had a good view of the training ring. “See the emphasis on straight-out boxing has shifted somewhat over the last few years. Don’t get me wrong, there are still some purists in the club, but most of the training now is mixed with martial arts. See, watch those kicks. He’s a Thai boxing exponent. He learnt in Thailand. When he came here, some of the old guard arced up, you know … didn’t like change. Whingers. But the younger members were stoked.”
“He’s quick. I’ll say that. Like his kicking style. Very fluid. I appreciate you letting me back in.” Darren thanked Carlos in a humble voice.
“Don’t mention it. You’re a good person. I think you were probably Johnno’s only real friend. The only friend not afraid of him. Probably the only bloke that could kick his arse.” Carlos chuckled, then his face stiffened.
It was an awkward silence. Darren was waiting for it. The question, burning on Carlos’ lips. A recognition of how things were done in their world. A natural order of life. A fighter’s motto. You hurt me and I’ll hurt you back. Touch my mate and I’ll touch you back. Kill my mate and I’ll kill you. That’s how it worked and played out in the fighter’s world. None of this ‘I’m so sorry that this happened to you. We have to learn to forgive the shortcomings of our enemies’. No, your shortcoming is that you’re still alive – but you won’t be after I find you.
“Gonna kill the prick who killed Johnno?”
“When I find him.” Darren said with a face cold as steel.
“Johnno was a good man.”
“Yeah, he was a good mate.” Darren extended his hand to Carlos. They shook hands and exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
As the taxi-driver left the green door shut behind him, he thought, friendship could not be bought, it was earned and paid for, a debt-free arrangement. No amount of currency could pay for Johnno’s friendship, or Carlos’ for that matter.
CHAPTER 24
REVELATION
Sally corrected Darren’s stance. “No, put some more weight onto your back leg, sort of seventy percent back leg, knee bent, not too much, and thirty percent on the front so you can easily lift your front leg and kick out, like this…” She demonstrated the technique.
“It’s a different mindset,” Darren remarked.
“What is?” Sally queried.
“Using your legs. I mean in boxing, hands and arms are your primary weapons. Blending legwork into a sparring session is still not instinctive to me, although I do street fight with leg-work,” Darren explained as he practised a few front thrusting kicks.
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, learnt from Billy ‘Chow Mein’. Remember him? And from you of course,” he quickly added. Darren was starting to run out of puff.
“Hmm, probably three or more years since we first joined. A lot of people have come and gone. Some of us keep coming back.” Sally positioned herself in front of the heavy punching-bag. Without any warning, she turned on her heel and back-kicked the centre of the bag. The bag danced like a giant rag-doll hanging from a rope.
“It’s like leaving home. You go away, out in the wide world of the
unknown, then you come back. Yeah, coming home. Where it feels safe,” Sally reasoned, as she continued sparring the punching bag. Then she stopped to catch her breath.
“I have no commitments, other than my job. It was easy for me to come back. The life I lead with no kids, no mortgage and no partner is simple.” He paused and shadow sparred for a moment, jabbing air. “Sometimes, I do think ‘is this all there’s to it?’
Sally gazed at Darren quizzically. “Dazz, what the fuck are you on about?”
“Maybe it’s the rhythm of life. So easy to fall into the flow of the river and then go with it.” Darren theorised as he stretched his arms out before him.
“You’re getting a bit deep for me,” Sally said before she speared a vicious side kick into the bottom of the bag.
“Glad I’m not in front of you. That would have hurt,” Darren mocked as he grabbed his groin and bent over with a fake grimace. They both broke out in a laugh.
“Anyway, what’s your point about the flow of the river?” Sally asked.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He faced the punching bag and started jabbing, then alternating jabs with punches.
“Still looking for those bikies aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah, still looking. Don’t worry, those bastards will turn up. “
“I’ve had enough,” Sally retreated from the training mats, “I’ll catch you later. Don’t smash the bag to pieces, will ya?”
Darren spied her lithe body as she walked to the lockers. Too bad, she’s batting for the other team. He could nearly hear himself saying that and turned his attention to the bag. His mind wandered back to Sally’s last question. He hadn’t found Eddie’s whereabouts. The coppers hadn’t turned up anything either. Unbelievable, so many witnesses present, and no one knew anything. No one talked. No one wanted to know. Except for the good-looking copper with the olive complexion. The only other person interested in finding the killer. But he hadn’t seen her for a while now. He stopped his jabs and punches. Fuck it. I need a cold beer.
The ginger-head bar-maid was still behind the bar. “How are you, Darren?” Shelley reached for a schooner glass. “Same as before?” She asked while holding up a clean schooner glass.
“Yes, Resch’s thanks.”
“Haven’t seen you for a few months,” she finished pouring the beer. “Sorry I can’t offer you this on the house. New management. New computerised tills. The books have to be balanced and all that shit.”
“All good. Appreciate the thought,” Darren replied.
“Wow, that’s better than the last time I saw you. You weren’t as complimentary, as I recall. Four fifty, thanks.” Shelley passed him the schooner and he nodded his gratitude.
“You keeping alright?” Shelley asked as she grabbed another schooner glass.
“Yeah, same old, same old.” He scanned the bar area and was pleased Shelley got drawn away into the busy night, because he didn’t feel like small-talk just in case the bar-maid felt like reminiscing.
A loud group of blokes caught his attention. Tradies. Surfers. He recognised one of them. A tall, lanky dude, with blond hair. Jimmy. The concreter recognised Darren as well and waved enthusiastically.
“Hey, Mango!” the lanky surfer yelled out. He broke ranks and rushed over to Darren. “Fuck me. Haven’t seen you for years, dude.” Jimmy, the surfer smiled.
“Mate, I don’t think years is the right word.” Darren corrected him, “more like six months. At a stretch.” Fucking surfers. The waves are always twice the size. Jimmy ignored Darren’s correction. After exchanging a few more pleasantries the men engaged in catch-up banter.
“So you’re still concreting, I take it. All that hair is gone, though. Too hot for work?” Darren prodded.
“Nah, the girlfriend doesn’t like it long so I had to cut it off.” Jimmy replied. “Yep and still working for Tone from Harbord. Same dude. Must be a year by now. His missus, she’s here. You know her. Shelley behind the bar.”
“Yeah, I remember her.” Darren sipped from his cold Resch’s not committing to the ‘Shelley’ angle too much.
“Busy with work?”
“Been working in Narrabeen. Big fucking driveway and a ramp at this mechanic place.” Jimmy reported nonchalantly. “Thought we’d never get outta there.”
And then, Jimmy dropped a gigantic bomb.
“Fucking bikies. They all fussed over this other bikie in a wheelchair. Dude with really long hair, tatts and stuff. He’s pretty fucked up, though.” Jimmy emptied his beer. He held up his glass.
Darren recognised that ‘holding up the empty glass’ move. Swing it in someone face long enough and they’ll probably shout you one. What was that? Some sort of ‘oh, please feel sorry for me and get the next round or I might pass out from thirst. Surfers were especially good at that.
“Need a refill, mate?” Darren offered with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yeah, if ya don’t mind, ” Jimmy replied graciously.
Darren made his way to the bar. He was curious about these bikies. A bloke in a wheelchair. Lost in a mist of recollections the word ‘wheelchair’ came back in a circle returning for a third time. In auto mode he ordered the schooners and handed over his money. Wheelchair. Wheelchair. Johnno said that word. No. Eddie said the word.
“Your beer, mate. Tell us a bit more about those bikies.” Darren said as soon as he returned from the bar.
“Guy named Eddie, he’s the chief. Fucking cranky shit. Tony couldn’t wait to finish the job. Still hasn’t been paid. Fucking bikies. It’s not like you can hassle them, aye.”
Darren’s ears prickled with instant heat. “Did you say Eddie?”
“Yeah, he’s the boss.”
“Which bikies are they?” Darren’s curiosity was boiling over into cold steel hate.
“Devils something.” Jimmy downed his beer. “Anyway, good to catch up. Better get back to my mates. It’s Carl’s shout.”
“They bought a workshop in Narrabeen?” Darren quickly asked before Jimmy disappeared.
“Yep, behind Garden Street, Warra-something road, can’t remember exactly.” The lanky surfer lost interest and returned to his group.
With the revelation of this news Darren’s emotions bounced between anxiety, excitement and rage. His heart and head were racing. He made his way to the bar and ordered another Resch’s. After draining the schooner within seconds he left the pub.
Back in his unit Darren was restless, he kept pacing in circles around the coffee table, back to the fridge, open it to get another beer. He would do another loop and scull the can. Six beers later. None left. Fuck. May as well go to bed. Sleeping felt like an impossible wish, but finally he nodded off.
He kept waking, in and out of dreams.
He was running after Johnno and panting. Johnno. Johnno. Hey mate, stop pushing that wheelchair, he’s going over the cliff soon. The face in the wheelchair grew large, and then larger. Dark eyes raging, then the face’s long dark, wild hair blowing in a wind storm. He was gone. Eddie was gone…from above Darren could see himself in the wheelchair. But who was pushing him…?
He woke up drenched in a sweat. Fuck, what was that all about? All Darren recalled from the dream was the last bit – a wheelchair with him in it falling into an abyss, and him waking just before it hit the ground.
CHAPTER 25
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
Eddie nailed the last pin into the bottom corner of the sign: ‘Devil’s Sinners MC’. It decorated the large wall in the old work-shop area which was now the ‘family-room’, complete with pool table and beer on tap.
“Do you like that, Lars?” Eddie asked the emaciated, skeletal figure in the wheelchair, barely recognisable from the towering man who used to run the motorcycle club with the resolve and temper of a rhino. “Lars, can you see me, mate?” Eddie leant over and knelt in front of the wheel-chair.
Lars was slouched, his head sat skewed on his shoulders. No strength to hold his body upright and no strength to hold his head up eithe
r. Not like a Viking at all. “Geh, gehh…ggood.” Lars did his best to verbalise and he nodded slowly like a robot. His deep blue eyes had faded to grey, but he was still able to move them and approvingly glanced at the new club sign on the wall. The pale and bony fingers moved slightly where they were resting on his tracksuit pants. Eddie could smell the sour odour of dried urine. Poor bastard, hopefully we can take better care of him here.
Bushy came through the door, the antonym of Lars, short and stocky, quiet-spoken, industrious and selfless. A nice bloke. “Wished I’d met him before,” Bushy meekly remarked as he put a cardboard box on the floor.
Eddie got up from his kneeling position. “Lars, I’m taking you outside, some fresh air will do you good. Jen will be here soon, mate. Get you cleaned up with a shower. Okay?” There wasn’t much reaction from Lars. Often he drifted away into some dark place. Eddie could see it in his friend’s unresponsive eyes. Gone into his black hole again. Can’t blame him. Poor bastard.
Eddie returned within moments after wheeling his comrade out into the shaded courtyard. “He wasn’t always like this, that’s for sure.”
“You were mates way back weren’t you?”
“Worked together at this car dealership in Penrith, as apprentices. Many moons ago.” Eddie retrieved a Stanley knife from the bar-top and cut through the tape stuck to the cardboard box.
“He used to cop a lot of shit from one of the mechanics. Because he was so tall and skinny.” Eddie recalled.
“So what’s wrong with being tall and skinny?”
“Nothing really, unless you’re a short fat cunt with a chip on your shoulder.” Eddie replied. Bushy laughed at the comment. “Because that’s what the fat mechanic boss man was. He used to ride Lars all day and every day. One day Lars snapped and beat the crap out of this fucker. Put him in hospital. Lost his job, nearly went to the slammer for aggravated assault.” Eddie chuckled. “Those were the days.” Eddie stared with a nostalgic smile.
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