My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  I walk away, but the group follows. Cuppas is on his feet again, leading them, stumbling. ‘Please, Sticks, please,’ he says in a high-pitched whine. The P roars with laughter.

  I dart into the lounge room, which is now a dance floor, and weave between pulsating bodies, keeping to the shadows. Cuppas comes in, but as he stumbles into people, they shout and push him back. He uses the wall for balance. Trying to find me, The P looks through the bodies before giving up and retreating outside.

  Nervous, I go in search of Sam, constantly checking over my shoulder. I move about quickly, check the kitchen, where the fridge is open and nearly empty, water pooling at its base. There's a tub of ice-cream on the bench, an empty bottle of Kahlúa beside it. I go to the hall and look down the darkness to our room, but the door's closed. Even if she was there I'm not sure I'd be game to go in, not now anyway. I'd feel trapped, unwilling to be exposed. Going to the bathroom, the tub has beers and other drinks floating in the melting ice. In the end, I head to the garage where there's a stack of people lying and sitting on mattresses, drinking and smoking. Sam is sitting in a group, talking. She gives me a tipsy grin. There's Mike, Greg, Rachel and another couple—two of Ryan's uni friends. They keep their conversation to themselves, kissing in between sentences. Greg cracks beers and passes them around, but I can't have one. I'm too nervous to drink. After I sit, Mike watches Sam and me, clearly waiting to see something happen. But I keep my hands to myself and watch the entrance for The P or a hulking Cuppas. Sam leans on me, kisses my neck.

  ‘We've been talking about you,’ Greg says.

  ‘What did you say?’ I ask defensively.

  Sam takes her lips from my neck and says, ‘We just wondered where you were, that's all.’

  I roll my shoulders. Mike smirks. The tension in my neck is building.

  ‘What's wrong?’ Sam whispers, her lips virtually pressed against my ear.

  ‘I'm just—’ Then I stop as Mike gawks. ‘Nothing,’ I whisper.

  Rachel moves closer to Greg, lays one leg over his. He then reaches for her other leg and pulls that one over as well. Sam leans on me more forcefully.

  The other couple, probably sick of kissing in front of us, whisper to each other and leave. Going by everyone's expression, we're all glad to see them go. Mike leaves not long afterwards, but not without looking back at Sam with what I interpret to be a hint of jealousy.

  As Sam, Greg and Rachel talk, I watch the goings-on outside through the garage door. People move back and forth with drinks in hand. Ryan sprints across holding another spliff with Mike in pursuit. Moments later Ryan and Mike walk back, Mike now smoking. As it gets later, word gets around that the party is migrating to the beach. People start to leave.

  ‘What's the surf like?’ Greg asks out of the blue.

  ‘Big,’ I say, thinking of what it was like this afternoon when Sam and I were near the beach.

  ‘Want to go for a swim?’ he asks Rachel.

  ‘You're not serious?’ She's leaning on him now.

  ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘It'll be fun.’

  She shakes at the thought. ‘You're crazy.’ She looks at me. ‘Is he crazy?’

  ‘He's crazy,’ I say.

  ‘I knew it,’ she says and stands up. ‘C'mon, then.’

  They both head off towards the surf, but we know they'll stop at the dunes.

  Finally, we're alone. Sam wraps an arm around me. Her eyes are heavy. She smiles. She smells of vodka and perfume. We kiss. Now that the party has moved on, I relax and we collapse onto the mattress. Her hand moves on my stomach and around the edge of my pants. Then it moves upwards, towards my chest. I interlace my fingers with hers and take it away.

  ‘What's wrong?’ she asks.

  ‘I thought I heard someone,’ I lie.

  ‘Who cares?’ She draws me closer.

  We kiss and hold each other, but now my mind is racing. Cuppas’ pleading voice rings in my ears Please, Sticks, please and The P's riotous laughter. I can't go through with this, not here, not now. I look towards the entrance.

  ‘So what if someone sees us,’ she whispers, her lips against my cheek, but I draw away.

  She pulls back, her eyes confused. She's hurt. She stands and irons her clothes flat with her hands.

  ‘Do you want to go to the lake?’ I ask. But as I get up, I don't feel relief, just regret.

  We get out there to find a fire on the water's edge, people gathered around it, sitting and standing. One of Ryan's mates takes a run-up and jumps over it, passing through the flame. There're hoots from the boys, yells of derision from the girls. I hold Sam close. She leans heavily against me. I scan the group. Lisa is near the fire, her arms crossed, staring at the glow. Gez isn't around. I can't see Cuppas or The P, not even Mike.

  Sam and I stand close in the glow. I try to process my thoughts and wonder what she's thinking.

  ‘Sorry about before,’ I whisper.

  She puts her head on my shoulder.

  Everyone around us is absorbed in their own conversations; no one even looks at us. Ryan cheers his fire mate on; a guy drags the esky around in the sand, offering alcohol; a girl pokes a stick in the fire; a joint gets passed around.

  Convinced no one is watching, I lead Sam away by the hand out of the fire's glow and into the shadow of a nearby dune. I kiss her softly on the lips then she kisses my neck again. Not wanting to get consumed by second thoughts, I untuck her top and run my hands underneath. I feel her stomach, smooth and tender, warmed by the fire; her back is cold. She kneels in front of me, lifts my shirt, runs her hands over my stomach, then upwards. My heart bounds. I put my hand on hers as it inches to my chest but she says, ‘I don't care,’ and rests her palm in my depression.

  Frantically I pull at her clothes. I want to hold her, feel her naked against me. I want to break through my fears. She grabs at my shirt. She kisses my stomach, my chest. My skin tingles and finally I know I can do it. I twist my hands in her thick hair in absolute excitement.

  Then there's a flash of light. Blinded for a second, I look out into the darkness. There're sniggers and forced whispers.

  ‘Hey, everyone,’ The P screams, holding up a camera. ‘It's Sticks and Sam, and they're goin’ for it!’

  I try to pull my shirt down, but Sam's head is in the way. I put my hands on her face and push her away. She falls backwards onto the sand. I twist my jeans straight as people gather about.

  Mike's standing there, grinning wildly. ‘You dirty dog,’ he says.

  Sam grasps my ankle. ‘Jack!’

  I shake my leg. ‘Get off!’ I yell.

  She clutches tighter.

  The P and Steve hold the camera so they can see me and Sam on the screen. Mike is beside them, looking at me proudly, holding his beer to his chest.

  I rip Sam's fingers from my leg then run at The P. He thuds backwards onto the sand, still laughing. Lying on top of him, I try to pry the camera from his hand, but he grins as he squirms. I shove a forearm under his chin. With his airway choked he groans and wheezes. He writhes like a wounded animal, trying to shake me off. I drive my knee into his stomach and repeat it until he pleads with me to stop. Steve grabs me around the chest, but I ram my elbow into his neck. With both hands, I pin The P's arms down. ‘Stuff you!’ I yell at him, my spit landing in his face. He lets go of the camera and I take it, hold it up, ready to strike his face. He turns his head and covers his cheek with his free hand.

  People stand around, silent, too shocked to do anything. Feeling their alarm, I lower the camera and get off him. Sam looks at me, runs towards me, reaches for my arm, but I tear it away.

  I'm not done yet.

  Onlookers follow as I go around the dune and hurl the camera into the fire. We stand back and wait. It bubbles and hisses, the batteries explode in blue-green sparks, sending everyone scurrying.

  Then I head to the house and slam the gate behind me. People in the backyard turn at the noise. The P's car glistens under the street light beyond the other fence. Goin
g inside, I take a tub of melted ice-cream from the kitchen bench and go back out. I kick away the stake that holds the gate shut. It swings open and I pelt the ice-cream at his car. The plastic tub shatters, a creamy ooze slides down his windscreen and onto the bonnet. But that's still not enough. So I pick up the stake. I hold it high, above my head, ready to ram it down like a pile-driver. Then a hand grabs me.

  ‘Jack. That'll do, mate.’ It's Ryan. He keeps holding my arm. ‘Just put it down.’

  My breath is rapid, shallow. I keep looking at the car. I want to smash the windscreen, wreck the lights, destroy the whole bloody thing.

  Ryan grabs the stake and loosens my grip. He throws it away. Then he grabs my shoulders and looks into my face. ‘Go back and find your girl,’ he says.

  I kick the grass and turn away.

  But when I get back to the fire, Sam is gone.

  ‘I think she went that way,’ Mike tells me, pointing at the surf.

  ‘Did you try and stop her?’

  ‘Chill out, Sticks,’ he says. He's still grinning.

  I look out across the spit of sand, towards the breaking surf. It rumbles. Lines of rolling white froth boil in the moonlight.

  As I jog across the spit, I slow down near a figure, lying still in the dark. I run on, out to the beachfront. I need to find Sam, let her know everything's okay, brag about what I did to The P's car. I call her name and run further down the beach, not sure why she'd come all this way. There's a surf lifesaving tower only a hundred metres away, but when I get there and stand under its metal frame and call her name, I get no response. Panting, waiting in the silence, I replay all the things that just happened. They go in reverse from the figure on the sand, to Ryan and the stake, the blaze of the camera, and finally to Sam and my hands planted firmly on her face.

  Now more desperate, I walk back and pass the person again, still motionless in the shadows. Nearing the house, the music is even louder than before. Some gatecrashers have got the barbecue blazing, the hot plate removed. They throw plastic cups, bottles, grass and wood into the flames, which roar and shoot sparks like fireworks into the sky.

  Inside, I check our room, but she's not there. I go to the dance floor where there're bodies all around, sweating, writhing to the music. There's a couple in the middle, pressed together, their faces all over each other, but no Sam. I head back out to the barbie, look over and see The P at his car, hosing it off. Ryan's nearby, watching, clearly loving the moment. The girl that came with The P is standing by the gutter, talking on her mobile. I turn around and stare at the movement inside through the window. I've no idea where she's gone. Moving closer I press my hands to the glass. Through it, beyond the dancers, I see her in the kitchen.

  ‘Sam!’ I yell and tap on the window. ‘Sam!’ But of course she doesn't hear me. I race around the corner and through the door. Yet again I make my way across the dance floor. I can see her through the bodies. The fridge is open, shedding a soft light. There's someone behind her—checked shirt, black jeans—but the face is obscured as people move around me. The fridge door closes and the light fades. I move to the edge of the dance floor where I stop. I can see who the figure is. He's pulling Sam towards himself, firmly, slowly, like he really wants her. Unlike me, there's no uncertainty in the way he does it, no clumsiness or second thoughts. And Sam lets him hold her, draw her in, as if seduced by his confidence. She smiles at him. Then they turn away, his arm around her shoulders. They disappear down the hallway. I follow, but stop when they go into the room. He shuts the door. It's Mike.

  I clench a fist and start down the hall.

  ‘Jack!’ The voice is strong, panicked. ‘Jack!’

  I look over my shoulder. Cuppas is there, panting, his face red. ‘It's Gez,’ he slurs, swaying, but his eyes are strangely alert. ‘It's Gez and he needs you.’

  ‘Get lost, Cuppas.’

  He gulps, stumbles closer. ‘He's frothing at the mouth,’ he slurs.

  I think about the booze bong, the joint Gez smoked. Mike's pills.

  ‘Where?’

  Cuppas turns and makes his way out, steadying himself on the walls. But before following I look back at the door. My mind is full of static. I feel vague, lost. Crushed. But my best mate needs me.

  Cuppas tries to run across the yard, but he sways, stumbles, then collapses near the back gate that leads out to the beach. He crawls to a body. A few people stand over it.

  Gez is lying there with a yellowish film on his cheeks and lips. His eyes are closed. I kneel beside him, open his eyelids. Vacant. Glazed in the soft light from the moon and the house. I feel his pulse. It's slow. Real slow. His breath bubbles through his vomit. I wipe it away with my hand. His lips look blue, but it's hard to tell in this light. He stops breathing. For a solid fifteen seconds he does nothing. And just as I get ready to depress his chest, his body shudders violently and he breathes again. Still slow, shallow. He stays unconscious. I look up at the drunks standing around, their mouths open.

  ‘Ambulance!’ I yell. ‘Call the friggin’ ambos!’

  Most of them continue to stare. Cuppas says, ‘We have.’

  ‘And?’ I'm frantic. ‘How long ago?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Shit!’ I yell.

  I grab Gez's arms then start pulling. Cuppas, although drunk, somehow finds enough balance to join me. We take an arm each and drag Gez halfway across the lawn. A few spectators stand by, some follow. But Cuppas and I go step by step, pulling backwards, getting Gez closer to the road and the cars. We go through the front gate, past The P who's still hosing off his car. Getting to the Pissan, I open the back door. After pushing Cuppas out of my way, I lift Gez's shoulders and head and try to pull him inside after me, but don't have the strength. His eyes are still shut. I can't tell if he's breathing.

  ‘Jesus!’ I yell. I reverse across the back seat, out the other side and run back around and join Cuppas. We each grab one of Gez's legs, lift and push him in.

  ‘Go get Mike and find out if Gez took any pills. Then get him to call me.’

  He stares at me blankly.

  ‘Go!’ I scream.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The hospital!’

  ‘But what about the ambos?’

  ‘Where the heck are they, Cuppas? Why aren't they here?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  ‘Did you even give them an address?’

  He sways as he talks. ‘I can't remember.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  I get into the car. Noise rings in my ears, my limbs are heavy, I feel nauseous. I twist and look at Gez sprawled across the seat. He coughs. Spew runs down his cheek. I grab his hair and turn his head sideways to clear his mouth. At least he's breathing, I think as I start the car. I rev the motor then slam it into gear. The tyres scream, the Pissan lurches and I speed off.

  I get to the main road, where I see a blue cross and an arrow pointing to the hospital. Gez groans in the back. The car shudders around corners, the back-end fishtails, the motor screams in protest. I pull into the emergency bay, next to an ambulance. A paramedic comes out of the glass doors.

  ‘C'mere!’ I yell at him as I get out.

  Moments later a nurse arrives with a stretcher and the three of us haul Gez onto it. She asks a bunch of questions about how much he's drunk, if he's had any drugs.

  ‘Lots of alcohol,’ I tell her. ‘But I don't know about drugs.’

  ‘Can you find out?’ she asks.

  Someone wheels Gez away.

  I feel my pockets for my phone, then realise it's gone. Maybe I lost it in the dunes, I don't know. ‘I'll go back to the party,’ I tell the nurse.

  She shakes her head. ‘Tell me the address and I'll send the police.’

  ‘Please, don't do that,’ I say.

  ‘How good a friend are you?’ she asks.

  I push on my eyes and give her the address.

  ‘And what's your friend's name?’ she asks.

  ‘Gerald Fraser.’

  ‘
Age?’

  ‘Eighteen. Today.’

  She shakes her head again as she scribbles it down. ‘I'll be back later,’ she says.

  I take a seat in the waiting room of emergency and stare at Rage playing on a TV hanging from the ceiling. The volume is off. The place smells of Dettol and bleach. An elderly woman is nearby with a resigned look on her face; a young couple sits silently, his hand on her knee, as if waiting for news on someone; a woman sits back in her chair, holding a damp cloth to a bruise on her cheek. Then there's me, smelling of booze, ice-cream and smoke.

  On the TV, Snoop Dogg mouths silently, looking cool and emotionless. Almost-naked girls rub their flat stomachs against him. I think of Sam and Mike. About the conversation us boys had that night above the cliffs. Mike said he'd seen Sam in the corner store and thought she liked him. At the time I thought it was just a joke, but now I'm convinced it's true. He rubbed himself just at the thought of her. I go outside and yell at the night.

  the aftermath

  About an hour later, after returning to the waiting room, a nurse finds me.

  ‘I need to call Gerald's parents,’ she says. ‘Do you have their number?’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  She leans towards me. ‘Alcohol poisoning,’ she says. ‘We're not sure if he took any drugs, but we've pumped his stomach, and he's responding well.’

  ‘Is he awake? Can I see him?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He woke up briefly, but was still too intoxicated to know what's going on. He's asleep again now. We'd prefer that he just slept for a few hours. That number, do you know it?’

  ‘It's three a.m.,’ I say.

  ‘We've got to call.’

  ‘I could find it in a phone book.’

  So she leads me to an office where she gives me a directory. I find the number. The nurse calls and breaks the news.

  ‘He's okay,’ she says. ‘It was alcohol poisoning. His friend—’ The nurse peers at me.

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Gerald's friend Jack is here. He brought Gerald in.’ Then she gives me the phone to retell events.

  Gez's mum is panicked, but I tell her everything's okay. ‘I'm on my way,’ she says.