The Legend of Winstone Blackhat

by Tanya Moir

  He tried to get her away from the drawers so she’d stop hurting her head and she made another big sticky red smear and Winstone knelt on the floor beside her as close as he could not noticing that his knees were wet and he waited for Zane to come.

  When the cops arrived they took Winstone outside and made him sit in the squad car. The front seat. The younger cop sat with him. He offered to let Winstone play with the lights and Winstone did a bit to be polite though he wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been expecting the police, but it was good to see them. After a while there on the floor with Marlene not knowing what to do he’d got worried that Bic might come back and by then the kitchen really was in a hell of a mess and he didn’t know what to do about that either. He felt like all that not knowing had eaten him out and there was just a big hole inside now and he’d never know what to do about anything ever again, but the cops did, they knew just what to do. They knew what he should do, too, which was sit right there, and that was easy, he could do it. The squad car was locked. The cops had tasers and guns. They’d deal with Bic when he came home.

  Winstone had just thought that when the lights came hooning up behind the squad car. But it was the ambulance, not the Commodore. Winstone got to sit in the ambulance too. They shone a torch in his eyes and gave him a blanket which was good because although he’d hardly noticed it till then the night had started to freeze.

  He didn’t see Marlene come out. The ambulance lady, who was really the canteen lady from school, wanted to show him all the buttons her ambulance had in the front, so they sat there for a while, and after that the cops drove him back to where the older cop lived in the house behind the station.

  Where is she? he asked Ros-your-social-worker-from-CYF when she got there the next morning.

  Your sister? Ros-your-social-worker looked wary.

  Marlene, Winstone told her. Did they leave her behind?

  No. No, they didn’t leave her behind. They’re looking after her, don’t worry.

  Where?

  At the hospital, Ros-your-social-worker said, and then she seemed to think of something and she stopped for a while and frowned. A special part of the hospital, she said, and that’s when she told Winstone about the place you went when you died where nobody could hurt you, and Winstone was glad Marlene had made it into a place like that because she’d hurt such a lot getting there and any more would have been too much for such a little girl.

  The service they had for her in the Clintoch church was a bit like being on the school bus. Him and Marlene by themselves up the front, everyone else behind them, whispering and pointing. Bic and Bodun weren’t there. The young cop had brought Bodun round to the old cop’s house behind the station later the same night that Marlene died, and Bodun had stayed there in the bed beside Winstone’s for a couple of hours but then he’d said fuck this and left through the bedroom window. Winstone hadn’t seen him since.

  Bic wasn’t allowed to come. Winstone hadn’t seen him either.

  Aunty Ruth said his mum was really sorry she couldn’t be there but she was in Australia getting her life straightened out and she had a job now and she was saving up and when she had she’d come and see them.

  Where? said Winstone. Where will she come?

  But Aunty Ruth just rummaged about in her bag and blew her nose and pretended not to hear him.

  Winstone couldn’t stay long. It was a long drive from Clintoch to where he lived now and he and Ros-your-social-worker had to get going. On the way out of the church he looked around for Zane, just in case, but he couldn’t see him. He’d tried texting over and over, even calling him, but something had happened to Zane’s phone and his Facebook account and Winstone couldn’t go looking for him at his place after school because he didn’t go to school in Clintoch any more.

  Winstone wasn’t stupid. He understood that Zane was hiding from him. He just wasn’t sure why. What he’d done. Which thing. Sometimes he dreamed he was back at Zane’s wrapped up in the white duvet and he was happy until something went bang beside the bed and he looked down and it was Marlene bashing and thrashing and rubbing her brains all over the floor. Other times the start of the dream was the same but the bang was Bic breaking down the bedroom door. The dreams weren’t real, just dreams like Dr Mike said, but they clung to Winstone even in the daylight. Sometimes it felt like the dreams were bigger than him and maybe they’d laid their eggs inside and were going to eat him alive like Aliens and he’d end up just a husk of a boy around the dreams and if dreams jumped like nits and preferred a clean host he could see why Zane wouldn’t want him coming over.

  But of course it wasn’t that because Winstone couldn’t find Zane to tell him about the dreams so Zane didn’t even know about the latest Haskett infestation. It wasn’t difficult to think of other reasons. Most people hadn’t wanted anything to do with the Hasketts before their old man was a murderer or manslaughterer which still sounded worse even though the cops had explained it was better. Winstone didn’t know much about other people’s lives except what he saw on TV, but he was pretty sure shit like this didn’t happen to them and they probably didn’t even want to think much less hear about it, and he didn’t blame them. He didn’t want to either. To hear or think or especially see, because once you knew what certain stuff looked like you couldn’t get the pictures out of your head, they hatched into dreams and no amount of scratching could get rid of them, you couldn’t cut them out with a knife, which turned out to be something not to tell Dr Mike because next thing you knew you weren’t even allowed to put spread on your toast without Mrs De Jong watching.

  But maybe that wasn’t it either. Maybe the problem wasn’t Bic or Marlene. Maybe it was Winstone. If he’d been nicer to Zane, maybe Zane would still be around. His arm over Winstone’s shoulder so all those church-stares just ran off his back and didn’t even touch him. Texting back when Winstone woke up scared in the dark. Except that Winstone wouldn’t be scared because he’d be at Zane’s and Zane would wrap him up in the cloud-duvet and there’d be no questions no talk no remembering just sitting close and watching John Wayne or Hoss and Adam and Little Joe and the dreams wouldn’t get him because Zane was right there and he wouldn’t let them.

  Maybe Zane had just stopped liking him. Maybe he had a new mate, a better mate, cleaner cleverer less of a waste of space. One who didn’t have to be told what a man had to do, who’d always have his mate’s back, who’d protect the weak, the women and little girls. One who’d yell stop, who’d kick and punch, who’d say it wasn’t her I did it hit me. One who was braver and less selfish and more grateful.

  Can we drive down that street? he said when they got to Addison Road.

  Why? Ros-your-social-worker wanted to know.

  I just want to.

  Okay. Winstone could feel her looking at him. What’s there?

  Nothing. Just a friend’s house.

  A friend?

  Yes.

  Was your friend at the church?

  No.

  What’s your friend’s name?

  Zane. Winstone watched the driveways and garage doors go by, the To Rent sign sticking out of Zane’s uncut lawn in front of the empty windows. I don’t think he lives here any more.

  Ros told me your friend Zane didn’t come to the funeral, Dr Mike said when Winstone went to visit him the next week.

  He’s moved.

  Have you spoken to him?

  Winstone shrugged. There was a long silence then but he wasn’t about to say anything in it. In those days a lot of people wanted to hear him talk, but it was a paid kind of listening, not like Zane’s. There was something hungry about it. Like being listened to by eagles. Or maybe they were government agents and he was there to deliver a message in code and he was the only one who didn’t understand it. It made him nervous. One day he’d say the wrong word and alarms would go off, there’d be bombs and lockdown, electrocution exploding chairs trap doors opening up a chute into the shark tank. Like when he said Bic had been a slaughterer once bef
ore meaning the season he’d done at the meat works.

  Sometimes, Dr Mike said, when something like this happens, people get scared. It’s overwhelming. They feel guilty. They don’t know how to help. They think they might do or say the wrong thing. It doesn’t mean they’ve stopped caring about us.

  You think Zane still cares about me?

  I’m sure he does. Dr Mike sat forward. He had a nice smile. You were good mates, yeah, you and Zane?

  Best mates.

  Maybe Ros and I can talk to Zane’s parents.

  Winstone didn’t think that would help.

  How about you write Zane a letter, then? We can do it together if you like. That way you can let him know how you feel.

  Dear Zane don’t be scared it is safe Bic is in prison now please come back and be my friend again I don’t mean just on Facebook.

  I don’t know where he’s gone, Winstone said. I don’t think he wants me to find him.

  Winstone recognised Zane’s voice right away. It made him choke up, like Zane’s voice was a line going into him and hooking up the sadness. He sniffed it back and wiped at the drips with his hand because it didn’t seem right to cry in front of eagles and government agents. He looked at the cop’s iPhone lying there on the desk with Zane’s voice coming out and he wished it was a Tardis that would open up and let him inside and he’d push a few buttons and get taken back to before when everything was normal and on the way there he’d pick up Marlene too.

  What Zane was saying wasn’t normal. But it still came from before, and it made it seem like before maybe still existed.

  Rahui Bridge, Zane said. Two-seven-five Council Road. A little girl’s been hurt. There’s another child there. I don’t know if he’s okay. You need to hurry.

  We’re on our way, sir, a woman said. Can you tell me what the little girl’s injuries are?

  I don’t know, Zane said. She’s been beaten. I don’t know.

  She’s been beaten?

  Zane’s breath coming fast like he’d been running.

  Sir, can you tell me your name and where you’re calling from please?

  She’s at two-seven-five Council Road, Zane said. You need to hurry.

  What’s your name, sir? Sir, I need you to stay on the line. Sir.

  The cop stopped the recording.

  Do you know that voice? the cop said. He was ratcheted up like a shiny new wire. Here, listen to it again.

  Ros-your-social-worker glared at the cop. Winstone didn’t mind though. He let the cop play the phone call a lot of times while he gave it some thought and he wasn’t pretending, he was listening hard, because every time Zane’s voice went through he heard it say a little more. Zane hadn’t left him. Zane had gone to get help. He’d run fast. He was worried and scared. There’s another child there that was him I don’t know and Zane’s voice got all broken up just like Winstone felt now if he’s okay. Zane had tried. He’d done the right thing.

  And it was as clear the last time Winstone listened to him as it had been the first that Zane didn’t want the cops to know his name.

  He wasn’t hiding from Winstone, he was hiding from them. Winstone hadn’t done anything wrong. Zane had. The thought made Winstone very happy.

  He shook his head at the cop.

  Think hard, the cop said. Are you sure it isn’t somebody you know? Winstone you need to tell us the truth. Was there someone else there the night that Marlene got hurt? Was there somebody with your father?

  No.

  Then who made that call?

  Can’t you just trace it? Ros-your-social-worker said. She sounded pissed off.

  The cop narrowed his eyes at her. It came from a payphone in Clintoch.

  Look does it really matter, Ros said. You’ve got the – well you know what happened and who did it.

  The caller could be another witness, said the cop. He wasn’t giving up. Winstone, could there have been somebody in the house you didn’t know about?

  How’s he supposed to answer that? Ros said.

  Winstone shrugged. He stared at the cop’s iPhone some more. I guess so.

  Somebody out in the car, maybe. Somebody outside the window.

  Maybe. Winstone thought hard. Maybe Bodun knows, he said. I didn’t think he was home. Maybe he and a mate came in and I didn’t see them.

  You think the caller could be one of your brother’s friends?

  Winstone shrugged again.

  Can you give us their names?

  Bodun had a lot of mates, he said. They came from all over the place. I don’t remember their names.

  WEST

  Winstone lay on his back on the sand beside the creek and waited for his legs to dry. It was taking longer than it used to. He sat up and pressed his finger into the centre of a new bruise above his jug-cord scar to see if the bruise hurt and he wondered how he’d got it. Then he lay back down with his head in the shade of the undercut bank and the grass-fringed earth hanging over his face like the brim of a sombrero.

  He had ten crawlies in his bucket. He would have had more but the kitten kept tipping the bucket over and getting nipped and letting the crawlies escape until it got distracted by a moth and ran off hunting that instead.

  After a while it was more cold than cool in the shade and he got up and dusted the sand off his legs and set the bucket of crawlies on the grass at the top of the bank and pulled himself up beside it. There was a breeze blowing down the gully and cutting the sun and he could have cooked the crawlies back on the beach but it seemed wrong to do it where the other crawlies could see so he took them up to the cave and found a spot out of the wind and cooked them there and the kitten was back and weaving in and out of his legs before he’d pulled the shell off the first tail.

  As soon as the crawlies were gone the kitten went too and Winstone followed it up to the top of the ridge to see what it would do, which turned out to be not very much, and after he lost the kitten in the long grass he climbed a tor and sat in the sun and looked out over the range. The wind was behind the tor and the rocks around him were soaking up the sun and sweating it back into the day in a little oily haze. There were frazzled white clouds above the line of snow to the west but over the range the sky was clear and empty of everything but the sound of the wind and some reedy birds that he never saw but that always seemed very cheerful.

  Winstone pushed up his sleeves and picked off a bit of the scab that ran like a line of stitches across his forearm where the kitten had scratched and then he picked some rust-coloured lichen off the rock and after that he felt mean and wet his finger and tried to stick the lichen back on. He’d forgotten to mark off the days while Alicia was there and then the marking stick had got lost but he thought it was probably Wednesday.

  He waited for something to move. He could see one white coil of the road but he wasn’t expecting anything to come up it today. The trapper had got sick of finding nothing in his sprung traps and taken his cages away. Off to the north sheep filed along the horizon like they had some place to go and Winstone watched them cross with the sky and the far cloud all around and between their legs and the dusty earth and their bellies.

  When he looked down again there was a rabbit under the tor and either his scent was blowing over its head or the rabbit just didn’t give a shit that Winstone was sitting there. He watched the rabbit go about its business which consisted mainly of hopping a bit and having a scratch and grazing a bit and hopping and scratching and grazing some more.

  Further down the hill he could see the brown back of a hawk rise and angle and fall as it circled another rock tor and maybe it was hunting some varmint in there or maybe the hawk was just riding the breeze and enjoying the sun.

  A shadow moved over the rocks between the rabbit and him and Winstone looked up and there was another hawk overhead but it was high in the sky and showing no urge to descend and Winstone screwed up his eyes and shaded them with his hand and watched the hawk as it drifted back and forth and its wings and their shadows moved like the slow-motion sn
ap of black coat-tails across the sun. The rabbit was a big rabbit and if it noticed the hawks or the shadows of hawks it wasn’t concerned. The sun was on Winstone’s face and he shut his eyes and rested his head against the rock and felt its warmth and the catch of the lichen in his hair and on the back of his eyelids the shape of the hawk remained floating black against the redness of the sun.

  THE CITADEL OF the Bandit King overlooked the range and the road and not a speck of dust was raised from them of which he did not have word. The Bandit King was wary and wise and fast and had outrun the guns and dogs and snares of the law more times than any could count and among themselves his men called him El Rabbitoh. The Rabbit. But on the road the Kid and Cooper looked up from their saddles and saw above them only buzzards and rocks and they came on unaware of the eyes upon them.

  Old rock fall littered the road below the bluffs and shifted under the horses’ hooves and the palomino stepped sideways and blew as a lizard broke from the dust.

  Horses don’t like it, the Kid said.

  Rattlesnake country, Cooper said.

  The hooves of the horses puffed the dust and the Kid and Cooper rode on abreast in the wake of their own shadows. To the Bandit King looking down they were a smoke and a darkness moving over his land and they alone could tell him their purpose.

  The Kid felt a cool breath of shade on his neck as the road entered a cleft in the rocks and he tipped up the brim of his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Beneath him the palomino stepped again and the Kid looked at the road ahead and squinted his eyes to make sense of the shape he saw in the glare at the mouth of the cleft.

  There was a mule in the road. It stood looking at them through half-closed eyes with its neck bent under the weight of the sun and its thin tail flicking the flies from its flanks and the heat haze rising around it.