Murderer's Thumb

by Beth Montgomery

  They drove through and Toot returned to the back seat with Adam, which surprised him. He thought she’d take the front now she had time to get in.

  ‘OK Snake, fang it!’ she said and instantly Adam fell sideways onto her as Snake curled the car round in a full throttled roar, wheels spinning and soil flicking, showering over the roof. Then he swung it in the opposite direction and Adam thudded against the door, with Toot on top of him laughing and shrieking. His arms went round her and he gulped in the smell of her hair and skin, his face grazing her neck for an instant. Then they were thrown in the other direction as Snake continued his circle work. Adam’s left hand was jammed under Toot’s bottom and once again his face was against her hair. The thrill of her so close, her hip pressed into his groin gave him the biggest jolt, and the biggest hard-on. He fought to suppress it, think of something else…water troughs, fried eggs, old boots, silage.

  ‘That’s enough folks,’ Snake said and he slowed down and drove to the gate.

  Adam righted himself and caught his breath. His pulse was thumping in his neck. Had Snake noticed what was going on in the back?

  Toot straightened her top and gave Adam a funny look. She got out and closed the gate behind them. She sat in the front on the way back to the Thackerays. Did she know he’d had an erection? She must have. Was he too rough, or too weird, grabbing her arse and sniffing her neck like that? She didn’t push him away, but then why didn’t she get in the back with him again? Snake drove the car up to the old farmhouse.

  Adam got out and said goodnight.

  ‘Bye,’ Toot muttered. She didn’t smile at him; she didn’t even look at him. Had he totally screwed up?

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next day Matt drove Adam to the Selwyn football ground. Adam’s stomach was writhing. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to play. It was the thrill of the first game. Would he prove himself, or play like a total reject? He wanted to perform well, keep a place in the side, earn some respect for his game, but would his eye hold up for four quarters? Or would he start playing two footballs by half-time? It depended on how hard he went in and whether he was on the ball a lot. Too much concentration and his vision would double, his head throb. He’d be punching fresh air, looking a total dickhead.

  Adam hadn’t said anything to Birdie about it. He didn’t want to appear a whinging hypochondriac. Plus he didn’t think he’d have to tell them; they’d pencilled him in as a half-back on the team sheet. If they kept him there he could rest a while, he wouldn’t be on the ball the whole game, and he could play to the best of his ability. In the ruck he’d be burnt-out before half-time, fumbling around for a phantom football. The crowd would be horrifled.

  He said little for the thirty-minute drive, while Matt filled him in on the history of the Selwyn football club. Matt’s ability to retain trivia amazed Adam. He knew how many premierships Selwyn had won and when, and which players were the major goal kickers and best on ground. Adam thought Matt would be great on one of those television quiz shows where the contestant gets to choose their specialty subject. Except he’d need extra time to get the answer out while he stammered in front of the cameras.

  They reached the oval half an hour before the first bounce. Due to Selwyn’s large population, the football ground was better resourced than the Redvale-Falcon Ridge ground. It had big wrought-iron entrance gates and a cyclone fence around the perimeter. The clubrooms were bigger too. They even had the scorer’s box set into the second storey, so club officials were never far from a hot pie and a beer.

  They parked next to Mongrel’s white Rodeo. Adam noticed the sticker on the back window: Ferals Must Die. Ferals and native wildlife, Adam mused. Especially defenceless joeys.

  They left the car and walked towards the clubrooms. Mongrel met them at the door, his piggy eyes squinting in the sunlight. Bullnecked, he stood with his arms crossed, like a bouncer at a nightclub.

  ‘All set for the game, Stats?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mongrel jabbed Adam playfully in the guts. Adam didn’t see it coming. He flinched.

  Mongrel doubled up laughing. ‘You got to be ready for ’em, mate.’

  He only spoke two languages: bullshit and fight. Adam strode past him. How did Matt’s sister ever fall for such a jerk?

  In the centre of the room Birdie was giving out footy jumpers. ‘I saved a big one for you, Stats!’ He handed him a scratchy red vest with a huge number eight sewn on the back.

  ‘Thanks,’ Adam muttered.

  ‘Hey Stats, all ready, are you?’ Snake called from the doorway. ‘Should be a laugh.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Adam didn’t feel like laughing. The churn in his guts felt like a concrete mixer. He grabbed the team’s supply of sunscreen and started squirting it down his arms.

  Soon the room was full of men, players and supporters, all shouting.

  ‘Carn fellas.’

  ‘Show ’em how it’s done.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You can do it, fellas.’

  The players jumped on the spot nervously or waved their arms around, warming up. Adam hated this part of the tradition: the pumping up, the testosterone fix, preparing for battle. Like Matt, he wasn’t the warrior type. Footy for Adam was all about fitness and stamina, not punching heads.

  Adam ran onto the ground surrounded by his teammates, a swarm of red and white. After two hours on the field, they would have heat stroke.

  The first quarter went well. Adam got a few touches and they trailed by only eight points at the siren. Birdie revved them up in the huddle, raved on about ‘keeping your eye on the ball’, ‘picking up the loose man’ and giving ‘one hundred and ten percent’. That expression irritated Adam. It was like saying ‘I want you to do something that is totally impossible.’ Then Birdie shouted out specific team changes, and to Adam’s horror, he’d been shifted to the ruck. There was backslapping and more ‘come on fellas’ and then they were dispersing over the field, tagging their opponents and shouting encouragement to one another.

  Adam sized up his opposition, a thin guy with a goatee beard and exceptionally long arms and legs. Adam thought of a daddy-long-legs spider.

  The umpire held up the ball and blew the whistle.

  The next moment Adam was racing in at the bounce and jumping skyward, tangling his limbs with Daddy-Long-Legs, but not getting a fist to the ball. Adam’s bulk and momentum pushed Daddy-Long-Legs sideways. The spider’s body curled up as he hit the ground, but then he straightened and sprang to his feet, charging after the ball, and leaving Adam to lumber behind. Lightweight but indestructible, Adam thought.

  Daddy-Long-Legs didn’t go in as hard at the next bounce. The man was a connoisseur of the bounce. He expertly judged the ball’s flight and pace, while all Adam could do was thunder in and occasionally connect with a wild biff.

  Late in the quarter, Adam crunched against his opponent and managed to get a fist on the ball. The pair of them fell, with Adam pinning Daddy-Long-Legs’ shoulders hard against the parched soil. The spider twisted free, leaving Adam sprawling on the ground. His elbow stung, his throat burnt. He was just getting to his feet when he heard the runner’s voice yelling at him. ‘Stats, come off, interchange!’

  The runner, a towel draped around his neck, was charging towards him with a drink bottle. ‘Only five minutes left. You won’t miss much,’ he said, pushing the drink bottle into Adam’s face.

  Adam followed him to the boundary, jogging with his head down. He didn’t want to see the glares from the coaches’ box. He knew he’d played like a dog, been outwitted, outrun. He couldn’t even blame his vision. It was substandard fitness and judgement.

  ‘Hey Stats!’ someone called out just before he reached the box.

  Adam looked up and saw Mongrel leaning against the fence with the policeman, Barry Timothy. ‘What happened, Popeye? Not enough spinach?’ Mongrel jeered.

  Barry laughed, rocking back on his heels.

  Adam scowled. No one teased him about h
is eye. What was Mongrel trying to prove?

  ‘Sit down, big fella,’ Birdie said to him. ‘Keep warm. We’ll put you on half-way through the next term.’

  Adam sat watching the dying minutes of the quarter, avoiding eye contact with everyone on the bench. Mongrel’s words still pissed him off. He was such a smart-arsed prick.

  At two-thirty Adam and Snake were each enjoying a pie and a can of soft drink on the boundary line. Adam’s head was tight, but so far it wasn’t throbbing. That was the sensation he loathed, because it always meant a major attack of double vision, one his brain couldn’t override. As it was, he’d managed to survive the game with only a minor lapse of focus in the last quarter. But it was enough for him to feel ashamed of his performance.

  The seconds’ match had been lacklustre. Most of the players weren’t fit, and the thirty-degree day slowed everyone down, except for Daddy-Long-Legs who’d had a different opponent marking him each quarter.

  Adam was glad to be sent to the back-line where Birdie said he was solid in defence. The remark made Adam laugh. Did Birdie mean reliable, capable and strong, or just thick and impenetrable?

  Snake had done well: he’d kicked a fluke of a goal and somehow, through his bumbling efforts, contributed to two others. But he couldn’t hide his disappointment at losing the game. ‘Should’ve been more competitive,’ he sighed.

  ‘It’s only a practice match,’ Adam said.

  ‘We were so close at three-quarter time, only fourteen points the difference.’ He was a hopeless optimist when it came to the scoreboard.

  Adam nudged his friend, ‘Look out, here comes the cowboy.’

  Loody walked up to them, carrying his bag. His copper-coloured hair was wet from the showers. Water dripped down his neck.

  Snake pretended he hadn’t seen him. ‘Tell me more about that letter you found,’ he said loudly to Adam.

  ‘Well it says that the diary is hidden in a shack on old Byrd’s place,’ Adam said.

  Loody seemed about to comment, then checked himself.

  Adam caught his eye. ‘You’re off early.’

  ‘Someone’s gotta milk.’ He gave Adam a quizzical look. ‘You had a mixed game, Stats.’

  Adam snorted. Was Loody making a polite comment or a nasty remark? ‘It’s my eye. Too much aerial stuff and I get double vision. Same if I’m stressed or tired.’

  ‘Probably why you can’t shoot straight,’ Loody said. ‘Either that or your eyes are filled with tears, crying over a lost cause.’

  Adam gave him a sour look. ‘Can’t all be heroes,’ he said.

  Loody touched his hat in that cowboy wave he’d perfected. ‘Well I’ll see you guys round. Tell us who wins.’ He loped off towards his ute, boots crunching in the gravel.

  ‘Sure,’ Adam said, then he muttered to Snake, ‘He heard you loud and clear. I think the whole grandstand got the message.’

  Snake laughed.

  ‘Hey, Snake, you played well today,’ came Toot’s voice from behind them. She came forward to stand beside Adam, who felt himself blush. Hopefully she’d think it was sunburn.

  Snake raved on about his miraculous goal kicking but Toot looked as if she wasn’t really listening. She was staring straight ahead and her lips seemed to be quivering. She was close enough for Adam to inhale her scent again. More perfume than grease this time. He wished she’d say something to him. He wished he could think of something to say to her, but everything that ran through his mind sounded corny.

  ‘Didn’t know you’d be here,’ he said finally.

  She flicked her eyes up at him.

  ‘I told you she liked football,’ Snake said.

  ‘You going to the barbecue tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘S’pose. Nothing else to do round here,’ Adam said. ‘You two going?’

  ‘Can’t stay long,’ Snake said. ‘We’ve got to study for our first aid certificate. Test’s tomorrow at the fire brigade. Dad’ll kill us if we fail.’

  ‘You’re in the fire brigade?’ Adam asked incredulously.

  ‘Junior brigade. Toot’s with the seniors.’

  Adam gave her an odd look.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said. Her eyes challenged him.

  ‘Just…er…nothing.’ Adam said. Was she still shitty over what happened last night? Adam couldn’t be sure.

  They watched the match for a few minutes in silence. Birdie bent to scoop up the ball and was mown down by a Selwyn tackle. The crowd jeered. ‘Play on!’ the umpire screeched. Matt pounced on the ball and hand-passed it out of the pack to Mongrel. Mongrel was on the move but he wasn’t fast enough for the Selwyn defender who brought him down. ‘Ball!’ the crowd booed. The whistle blew and the umpire awarded the free kick to Selwyn.

  Mongrel pushed his attacker off with a well executed elbow to the jaw. The man jerked his head away, then retaliated by shoving Mongrel backwards. Mongrel threw a fist. Suddenly there were countless players rushing to the scene, pushing, swearing, shouting. Men buffeted against one another, chests pumped out, the sinews in their necks straining. They pulled and clenched each other’s jumpers in their fists, shoved their hands in each other’s faces and held one another back with beefy arms. The umpires stepped in. Eventually the mob dispersed. The free kick was taken. Mongrel stalked off, but Adam couldn’t help thinking that Mongrel felt pleased with himself.

  ‘Fine display of good sportsmanship,’ Adam said sarcastically. ‘Man’s an animal,’ Toot said staring ahead. She sighed. ‘Got to go. I’ll catch you later.’

  Adam watched her vanish into the crowd of Falcon Ridge-Redvale supporters. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked Snake.

  Snake gave him a strange look. ‘How would I know.’

  Adam was just getting dressed when the phone rang. ‘Can you get that, Mum?’ he shouted. She wouldn’t. He knew she wouldn’t. She was in the kitchen with the bloody thing, but she wouldn’t pick it up, not unless he forced her. He dashed out of the bedroom and answered the phone. He expected to hear Snake’s voice but there was silence. Then an exhaled breath, barely audible. Then a click.

  Adam hung up the phone slowly, tightness rising in his chest. He looked across at his mother.

  Her eyes were wide, unblinking. She clawed at her thighs. ‘It’s started, hasn’t it?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘Wrong number,’ he said, but his voice wavered. The call was so like Kazek. So calculated, so precisely meant to scare.

  ‘Adam, what if it’s him?’ Her voice was small, pleading. ‘Probably isn’t,’ he snapped. ‘It could have been anyone, Mum.’ He hated her like this, so weak and irrational. ‘I told you we should have got a phone with caller ID.’

  ‘If he finds us here…’

  ‘Then this time you get an intervention order.’

  ‘But they’ll refuse, like last time…they don’t care…don’t believe me. They think I’m an idiot,’ she shrieked, flinging her hands up to her face. Her whole body shook.

  ‘Mum, we can’t keep running!’

  She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Adam took a deep breath. He wanted to pick her up and shake her, bring back his old mum, the confldent one, the one who used to laugh and sing and answer the phone. But she was gone, buried under years of intimidation and he didn’t know how to reach her.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Adam was happy to be out of the house, away from his mum’s paranoia. She’d begged him not to leave. That’s when he lost it, told her to get a grip on things. He handed her Barry Timothy’s phone number and told her to call. He knew she wouldn’t.

  Now, here he was at the football club surrounded by the smell of barbecued meat and cold beers. Hardly anyone had arrived yet and Matt had abandoned him, gone into the kitchens and got talking to a couple of old ladies who were organising salads.

  Adam swigged his can of soft drink, the liquid so icy it stung on the way down. On the clubroom walls were framed photographs of ancient teams: guys in extra-long white shorts, arms folded,
hands pushing out their biceps.

  A couple of blokes from the seniors walked in, said a few words and congratulated him on his first game. A solid game they said. But Adam knew they were lying. He felt isolated because of his novelty value: the new kid with the big hands. It was hard work having to introduce yourself over and over and not reveal too much. It was easier just to chill out with friends like Brock or Snake. Adam sighed. The Christmas holidays back in Deakin Hills were becoming a distant memory. What was happening to him? Was the country seeping into his bones so fast that he’d started to forget the city? It was Lina’s diary that caused it. Either that or Toot and her icy stares.

  Where was Snake anyway? He walked to a side door and pushed it open. The smell of frying sausages flooded his nostrils. He was in a kind of bricked outdoor corridor, ladies and gents toilets to the left and an exit at the end where the barbecue fumes were coming from. He headed for the exit and heard voices, unmistakably Mongrel and Loody. Adam stood silently in the corridor listening.

  ‘We need more height in the seniors. Pity your mate Stats wasn’t a better player. We could do with him in the back line,’ Mongrel said.

  ‘Ah…I found out something funny about him today, about his eye. Apparently he starts seeing double when he gets tired. That’s why he played like a girl at the end of the game,’ Loody snorted.

  ‘So? Plenty of girls play better than you.’

  Loody laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Any other news?’

  ‘Cops interviewed me yesterday.’

  ‘And?’ Mongrel said.

  ‘They asked about the party. Told them the same old stuff, ’bout how we left early, went back to your joint. They’ll probably want to catch up with you.’

  ‘They didn’t ask anything else?’