by I. J. Fenn
‘What you know? You a friggin’ faggot? Are yer?’
At the edge of the group three girls shivered inside inadequate jackets. They stood half outside, half inside the protection of the branches listening to the macho bullshit while old rain dripped onto their heads, down their necks.
vi
A far blue sky with small white cloudballs scraping across it. Better than the past few days. Better than the rain, but. Still, the air smelled damp, like old towels not hung up after coming back from the beach.
A few tight knots of kids hung out beside some of the buildings, outside the gate. Last cigarettes being openly smoked before class. Permanent scowls fixed to challenging faces: yeah, an’ who can do anything about it? Feet scuffing on asphalt, trainers kicking against walls, hands in pockets and heads bent against the wind.
‘Nah, nothin’, man. You?’
Monday morning drawls asking without interest, ‘what did you do? where did you go? who did you see?’ Not listening to the answers. The answers given with as little interest as the questions. Who gives a fuck?
‘The first time I went, mate … No, it wasn’t the first time, the second time. Anyway, it was in a fuckin’ toilet block … There was a window, okay? And the toilet’s just inside the window –’
‘Which toilet block? Where’s it at, mate?’ Interrupting, just to be a pain in the arse.
‘It was a fuckin’ toilet block, that’s all. And my mates, the guys I know what do this kinda thing a lot, they were inside – it was on Park Street, okay? They was inside punchin’ the cunt out when he was standin’ on the toilet bowl – standin’ up, eh – an’ the window was smashed and I was leaning through the window … It was heaps, fun, y’know?’
Laughter, snide and mean, the thin laughter of cowardice unchallenged.
‘An’ you know how it started? How we bashed ’em? There was fuckin’ one in each, in each toilet, y’know? Chucked a golf ball in there. I mean, really chucked it, went ding, ding, ding, an’ you heard, Oh, … Aaaah … Then he comes outside an’ he goes, “Who done that?” Some fuckin’ boong. Crunch.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Man, it was heaps.’
‘Fuckin’ school, but. Don’t ya hate it?’ Veering away as they came into the yard. ‘See yez later, eh.’
‘Too right, bitch.’
vii
‘Yeah, but why d’we want to go to fuckin’ Bondi, man? I mean, we don’ know the place, really, eh? If any of the other guys sees us, man, they might think we’s the poofs, but.’
‘Course they fuckin’ won’t. Do we look like fuckin’ poofters? It’s obvious, eh?’
‘Yeah, I dunno, but.’ Uneasy about territory: Redfern, Waterloo, they were okay. But Bondi?
‘What if he don’ turn up, eh?’
‘He’s meeting us at the Junction, man. ‘Course he’ll fuckin’ turn up. An’ anyway, if he don’t, we’ll jus’ come back to the park, eh?’
• • •
They should’ve gotten off the bus on Fletcher Street and walked straight down to Marks Lane but he’d said nothing, been thinking ’bout somethin’ else, hadn’t really realised where they were till it was too late. So they’d stayed on till the Parade and then had to walk back, going uphill on Notts Avenue. Still, the others didn’t know where they were, so he’d said nothing.
He’d met them like he said he would, waiting at the Junction. By the 380 stop. He didn’t know why they wanted to go to Bondi tonight, but. Wednesdays was quiet. There wasn’t many faggots out on Wednesdays but neither was there many rollers an’ bashers, so he supposed it’d be okay.
They walked past the swimming pool, looking back at the well-lit crescent behind them, watching the white surf for a second as it spilled onto the sand that curved away out to sea to the east.
‘Fuckin’ Bondi’s a Kiwi shithole, eh.’ A sneer. Turning back to the road leading them upwards towards the walkway and Marks Park. ‘Where’d we go from here, mate?’
Through a gap in the knee-high rail backing the pathway, through a gap and onto a winding footpath cutting away from the road. ‘Better not say too much about Kiwis, but. Most o’ the guys ’roun’ here’s Islanders, eh.’
‘I thought they was one of us?’ Sounding disappointed. ‘Aussie blokes, y’know?’
‘Yeah, some of ’em. But most of ’em, y’know?’
‘An’ we’re not all fucking whiteys neither, are we?’
‘Yeah, but … you know what I mean.’
Turning right up the steps to Marks Park, a patch of invisible darkness above the cliffs. By straining their eyes it was just possible to make out denser patches of darkness where the vegetation grew in thick clumps. Thick enough to conceal private people in a private world, a world of blindness where only the sense of touch seemed real.
Hairs standing up on the backs of necks, shivers of anticipation. There’d be some fucking fun here alright. Smiles and hands shoved into pockets where the beginnings of erections could be felt: man, this was exciting.
‘Where’d we need to go?’
‘There’s some bushes over here. We can hang out there, eh. Have a smoke if nothin’s happenin’.’
‘Where’s all the stuff go on, but?’
‘In the bushes, man. Same as in the park, but. They meet down on the path what runs roun’ to Tamarama. Under the cliff there,’ pointing into the night, seawards although you wouldn’t really know it. ‘Jingle their keys at each other, y’know? Or rattle a couple o’ bucks to show they want it –’
‘We’ll fuckin’ rattle a couple of ’em, eh?’ Enjoying this, and going to enjoy it even more when they caught one.
‘Then they come up here an’ do it. In the bushes. Or the trees. We can jus’ wait for ’em to come in, but.’
‘Maybe we should jus’ smoke a couple an’ see what happens tonight, eh? Like, jus’ watch the faggots at it?’
‘No fuckin’ way, man. We see some fuckin’ poofters, mate, we give ’em heaps.’
‘An’ if the local boys is around, they can see how it’s done right.’
viii
An uneasy feeling in the house … late evening so she should – would – be home … would be pleased he’d come. She was always home. Always pleased to see him. It was what mothers were for…
He shut the door quietly, walked into the lounge room without calling out. The place was a dump as usual, bits of crap lying around everywhere. Plates and an old Wentworth Courier on the floor beside the lounge, ashtrays filled to the limit, clothes. He hardly noticed. Filthy curtains hung half pulled at the windows and he stepped over the debris to close them, to keep the night out of the dim little room. And as he pulled them to he heard the faintest of sounds from upstairs. A kind of single note, like someone was talking to themselves or singing while they were doing something else. He smiled, came back into the room. So that’s where she was. He looked at his watch: late. But not that late. She couldn’t be in bed yet, must be in the shower. Or the dunny. There was no sound of running water so it must be the dunny.
Over to the stairs, ready to call out. The sound came again. A quiet murmur. He smiled again: silly bitch was talking to herself for sure. Took the stairs quietly. He’d scare the shit out of the cow, sneak into wherever she was, frighten the fuck off her…
At the top of the stairs a barely open door. She was in the bedroom. Maybe she was in bed … Grinning, he stepped softly towards the narrow gap, looked through the opening, the grin setting on his face like the sneer on some manic death mask. On the bed, on all fours, her hair pulled tight over her shoulders, his mother kneeled naked and moaning while his father, his pants around his knees, pushed into her from behind. Hard. His hands dragging on her hair to hold her head arched, her throat stretched to restrict her breathing as he forced himself into her. To the right of the bed the grimed mirror of the beat-up dresser, a three-panelled mirror reflecting three angles of the act before him.
The sounds he’d heard from downstairs hadn’t been the sounds of hi
s mother talking to herself. They were the slow words of his father, words forced out between the heavy breathing, the heavy effort, as he sweated above and behind his wife.
‘You like it this way?’ he asked. ‘God, it’s good, but. Eh? Eh?’ Pulling harder on the long sand-coloured hair. ‘No more fuckin’ kids if we do it this way, eh? No more bastard kids like this.’
Staring into the mirrors not daring to understand what he was seeing, not wanting to admit it. Eyes were riveted on the sight of his mother, tits swinging to the rhythm of his father’s thrusting, nipples longer than he’d ever have imagined, long and red and full. Nipples like fat fuckin’ chillies. His mother was enjoying her husband in her arse. Jesus, he couldn’t believe it.
He forced his gaze away from his mother’s body, forced himself to look at the image of the man as disgust flooded through him. His father still talking.
‘Fuck, it’s good, but. God, it’s – uh – good.’ Thrusting harder, faster.
Watched his father’s frantic pushing, watched his spasms. Heard his grunting. Unable to take away his gaze as his father arched his back, spurting inside his wife like a … like a fuckin’ faggot! How fuckin’ … Suddenly aware of his father’s eyes reflected at his own, seeing his father watching him watching…
Feeling like he might throw up, turning from the bedroom door, going back downstairs filled with the urge to kill. In the kitchen banging cupboard doors, angry. Venomous. He will, he’ll kill the bastard. He opened the fridge, took out a plastic bottle of milk and drank, keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway. Waiting.
Not for long. A minute later and his father came in, stood at the door. Sneering, wearing only a pair of joggers, stained and faded.
‘So you like to fucking watch, eh? The little boy likes to see how it’s done.’ The sneer on his face moved easily into his voice. ‘Did you enjoy it, but? Get a fuckin’ hard-on, did you?’ He came into the kitchen, an air of menace coming with him.
Taking his place in the doorway, his wife stood with an old robe draped around her shoulders. A slight smile played on her lips knowing that one breast was clearly visible to her son.
‘Maybe I should teach you some fuckin’ manners, eh? Teach you not to watch?’
‘Don’t you bloody touch me, you filthy bastard!’ Rage filling him. ‘I’ll –’
The slap landed hard on his face. An open-handed slap that left an instant imprint of his father’s hand.
‘Shut your mouth, eh.’ Another slap, a little harder. ‘Don’t ever –’
‘No, don’t!’ His wife stepped forward, her robe parting even more. ‘Leave him alone.’
A sudden pause. Life suspended for a moment.
‘Get out!’ Turned from the boy, leaning on the sink, staring out the window. ‘And don’t fuckin’ come back.’
The front door slammed hard and the air tasted like dirt. Walking towards the beach trying not to think about what he’d just seen, trying not to think of what his mother had let that bastard do to her. On his left cheek the imprint of his father’s hand throbbed and burned in the night.
• • •
Watching him striding along the footpath until he was out of sight. He turned from the window to where his wife still stood just inside the doorway, her robe completely open now, exposing both breasts, her wet pubic triangle. He stepped towards her, brought his hand up, slapped her across the face with enough force to snap back her head, hitting it hard against the door jamb.
‘Don’t ever tell me no when I hit the little cunt,’ he said, his fingers closing around her throat. ‘He might be 17 but he needs fuckin’ discipline, eh.’ His hand tightening around her neck. His free hand working at his trousers, letting them fall to the floor at his feet.
Her face reddening as her breathing became more difficult, letting herself be lifted onto her toes, a smile starting to spread across her lips.
• • •
A steady southeasterly brought cold air off the midnight sea, air cold enough and strong enough to send the group of teenagers around the back of the Surf Club, past the outriggers and into the shadows where the junk was kept. Stacked tables, empty beer barrels, broken chairs. They’d been there for an hour. Talking shit. Drinking and smoking and, from time to time, groping and mauling. And now, he held her against the back wall of the club, her skirt hiked up to her waist, knickers ripped at one hip so they hung like a tossed away rag at her ankles, his fingers deep inside her. His tongue in her mouth.
Jeans undone, the girl’s leg lifted to waist level, and he sunk deep into her, so deep that she gasped, cried out some animal noise as he pushed and pushed, grinding her, fucking her while the others watched, knowing it was her first time and that he was hurting her and not giving a shit.
• • •
A few hundred metres away, near the corner of Hall Street and Campbell Parade, Leaning against a low wall, laughing.
‘Did ya see that bastard run? Fuck, it was funny, man.’
‘We dint catch him, but. Waste o’ fuckin’ time, eh?’
‘Nah, it was okay. We nearly got him. If he hadn’t jumped over the edge … Shit, that was funny.’
The jogger had come sweating into view up the steps they’d climbed themselves a couple of hours earlier. Some sad bastard out running late at night, keeping fit, whatever. Sniggered when they’d seen him. Young guy, nothing. Then someone said they do that sometimes. The poofs go out jogging like it was a way to be there without looking like you were a poof. But they always kept their eye out for another faggot trotting along the path. This one was probably gay – why else be in Marks-bloody-Park in the first place? Everyone knew Marks Park was a gay beat.
Listening from the cover of the trees they were standing beneath, watching the jogger heading towards the apartment blocks to their left. Was it a faggot? Or just a sad bastard?
‘Faggot!’ Adrenalined to the max. ‘Get the bastard!’
A split second and the jogger stopped dead in his tracks. Frozen by the sound. Until he saw the three figures burst into the open, shapes in the darkness sprinting towards him, silent now, after the initial scream. Turned and ran. Sprinting. Back the way he came, towards the steps. Ran for his life, having chosen the only direction in which he felt he had a chance. Thirty metres … Never going to make it … the others cutting off his line of retreat, closing in with arms waving, quiet and closing … he could see no escape … feet pounding … 15 metres … they were too close … swerved away, away from his pursuers and away from the steps … towards the bushes … towards the edge with nowhere to go…
Behind him, they could almost smell the fear and desperation, could almost reach out and touch the bastard … another few paces and…
He went over the edge. Didn’t pause, just reached the vegetation and took off. Twelve – 15 metres, the drop was. Jesus. They reached the line of scrubby bushes, all straining to see into the darkness, not believing the guy had done it, knowing he must be lying below: busted, bleeding.
‘Shit! D’ya see that?’ Breath coming hard, rasping. ‘Bastard thought he was a fuckin’ bird, but.’
‘Must be fuckin’ dead, eh?’
‘Only one way to find out, man. Let’s go see.’ Turning from the nothingness of their vantage point, down the steps to where they knew the faggot would be lying. Maybe dead, maybe just totally fucked.
But the drop hadn’t been sheer, had sloped away steeply – but safely. The jogger bouncing and sliding and scraping through more bushes and over rocks and boulders until he hit the coastal pathway with enough force to break his collar bone. But not enough force to stop him from running like a rabbit to his car parked on Notts Avenue.
Ten minutes later, leaning against the low wall near the corner of Hall Street and the night’s fun was done.
‘Let’s go. See if we can get a night bus, eh?’
They walked towards the lights, ready to cross towards the bus stop. They reached the corner, glancing along Hall Street, looked along its deserted length, thinking h
ow it had nearly been a shit night … But Hall Street wasn’t deserted. Two people were almost lost in the shadows of a building on the right. More poofters? They were standing at the cash machine set into the wall, withdrawing money.
‘Hang on. We can still get somethin’ from tonight, but.’
Nonchalantly crossing the road, sauntering as though it was midmorning, chatting casually between themselves.
As they passed the couple – not poofters, then – they noticed how the woman – late thirties, maybe fortyish - watched them nervously, how she seemed to twitch and worry until they’d gone past the bank, past where she was standing, scared but becoming less so at their passing. But they hadn’t gone far. They’d seen what they needed to see: the guy – middle-aged, paunchy – was stuffing cash into his wallet. They turned back.
One minute later and the couple lay on the ground, crying, moaning, blood dripping onto the pavement where they lay. The husband smacked from behind, his wallet snatched, and when the woman screamed, she’d been punched so hard in the mouth that one of her teeth snapped, falling to the ground moments before she did. Kicked hard in the stomach, taking away her breath, momentarily stopping her screams, kicked less hard to the head, shutting her up. Seeing them both barely conscious, laughing, bending down and roughly squeezing the woman’s breasts.
‘Never mind, bitch, you still got good tits.’
‘Hundred bucks.’
‘We can get a taxi home, but.’
ix
‘Did I tell you about the night I was attacked outside here?’
‘Here? No!’
‘Well, not right outside. More over by the Shift.’
They were standing by the far wall, away from the bar. Gilligan’s was crowded, all the tables taken. Young men, all abs and pecs beneath tailored shirts, casual pants, fitted and somehow just perfect. And ear studs, the odd tatt. But discreet. Mostly. Some occasional leather wandering up from the pub downstairs: older men, gaunt and haunted. But they didn’t stay long, went back down to the Oxford. Back downstairs where the air was thick with desperation.