Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  Locating a functioning packet of skins I settle back against the pillows and, with scissors, reduce my ration to a manageable consistency, mixing in a little tobacco. Tearing a strip of cardboard from the ZigZag packet, I roll it into a slim roach, placing it, and the dope, into a paper.

  A minute later and she’s ready to burn. I cross to the window to blow it: I’m yet to get around to confessing my habits to the old girl; she plays the role of ignorance well.

  Before I can ease the curtain back, however, a hard tapping on the glass damn near precipitates a hygiene incident.

  Who the fuck could that be?

  A voice, furtive: ‘Gatey? Yu there, bro?’

  Only one person in this world calls me ‘Gatey’.

  ‘Steve?’ Drawn curtains reveal the man himself, crouching between the roses of Mum’s back garden. I open my window — a big swing-out job — and Steve vaults himself up and in.

  Frowning sheepishly, in jeans and tanktop, he’s looking as robust as ever. He’s had his shoulder tattooed since I last saw it — a yin-yang bordered by a loop of razor wire — and it don’t look too foul. In fact, when one considers the hideousness of the body ‘art’ kids in gang circles often acquire, it must be said that Steve’s walked away happy as a broke bastard on Dad’s Day.

  ‘Cher, bro.’ I realise I’m wearing little but daks and a smile; shrug quickly into a pair of dirty trackies.

  We shake hands and sit on the edge of my hurriedly made bed.

  My deeper anxieties of earlier suddenly banished.

  Because, in addition to the mortification I expected to feel when reunited with the lads, I never really got used to having a friend as cool as Steve: the mere anticipation of the guy’s presence often stirred in me feelings of inadequacy. This despite the manner with which his bonhomie unfailingly dispelled such fickleness whenever we met.

  As it does now. On both counts.

  Me, grinning: ‘What’s wrong with the door, bro?’

  ‘I was a bit worried yaw old lady might be ’ome and blame what ’appened on me.’ He frowns deep concern: ‘How are yu, man?’

  His anxiety gives me a warm fuzzy, a sensation that never fails to embarrass me, even when alone. Shrugging: ‘Not too bad. My head didn’t really need stitches. Mum wanted to whip a couple in anyway, but she would’ve had to cut my hair, so I said ‘fuck that’. She just cleaned it right up, and it’s healing OK. I was a bit woozy for a while there, but’ — I drop him a blow-arse wink — ‘back on form now, bro, just as sharp as ever.’

  Chuckling: ‘Yeah, sharp as a bag’a wet hair. What ’bout yaw ribs? That cunt kicked yu fuckin’ hard.’

  I play it down, like I always played down hurts when Steve was there. ‘Bit sore for a day, but nothing damaged.’ Hemi’s boot marks still flare in me whenever I twist at the trunk.

  Steve seems set to question my health further, but I see the resolve flee his eyes; he looks at the walls instead.

  Can’t say I blame him. I’m not sure how I would tactfully phrase the question: So, how are you dealing with the stigma of being drenched crown down in a gallon or five of recycled Waikato Draught?

  But I’m not about to leave it lying between us. ‘Look, man, what you did for me was fucking unreal. I mean, I haven’t seen you in years and you go and risk your life to get me out of something my own mouth started. So I ended up getting pissed on? Who gives a fuck? I was asleep through it all, and the other alternative was for Hemi to kick me to intensive care or further. I know which option I’d take any day of the year. I consider myself one lucky motherfucker.’

  Disturbed: ‘But doan yu feel like … like … I dunno, dirty or something? Violated? If it was me I doan think I could live wif it.’

  ‘That’s ’cause you’re a tough cunt. Given a choice, you’d probably have opted for the beating. Me, I just pretend to be tough for other people’s sake.’ I soften the disclosure with a snigger. ‘Pride’s baggage cowards like me ain’t got the room for, bro. Like I used to say to you, them Old Testament bible bangers didn’t view pride as a sin for no reason.’

  Steve seems to relax a bit, although, paradoxically, he also appears a little disappointed. ‘I’m fuckin’ glad then, bro. I thought yu might’ve been scrubbing yawself wif sandpaper the larst few days or something. I thought I made the wrong decision, might’ve given yu a ticket t’ the Laughing Academy.’

  I decline mentioning the mouthwash. ‘Fuck no, man. You made the best of a shithouse job, that’s all.’

  ‘Thanks, bro. I was kinda hoping yu’d say that.’ He reaches across and musses my messy hair. ‘And yu ain’t no coward either, honky. Now, yu gonna light that joint or fondle it all day?’

  For a while we sit back and shoot the shit, sharing the doobie between us.

  Me: ‘So how come you never got in touch after you left school?’

  Penitent: ‘’Ard to say, bro. I’m fuckin’ sorry, anyway. It weren’t fuck all to do wif yu. I took a bad turn, starded down the same road cuzin Hemi’s at tha end of. I was pissing it up hard. Running wif the prospects an’ ’em. Crashing at people’s ’ouse’s I didin’ even noe. ’Aving smashes, fucking dudes up wifout even ’membering, getting fucked myself sometimes. Week after week. When I was straight I’d always decide that enuf was enuf: it was time to look yu up. But I guess I didin’ want yu t’see me like that. I thought yu might’ve bin ’earing ’bout me, bin … bin disappointed and shit, and I knew yu were in classes wif just the brainy fullas by then. I thought yu’d be embarrassed by a hood like me.’

  ‘How’d ya snap out of it?’

  ‘Was tha old lady, yu noe.’ Chuckles: ‘Her and tha acid. I went to some rage in the gheddo one night. Pissed it up faw hours. Same old story: gats; Marley; two or three big scraps. Some chick got bottled by ’er old man, ended up in tha ambulance … and we just kept drinking. ’Bout two I dropped some tabs and started trippin’ pretty hard. Everyone else crashed, but I coodin sleep. Was a cool trip faw a while, but yu noe what it’s like when yaw comin’ down, and yu still see things differently, but all the euphoria’s faded, and yu sometimes end up looking at things a bit too long?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, that was me. Sittin’ on the couch wif all these wasted Maoris crashed out ova the floor, among the spilled piss, and the blood, and the glass, and the tipped ashtrays. And I got t’noticing and thinking ’bout ’ow old some of these cats were, and none of ’em working, same shit every weekend — every weekend a “long” one — mope till dole day, start it all again, week after week, year after year.

  ‘And then this kid come down the stairs, can’t of bin three, snot and tears all ova ’is face, pants wet and full. ’E walked through the room shaking, like it was fulla sleeping lions, and I ’membered the noise of the rumbling from earlier, the screaming and yelling. Must have taken ’im ages to work up the courage t’ walk through. ’E never even noticed me sittin’ there, wide awake. ’E went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulls out these faw beer bottles — wif the acid in me they looked almost bigger than ’e was — placing ’em on the floor, jumping wheneva ’e made a noise, cryin’ real soft all the time. Finally ’e cleared enuf space t’ drag out a plastic bag from the back a the fridge. ’E digs inside it and pulls out an old raw carrot … starts eatin’ the fuckin’ thing skin and all. Poor little bugger was starving. Hadn’t bin fed in fuck knows ’ow long.

  ‘And then the front door opens and my old lady walks in! Fucked if I noe ’ow she tracked me down. Thought I was hallucinating at first. Scared the shit outta me. I ’adn’t spoken to ’er in months. She was dressed all tidy. You noe Mum: pretty short, fat and a bit ugly, but she’d really done ’er best to get tidy, and to me, man, surrounded by all that filth, she looked a million fuckin’ dollars, an angel just faw me. And here’s me, black jersey and jeans that ’ad bin washed about when I last had — 1969 it felt.

  ‘I was expecting ’er to really fuckin’ tear into me, but she just stood there and looked me over lik
e … like she’d been called t’ ’ospital t’ ID me on a morgue slab. I coulda cried, man. Then she hands me a photo. Wifout a word. It’s one’a me and Dad. He’s squatting right down. I’m ’bout two, walking away from him, all wobbly, but wif this big expression like, “Hey world, look at me! I’m mobile, man. Yu cunts just try and stop me now.” But Dad’s got his arms ready to catch me, and even though ’e’s smiling a bit, ’is eyes are concerned, bro, like ’e’s not shaw I’m ready faw this.

  ‘And sittin’ in that room, the photo and tha acid made it all so clear, hit me like buckshot. Wherever Dad was, if ’e could see me then ’e was seeing me in the same light as I was seeing that scared liddle toddler out the kitchen: confused and starving, dirty in and out, not a hope in hell, ploughing steadily downhill.

  ‘I did cry, then. Just blubbered away like a bitch. Not just tears — sobs as well, man. Couldn’t help myself. But it weren’t me I was crying faw. Not at all. It was faw Dad, ’cause after all ’e’d done to set me on the right path in life, all the concern and love ’e felt faw me, all tha ’opes ’e ’ad faw me to make something of myself, I’d repaid him like this? Worse, I’d used his death as an excuse to shit on ’is dreams faw me!

  ‘And Mum says, “It’s yaw father’s unveiling tomorrow. I’m going to Matakana faw it. I want yu t’ come wif me.”

  ‘So I did. Stayed on at the marae for six months afterwards, laid off the piss, got fit, sorted my head out again.’

  For a time we just sit quietly, passing the joint, neither feeling the urge to speak, sharing a Mia Wallace ‘comfortable silence’. The doob burns down and I kill it in the ashtray, both of us nicely toasted by now.

  Steve: ‘Mind if I score a drink, bro?’

  My own mouth’s as dry as a nun’s nasty. ‘Go for your life. Grab me one as well, eh?’

  He returns with two mugs of water, and by his face I see that something big’s fermenting in him.

  His question is a little half-hearted. ‘How ’bout you, anyway, Gatey? Right from day one yu ’ad it in yu to go places. Yu should be in varsity by now.’

  I want to ask him what’s really on his mind … opt to go with the diversion. ‘Don’t really see the point.’

  Frowning: ‘’Ow do yu mean?’

  I get heavy on him, as I know I can. ‘I believe if too many more of us thought crims chicken out and take the Juggernaut’s bribe — swallow the “if you can’t beat ’em join ’em” slogan — within a decade or four our good Earth’s gonna be little more than a fucking slag heap.’

  Steve, staring hard through dope-red eyes: ‘Yu really believe this?’

  Me, adamant: ‘Yeah, I really do. And I’m not the only one.’

  He nods. ‘I noe. I’ve met a lot of ova-brainy cunts ’u think that. But I’ve met a lot maw who’re just happy decidin’ ’ow best t’ join in on the gang-bang. The rest of us dummies toe the line wifout much thought, looking out faw number one … Why doan yu go t’varsity and get skilled up in something that’ll help yu make a difference?’

  Me, shrugging: ‘Dunno what, bro. Science was never my strong point, and anyway, for every ecologically conscious scientist these days there are five who sell their souls to the capitalists. Once upon a time the title “scientist” automatically implied integrity. Not any more.’

  I take his silence as permission to go deeper. ‘A lot of idealistic students take up law, aiming to become environmental lawyers, but a year or three down the track, with a debt running into tens of thousands and first-hand knowledge of where the money really is, when it comes to the crunch most of these faggots pussy out as well.’

  As I’m speaking, Steve takes out a pack of Dunhill and lights up a couple, handing one to me.

  ‘Sure, there’re plenty of “professional” careers to study for that don’t seem vampirish at face value, and yeah, maybe these types are less carcinogenic than the corporate class. But at the end of the day they all owe their positions of privilege to the masses forced to live as non-entities, in a world where technology should’ve made the need for a working class obsolete. And almost all “professional” types are at least indirectly culpable for helping preserve this fatal status quo of ours: their gratifying lives are oiled by the Juggernaut’s blood money; they’re the layers of its bureaucracy.’

  I really need a hit on my inhaler before I’m going to get much enjoyment from this cigarette … but I’d take part in a Ugandan orgy through condom sanctions before parading this fragility for Steve.

  Me, a little wheezy: ‘I suppose there are students who graduate with worthwhile degrees and ethics, but these are just a drop in the ocean, grunts to rush the spandaus.’

  Steve: ‘What ’bout yaw writing, man? All through school yaw pen was lethal.’

  I sneer off the compliment, inwardly chuffed. ‘I ain’t written fuck all since an essay on metaphors from The Crucible Seventh Form English. Never made it back to class to collect my mark, either.’

  My mark topped the form, according to the English teacher who phoned in a bid to keep me studying. He was a fine teacher and a fine dude: he even sympathised with the Brotherhood’s ideals. Damn shame he lacked audacity, striking no bigger blow in life than occupation in a programming plant, and at the polishing stage of the production line, an area of near impotence for even the committed saboteur.

  For this I despise the man.

  Me, continuing: ‘You’re right, though. In this war a good writer’s the equivalent of a well-armed fifth column: serious destabilisation. But it’s a matter of identifying a gainful medium, and so far that’s proving beyond me. If I’m to fight I’ve gotta recognise a means of direct action.’

  Steve just shrugs unconcern. ‘Yu got the brains and the ’nads faw it, bro. Yu always did. If there’s a way yu’ll find it.’

  His faith in me occasions an absurd spurt of confidence.

  Steve, reflective: ‘Kids, man. Yu’ve always got on all right wif kids, and the younger the mind, tha easier t’ shape. I reckon that’s worth ’membering.’

  Half-hearted: ‘Yeah, I’ve thought about that myself. The Net could hold answers. Everyone’s a publisher on the Web. Or a storyteller. I’ve thought of going deep cover: masquarading as a Samaritan. “Kids need to learn a love of reading. Story alone can achieve this.” Stories from abroad and from closer: stolen, home-spun, combinations of both, tailored to different age brackets.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘… And under the bullshit I’ll be spreading the dread: mining young minds, conscription through fiction.’

  Steve, distracted: ‘Sounds good. Give it a crack.’

  Shrugging: ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  This time the silence is tense. Whatever’s troubling him wants airing.

  Me: ‘You gonna spit it out, bro, or what?’

  A lopsided grin: ‘Yu stool read me like a book.’

  ‘Yeah, a speaking book on compact disc.’

  Eventually: ‘I just can’t stop thinking ’bout tha ova night.’

  Me, grimacing: ‘Let it go, Steve. I’m the one who got slashed on, and I’m over it already.’

  ‘… It’s not just that. It’s the way those cunts wreck lives like it’s a game. Prospects, molls, family members, crime victims. Yu wouldn’t believe tha amount’a people that chapter alone ’as screwed over. The day after that … that shit went down wif yu, I ’eard …’ He trails off; shies away.

  ‘You heard what?’

  He stares at the floor. ‘Vicki.’

  A chill grips me. ‘What about her?’

  Steve, sighing, shaking his head: ‘Hemi bashed her up bad after we left. Broke her jaw, smashed a heapa teeth.’

  Loathing attacks like skinworm. ‘Ahhhhh, fuck. All because of me.’

  Steve, snapping: ‘Get fuckin’ real, man. That’s what those guys do. If they ain’t rapin’ chicks, then they bashing or blockin’ ’em. Yu were just an excuse. He woulda found anuva reason ovawise.’

  I nod, desperate to believe this. ‘Is she in hospital?’
>
  ‘Yeah, but … but before he’d let anyone take ’er up, ’e made ’er go on the block.’ With deep reluctance: ‘They did ’er in tha arse too.’

  This time I’m seized by utter revulsion. Snatched in its jaws and shaken. Nothing but raw glimpses of the Fiend fill me with this … this vileness. I’m yet to experience a worse emotion: it’s like having your soul groped by festering claws.

  The spasm eventually passes, leavening anger, and queasiness, and the deathless, clichéd, ancient Why? ‘That fucking prick! Ah, god, the complete cunt! Fuck, I hope someone gets him one day!’

  Suddenly Steve’s eyes are shining at me ferally. ‘Why leave it t’ fate? Fuck “someone”. Fuck “one day”.’

  I reel in the face of this, Vicki all but forgotten. ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  Caustic: ‘Steve, it’s the Rabble. You jerk around with these guys, you wind up in a wooden box — mathematical law.’

  Showing teeth: ‘Not if yu do it well.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Can yu honestly tell me that after what they did t’ yu, after what they did t’ Vicki, after what they almost did t’ me, if yu ’ad the chance t’ get even wif these arseholes, at no risk to yawself, yu’d turn it down?’

  Gobsmacked: ‘Wake up, bro! The phrases, “revenge against the Rabble” and “without risk” are mutually exclusive. They do not belong in the same sentence. They don’t belong in the same fucking volume!’

  Steve, angering a little: ‘Hear me out, wool yu?’

  I sigh futility, but offer him a ‘whatever’ shrug.

  His explanation lasts a full five minutes; includes a visual aid, produced from a pocket.

  Afterwards I shake my head, appalled by the presentation.

  ‘You’ve lost your fucking mind, man. You simply aren’t hooked up right any more.’ But, to my enormous dismay, a kernel of deep excitement has begun transmitting from the base of my spine …