‘I am Marko,’ I was mumbling. ‘I am Marko.’ Like my head was so full of unspoken words they were starting to overflow. Even when I realised, it was a battle to make myself stop. It felt so good, making those sounds, tickling the scratch that’s been itching my mind so long. Only the thought of the Doctor, and all the things I owe him, kept me silent.
Today was more pretending. I walk all the time now and nobody seems to pay me much attention. ‘This isn’t who I am’ plays continuously in my head but it hardly helps. Half the people in here would tell you they were sane, if you asked them. Sometimes the doctors agree. They come around with the pronouncement and the discharge papers, and a solemn handshake to underline the importance of the occasion. Then the family arrive, familiar from visiting time, masks of relief slipped over uncertain faces. Not me though. The good Doctor has other plans for Marko Turner.
I’ve been allowed to join the craft therapy class. It’s not the sort of thing I’d usually bother with, but in a day full of nothing even a trip to the toilet can be a highlight. We’re making leather belts. It’s easy enough, although I’m careful not to cope too well. It is difficult, not knowing what is expected of me. They provide the strips of leather and there are three stencils to choose from, for hammering in the designs, and punches to make the holes. It is a statement of trust, letting us near so many sharp instruments. Today Billy gave them pause for thought.
I didn’t provoke him. Why would I? I was working on my third belt, happily lost in the simple task. I suppose I just looked up at the wrong moment, when his big clumsy fingers were having trouble threading the buckle through the loop he’d closed way too tight. Big fingers on huge hands, out of place at the end of his thin unremarkable arms. He’d be in his forties I guess, bald with a red nose and a desk worker’s stomach. He’s got a family, a wife and two kids who visit most days. I have a game here where I try to fit patients to their stories, imagine what finally pushed them out of the zone. With Billy it’s the hands I keep coming back to. It would get anyone eventually, having hands that weren’t your own. I’ve got small hands, same as my mum. Maybe Billy saw them, and how I’d already finished two belts. Maybe that pissed him off. Or maybe being crazy means you don’t need much in the way of reasons.
One thing I’ll say in favour of this place, it’s done wonders for my reactions. Normally I doubt I’d have been so quick to spot him moving. It gave me time to step aside, so his lunge took him straight past me. He crashed against the table where a previous group’s papier mâché was displayed. He turned to face me again and all the anger I’ve been sitting on rose up to meet him. Suddenly it wasn’t Billy in front of me, it was the Doctor. Without thinking, I had hold of both his shoulders and with a force I didn’t know I could muster I had crashed him back against the wall. My face drew close to his and I felt how easy it would be to kill him. Only it wasn’t the Doctor, it was just poor Billy, and all my rage was useless.
‘Want some do ya?’ I wanted to hiss into his poor bewildered face. He’d already forgotten how this had happened. I stopped myself. Stared through him the way I hoped a crazy who’s done with talking might stare. Then I slowly backed away.
It was the right call. Margaret was our supervisor and as I turned I saw how closely she was watching me, looking for some sign. She knows something, I’m sure of it. Maybe she has followed me to this room. Maybe Andrew told her. I’ve taken a thread from my pyjamas and I’m going to leave it stretched across the place where I hide this writing, so I can be sure no one is reading it. It’s not paranoia, it’s good sense. They’re the same, when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen.
8
We left just before nine-thirty the next morning, after loading our packs onto the support vehicle trailer. Joe Stewart, a huge man with three chins, who ‘used to enjoy this sort of thing myself before my back went’ was the driver. His son had done the expedition a few years earlier and so he let us use his time and his big four-wheel drive for free. Ours was the second to last group to leave, Mr Camden’s idea. I think he was scared if he let us go last he’d never see us again.
‘Now don’t worry,’ he told us as we biked past the gate and out onto the road. ‘I’ve been doing this fifteen years and no group’s ever failed to complete the cycle leg.’ He should have known someone like Jonathon was always going to take that as a challenge.
A week earlier Mr Camden had brought a guest speaker into the class, a woman he knew who’d once cycled in the Commonwealth Games. She explained how the effort on a bike could be minimised by riding as a pack, cutting down the wind resistance. Her promise of being able to reduce energy output by a third captured our short-cutting imaginations. It seemed so simple when we were sitting behind our desks, free from real life complications. Complications like Jonathon.
Him and Rebecca started out in front, with me and Lisa tucked in behind and Ms Jenkins at the back. Straight away he was looking for ways to make it awkward for us. He hit on the idea of setting an impossible-to-follow rhythm, taking off in little bursts and then slowing to the point where we had to brake to avoid hitting him. Rebecca tried to match the pace, she’s stubborn that way, but behind them we were struggling, the way he’d intended. I could feel my legs already burning with the uneven pace, exactly the thing we’d been told to avoid. The trip proper was only thirty minutes old and already Jonathon had his first victory. He’d made group riding inefficient.
Despite this we made reasonable time, covering the first thirty kilometres in just over an hour and a half. Then the day’s only real hill loomed and Jonathon, sensing we were near breaking, couldn’t resist. He stood up out of his saddle and put in a huge burst. Rebecca didn’t miss a beat and matched him pedal for pedal, pushing him on even harder. I spend quite a bit of time mucking around on my bike and maybe I could have kept with them if I’d really tried, but after a morning at Lisa’s side a sort of loyalty was forming. It surprised me to see Ms Jenkins glide past us both, hardly puffing, trying hard not to look too pleased with herself.
‘I hate that prick,’ Lisa muttered, staring straight ahead over her handlebars. Her face was red and shiny with sweat and her helmet had slipped down over her forehead.
‘I reckon,’ I gasped back. They were the first words we’d spoken all morning and it was all it took for us to become friends.
When we reached the top the other three were waiting on the side of the road, trying to look relaxed although their faces still glowed with their efforts.
‘Come on Lisa,’ Jonathon taunted. ‘You’re holding us up.’
‘She’s doing just fine,’ I said, too quickly.
‘Oh yes, a little bond developing is there Marko?’ Jonathon asked. Behind him Rebecca smirked.
‘Fuck you, arsehole,’ Lisa snapped. ‘You’re the one not doing your job.’
‘I don’t think that’s fair Lisa,’ Ms Jenkins said, trying to stop an argument. She was too late. The match had been struck and we were all in the mood to throw on some petrol. Abuse built quickly upon accusation, loyalties dissolving as quickly as the next insult could be conjured. By the time Mr Camden’s group arrived, fifteen minutes later, there was no group left, just four pissed off individuals and a teacher who must have wished she’d stayed at home.
Mr Camden tried his best to sort things out, suggesting me and Lisa take a turn at the front. Then he took his group off ahead. I don’t think he was all that keen on being there when his great idea fell apart. It did. Jonathon and Rebecca sat right on our back wheels the whole way, complaining about the pace, and the more they complained the slower Lisa went. Then, to add to the fun, Lisa and Jonathon punctured and I broke my chain changing gear on a hill. They were the sort of things that could have been fixed quickly enough by a group that was co-operating, or at least still talking to one another. Instead we sniped and obstructed and found ourselves a full hour and a half behind schedule at the next stop, a point Jonathon was quick to seize upon.
‘Putting you two in the front has really done wo
nders, hasn’t it?’
‘At least we’re keeping the group together,’ Lisa replied.
‘Together in fucken Riversdale,’ Rebecca muttered.
‘It would have been faster walking.’
‘You can’t plan for mechanical breakdowns,’ Ms Jenkins tried. ‘I think we’re doing very well.’
For some reason that got to Lisa even more than Jonathon’s digs. She took her bike by the seat stem and, pivoting on her heels, swung it about her like a hammer thrower. It sailed an impressive distance down the road then bounced a few metres more.
‘No!’ she screamed at us all. ‘We are not doing very well at all. In fact, we’re doing very fucken badly.’ She stared at us, daring us to speak. Then she turned and headed back down the road, in the direction we had come.
‘Aren’t you going to go with her then?’ Jonathon grinned at me. Ms Jenkins seemed less amused.
‘Lisa!’ she called out, impatience edging into her voice for the first time. Only one day together and already she was sick of us. Lisa turned, hands on hips.
‘I’m going to take a shit. Does anyone have a problem with that?’
We waited in awkward silence. I sat in the grass and tried to ignore the others. Jonathon had a go at winding Rebecca up but she didn’t respond. Ms Jenkins retrieved Lisa’s bike and went through the motions of checking it for damage. In the time it took Lisa to relieve herself—and do some crying too, judging by her eyes when she got back—we all of us lost the will to pedal. We stopped even pretending to ride in formation; instead we overtook and dropped back in random patterns of fading energy. Ms Jenkins hovered in the background, like a nervous sheepdog too afraid to bark. The only time any of us opened our mouths, it was to spit out a bug or to complain. We’d planned on making Masterton by lunchtime. It was half-past two before we even reached the outskirts. The support vehicle was waiting there for us, to check everything was all right.
‘Not too long now,’ Joe Stewart lied, leaning out the Pajero window. He had a way of smiling at nothing, like the rest of the world was slow to get the joke. ‘Any problems here?’
‘Having the time of our lives, thanks Joe,’ Jonathon told him, dripping sarcasm although in his case I think he was actually enjoying the trip. Either way Joe wasn’t one for hidden messages.
‘Righty-ho then, see you up the river.’ He was gone before any of us could think of a way of stopping him.
‘What did you say that for?’ Rebecca demanded.
‘What, so you’re not having fun?’ Jonathon smiled. ‘Sorry, must have misread the mood.’
‘We could have got a ride,’ Lisa said.
‘At least the worst bit’s over,’ Ms Jenkins tried, but that was so lame we didn’t even bother arguing.
A three-two vote took us to McDonalds for lunch. We figured we were already riding so badly, a bit of crap food wasn’t going to make it any worse. And it’s reliable crap, the sort you can take comfort in when nothing else is going to plan. There’s even something comforting about the surroundings, flecked tables with wooden borders, the photos of spotty employees-of-the-month on the wall and Ronald staring madly at you from the children’s play area. And there’s the smell of the place, the odour of hot grease floating above industrial strength disinfectant. Hell, it’s like coming home. Maybe that explains the way we started to relax. Somewhere in amongst stealing each other’s fries and complaining about the ice, we forgot we were fighting. Conversations started.
‘I don’t even know why I took Outdoor Education,’ Lisa told us, dipping the crust of her cheese burger into my sauce. ‘The whole thing sucks.’
‘Reckon,’ Rebecca said, instead of taking the chance to attack.
‘You know,’ Jonathon announced, the first sparkle of a plan already alight in his sick little eyes, ‘Mr Camden will be spewing if we don’t make the campsite tonight.’
I saw the simple genius of it immediately. It was an idea whose time had come. I reminded them of Mr Camden’s earlier challenge.
‘Fifteen years and no one’s ever failed.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Ms Jenkins asked, looking worried.
‘Not suggesting anything,’ Jonathon replied, standing and sucking in his stomach. ‘Just thinking I might go another dessert, that’s all.’
We followed him up to the counter. I was full and almost out of money but that wasn’t the point. It felt good to finally all be headed in the same direction.
The longer we lingered over the sugar the more frequently Ms Jenkins checked her watch.
‘So what exactly are you planning to do?’ she asked.
‘Simple,’ Jonathon told her, happily speaking for all of us. ‘We push on until it gets dark, then we find a place to camp for the night.’ He said it casually, between chewing his last mouthful, like it was the most sensible thing in the world.
It wasn’t. All our gear was in the support vehicle to start with. We didn’t have any food, and stopping short of the road end would only make the next day longer. It went against all our safety guidelines and we would probably fail the trip assignment on the strength of it. No one said any of those things though. There was too much incentive not to. We were never going to make a success of the day but here Jonathon was offering us the chance to be outstanding in our failure. Ms Jenkins wanted to tell us we were wrong but she couldn’t. It was our trip and they were the rules.
Lisa and Jonathon still had money left and walked round the corner to buy food for the night. Then it was back on the bikes. The irony of our call quickly became obvious. The new sense of purpose had fuelled our legs and we were making the best time of the day. It would be an exaggeration to say we’d all become friends but there had been a definite thawing. There were even the beginnings of conversation jumping between riders, like bursts of static electricity.
An hour later the road we’d been following into the hills turned to gravel. We had reached the point where the dark green of the Tararuas’ spreading fingers touched the farmland of the plains. The sun had already dipped behind the hills, making them cold and unwelcoming. Below us to our right the Waiohine River snaked darkly out of its gorge. A signpost told us we were only nine kilometres from reaching the others.
‘We’ll make it from here easily,’ Ms Jenkins announced. Even allowing for fatigue and the way the road ahead rose and fell through the valley, she was right. We had a good hour before it would get properly dark. Jonathon, however, had other ideas.
‘Let’s camp down there.’ He pointed to an old barn near the river, half obscured by a stand of pines.
‘Why?’ Ms Jenkins asked. ‘Your food’s up there, your sleeping bags, all of your gear.’
‘And debriefs,’ Jonathon replied. ‘More lectures, more planning, the other groups.’ I knew what he was saying. The day hadn’t been perfect but it was improving. It would be a shame to ruin it.
‘If it’s the riding you’re tired of,’ Ms Jenkins tried to reason, ‘I’m sure we could just wait here a while. They’re sure to send Joe back if we’re not there by dark.’
‘No, sorry. Group decision. Come on.’ Jonathon heaved his bike up over the fence and looked to the rest of us for support. One by one we followed him, leaving Ms Jenkins on the other side, alone and with no choice at all.
‘Well, whose barn is it? We should at least ask. There was a house, back there on the right. Would you like me to check?’
But we were already moving, the group taking control, making our own decisions, just like we’d been told to. It felt good.
So did the barn. It was an old wooden building with a row of tiny windows high up on one side. Years earlier it would have started life as a shearing shed. It was empty apart from a stack of rectangular bales in one corner, reaching halfway up the wall. The darkness was thick with smells: hay and cowshit, tractor oil and rust, and the dank trapped-air scent of cobwebs in black corners. We wheeled our bikes in with us, for security reasons Jonathon said, although it was more that none of us wanted to be spott
ed.
Lisa and I had our coats with us. We lay them on the ground and Rebecca dumped the food on top. It was a feast of convenience: two big bags of chips, a loaf of bread, bananas, two two-litre Cokes and a Chupa Chup each. Food guaranteed to corrode bad moods. Soon Ms Jenkins was laughing along with us and taking her swigs from the communal bottles.
We retired early to our ‘bedroom’, the flat top of the haystack. We were forced to lie close in the small space and soon we were warm beneath a single layer of conver-sation. It was the sort of talk you always get when half-strangers open up. Stories most of it, trying to impress each other with things we’d done and people we knew. After that come new stories, to make people laugh, with the joke turned on the teller because you know it doesn’t matter too much.
Lisa got into it most. Quiet Lisa. Suddenly we couldn’t shut her up, like she’d slipped out in the darkness and someone else had taken her place. She told us about the private school her father had made her attend, because he was afraid of the damage boys might do. I wondered how he might have reacted if he had seen her then, sandwiched between Jonathon and me on the top of some stranger’s stack of hay.
Ms Jenkins mostly listened but later when the questions turned her way she let a few things out, surprising things, like how she’d lived in Africa when she was little, or how she’d worked a year as a tour bus driver in the South Island.
Jonathon, when he talked, tried to bring the conversation back to the present, I think because the whole barn thing had been his idea. We talked about the others, camped up the end, being made to get an early night’s sleep, and how pissed off Mr Camden would be when he saw us the next morning.
Pissed off but determined not to let it show, as it happened. It was about eight o’clock and we were already on the road. We saw the Pajero’s dustball running down through the valley and pulled over to await our bollocking. I watched Ms Jenkins’s face tighten as Mr Camden climbed down from the passenger seat. She was one of us now, another naughty teenager.
Jolt Page 3