by Stephen Orr
‘Give it here,’ the teacher ordered.
‘Why should I?’
‘I won’t ask again.’
Five minutes later, Charlie was walking across the tennis courts on his way to the Focus Room. He was already thinking about the consequences—the detention, the re-entry contract and his father’s reaction—but he was so furious he just didn’t care.
This wasn’t the first time he’d crossed swords with Neil. There’d also been a discussion about reproduction, when his teacher had insisted identical twins came from separate eggs. He’d said, ‘How could that be? Isn’t it a case of one egg and one sperm, and the egg splits?’ ‘No,’ Neil had growled. ‘Eggs don’t split.’ He’d known he was wrong, but let it go. Soon Neil was showing them an overhead of a before and after penis. See if you can get that wrong, he’d thought. Neil was saying things like, ‘It’s there for one reason and one reason alone, gentlemen’—and he was almost grinning. Then there was a transparency of the girl’s bits, and he’d mumbled something like, ‘I imagine you all have a lot of questions, eh?’
He’d gone home and told his dad about Neil’s lack of knowledge and Damien had said, ‘Is that the best they can do for eight grand a year?’
So, he assumed his dad would understand when he invoked the name.
‘Remember him?’ he was saying, standing on the cracked path.
Damien was still trying to find solace in his watering. ‘What did it matter if he was wrong? He knows most things, doesn’t he?’
‘But twins, that’s so obvious. Fraternal, two eggs, two sperm.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Damien said. ‘He didn’t chuck you out because of that.’
‘He was wrong.’
‘So what? I’m no bloody Einstein, but that doesn’t mean …’ He trailed off, his eyes fixed on a lavender that needed pruning. ‘This is all the bloody time now.’
‘What?’
‘You and your attitude.’
‘What?’
‘Listen to you. You know better than anyone, don’t you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Just cos you’re a teenager doesn’t mean you can be a pain in the arse. What would your mother think?’
Charlie couldn’t fathom a reply. What did she have to do with it? With him, Neil, school, anything? She was her own truth, and life, framed on the wall, in fact, all over the house (although Damien had warned too much was no good).
‘I’m wondering whether this guitar fella’s got anything to do with it?’
‘Cos I went to his place?’
‘And other things.’
‘What?’
‘Watch your tone!’
The sound of water on dry dirt, the splash, the slap, like it could never be made wet.
‘I reckon you should give that guitar back.’
‘No.’
Damien turned off the tap and started reeling in the hose. ‘Until you can learn.’
‘I’ve already paid some of it.’
‘So?’
‘I won’t.’
‘You’ll do what you’re told.’
‘Cos of a fuckin’ detention?’
Damien stood up to him, glaring. ‘You watch your mouth. When did you start talking to me like that?’
‘Dad, listen …’
‘You can take it back tomorrow.’
‘No.’
‘You will.’
Charlie threw the diary into the garden and stormed inside. Damien listened as doors slammed and curses filled the hallway. He’d never seen his son like this before. Angry, yes, argumentative, but his passion was always curtailed by reason. Here was a different creature all together—loud and furious. Here was someone with a face and voice he could barely recognise. Something was pulling at him, and he was responding.
Maybe he was falling in with a bad mob. Cigarettes, attitude and fuck you stuffed into the bottom of blazer pockets. But why would he? He’d always laughed at the look-at-me mob, the rebels with nothing to rebel against, the Goths looking lost in shopping malls.
And then he emerged from the house in an unironed polo shirt, shorts, anklets and sandshoes. He walked down the path and out the front gate.
‘This your big performance?’ Damien said.
But he just kept walking.
‘Where you off to then?’ He was unsure of what his son was capable of. ‘Okay then … keep your bloody guitar.’
Still, no reply, and then he was gone.
Charles stood at a bus stop, watching as the 104 slowed towards him. The doors opened and he got on, took out his wallet and said to the driver, ‘I need to go to the Governor Hindmarsh. Do you know where it is?’
‘Other side of town.’
‘Really?’
‘I’ll drop you in Grenfell Street, you’ll have to get the 151.’
Charlie opened his wallet. ‘Can you break a fifty?’
The driver felt in his pocket and produced a plastic bag full of coins and notes. Sorted through them and said, ‘No.’
‘Shit.’
‘Go on, get on.’
The door closed and the driver pulled out. Charlie sat at the back of the empty bus. As they coasted down the hill he studied familiar streets, homes, driveways, stumped cars, the way gravel never stayed in the middle of the drive. People in pyjamas, work pants, business shirts and slacks. The details and necessities of living a life in one place doing one thing for years and years. The surrender to everything your life might have been. He knew this was an arrogant view, and probably wrong—but he wanted to trust his instincts. It was his right, he thought, perhaps even an obligation, to reimagine Lindisfarne (and his future) in a different way. He felt happy leaving his suburb behind—and could imagine doing it in a more permanent way.
He left the bus in the city, found the stop for the Port Road buses and waited fifty minutes for a 151. Then another slow drift westwards, past car yards and pawnbrokers, an old servo converted into a statue farm, and the brewery bleeding light and yeast into what was left of the River Torrens.
The bus dropped him across from the hotel. It was a stone building, trembling on a busy corner between factories and warehouses, workshops promising CV joints. The stonework had been painted black and there were neon signs advertising everything from dark lager to Drive-U-Home Safely cabs. Posters advertising bands, lingerie and even a vegetarian, multi-faith picnic in Bonython Park. The whole pub was protected from the sun by split awnings flecked with something that looked like vomit.
He entered through a hallway that smelt of beer and smoke. The music on the PA was heavy on the bass and he could feel it through his feet. He quickly forgot about his dad, and buses, and old men with their tomato plants. Here at last was some sign of life.
He noticed a barman kissing a girl, groups of men in expensive suits and a table surrounded by twenty-somethings smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, laughing on each other’s shoulders, imitating people—politicians, perhaps, although he didn’t know, and started feeling little-boy-lost, threatened, even. He wandered through a maze of smaller rooms and ended up in a large beer garden enclosed on two sides by shade cloth. There was a stage at the front and a drum kit with the name ‘Nimrod’s Cat’ in black letters. A few of William’s guitars on stands.
‘Charlie!’
William stood in front of him, smiling. He grasped his arms and squeezed them. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘I guess.’
‘Are you here with your dad?’
‘No, just me.’
William took a moment. ‘So?’
‘He said it was okay. Said perhaps you could drop me home.’
‘I could, but it’ll be late.’
‘That’s okay.’
William wasn’t convinced. ‘Haven’t you got school tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, but I’m not ten any more.’
He paused, studying the boy’s face for clues. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I was surprised too. I said I’d like to come and he d
ropped me out front.’
With every word, Charlie could feel the walls closing in around him. Then he thought, So what? This is it. The Father, Son and Holy fucking Ghost. The hum of Marshall amps and the smell of Jim Beam. Noise to split your ear drums. Shredded vocal cords.
‘Do you want a hand setting up?’ he asked.
Meanwhile, Damien was driving around the back streets of Lindisfarne. He’d see someone and stop and ask about his son, but they’d just shrug or look at him like he was some old perve.
He’d waited an hour after Charlie left. He was ready for him to come in the front door, and he was going to say, Sit with your old man, and let me say sorry. He was going to be watching the television, as if nothing had happened. But then it got dark, and he started to worry. He searched his son’s room, found his phone and looked up his mates’ numbers. Phoned them, or their parents, but no one had seen him. Told them he was late back from swimming training, but not to worry, as he often ended up at someone’s house and never thought to ring and tell him.
He pulled over and stopped to think. Took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Then he read the scribbled words:
String of Words
Goin’ round in my head
Bullshit things that needn’t be said.
Then, beside the title of the song: ‘For WD, as promised’.
He wondered what the promise was. And wasn’t that the sort of secret shared between father and son?
Christ, he thought, I haven’t even seen this Dutton fella.
But again he figured WD must be okay. He was a teacher—educated, experienced with kids. And there were so many letters after his name on the reports that came home.
William was disappointed with the crowd. The usual group of friends, and their friends, a few regulars, one or two drop-ins, but no cult following, no word of mouth.
Charlie sat and watched as the band worked through a mix of covers and originals. He recognised songs from their demo and listened as they murdered ‘Me’ with raw guitar and thumping drums.
He sat at the band’s table. Earlier, he’d listened to them discussing life, love and music. Marvelled at sentences containing four or five fucks, at the way insults, philosophy and song mixed in a salad of voices, at the way sex ebbed and flowed into the conversation until they remembered his presence. He listened as they agreed that marijuana was a domestic necessity (along with bread and milk), as they mocked Classic Hits radio and rap and laughed about people who wore the collar up on their polo shirts. He absorbed their body language and odour, their cheap cologne and stale clothes, their greasy, uncombed hair and two-week growth. He longed to be ten years older, and one of them.
They’d left plenty to drink on the table: half empty beers, vodka and William’s untouched brandy and Coke; free grog: another benefit of the rock’n’roll lifestyle. He watched as cold beads formed and ran down glasses.
Fuck it, he thought. Just a taste, a half-glass. Why not? What’s stopping me? I’m not the one threatening to take away people’s property. Since when does doing the right thing ever get you anywhere? He could see his folder full of certificates, a wall covered with ribbons and medallions, trophies and the memory of aunties saying, What a clever boy!
Waiting until no one was looking, he picked up one of the beers and drained it in one long gulp. A few minutes later he tried the brandy, and then the vodka.
William was soaked with sweat. He was shouting into the microphone, growling each lyric so that it might resonate, scare, offend more than the actual meaning of any given word or phrase. And as he sang, he looked at Charlie.
The beginning of everything, he thought. Every word, urge and action. He met his eyes, and they both grinned. He studied his face and the lowset curve of his nose. Then, as he turned away, he noticed him picking up a drink and draining it. He looked at the table, the empty glasses, and met his eyes again.
The song continued, verse after chorus. William was tired, and mostly drunk. He kept moving on the spot to stay upright. He could feel his head spinning. Fell forward, back. Returned to the microphone and screamed the start of a chorus, but then ran out of voice and left the rest unsung.
Between songs he told the crowd, ‘One of my students is here.’
Charlie held up his hand and looked around, but the room was spinning.
‘We’re gonna do a song.’ Motioning for him to come up.
Charlie shook his head, but William unplugged his guitar and fetched him. The boy stood, walked around the table and tripped on a rug. Steadied himself, and climbed the three steps onto the stage. William handed him one of his guitars and as he strapped it on he said, ‘This is my debut.’ But no one seemed to care.
Then he started grinding away at the chords. William joined in and they managed a two-guitar version of ‘String of Words’. After a loud ending, Charlie stumbled back to his seat. The other members of the band looked at William and smiled. He shrugged, approached the microphone and said, ‘Charlie, no more grog.’ This time a few people laughed.
They played a slow version of ‘Blow up the Pokies’ and Charlie watched as William raised his head and sang in a crying whisper as he reached for the high notes. For a moment he was with, and was, his teacher. In the middle of his warm, forget-the-world glow, he’d forgotten all about Damien, Lindisfarne College and Datsunland.
During a break in the performance, he headed to the toilet. Walked in and found William against a wall, hungrily kissing the girl from the front bar, as she ran her hand over his chest and the top of his legs. ‘Charlie, this is … Sarah, wasn’t it?’
The girl said, ‘Hi, Charlie,’ and asked William, ‘How old?’
‘Too young for you.’
But she wasn’t about to be put off. Stepped towards Charlie, and again, closer, before saying, ‘You’ve got the bluest eyes.’
William seemed content to watch. As she kissed the boy, then used a single hand to guide him into a vacant cubicle.
Charlie was unsure. Maybe this was part of it, the fun, the game. But then she kissed him again, ran her hand over his chest, down across his crotch.
‘Let him go,’ William said, sliding down the wall to the ground.
But she just closed the door, pushed him into a corner, and started wrestling with his fly.
Charlie was terrified. He tried to protect himself, push her away, but she just became more determined. ‘D’yer wanna show me?’
As William laughed. ‘Leave him be …’
She was in, investigating, and he froze. But responded, realising there was nothing he could do about it. The terror left him empty, vacant, unable to act. She just kept going, kissing his lips, face, neck, lower, as William said or did nothing, as she put her tongue in his mouth, as he waited for William to stop her, but realised he wasn’t about to, and he’d have to save himself.
He pushed her away, fixed his pants and opened the door. Looked at William and said, ‘What are you doing?’
William wasn’t sure. ‘She’s just …’
Charlie ran from the toilet, through the maze of rooms and out the front door of the pub. William took a few moments and then followed him. When he caught up he asked, ‘Where are you going?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Listen, she was just … you know …’
Charlie stopped and stared at his teacher. ‘You were gonna let her?’
‘No, of course not.’
He started running. Turned into an alleyway and sprinted.
William tried to follow but couldn’t keep up. Stopping, he looked in all directions—through mostly dead trees, parked cars, fences topped with razor wire—but Charlie was gone. He turned into a road protected by a boom gate and as he did a security guard appeared from a doorway. ‘Private property.’
‘Did you see a boy?’
‘No.’
He returned to the road. Ran towards an intersection, looked around but couldn’t see anyone. ‘Charlie!’ The name rolled down the empty street, echoing o
ff factory walls. ‘Charlie! Come on! I’ve gotta take you home.’ He stood and listened. Heard a forklift reversing and the sound of metal dropping onto concrete. Then someone calling, ‘Two inches, more like three.’
He turned and walked back to the pub. His heart was racing, and he felt almost sober. There were waves—the bitumen smell of the street, and the thought of what had happened. After a block or so this realisation flooded over him. He sat down on a planter box and dropped his head between his knees.
The music had gone. Now it was completely different. Now he was watching from his window, waiting, planning what he’d say.
Charlie sprinted the length of West Avenue—a kilometre of old workers’ cottages, scrap yards and deserted factories waiting to become car parks. He tripped over gutters and cracked pavements, swerving to avoid low tree branches, post boxes and a couple walking home from a local pub. ‘Slow down,’ one of them said. ‘What’s the rush?’
But he just kept running. The endless hours of training, the PE lessons, the ribbons and trophies were coming in useful. Somewhere in front of him was safety—his father who, it turned out, was right.
He stopped and leaned against a brick wall. Saw the girl’s fingers, and face, but tried to block them out. William’s body, collapsed on the tiles, his heavy head, and red eyes. He continued, and found a main road. Looked both ways, unsure where the city lay, his suburb, home. Turning right, he kept walking up a gradual incline that stretched three or four kilometres before dipping behind a railway crossing. His legs were heavy, tired from running. Every time he heard a car he looked over his shoulder, ready to hide. He spat, but couldn’t get rid of the taste. So he stopped and drank from a tap attached to the side of a MG dealership with an empty showroom.
An old sports car drove past, slowed and sounded its horn. A group of teenage girls waved and called out to him and someone asked, ‘What’s your name?’
Without thinking, he shrugged, and they laughed. ‘Is the city this way?’ he asked, and they replied by offering a lift.
‘No. I’m okay walking.’
The car sped up and disappeared around a corner. The road was empty. His mind was racing. In a flash of light and noise he heard the band and saw the lights, and remembered. The evening had promised (and delivered, he guessed) a world of sound and smell, images in primary colours, raucous voices, massages and sanitised-for-your-comfort sex as seen in prime-time movies (as his dad told him to look away). It felt like he had lived three days in one.