Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  ‘Don’t call my friends dickheads.’

  ‘You did,’ I reminded him.

  ‘So? They’re my friends, I’m allowed to.’

  I remembered teenage logic.

  ‘Besides, they’re not usually dicks, just right now.’

  I didn’t reply, but somehow he took it as encouragement to keep going.

  ‘And not all of them are anyway, only Harris, and he’s jealous.’

  I scraped away some sand and used one hand to scoop a hole out of the surface.

  ‘I should never have told him I like Jessica.’

  There it was, the source of teenage angst the world over – girls.

  ‘And he told her and now she hates me and I can’t hang around with them any more because Harris will act like a fuckwit. Sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Swearing.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if you swear or not. If Harris is a fuckwit, then he’s a fuckwit.’

  He grinned, then sighed and looked serious again.

  ‘Put a pile of sand there. No, not like that – like this.’ I showed him what I wanted.

  ‘This sucks, man.’

  I figured he wasn’t talking about the sand sculpture. ‘Did she say she hates you?’

  ‘Huh? No, not exactly, but she didn’t say anything when Harris started ragging on me. If she’d liked me she would have said something – right?’

  I thought about being fifteen and Heather Wilson and I laughed bitterly. ‘Hell, no. Boys, girls, doesn’t matter – when you’re with a bunch of other kids and the pressure is on you clam up.’

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ I agreed.

  ‘So what do I do?’

  He wasn’t going to let it go. I sighed. ‘Do you like her?’

  He looked away, his face flushing red. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Mate, it’s not some test you haven’t studied for. Either you do or you don’t.’

  ‘Okay. Yeah, I do,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then get her on her own and talk to her.’

  ‘And say what? I like you?’

  ‘There are worse ways to start a conversation,’ I said.

  ‘And what if she doesn’t like me back?’

  ‘Then you’ll feel like shit for a while.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like fun.’

  ‘Who said love was fun?’ I asked.

  ‘Hey, who said anything about love? I just like her,’ he argued.

  ‘Same principle.’

  ‘You should meet my sister.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s fucking weird too. And she’s old like you.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ I threw a handful of sand at him and he ducked, laughing.

  ‘Seriously, I can introduce you. I think you’d like her.’

  I shook my head. ‘You always try and set your sister up with weirdos you’ve just met?’

  He laughed again. ‘Okay, maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow.’

  My fingers squeezed sand. I hate that word.

  We worked for another hour, mostly in silence, occasionally talking about sports or movies. He seemed like a good kid, and he reminded me a lot of myself at that age, only not completely fucked. At one point he happened to glance up and froze. I turned to see a girl approaching along the beach. She was alone and hesitant. Steven furiously moved sand around with his hands, mostly undoing all the work he’d spent thirty minutes doing.

  I told him, ‘Okay, we’re done.’

  He looked up, startled.

  ‘Go talk to her, numbnuts.’

  ‘Numbnuts?’ he replied.

  ‘Fuck off. You’re annoying me.’

  He glanced at Jessica, then grinned at me. ‘You’re a dick,’ he announced, then jumped to his feet and walked over to the girl. I didn’t watch him. Whatever happened, it was his life, not mine. But when I looked over a while later they were gone.

  Sometime later Emily came back. She opened her mouth to ask, then closed it again. She was used to me doing odd things. She’d bumped into a friend and was it a problem if we didn’t go home until later? I asked her to clarify later – always an important question when dealing with Emily. She mentioned a vague time range and I said sure, it didn’t bother me. She promised not to forget me and left again to find her friend. Despite her insecurities, or maybe because of them, Emily had a lot of friends and always seemed to bump into them when we went out. She hardly ever forgot me.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the sculpture. Occasionally someone would stop and admire it, and ask questions, but mostly I was left alone. A madman playing in the sand. The day wore on and the beach began to clear as people went in search of food, or homes, or the rest of their lives. Every now and then someone would walk past, their dog bounding back and forward, joyful at being off the leash. Some dogs would trot up, then veer off to chase a seagull. Still I worked on. Eventually the quiet fell to nature, the heartbeat of the water the only sound as it stole up the sand, then skittered back to the safety of the ocean.

  Finally I was done. The end result was about three metres round, half a metre raised – the full moon, complete with craters, imperfections and shadows. I sat next to it, muscles aching, suddenly aware of hunger and thirst, and the heat on my skin despite the sinking sun. I vaguely remembered putting sunscreen on but it seemed a long time ago.

  When I started this morning I was killing time until we went home. But over the course of the day spent creating this thing a purpose had evolved as a shape emerged. For some reason the story was stuck in my brain. I am the moon, despising my reflection, wanting to punish something – anything – like the moon punishes the beach, smashing it, relentlessly tormenting it and never ceasing. But I had nothing to punish, no tangible reason or cause for why I was this way. I was a victim without an offender.

  This sculpture was a stupid desperate attempt to show the moon its beauty. Maybe then it would stop punishing the sand, and there might be hope for me. Hope that there was an end to this existence I led.

  The sun sunk lower and the moon muscled its way skyward, drawing the water with it, threatening the sculpture before the moon could reach high enough to see it. Scrambling up, I desperately began digging a trench, a futile attempt to hold back nature for the briefest of moments.

  ‘No!’ I cried out, tears streaming down my face, dropping to the sand to mingle with the seawater, as if my own body was working against me to hasten the moon’s death. ‘A little higher,’ I urged the silver ball.

  Water reached the trench, teasing me for a moment before retreating, giving and taking hope with each rhythm. My hands were coated in wet sand as I furiously bailed the trench, but every beat brought more. As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the ocean nibbled hungrily at the edge of the sculpture. I collapsed panting into the sand next to my offering, staring at the real one, and darkness settled over the world, crushing me by its expanse.

  At the next wave my legs were wet up to my knees.

  ‘FUCK,’ I shouted.

  The next wave brought water to my thighs. My sculpture was lost, my offering to the universe rejected as inadequate. I wanted to lie there and let the water carry me out to the depths. Death had never taken before, but maybe this time it would and I could finally be at peace.

  No, I couldn’t do it – not to my parents, or Emily.

  Yet the next wave brought water to my waist and I felt its tug as it retreated, the lure becoming stronger. Come with us, it said. Soon, I whispered back.

  The next one reached my stomach. Come play, it hummed insistently. Patience, I replied.

  The next came up to my chest, the pull more powerful now. Help, it said.

  Wait, that wasn’t the water. I shook my head. There it was again – a voice: ‘Help!’ There was something vaguely familiar about it, but the water was comfortable, soothing. Now it was up to my armpits, and as it left again I moved with it, just an inch. It wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Help!’ cr
ied my sand sculpture. ‘Someone help!’

  No, not the sand.

  My eyes snapped open. Emily! I leapt up, trying to get my bearings, to pinpoint the sound. The cry came again, this time more muffled, it was about twenty metres up the beach. I sprinted, kicking tufts of sand behind me. Another sound came and I corrected my course.

  ‘Shut up,’ grunted a male voice.

  Before me lay a series of undulating sand dunes. I knew from previous visits to the beach that there were pockets in the dunes, places where you can’t be seen from the beach or the road. I could hear the sounds of struggling, then thud, and someone crying. My mind raced, telling me to be cautious, to find out more information, but a white-hot rage flooded my body and I charged to the top of the dune, feet slipping, catching, stumbling, pausing at the top for a split second, taking in everything, before sliding down the other side.

  In the pale moonlight I saw a jumble of shapes – two bodies on the ground, writhing, struggling, and two others on top. A terrified face turned its unfocused eyes in my direction. It was Emily. One of the men had her pinned to the ground, his pants around his knees. She ripped a hand free and tore at his cheek with her nails. He jerked back, raised a fist and punched her in the face, all in the time it took me to slide down the sand. He placed his hand on her bikini top, maybe to rip it off, but he never got a chance.

  I hit the base of the dune and used my momentum to launch a front kick, weakened by the lack of traction in the sand. I connected with his shoulder, his head snapped sideways and he fell off. I moved forward with the kick, his friend looking up from his own victim in time for my fist in his face. It was perfectly weighted; I felt his nose collapse beneath my knuckles, heard a loud crunch as the cartilage shattered. He flew backwards, tumbling into his friend, a tangle of limbs.

  For an instant everything froze, then time started again, and the man whose nose I’d broken freed himself and climbed to his feet. Blood ran down his face, his nose pointed sideways, and his eyes blazed in anger. He stepped forward, hauling his shorts up as he came. Suddenly his eyes went blank and all the air exploded from his lungs.

  I looked down in time to see his victim withdraw her foot from his groin. Before I could move she jumped up, grabbed his T-shirt and kneed him in the balls. He fell to his knees, dragging her down with him. He reached out and lurched his head back, but before he could complete the head butt I pushed past the girl and punched him twice – left eye, right eye. She released her grip and he fell backwards. This time he didn’t get up.

  Emily’s would-be rapist struggled to his knees and I snapped my leg forward, driving my entire weight into his stomach. He let out an explosive sound and pitched sideways, his head clattering against his friend, and they both lay still. I heard panting and whirled around ready for another attack, then realised it was me.

  I turned back to Emily, who lay shivering on the ground. I knelt beside her and she threw her arms around my neck and tried her best to squeeze the life out of me.

  ‘It’s okay, Ems.’

  ‘Jesus, Troy,’ she sobbed into my chest. ‘They were going to…’

  ‘But they didn’t,’ I soothed, and turned to her friend, who was kneeling on the sand about half a metre away. ‘Are you okay?’ She raised her head and her face mirrored Emily’s fear. My heart froze. It was Cat.

  ‘I think so.’

  Her hair was a mess, there was sand all over her, and she had a small cut on her left cheek. I could actually see the light in her eyes disappearing into horror.

  One of the guys moaned and rolled over. At the same time a voice called out from the road. I wasn’t paying attention but Cat responded.

  A couple of seconds later a head popped over the sand dune. ‘Elissa!’

  I looked up. It was Steven. He stared, dumbfounded.

  ‘Steven, call the cops, will you?’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Language, Steven,’ Cat said automatically.

  ‘Jesus, what happened here?’

  ‘Just call the cops, Steven. Tell them two girls were attacked,’ I repeated.

  Steven looked down at the groaning, bleeding men. ‘Did they…?’

  ‘I’m okay. Troy stopped them before anything happened. Now please call them.’

  Steven saw me properly for the first time, shocked by recognition. He looked down at the men again, his fists clenched tight, then he turned and disappeared from view.

  As I watched, the Cat I’d come to know disappeared from view, leaving in her place a scared, hurt girl in shock. I glanced down at Emily, my best friend, and back across at Elissa, the woman I could love, and the rage I’d previously felt reignited. I glared at the men, vision narrowed by blood boiling in my veins, and suddenly the pain inflicted on them wasn’t enough. They needed to suffer more. I made to move and Emily clutched me tightly.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked in a panicked voice.

  For a second I thought about tearing myself free and rushing over to their prone bodies, pounding them again and again, smashing them into pieces. Then I looked into Emily’s eyes and saw the fear, and all thoughts of retribution vanished. ‘Nowhere, Ems, I’m right here. But she needs us too, so can we shuffle a little that way?’

  All the strength had gone from Emily’s limbs so I did most of the work, but we managed to bridge the gap between us and Cat. I wrapped my free arm around her and she leaned into my shoulder and began crying.

  ‘You know, you guys are going to owe me a new T-shirt after this. Tears and snot are extremely hard to get out.’

  Neither of them reacted to my poor attempt at humour, but I swear Cat wiped her nose on my sleeve. My hand hurt like hell. I flexed it slightly and pain shot through my arm. Probably a broken bone. Not the first; unlikely to be the last.

  ‘Jesus, Troy,’ came Emily’s muffled voice. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  Which wasn’t an easy answer. In one Possibility I’d studied mixed martial arts and got pretty good at it. In another I’d taken up boxing, and sucked at that, but still got taught how to throw a punch. The thing is, I remember all those other lives. Not every single memory, but enough to know what to do in a situation like this. ‘You’re my best friend, Ems. Nobody messes with my friends.’

  ‘Karate Kid.’ Cat let out a ragged laugh. ‘I’m glad he’s your friend, Ems.’

  ‘I think there’s a story in there, but I’m too tired to hear it,’ Emily said sleepily.

  ‘Don’t fall asleep, Ems.’ I shook her a little, worried shock was setting in. Where the hell were the police? Cat started shaking, and like an infection Emily joined her. I had nothing to keep them warm, other than my rage, which bubbled under the surface, and part of me hoped one of the men would move, giving me a reason to release the anger.

  That’s how they found us. The police, Steven, their parents, a blur of people asking questions. I started shivering and someone brought me a blanket, but it wasn’t shock – my clothes were wet. A paramedic confirmed my knuckle was probably broken and I should go to the hospital for an X-ray. I said I’d go tomorrow. At some point one of the police officers called me a hero which meant nothing to me. A little while later I overheard one of the ambulance crew say they thought the guy with the broken nose would need emergency cosmetic surgery, and that made me feel warm inside.

  The police took my statement, asking the same questions a few times, checking the answers were the same. They tried the same with Emily, but her responses were devoid of life, and I saw them talking to Cat as well.

  As the crowd started to thin Steven sidled up to me. He shuffled his feet, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. He kept looking over to where Cat was being comforted by their parents.

  ‘Go talk to her,’ I said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your sister needs your support. Go on, numbnuts.’

  He grinned at me and took a couple of steps towards his family, then looked over his shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

&
nbsp; ‘No problem.’

  ‘Dick,’ he added.

  I went to throw something at him and winced at the sudden movement in my hand. He laughed and took off.

  One of the police officers brought Emily over to me and said I could take her home. She was wrapped in a blanket, clutching it around her like a protective shield, and looked completely vulnerable. I wished I had some control over the whole life thing, that I could blink back to earlier today to save her from this. But it doesn’t work that way.

  We didn’t speak to Cat again before we left. She was bundled into a car by her parents. Steven glanced back and gave me a nod before disappearing. Emily and I climbed into her car and set off for home. Five minutes into the journey I pulled over so she could throw up. After that she dozed the rest of the way home.

  I half-carried her into the house, and before she went to bed I made her drink a double shot of gin, her alcohol of choice. After she’d settled I sat at the kitchen table icing my knuckle and drinking straight vodka. The alcohol burned my throat but did nothing to drown the sound of bone breaking, the man’s nose beneath my fist replaying in a constant loop. I didn’t regret it, considering what he was in the process of doing, but it still made me feel sick.

  Two hours later I was still sitting there, lights off, third drink half-empty in front of me. I’ve tried alcohol before as a memory suppressant and it works for a while, but never for long enough. Tonight wasn’t the first fight I’d been in, and now every single one of them replayed over and over like a highlights reel, bringing with them unwanted memories of those lives. Times I wanted to forget, but my punishment is to remember.

  One in particular stood out. Then I’d been in a similar situation – not with Emily, but another girl I’d known in that Possibility. She’d been attacked, and I’d been too late to stop it because I’d made the decision to stop for ice cream before meeting her on the beach. I hadn’t even wanted the ice cream, it was just there and I thought what the hell. By the time I got to her she had been raped by two men and left with physical and emotional scars, and two months later she committed suicide. Because I stopped for ice cream.

  I thought about fifty-fifty decisions and the consequences – intended or not – that come with them. I wished I could go back in time and stop those guys before they touched Emily and Cat, but if I went back in time they might not have touched the girls anyway. Fifty-fifty, they might not even be there. Fifty-fifty, Cat might have decided not to go to the beach that day. Fifty-fifty, Steven might not have fought with his friends. Fifty-fifty, Emily might not have got hungry at the time she did so she could go to the café at the exact time to meet Cat. The number of decisions made to get to that point might have all changed. Time travel doesn’t work; it’s nice to see in a TV programme but it isn’t reality.