Volcano Street

by David Rain

  A voice rasped, ‘Over here.’ Jack, with the Harley!

  They bundled Roger into the sidecar. Strangled gurgling burst from his throat and he shuddered as if in the grip of fever. In Skip’s brain the words thudded: My fault. All my fault.

  Jack gunned the motor. ‘Get behind me and hang on.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Roger? We’re home.’

  Skip touched him and he flinched. Curled like a question mark, he cowered in the sidecar, legs drawn up awkwardly, hands clawing his face as if to tear it from his skull. Gently, Jack shouldered Skip aside, speaking soft words she could not make out. Roger’s head lolled. He could not respond, and shuffled like an old man as Jack helped him up the veranda steps. Heat, pregnant with summer, hung like fruit in the tangled trees. Insects chorused frenetically in the dark.

  ‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ Skip’s voice cracked. In the drawing room, she watched helplessly as Jack lowered Roger to a sofa. There could be no hope of getting him up to his room; his legs seemed unable to hold his weight. Jack told Skip to get blankets and she raced upstairs. Moonlight flickered goldenly at the window as she ripped the blankets from her own bed.

  Outside, car doors slammed shut. When Skip returned to the drawing room, Mr Novak was bent over the sofa. He silently took the blankets. Roger was convulsing – in the grip, it seemed, of a seizure. Jack poured brandy. Marlo, still in costume, peeped through the tasselled curtains; Pavel, head hanging, stood beside her. Honza was the only one who looked at Skip. He seemed frightened. Mr Novak took the glass from Jack and held it to Roger’s lips.

  Roger tried to speak. Where was the voice that had dazzled Olivier, that had thundered to the furthest seats in the King Edward VII Theatre? All that remained was a reedy gasping, as if the force that had infused him was gone, never to return, spirited away like lost time.

  ‘Has he been like this before?’ said Marlo.

  ‘Not quite this bad.’ Mr Novak smoothed Roger’s forehead. Long moments passed before he grew quiet. Tears pressed intolerably in Skip’s eyes. When Mr Novak turned towards her she felt the accusation swing back like a pendulum, poised to toll the hour.

  He said simply, ‘It was too much.’

  Patterns in the carpet leaped out under the lights. The clock on the mantelpiece thudded metallically, Baskerville howled somewhere in the dark, and a voice that seemed to swell from the air said, ‘My fault. All my fault.’

  Skip thought the words had come from her own throat, and was startled to realise they were Honza’s. He burst out in sobs; she went to him, and her own tears followed swiftly as she wrapped her arms around him. His shoulders were thin and shook violently. Honza was not the oblivious boy he seemed. Strings of snot swung from his nose and she didn’t care.

  ‘My poor children!’ Mr Novak encircled them both in his warm, soft embrace. ‘The fault is mine. I should never have let Roger stay in this town. I was selfish. I wanted him here. We’ve got to get him away.’

  Skip brushed her eyes. ‘Away? But where?’

  ‘He has a cousin in Sydney. Malcolm McKirtle’s an ABC scriptwriter. More than once he’s urged Roger to go and live with him. It’s a big city.’ Mr Novak looked sadly at his friend. Roger appeared to be sleeping now, though from time to time he shivered and his teeth chattered. ‘He’ll be all right by the morning, I hope. Then I’ll take him. It’s a long way. Dangerous, what with his health. But I’ve no choice. He’ll never be safe in Crater Lakes.’

  ‘I’ll take him.’ It was Pavel who spoke.

  ‘You?’ said his father.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, you see. Oh, I suppose you think I’m not much good at that. Marlo’s helped me see things more clearly. Roger’s helped in his way. Everything that’s happened here in Crater Lakes has helped. But mostly I had to understand for myself. I’ve got things straight now. It’s time for me to go.’

  ‘No.’ Mr Novak understood at once. His face was ashen as he stared at his son. ‘You’ve been called up. It’s your duty.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about the fight against communism?’ When Pavel stepped forward, Skip saw, to her surprise, that he was taller than his father. ‘You ran away when you were my age,’ Pavel said. ‘Now it’s my turn. I’m not going to end up like Baz. And for what? I’ve been thinking about this war. I didn’t understand it before. And now I reckon I do. I’m running away, and not because I’m a coward. I’m running away because I’m brave.’

  Mr Novak nodded. Perhaps at another time he would have argued, but now he knew it was no good. Crumpled bags hung beneath his eyes and his jowls were grey and pendulous. He said quietly, ‘Where will you go? What will you do?’

  ‘Sydney, like you said. You can hide out in the big city. Give yourself a different name.’

  ‘And I’m going with you,’ said Marlo.

  ‘But your exams …?’ said Pavel, astonished.

  She went to stand beside him. ‘Maybe I’ve put too much trust in exams. It’s time to trust in life.’

  Skip remembered her plan to escape with Marlo to the shabby glamour of Kings Cross. That had been a fantasy, she realised, but now perhaps the fantasy would come true. Already there were three bound for Sydney: Pavel, Marlo, Roger. And what if there were a fourth? There had to be. Hope surged in Skip’s chest, then plummeted again, as she saw in Marlo’s eyes the answer to a question that had not yet been asked. And, Skip knew, she would never ask it. Of course not: Skip Wells was a child, just a child. Marlo Wells was a child no longer. Time is a terrible thing. Blankly, Skip surveyed the drawing room: the green stripy wallpaper; the shelves of leathery books; the mirror over the mantelpiece, framed like an old master; the glimmering varnish of the grand piano.

  ‘Let’s get ready,’ Marlo said to Pavel. ‘We’ll need to pack for Roger too.’

  But the chance was lost. As they went to the door, an explosion rocked the room. Skip gasped, crouched. A brick had crashed through the window. Glass lay scattered on the carpet, the curtains whipped back and forth, and a cheer sounded from outside.

  Honza was the first to move, rushing out to the veranda, though his father called him back. The boy put a foot through a rotted floorboard, stumbled into a wicker chair; he kicked, cursing, but was just in time to see two silhouettes scrambling away towards the open gates.

  ‘Bastards! Come back!’ Limping, Honza made it into the long grass just as one, two, three, four motorbikes burst as if from nowhere and revved across the lawn. They swirled around him; the riders, monstrous insects in their flashing helmets, bellowed in triumph. One slapped the side of Honza’s head. Gasping, Honza sank to his knees as the bikes accelerated away.

  Skip at once was beside him. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Stunned, Honza could say nothing, but rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment the boy and girl clung together, trembling; then, looking up, they saw a line of cars racing towards them down the road. And not just cars: among them was Sandy Campbell’s Greyhound. The whole population of Crater Lakes, it seemed, had descended on the old Dansie house. Vehicles screeched to a halt. Drunken men lurched into the night. The coach doors squealed open.

  ‘Quick,’ said Skip. ‘We’ve got to warn the others.’

  But there was no time. They had barely regained the veranda before the attack began. Boots slammed through the grass. There were ululations, shrieks and chants as torches seared the darkness. They plunged inside the house with barely a moment to spare. Rocks rained down on the roof. Pavel and Marlo secured the locks but footsteps thundered all around. Fists hammered on the doors. Somebody swung up to the second-storey veranda. Baskerville, in the garden, howled and gnashed. Skip hoped he would rip out somebody’s throat. She crouched with Honza under the piano as a desperate Jack, shotgun in hand, drove off the first wave of attack. Blasts boomed above the melee.

  ‘Maniac!’ voices cried. ‘Fucking abo maniac!’

  Quiet descended slowly after that. Skip and Honza, after some moments, crawled out from beneath the piano.
The drawing room was a shambles of dust and glass. A missile had gashed the piano’s lacquered top, and the mirror over the mantelpiece had cracked and fallen in shards to the floor.

  ‘It’s the OK Corral!’ Pavel released Marlo from his arms. ‘Where’s Wyatt Earp when you need him?’

  Jack was bleeding from a cut to the face.

  ‘My God.’ Marlo went to him. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘No. Leave me.’ He dashed blunt hands against the blood. ‘Them buggers will be back soon enough.’

  The lights flickered twice, then guttered out. ‘Damn, they’ve got the generator. Find candles,’ Mr Novak told Skip.

  ‘What about Roger? We have to move him.’

  Mr Novak had stayed with Roger all through the attack. ‘He’s out cold now. Cold as if he were dead. Damn, damn.’ His voice shook as if on the verge of sobs. ‘But those cowards wouldn’t touch him. Let them try.’

  ‘Hello?’ The new voice came from the veranda. A torch played through the darkened drawing room, its yellow beam buffeting the piano, the clock, a brick on the floor, and catching blindingly in the mantelpiece mirror. Cautiously, a figure stepped through smashed windows.

  ‘Get back!’ Jack brandished his shotgun.

  ‘Now put that down, eh?’ The voice was male, young – afraid, but attempting to hide it. The torch hit Pavel’s face and he squinted. ‘For Christ’s sake, Pav, can’t you control your abo? He’s pushed his luck one time too many. I’m going to have to run him in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What? We’re under attack.’ Pavel crunched forward over powdery glass. ‘Look at this place! It’s a war zone. And what the hell are you doing about it, Marky Bonner?’

  P. C. Marky held firm. ‘Shooting at people is against the law.’

  ‘And them bastards out there? I suppose it’s not against the law to trash people’s houses?’

  ‘Ye-e-s,’ Marky admitted. ‘But Pav, people are upset. Can you blame them, after what yous lot pulled tonight? I don’t know if you’re a poofter too or your dad is or what’s going on, but that bloke shamed this town in front of the world. Don’t worry,’ he added, weary now, as if making a concession more generous than circumstances could warrant, ‘I’ve called for reinforcements.’ Reinforcements: Marky liked that word, it seemed. ‘But we’re going to have a hell of a time seeing that lot off. Pissed out of their brains, half of them. We can’t arrest them all. Sandy Campbell reckons they just want …’

  ‘Want what?’ Mr Novak said coldly.

  Marky sniffed. Perhaps he knew he was playing an ignoble part. Perhaps it galled him, but he had no choice. ‘They want Mr Dansie to leave town. If yous can … make him go, that’s all. Then they’ll go home.’

  ‘Call yourself a cop!’ Sneering, Pavel slapped Marky in the chest. Torchlight veered wildly through the dark.

  Skip tried to push between them. ‘Pav, don’t. The bugger’s not worth it.’

  ‘Come here, Constable Bonner.’ Mr Novak remained calm, beckoning Marky towards him. ‘See, here on the couch? There’s your enemy of the people.’ He gestured down to where Roger lay corpse-like. ‘To think they still hate him so much, after all these years!’

  ‘He’s not – ?’ Marky’s voice cracked.

  ‘No, he’s still breathing. Don’t worry, we’ll take him away in the morning. He won’t be back here again. Would you believe he loved this town? Nothing went well for him after he left. So he came home. I believe he’s a legend in some quarters, a myth. The ghost of Crater Lakes! For a long time Jack and I were the only ones who knew about him – really knew, I mean.’

  ‘Where’s the abo?’ Marky said doggedly. ‘I’m running him in.’

  ‘We both love him, you see,’ Mr Novak went on.

  Marky’s face twisted. He looked as if he would gladly turn and run; instead, struggling, it seemed, to keep his voice level, he said, ‘I’ll say Mr Dansie’s leaving town, all right? You make sure he does, and I won’t press charges against the abo. But he’d better give me that gun.’

  ‘Do as he says, Jack.’ Mr Novak’s voice was soft. ‘But I’m telling you, Constable Bonner, if anything else happens here tonight I’m holding you responsible. You’re not a kid playing cops and robbers now.’

  ‘You reckon I don’t know that?’ Marky, trying – too hard, it seemed – to be a man, snatched the shotgun out of Jack’s hand. Quickly, efficiently, he emptied the ammunition. ‘Count yourself lucky no one’s been hurt. Christ, what were you doing, putting that crazy bugger in the play? People in the Lakes have always felt strongly about Mr Dansie. He’s, he’s a –’

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Novak. ‘Tell me what he is.’

  Marky shook his head and said, ‘He’s a murderer.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Mr Novak replied with dignity. ‘And remember this: whatever Roger is or was, he’s done his time. He’s paid – and paid, and paid. Must he keep paying for the rest of his life?’

  ‘Get out, Marky,’ Pavel said.

  ‘I’ll tell them he’s going,’ Marky said again, and made his exit, shotgun in hand. Jack, defeated, melted into the dark.

  Skip turned to Honza. ‘Come on. Let’s get candles.’

  The candles gave the room an unearthly beauty. At the piano, Mr Novak played Fauré, Debussy, Satie. The notes sounded like echoes of another world. Different music drifted in from outside. Honza, who had been scouting, said that parked cars were banked up for a hundred yards down the road. Food and kegs of beer had been ferried in; people had lit bonfires; Sandy Campbell fried sausages on a fork while ‘Eagle Rock’ blared from car radios and kids danced.

  Several times they had heard excited voices close by or footsteps creaking across the veranda. Skip, brandishing a shard of broken glass, had seen off a group of boys who tried to look through the window. But there had been no further attacks. The clock beat like a metronome. The night had entered its long middle, when all should be sleeping and the world still.

  ‘Won’t they go?’ Marlo said to Pavel. ‘They must.’

  ‘That lot? They haven’t had their show.’

  ‘But when we bring out Roger, what then?’

  ‘We’ll drive away. That’s all.’

  ‘Until some kid chucks a stone. It won’t end well – it can’t.’

  Pavel kissed her temple. They sat apart from the others, tangled together, but not uncomfortably, in a single deep armchair. Scratchy horsehair burst through split leather. Marlo had changed out of her silver suit. She was sad and happy. Life lay before her like a strange highway leading to a place she had never been. Her suitcase stood in the hall; Olly Olivetti, in his green zippered case with the single black stripe, waited beside it expectantly.

  But Pavel’s next words did not surprise her. He said, ‘I can’t take you to Sydney. You know that, don’t you? This is a crazy night. It’s not real. Those exams of yours, you’ve got to do them.’

  ‘How can you say that, here in Roger’s house? This is the place where everything changed. Nothing can be the same for us again. Not now.’ But Marlo, as she spoke, felt something flutter inside her, something trapped and frightened, and wondered what was right and what was wrong and how she could know the difference. What would Germaine do? she wondered. But Marlo wasn’t Germaine. She was herself: there was nobody else she could be. The strange highway was one she had to pass down alone.

  ‘We’ve had a good time, haven’t we?’ Pavel was saying. ‘I’m no hero. I’m not brave or smart. If it wasn’t for Mr Dansie, I’d be off to the army, not Sydney. Oh, Marlo! You’ll meet people. You’ll do things. You don’t need me. You’re so beautiful. You’re so smart. I love you.’

  She picked at a paint splash on the knee of his jeans. ‘And I love you,’ she said and began to cry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Where am I?

  Brenton Lumsden woke with a snort. His head had fallen forward, constricting his windpipe. Knives stabbed his forehead and his bladder felt as though it would burst. Silver-blue moonlight played at wide windows. Snores
and grunts rose all around; others on the Greyhound still slept, splayed at odd angles across sticky vinyl seats. The air was a sludge of stale aromas: smoke, beer, sweat, belches, farts.

  Lummo’s big feet slapped down the aisle, crushing a Foster’s can underfoot. He was the only kid on the coach. The others were grown men, mates of Mr Campbell’s, except for some old slut of a barmaid who had let the blokes grope her. One of her tits, a mound of mottled flab, hung half out of her dress. Lummo snapped his eyes away, ashamed. Mr Campbell, in the driver’s seat, slumped back like a murder victim; a dark-stained upper set, drooling spit, hung from his gaping mouth. There was a sound like a raspberry.

  Aw, Mr Campbell! It smelled like rotten eggs.

  Lummo had to piss real bad. Holding his breath, he reached over Mr Campbell’s beer gut, jabbing at levers until he found the one that released the door. Gasping, he zigzagged down the high steps, nearly turning his ankle. Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck. His stream drummed and drummed against the Greyhound’s flank. Afterwards his dick throbbed as if he had spunked himself, and the pounding behind his eyes doubled in force. He laid his forehead against the coach’s chilly side and rolled it back and forth. Was he going to chunder?

  Fewer cars lined the road now. Coppers had moved some drivers on; others had got bored and buggered off. What had they expected? Lummo imagined the poofter coming out while they pelted him with rocks. Mr Campbell had reckoned they would give him until morning. ‘Can’t have his sort in Crater Lakes,’ he had said to Marky Bonner, and Marky Bonner knew it was a threat.

  The old Dansie house rose, grim and silent, against the pale moon. Lummo, curious, restless, scuffed his way between screening trees. Something had to happen: that much he knew.

  His mum would kill him when he got home. Let her. Stupid old twat. When uproar broke out in the theatre last night, he had been glad to lose her. Slipping into the Greyhound just before it roared off down Volcano Street, he felt a sense of victory. Since the Show, everyone had laughed at him, jeered at him. Even his so-called mates – Kenny and Greaso, those bastards – had turned their backs on him. Now look at him! He had stuffed himself with sausages cooked over the campfire. Blokes had given him tinnies and he’d glugged them back. Mr Campbell lent him a lighter so he could light everyone’s smokes. ‘And have one for yourself too, eh?’ The lighter still lay in Lummo’s pocket and he fingered it fondly like a rabbit’s foot. Mr Campbell had told jokes. There was one about a girl called Fuckarada; everybody damned near pissed themselves. Lummo told the one about ‘Would you bum off Brooker for an apple?’ as if he’d made it up himself, and they liked that too. Fuck the kids at school. Lummo was one of the blokes. The old slut mussed his Brylcreem, pulled off his bow tie, kissed his lips. Blokes played two-up and he tossed the coins. ‘Come in, spinner!’