Burning Down

by Venero Armanno

  ‘How will you pay it back?’

  He was getting his shoes and socks on now, and as he did he felt like some tragic hero in a big screen movie.

  Shit, take out the ‘tragic’. I’ll make this work.

  ‘Don’t worry. Okay? Just don’t even think about it. In a day or two everything’ll be sorted out.’ He stood in the centre of the room painfully tucking his shirt in and running his fingers through his long hair. ‘Trust me.’

  Sistine’s face said she did and didn’t.

  Bobby gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Walking down the dark staircase he realised he didn’t have the slightest clue what to do next.

  …

  It was Saturday and Charlie Smoke had finished his previous job, now ready to start on this new one. He parked in the busy road outside the Banks family home and stopped to take in the ruin of their great wall. Two metres tall where it wasn’t smashed, and just about fifty metres long; this was no small construction and no small job ahead, though he knew what to do and how he’d go about it. The entire thing would have to come down, the old foundations dug out and new ones poured, and the right sort of one-metre fence built in its place. Whoever lived here before the Bankses had really wanted to isolate themselves from the street traffic. Charlie imagined the way that eighteen-wheeler must have ploughed through. He looked up and down the already crowded lanes; just one bit of inattention was probably all it took.

  Mrs Holly Banks was in the yard, under those trees, kicking a soccer ball with a teenage boy. He noticed how well she moved, lithe and long-legged. The boy was the opposite, heavy in the shoulders and legs. The laughter was hers; the boy appeared to be far more serious. He sweated in the heat and ran around her, inexpertly trying to take the ball away. She passed it to him and he dribbled it toward the goal, finally kicking a powerful shot that, surprisingly enough, went in straight. He turned with a leap and a cheer.

  ‘Nice shooting,’ Charlie told him.

  The boy stumbled backwards, startled. He looked like he wanted to go stand behind his mother.

  ‘Mr Smoke,’ Holly Banks said, in a way that meant maybe he was intruding.

  ‘I brought some materials down ready for Monday, missus. You don’t mind?’

  ‘Please remember, I’m Holly.’

  ‘You called me Mr Smoke.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m Charlie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The colour of her eyes hadn’t been any sort of mirage; today it was just as perplexing. Charlie made sure not to stare. Meanwhile, the boy had settled and was observing the loaded ute like he wanted to go investigate all the things it carried. Charlie noticed the yard had been turned into multiple hillocks of broken bricks and blocks.

  ‘You clean all that up for me?’

  The boy didn’t say anything.

  ‘Ricky, please answer Mr Smoke.’

  ‘You call me Charlie.’ He put out his hand. ‘And I’ll call you Ricky. Okay?’

  The boy’s hand came up, but uncertainly. Charlie shook it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He looked back at his truck, still noticing the boy’s interest. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do, want to help me unload?’

  ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Well, there’s the cement mixer, and you see those wheelbarrows? They’re pretty heavy. A hand in getting them down would be good. Then there’s lots of tools I’ll use so that I can fix that fence for you.’

  ‘I don’t want to help you.’

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘No problem,’ he told Holly Banks, ‘that’s what I get paid for.’

  This morning there was no sign of any pallor in her face. Even her lips, without lipstick, seemed fuller. Today she was a healthy woman with a nice home around her, never even known a bottle.

  ‘Is Mr Banks home?’

  ‘Some weekends it’s easier for him to get things done at his office.’

  ‘Well, I won’t interrupt for very long.’

  ‘We’re finished anyway.’

  ‘What?’ Ricky said. ‘We just came out.’

  The boy looked like he’d wanted to play this game and now some jerk had turned up to spoil it for him. There was something else as well, something about Ricky that Charlie thought he recognised. It was in the awkward way he’d been running, the extra weight he carried, and the thickness of his limbs. Even in the way he held himself, or didn’t. Charlie couldn’t help wondering how this kid got treated outside of this yard. Did he vent his frustrations on others, your typical schoolyard bully, or was it the other way around?

  But there was hurt and vulnerability in the boy’s eyes, and maybe that told the story. Charlie was used to reading kids at the little gym in Kulari, but much earlier, in the schoolyard and at the boxing gyms, he’d learned all about the things some kids had to carry. He’d been one of them. Charlie remembered all too well what it was like to be a fat kid looking up to soccer stars and heroes with wings on their feet.

  ‘Hey,’ he started, wanting to break this awkwardness, ‘if you don’t mind me saying, that shot before was great, but try moving into the ball before you go for the bullseye.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your weight, have it moving forward, not back.’

  Now Ricky glared at him.

  Vulnerability and hurt? How about resentment and insolence?

  ‘How?’

  ‘You mean how to do what I said?’

  ‘That’s right. How.’ Ricky collected the ball. Charlie recognised the trigger temper. The boy came straight to him and pushed the ball into his chest. ‘Why don’t you show me?’

  Charlie saw the way Holly Banks was about to explode, but he said quickly, ‘Man, I’d love to. If your ma says it’s okay.’

  He smiled at her, waiting. She drew a breath and decided to relent. ‘I’m sure you don’t have time—’

  ‘Course I do. Come here, Ricky.’

  Charlie led the way to an open space with plenty of room to run, no hills of broken bricks and blocks. The boy plodded after him.

  ‘Okay. Let’s say you defend from about here, and me, I’m your opposition. When I give the word you come in like you’re going to tackle me. Really go for it. Don’t give me a chance, right?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Think you can do it?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  Charlie let the boy dart in. He dribbled the ball around him but didn’t move too fast, giving Ricky a chance to make contact. Very quickly, though, the boy worked himself up and tried to kick at Charlie’s boots, and when that didn’t work, his shins. Charlie wouldn’t let him play that game, and instead led him further along. He forced the boy to shadow him, then for moments it was just about perfect, like a choreographed dance, Ricky’s running becoming more fluid as he kept pace, stopped and turned.

  That was, until Ricky started to flag. Now his breath rasped and he wanted a shortcut again. He pushed in close and tried to shove Charlie away from the ball. They butted together, and one bad angle sent a shot of pain from Charlie’s left shoulder all the way through his arm and into the tips of his fingers. He saw the bright flash of lights, every single one of them small and nasty. Charlie clutched his arm and at the same time cracked a fizzing goal.

  ‘There,’ he breathed, refusing to react to the pain. ‘Simple.’

  Ricky was sucking in air. ‘Simple what?’

  ‘What did you just see?’

  ‘A goal.’

  ‘You saw me make a goal, but before that you could have seen yourself shooting it.’ Charlie indicated his temple. ‘The picture starts here.’

  The twist of Ricky’s lips was a clear What the fuck would you know? The boy wiped his face and skulked off to collect the ball.

  ‘Mr Smoke, I need to apologise …’
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br />   ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Sometimes Ricky, I just don’t know.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘What I deserve for showing off.’

  ‘He has his father’s temper.’

  ‘Maybe that’s good.’

  ‘What?’

  They watched Ricky return. His face remained set into its insolent glare, yet somehow he seemed more determined.

  ‘Teach me how you did that.’

  Charlie took the ball and spun it on his index finger. He liked the way Ricky stared at it spinning so easily.

  ‘I bet you’ve got the best coaches going. You listen to them.’ He popped the ball back to Ricky, who caught it. ‘One important point. Don’t forget to have fun with this thing. That’s why God called it a ball.’ He took a deep breath, the pain in his shoulder quickly gone. ‘I’ll start unloading.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  Charlie looked at the boy’s mother.

  ‘Well,’ she said, somewhere between exasperation and relief. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Okay, you take the heavy stuff.’

  Ricky dropped the ball and followed him to the ute. Charlie saw that despite his demeanour just moments before, the boy actually wanted to be helpful—might even like being that way.

  ‘You help your father much?’

  ‘He doesn’t use his hands. He works at a university.’

  They rolled the cement mixer down from the back tray, its wheels on two short timber planks. This was something Charlie Smoke had done on his own for decades, but with the way his shoulder was playing up, the extra pair of hands was welcome. ‘Keep the wheels steady. We don’t want this thing tipping over.’

  Ricky did keep the wheels steady. Soon they had it down, then rolled it into the yard.

  ‘Good. Wheelbarrows next. We use the same planks. Make sure they’re straight, okay?’

  The boy did.

  After they’d made a dozen trips back and forth, bringing Charlie’s equipment, plus the heavy sacks of cement powder, Ricky’s face was red with exertion. But he didn’t stop.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen. In three months. How old are you?’

  ‘Me? Huh—twenty-eight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On one shoulder.’

  It took a minute but Ricky grinned.

  Stocky and solid as the boy was now, Charlie knew that body still had a lot of growing to do. When they’d managed to synchronise the way they’d kicked the ball, he’d started to move quite well. Then there was the way Ricky let himself get so wild. Well, he’d have to work on that. Charlie hadn’t been one bit different. The more the world tried to crush you the more you struggled and cried out.

  The most obvious thing? Ricky didn’t mind a bit of work, and that was always promising.

  They set things up the way Charlie wanted and a new work site soon faced that long broken fence. Charlie turned to speak to Holly Banks but hadn’t noticed that he and the boy were alone. Maybe she’d gone to cast a watchful eye from inside.

  ‘Let your mother know I’ll be back first thing Monday.’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I helped you now you help me.’

  ‘Huh. How?’

  Ricky retrieved his soccer ball. He kicked it to Charlie. Charlie dribbled it back. Ricky smashed the ball hard as he could right at Charlie’s face. He caught it midair, and yet again pain shot through his entire left side.

  ‘Just what I thought.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘There’s something wrong with your arm.’

  Goddamn kid.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Charlie said, though it took an act of will not to sit down and tremble. ‘Listen. You kick with a lot of power but sometimes soft is better.’

  He took a shallow breath, then another, and tried to settle himself. Again, in only moments, the pain subsided.

  He dribbled the ball to Ricky and had him dribble it back. They started to move up the green grass of the flat yard. Soon they had a nice rhythm going. Promising, how fast the boy caught on. Maybe he wasn’t all that heavy-footed after all.

  Then Ricky stopped where he was.

  A Toyota four-door had turned off the road and was in the driveway. Behind the wheel, the driver watched them. A man emerged, curly brown hair cut close to his skull, a pair of heavy black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  Ricky’s father was tall and thickset, though his features were aquiline, handsome. He took in the bricklaying equipment.

  ‘Peter Banks,’ he said, and didn’t offer Charlie his hand.

  Carrying a briefcase, he walked around to the passenger door. When he opened it he reached inside for an armful of bound papers.

  ‘Ricky. The builder’s working.’ He indicated that the boy should go into the house.

  ‘I helped him set up.’

  Peter Banks turned a questioning glance toward Charlie.

  ‘Getting ready for Monday, Mr Banks.’

  ‘That’s what you’re doing?’

  The soccer ball was on the grass between Charlie and Ricky.

  Charlie picked it up and handed it the boy.

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Peter Banks waited until Ricky headed up to the house. He looked at Charlie one more time, saying nothing, then followed his son.

  …

  Bobby wanted her eyes to look deep into his but her face was turned to one side, that’s how preoccupied she’d become these last few days. It would have been better if Sistine had told him she had a headache; as it was he climaxed as quickly as he could, rolled to one side and barely needed to catch his breath it had gone so fast.

  ‘I love you, Sissy.’

  She put a hand on his arm and pulled the sheet to her chin. Bobby thought she might ask him about the debt again. It was a conversation that refused to end. Wanting to prevent that, he slid his hand under his side of the mattress and found the little gift he’d purchased. Sistine propped herself up on an elbow, jet-black hair falling down her face to her breasts. She looked at him with—what was that, surprise or suspicion? Maybe she thought it was an engagement ring. Or maybe she was smart enough to understand how he meant to take her mind off that singular line of questioning.

  Sistine opened the unlined box to a nice silver friendship ring.

  ‘Oh, Bobby,’ she said.

  His heart sank. Now that he saw the thing in her hand it looked exactly like what it was, the type of inexpensive ring two sixteen-year-olds might give each other. Sissy slid the ring on to a finger, then tried all her fingers. Well, it did fit her thumb. Where the fuck was his head, to misjudge the size by so considerable a margin?

  ‘I’ll exchange it for you, sorry.’

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ she said.

  Jesus, what was happening? Bobby felt himself squirm away from the insincerity of her words, fake as his desire to give her some sort of gift. Yes, he loved her; yes, he cared for her, but this money problem with Junior made him feel like he was spinning in space. Despite his determination to be a man, and prove he was to his father, Bobby was mistrusting and second-guessing just about everything and everyone—including himself. He rubbed his eyes hard and wished he hadn’t stayed the night.

  ‘You sure you love me, Sissy?’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  In the semi-permanent half-darkness of her ugly little flat her face was silhouetted, breasts and nipples made so dusky that any other day he would have been turned on again, just like that, and not half-heartedly.

  ‘Bobby, don’t be silly. You’re everything to me.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We have sex, you give me a ring, then you ask—’r />
  ‘It was like you weren’t even here, Sissy.’

  ‘Just now you mean?’

  ‘And yesterday and the day before.’

  ‘Bobby, it’s … I’m getting nervous. When I come home, sometimes the shadows, you know? And I’m scared for you.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, you or anyone.’

  ‘Will you tell me the truth?’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘Have you heard from those men again?’

  ‘They’re leaving me alone. I’ve got a period of grace.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means they will come back, but by then I’ll have their money.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Haven’t I told you to stop worrying?’

  Bobby hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh, but it came out wrong, as if he was accusing her of making matters worse. He watched Sistine roll the friendship ring in the palm of her hand. Her face said she simply could not believe he’d gotten himself into this sort of mess.

  ‘Maybe,’ she spoke low, ‘maybe you could tell me exactly how much it is.’

  Now Bobby couldn’t meet her gaze. He stared at the ceiling, with cobwebs in the corners and the light bulb cover a dirty paper shade.

  ‘Eighty thousand.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Sissy?’

  ‘Bobby, I heard … I heard that house I lived in with Mum sold a couple of weeks ago. It was in the paper. Fifteen thousand dollars. If you think about that, then you could probably buy this entire building we’re in for maybe twice as much. Thirty thousand. Forty maybe. And you’re saying you owe eighty?’

  ‘Eighty-two. Interest gets added tomorrow. Every Saturday, seeing that’s prime horseracing day.’

  ‘You’re not going to bet again.’

  ‘I learned my lesson.’

  ‘So we have to make a plan.’

  ‘We don’t.’ Bobby got himself off the mattress. He’d already told Sistine far more than he’d wanted and in a minute he’d be giving a full confession, like a scared ten-year-old. ‘I do.’

  ‘Bobby.’

  ‘What?’

  Sistine pushed herself back under the sheet. Her body seemed to radiate pure frustration. He felt the way his own skin was so hot, and how he wanted to lash out. To hurt her. When Sistine dropped the ring and its box onto the threadbare rug he thought, Petulant little bitch.