Ariel listens, not convinced, looking at the table. Suddenly Sergio sweeps through in a black apron that you’d think was a cape. Coffee man to the rescue!
‘Two more hot chocolates coming up.’ Empty cups and saucers disappear. ‘On the house, signor and signorina. My wife had a baby two days ago.’ He looks towards the ceiling as if he can see heaven. ‘Everything is sweet!’
I put up a hand. ‘Nah, it’s okay, man. We don’t –’
Sergio points. ‘You do!’ Then he’s away, fancy footwork all the way to the till, spinning around the register like Sugar Ray Leonard winning Olympic gold in Montreal. Ariel raises a smile.
‘I thought it was only country people who did that kind of thing.’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘This is a good place. It’s just that no one ever really notices.’
Or not enough people. But that’s their problem.
After tea, Slate and me head out to get a couple of videos. Inside the store it’s warm, quiet and bright, like the school library only better, because they’ve replaced books with movies and snacks!
Slate grabs a sniper-thing and I get a Johnny Knoxville, all fine and dandy until we get outside where two guys see Slate, he sees them, and everything comes to a screeching stop. It’s like someone hit the pause button, and instead of oxygen, everyone’s breathing ice vapour, the temperature suddenly dropped to zero.
Slate hands me his car keys, never taking his eyes off the two dudes, who separate automatically, as if already they’re planning to attack from different directions.
‘Get in the car, Ryan. This is none of your business.’
Neither of the guys are anywhere as big as Slate, although they look tough enough, one in a black T-shirt, the other wearing a white footy jumper with no sleeves. Both have tatts: Ned Kelly and Geelong footy club on one feller, the other guy has a Ford Motor Company and a panther . . . nothing I’d want to copy, but I guess that’s not the point.
‘Get in the car, Ryan.’ Slate flicks me a look. ‘And lock it.’
I walk off, already deciding that I will not hide in the car like some five year old. I put the keys in my jeans pocket.
‘I said, get in the car.’ Slate’s voice follows me like a shovelful of rocks. ‘Now.’
I walk another three metres, watching Slate circle away from the video-store door and plate-glass window. He keeps his hands low and loose, his face showing nothing, his eyes dark like an attack dog’s. The other guys glance at each other, maybe because Slate is freakin’ super-sized and scary, his shirt tight across his chest, his face stony. No one says a word.
I open the car door, but don’t get in. Instead I shut it loudly, then crouch, looking over the bonnet, my heart smacking my ribs like a rubber mallet. I’ll go out there, if I have to.
The guy in the white footy jumper takes a step forward. It’s a local club – called the Presty Knights. Their ground’s a few ks further down the road.
‘Why don’t ya get a real job, mate?’ He lifts his chin in Slate’s direction. ‘Or d’you like beltin’ bastards that can’t fight back. You and ya bloody big mates.’
‘We never start it.’ Slate slides his right foot forward. He fights southpaw but he can switch.
‘Yeah, fuckin’ right,’ says the other guy. ‘Four onto one. Weak pricks.’
Slate gives them nothing. ‘Your call.’
I wouldn’t try it. No way. Slate looms up in the dark, like some suburban Superman in check shirt, jeans and Timberland boots. People are watching out the video-store window and they can plainly see that something’s up, but they’re not about to investigate. A silence settles, and it’s menacing. It’s also a silence that I can see Slate is not about to break.
‘All we’re sayin’,’ says the black T-shirt guy, who isn’t that big, ‘is ya s’posed to be lookin’ after people down there, not fuckin’ hurtin’ ’em.’
The mood’s changed. There’s a slight rise in temperature, a giving of ground. I feel a wave of gratefulness for this guy, because he doesn’t really want to fight here, or now, and most certainly he doesn’t want to fight Slate. Which is probably smart and absolutely fine with me. I wouldn’t want to fight him, either.
‘Ya put a mate of ours in hospital,’ says the Presty Lions guy. ‘Hit the wrong bloke. Broke his jaw. Great work, dickhead.’
Slate shoots him a look, cold, unimpressed. ‘It’s a war. Sorry if I did.’
The dudes swap a glance, wanting to accept this. Slate is owning up but not backing down, and neither are they, which’ll do me fine as a win-win. Better than ambulances, police cars, hospitals and jail.
‘We protect the punters,’ Slate says, giving them something to go away with. ‘Not as easy as it looks.’
‘Make sure ya fuckin’ do it then,’ says Presty Lions. ‘Hurt the right people. Not the good people.’
Then they’re gone, walking away, talking like it was nothing, one of them lighting a smoke, probably saying something like, Yeah, fuck him, the big bloody idiot. I get up, people in the video store drifting back to the racks, waiting for us to leave. Or hoping we will.
I hand Slate his keys then we go, hanging a slow U-turn, the big V8 rumbling, suggesting what it can do if pushed.
‘Just another day in paradise,’ Slate says, as if fires burn by the side of the road, and fighter jets rip across the sky. His hands are shaky on the wheel, but it’s adrenaline not fear: fuel for fighting, if you know how to use it. ‘Insects under every rock.’
I look at the Western Highway, lit-up and wide, cars moving up and down, drivers with places to go and people to see. This suburb isn’t as bad as Slate makes out. If he wasn’t a bouncer, he wouldn’t find a tenth of the trouble he does. He’d walk past those two guys tonight and probably even say g’day. He wouldn’t have to risk a major blue with fellers who are probably just working guys like him.
‘It’s full-on,’ I say, in support, checking Ariel’s place as we pass, one dim light burning. I picture the three of them out the back watching TV. ‘Sometimes.’
Slate sees where I’m looking. He grins, one hand welded onto the wheel as if he’s going to go on steering this car this way forever.
‘I believe you’ve got a girlfriend, Ryan. Who lives down this way.’
I see my stupid-looking grin, skull-like, reflected in the windscreen. ‘That’s right, Slate. A friend who is a girl.’
He indicates and we turn into Tight Street. ‘Plenty of girls at the pub,’ he says. ‘Friendly girls as compared to girlfriends.’
‘Any as nice as Naomi?’ Straightaway I know that was a dumb thing to say. Not any of my business, eh.
Slate pulls into the driveway and stops outside the garage that’s really just a big tin shed that Bobby put up. He turns off the car. Everything’s quiet.
‘In their own way,’ Slate says. ‘Yeah. Things change, mate,’ he adds, opening his door, about to get out. ‘People go in different directions. You understand.’
I guess I do.
I sit on my beanbag with Deed and think about going to the beach with Ariel. I can imagine her in bare feet, sitting with Kaydie, the waves breaking in the background, sounding the same but never quite the same. We’ll do it – we’ll take a time-out from Templeton to see the big wide world.
I head around to Evan’s place on the way to school. He and Elmore have been back on deck for three days now and so far so good. Well, not from a teacher’s point of view, as neither of them says boo, though Evan never said anything in class anyway. It’s like two bikies from enemy clubs facing off. Both know the damage will be major if they spark a war. And the rest of us – every other kid in the place – stay as far out of range as possible. The promise I made to Eden – I’ve kept to myself.
Hopefully the Evan–Elmore thing will just fade away, but I have my doubts. Evan isn’t the forgiving and forgetting type, and neither is Elmore. There’s also Eden and the fatal Larkin family history, and Elmore only becomes more dangerous – although I would say, his situation
isn’t one that he can improve too much by fighting.
You can’t crack the silent treatment with fists. You can’t beat tragedy into triumph, guilt into innocence, or change the course of history. And, as Eden said, no one can bring anyone back from the dead. So what can you do?
Maybe, like Matty Boyd and the Bulldogs, you just have to face facts and set about changing what you can by doing what you can. To win, you have to deal with reality. To find the way forward, you have to deal with the truth. And like footy, a bit of help from your friends often comes in mighty handy. After all, whenever there’s more than one person involved, guess what? It’s a team game, whether you want it to be or not.
Next morning Evan and me meet up with Ariel and Kaydie, the four of us setting off like carefree kids in a breakfast food commercial – on the surface of it, anyway.
We head along the footpath towards Tempy Primary, Sky Point rising like a super-sized sandcastle. Tempy Secondary is further down the road, built in lovely grey brick. Past the kids’ playground we go, then on into the shade of a couple of big sugar gums that drop sticks all over the place. Kaydie stops.
She stares upwards into the highest branches where parrots hang in leafy pockets and a magpie sits as serious as a policeman.
‘Bird world,’ she says.
I laugh. ‘You’re right about that.’ I guess, to her, it must seem like heaven. No flood’s going to reach up there. And every night you can go to sleep safe and sound on a nice, strong branch or in a little woody hollow. ‘It’s a top spot.’
Kaydie says nothing, her backpack falling away from her shoulders as she watches the parrots swing and chatter.
‘You could draw a picture, Kayd,’ Ariel says. ‘Or write a story.’ She touches Kaydie’s shoulder. ‘Come on. School now.’
We set off again – towards the future, it seems like.
Of course, the ceasefire between Evan and Elmore was too fragile to last. They cross paths at recess, aware of each other like enemy destroyers patrolling international waters. Elmore stops, a look in his eye like a madman doing sums until he comes to the conclusion he has something to say. Kids back off, but they don’t vanish. There’s action in the air, they’re not personally involved and that’s how they like it.
‘Yer one dodgy fucker, Batlow.’ Elmore takes air in through his nose, like a fighter before the bell. ‘That hat. No speakin’. You are seriously fuckin’ weird. In more ways than one.’
Evan stands still, sending ripples of hate across the space that I can actually feel. He’s like a rock of uranium, dead scary, in the strangest and most mysterious of ways.
‘You’re the problem,’ he says. ‘You’re not losin’ it. You’re fuckin’ lost.’
No one has ever spoken to Elmore like this.
‘I’m puttin’ you in ’ospital, prick,’ Elmore edges forward in a regular boxing stance, eyes zeroed in on Evan like mine are zeroed in on him. Evan slides to my right as I think, I’m gunna get into this –
‘Back off, guys.’ And in comes Johnny James Dunnolly, not shouting, not running, not throwing his arms around, but taking control. His hands are open, like he knows this can be stopped before it starts and he’s the man to do it. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. We do not need this in this school.’ He talks like it’s a done deal. ‘It cannot happen and it won’t happen.’
Elmore lowers his hands a couple of millimetres, knowing he has something to lose here. Perhaps his old man might kill him if he gets kicked out, or he wants to be here for Eden’s sake. Or maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to have to smash Johnny James, the one person in the place who has never given up trying to get along with him.
I see Evan has eased back, but there are death rays blasting from his eyes. I expect to see his hat glowing.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ I say, doing my bit for world peace, gently pushing my mate away, hoping I don’t get punched in the back of the head or steamrollered by a rogue Elmore. ‘It was just an animated discussion.’
‘Of course it was, Ryan,’ Johnny says, sharp in a grey shirt and black leather jacket. ‘That just finished.’
Evan sidesteps, ready for anything. So I stay sidestepped, knowing this is his fight, although I will do anything I can to help him if he needs it.
‘Right, everyone.’ Johnny James addresses the crowd like a youth-club leader telling everyone the table-tennis table is about to be folded away. ‘On your way. Thank you. And remember, violence in this school will not be tolerated. You have been warned.’
Kids scatter like fish released into a river.
‘Thanks, guys.’ Johnny James talks to us as if we’re his unofficial right-hand men – but that would be wrong. We’re not. ‘I need your word this has just come to a stop.’ He has a hand out as if he’s collecting essays. ‘Permanently.’
Personally, I think he’s dreaming.
‘Yeah, right,’ Elmore says, hands on hips. ‘Every fuckin’ day.’
Evan laughs then walks off without a backward glance, leaving me holding the ball, so to speak, in the middle of the basketball court.
‘Anyway, sir,’ I say, ‘that’s the three-second rule for me, and your ball. So, take it from the side, thanks, and I’ll be off.’ I follow Evan, seeing Eden out of the corner of my eye, watching us alone, her hands pushed deep into her bomber-jacket pockets.
I’d wave, but I’m not sure there’s any point.
I go to Evan’s house on the way home and we kick back in his room. Strangely he seems quite cheerful about the day’s events and sits in his beanbag as cool, calm and collected as the President of the United States.
‘I’m remembering every word,’ Evan says. ‘He’s going to pay.’
I can see exactly why Evan feels like this. Not even if he knew Elmore’s real history would he cut Elmore any slack. Evan requires proof that someone is sorry, not excuses. Nothing else will do.
‘I’m going to pay him a visit,’ he says. ‘Old Larks might be about to find out there’s more than two prowlers around here after dark.’
This sounds pretty severe, even for Evan.
‘I dunno if I’d be so keen on doing that,’ I say. ‘It could go belly-up real quick.’
Evan shrugs, kind of punk-looking in an old cut-off shirt.
‘Let’s just say I like to keep an eye on things.’ He puts his hands behind his head, and his white-socked feet up on the edge of his bed. ‘You know, with my mum, Kaydie, Jill and Ariel being by themselves, someone has to operate in the paddocks. Cops can’t be there all the time.’
‘Neither can you,’ I say, which is a good point.
He runs a hand through his hair that has been cut short and sharp.
‘No, but I can be some of the time. Anyway, it’s interesting. Kinda spooky. Fun, in a serious way.’
My stomach takes a little dive. ‘Not at night it’s not,’ I say, imagining some shadowy dude snaking along behind the fences, sneaking up behind you, carrying who knows what. Light from the houses doesn’t reach too far out there, not too far at all. ‘Evan, you ought to cut that shit out. Man, there’s guys out there that could be up to freakin’ anythin’.’
‘It’s not as if I go out there unarmed.’ Evan says this as if that’s rule one, page one, of the Beginner’s Guide to Jungle Warfare. ‘Be prepared.’ He grins, for once.
I look at the corner where his archery stuff is. There are two bows there: the red and white bow we usually use in the backyard – and the hunting bow, camo-coloured, small, powerful and sinister-looking. I look at the hunting arrows. They’re pretty gruesome, with matt-black shafts and triangular heads of ground steel.
‘Exactly,’ he says.
‘Take it easy,’ I say, meaning a whole lot more.
Seconds of silence wander past.
‘Oh, I always do.’ He links his hands behind his head and sinks deeper into his beanbag. ‘So, are we going to the beach this Saturday or not? Is that the plan?’
‘That is the plan,’ I say. ‘If the plan was to change the su
bject.’
‘Good.’ He releases another tight grin. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Saturday rolls around, presenting us with blue sky and an early-morning train that connects with the one to Geelong. So on we get, and manage to snag four comfy seats together like a cool little lounge room. The last leg of the journey is by bus from Geelong to Anglesea; Anglesea is the place where Evan and I were at Camp Chaos with Linda the leader. Yes, Linda the leader, the girl who had it in for the bad boys from the west.
‘It’s only a five-minute walk from the Anglesea shops to the beach,’ I tell Ariel. ‘Just like old times,’ I add, looking at Evan. ‘Only better.’
On the train I watch Kaydie sitting with her cloth rabbit on her lap, holding its velvet ear under her nose, looking out the window. What she makes of factories, graffitied walls and thousands of houses and places she’s never seen before, who would know.
‘There’s a horse, Kaydie.’ Ariel points to a brown horse splashed with white dots standing in a paddock. Coloured wooden jumps lie flat on the ground, as if some spoilsport doesn’t want the horses using them in their spare time. ‘An Appaloosa. A nice one.’
The train zooms on. We’re back among new houses, standing in raw dirt, surrounded by black roads and white gutters. There are no trees. It looks like a desert.
‘An Appa-what?’ I ask Ariel. ‘What is it?’
Kaydie puts a finger on the window, bending it back, studying it.
‘A spotty horse,’ she says.
In the seconds that follow, the train blows its whistle as if to say, man, check this out, I’m seriously haulin’ arse here. But between us there’s silence and an extra glow, as we think about Kaydie coming back into the world, word by word.
‘A spotty horse,’ says Ariel. ‘That’s right. It is.’
We’re running between farms now, the land stretching away, the houses hidden behind hedges. It’d be lonely but nice living out here, I reckon. The size of the silence would be like space, endless and everywhere, playing on your mind. Could it change you into a different type of person? It’s certainly possible.
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