Once Were Warriors

by Alan Duff

  Up at the bar. Standing there. Jake’s voice, his cruel tone echoing in her ear. His face like it was still there in front of her: snarling, lip-curling at me. (Oo, I fuckin hate him sometimes.) And head not quite right. Spinning. No, not spinning, but getting mighty close. And hurting in her heart at his rejection; wanting to tackle the problem head-on before it overcame her. The way she mostly did with problems: head-on. But all the noise, the jukie, two, three gats goin, and that constant hum of people. And the word: Kids, appearing in her mind, her half-mixed-up mind. Oh, thaz right, my kids’re waiting for me. Yeah … (Not only me. Not me to start off with. Him. It’s all his fuckin fault.) Okay, okay, after this round we’re off. Still time to have a good visit with Boogie; and I got enough dough to extend the hire. Go seeim again tomorrow. And if Jake won’t come then I’ll get Abe to drive. He c’n drive. They c’n all drive these kids nowadays. I’ll tellim to drive slow. Still time for one more. Hahaha. Good enough for the goose, good enough for the gander. Fuckim, eh Beth? Having a little giggle to herself. Thinking about how well she’d done, considering … how much dough I put aside for this day … my boy his picnic, his VISIT. Oh won’t be long now — the clock in front of her — a fuckin great big one at that — announcing the unbelievable. — to five? Ten to fuckin five!

  But this could not be. At her watch — I haven’t looked at my new watch since I came in here. Same time.

  Panic welled up. She felt sick. Then like hitting someone. God … Standing there, rocking back and forth on her heels, her half-hour-polished, almost high heels, trying to set herself, steel her insides against the pain come crushing in.

  How many, Beth? Uh? How many jugs? Uh … (Come on, woman. Get yourself together.) Make it six. Yeh, six’ll do. What of, Beth? Eh? What beer? Anything. DB. Anything but that lager pisswater. Giggling. But thinking, That wasn’t funny, Beth. Who cares? We’ll visit soon. Tellim we got a flattie. Two ofem.

  Carrying the jugs in two trips back to the table. No one so much as sayin a thank you, kiss my arse, nuthin. Hurting a woman: (I saved for this. Went without. Kept myself at home. And for what?) Stood there feeling hurt. Then it occurred to her: I know. Told Mavis she’d be back in a minute. Went out.

  I know that. But ain’t me, it’s your father. (But how’m I gonna explain the picnic food?) Your father’s run into someone. What with, his fists? Grace the first to show the waiting’d got to her. Beth trying to focus her oldest daughter, to line her up so to chide her. But she couldn’t. Grace all blurry. Beth shaking her head. Even slapping her own face to gain some clearness of bloody vision. (Jesus Chrise, the hell’s up with me?)

  Tomorrow. We’ll go visit Boog tomorrow. And Grace really putting the boot in, sarcasming her mother’s funny r’s: Tomowwow. Exaggerating Beth’s drunkenness: Tomowwow, kidsth. We’ll visit tomowwow. You wouldn’t talk like that your father was here. Well he ain’t here. And he’s never gonna be here. And you know it and so do we. (My God, this girl ain’t stupid. So who’m I tryin to kid?) So Beth turned to Polly instead, asked if she wanted to add her two bobs’ worth while Grace was at it. Poll shaking her head, Just wanna go and see Boog. And Abe, he was staring daggers and so was even little Hu copying the mood. Making a mother mad. Not my fault. But them just looking at her, like it was her fault alright.

  Your father’s fault. He’s the one wouldn’t come out. But four sets of eyes accusing her. (Me.) Then Polly asking, When’re we gonna be eating the picnic? Put the fear up in Beth. Uh, tomorrow. But, Mum, it’ll be stale by then. And rotten. No it won’t. And if it is I’ll buy a whole new lot. How’s that? Beth feeling treacherous. Smiling through her teeth. And she dug into her purse. Here. Gave Grace a twenty. Go buy sumpthin to eat, and you can go to the pictures after. Catch the bus home. Grace looking at her mother one last betrayed time.

  A woman sitting there watching her kids, four ofem anyrate, troop off into the dusk. The fast-gathering dusk. And all she can do is sit here feeling like nuthin on earth ready to pounce on that picnic soon as they’re out of sight. And kids runnin around the place. Little buggers. Horrible little buggers. Least mine’ve got a decent mother who … who cares about em. (I do. I truly do.) But feeling as if she was being driven by some force greater than herself. Watching … watching them disappear so she could jump, like a thief in the night, the almost night, onto what was theirs, her children’s, their food, their treat, sposed to be their day. (Oh, but we Maoris are cursed.)

  At the table with the borrowed from next-door’s chilly bin on the table. Here! Playing the conjurer with plastic-wrapped parcels of food. Now, this’ll be — looking at it as if she didn’t already know every lovingly wrapped goodie backwards — roast pork. And everyone going, mmmm. Waiting for the next. And this’ll be — (wait for it) — Oh, now this — smacking her lips, smiling like she had sumpthin over them, their peasant limitations. She grinned over at Jake, asked him: You tellem what it is, dear. But Jake snarlin at her. Turned away. Salami, Beth announced. Smiling when half of them went, Wha’? And just into telling (these ignorant) them what salami was when Jake piped up, Get on with it, woman. In that drawling dismissive manner of his. (Spoilsport.) Beth thinking it was Jake’s own ignorance on the subject had him testy with her.

  So out she came with six hard-boiled eggs in plastic wrap, and someone saying, Ooo, now what would they be. Laughing. (At me?) Beth confused, not sure, but being driven on. Hauling out a lettuce. The wit saying, Far out, a lettuce. Onion rings. Oh wow. What about a whole cooked chicken done on a rotisserie? Beth like she was running an auction. And being asked, On a what? Beth smiling. Another urging her, Oh come on, honey chile. Ej-acate us. Beth missing the cynicism, their world-weary McClutchy bar hardness. (Man, we only wanna fuckin feed not how to make a picnic.)

  Then Jake leaned over and grabbed up the chicken, tore one of its legs off, took a big bite out of it. And it seemed to be the signal for everyone to dive in. Grabbing at parcels, pulling frantically at the plastic wrap, stuffing things into their mouths and going mmmm, not bad, not bad. Smacking their lips, makin sucking noises, eating with their rotten fuckin mouths wide open (in case there’s sumpthin else they see to stuff in); and Beth watched, in a growing despair that’d started off as pride these — animals — consuming her hard-won, worked-for pride and joy meant to be for her family, her Boogie, herself. She picked up her beer glass, filled it to overflowing and downed it in one gulping hit. She lit a smoke. No ahh, nuthin. Felt terrible, tasted terrible. She had another glass of beer. But still she felt dreadful.

  She looked around her … at them, the feeding animals gorging on what felt like her very own body, such a violation did it feel. Her eyes found those of Mavis, the huge woman’s size seeming to symbolise something (greed?). No, can’t be greed, she’s the only one not eating. She’s standing away from the rest ofem. (Oh Mavis!). She looks like a queen; like she’s gazing down at this rabble and hatin em for their peasant condition. Beth stepped toward the giantess. Come on, honey … The big arms went out and the rich voice beckoned her.

  … was my Boogie’s picnic! Beth bawling in Mavis Tatana’s arms, and Mavis patting her, There there, honey. Mavis unnerstans. And Beth sobbing. And Mavis telling her these people are our poison, Beth. They the scum a the fuckin earth. Clicking her tongue. Patting Beth’s back. Stroking her hair. But they’re ours, whether we like it or not. They’re our people, Beth … Beth wondering what Mavis meant.

  And then night came. And The People they’d grown mindless — or their minds’d been transported — and soon — too damn soon — the bell clanging like a fire engine’d crashed into their world to tell them the dream was over. Brrrrr! Brrrrrr! — why they do that every fuckin closing time, every fuckin last-ten-minutes-to-go time?

  Spilling out onto the street, the taxi rank, to cars where children were slept huddled together for warmth but mostly love, it half suggested to the drunken parents, but halfway ain’t enough, man, it ain’t; milled around the carpark talking last cries and mumbled jumbles of shet, and ho
ped for a fight to break out as a last bonus for the night; into rust heaps and grunt machines and vehicles really shot they headed to parties, somewhere in ill-lit houses in ill-lit streets, but who gives a fuck, man? it’s where we’re sprung from, eh, we’re jussa pack a sewer rats headin back home; and a scuffle turned into a beaudiful big rumble, hadem running from their cars, their halted cars, their just-about-to-enter cars, and fists cracked and glass tinkled, and it was because this fulla, eh, he gave this other fulla a smart look, eh, so the fulla went up to him and asked him whassa fuckin look for, cunt? then the one who started it, the one with the smart eyes, he pushed the other fulla, eh, and then it was on, eh.

  And so the beer from the broken bottles ran, eventually, from the carpark to the street gutter where it shone briefly and dully in the streetlight and the flare of a drunk at the taxi rank lighting a fag, it picked up a snatch of the low, angled moon hovering up there, a crescent, a slice a fuckin gold, man, just sat there in the black and you could even pick out the tiny pinpoints of starlight reflected in the draining beer if you were observant or stoned enough; and there was one fulla, eh, he could see his own blood, wisps of it as it dripped outta his smashed nose mixing in with that draining beer …

  And down the street juss around the corner, on main street, waited the slit-eyes, hungry as ever for your arrival, confident in your arrival, laughing inside, smirking to each other over their soon-to-be-frantic woks at you — yes you, missa Brown Man and oh even your woman. For you we wait.

  And the tall one, the one with the magnificent fighter’s physique, muscles’s hard as stone, fists like hams, he had a small crowd gathered round this flash car, eh, this was after he’d joined the scrap and smacked a couple ofem down just for the hell of it, laughing and askin em, What ya think? Making out it was his very own car, makin a neighing sound as if to suggest it was a win on the horses got him this, but not so drunk he didn’t think to cover his lie: Mind you, dunno if I’m gonna keep it. Too big, eh. Fuckin bastards ta park these big muthas. Nah, might get rid of it on Monday. Thinking he hadem fooled and none of em in fact the slightest bit believing of him. And him missing their disbelief telling em, Too fuckin flash for Pine Block anyway. Eh folks? Laughing. (He’d been laughing near all day long. On and off.) Those Pine Block kids’d have it stripped in a hour. So who wants a ride before it goes on Monday? And Jake lookin around at the faces and pointing, Errol, wanna ride, bro? Yeow. Kingi, hop in. George, my ole mate George, you c’n come. Oh, but watch out for Beth in the back there. At his wife sprawled out unconscious in the rear seat. Beyond even dreaming.

  Oh, and this poor kid, eh, the one in the Boys Home up in Riverton, waitin all day for his visit. All day. And the housemaster on the evening shift coming up to him: Mark Heke, it appears your visitors are not coming. And the kid saying, Yes they are. Yes they are. How kids get when they won’t face the truth. And the housemaster reading Boogie (Mark) all wrong, thinking Mark Heke was trying to get out of his evening cleaning duties, so ordering Mark to work, and yelling at him for being such a sook at a mere thing such as work. Any fuckin wonder these kids grow up with chips on their shoulders, eh? Any fuckin wonder they grow up still mostly a kid in their hearts; it’s because people, adults, the fucked-up society they come from, don’t take any notice ofem, they don’t have dreams — dreams — for their kids; and when they get sent away to these Boys Home places for being bad, the people working there think the first and only thing they gotta do is straighten the kid out. Straightenim out, fa fucks sake. Yet they wouldn’t treat a dog like that a dog was sent to em been kicked and abused all its life and carrying on the kicking but under a different name, and expect the dog to not wanna bite em. Now would they?

  9. Loveless, She Stumbled

  Ya stick the tube at the bottom, ya close the top of the bag, ya hold it for a bit till the fumes build up, then ya stick ya face in and breathe. Then Toot snapped his fingers — wasted. Ya way-sted then, G. Grace giggling and pulling the blanket higher over her and Toot goin, Oi! Ya wannit all? But laughing. Then telling her, But you ain’t gettin none a it. Aw, Toot! I said, Ya ain’t gettin no glue. But what if I want to do it? Don’t care. Ya ain’t tryin it with me. And that’s final. Grace going, Awww, Toot, snuggling against her friend; and he coughing, then sighed, then wiggled a bit to make out he wasn’t cool about this, you know, being snuggled up with a girl sposed to be his friend, and the trouble she had a while back there with bein, you know, messed with her private parts by some arsehole cunt, but thinking oh well, guess she needs it and so puttin an arm around her.

  Toot smiling shyly ater in the light spilled from the upstairs window of them, his olds, finally gone ta fuckin bed forgot to turn the fuckin light off too fuckin drunk as fuckin usual; Toot hopin one ofem’d left a smoke burning and that it’d catch their bed on fire burnem all up cos, man, I sure won’t be yellin Fire! Fire! no way, I’ll be off down the street laughin my fuckin head off, man and — Oh, and I’d grab G here, a course I would, she’s my only real close friend — and we’ll find somewhere where we can sit down and laugh our heads off at them up there burning, burning …

  But I’ll let ya have a smoke with me ya want. Oh choice! Ain’t that good, G. Ya reckon! Ya tried it before, G? Yeh, course, man. Ya haven’t, have ya? I have. When? A long time ago. Long time ago? Well, you ain’t ’xactly old now, girl, so ya musta been, wha’, bout fuckin six when ya tried it? Chuckling at Grace, as he fiddled around rolling a joint in the dark.

  And the smoke began its work. And it was good. And it got better. So gooooood. (I don’t want this to end.) Toot? Wha’? I never want this, you know, this feeling to end. Never. Yeow, G. Never. Never, never, never (never, never …) And time seemed to have stopped. And pain had ceased to exist. Well, maybe just a niggle there, why she asked Toot: Toot? Does glue getya more wasted than this? Yep. Honest? Too wasted, G. Ya don’t wanna try it, I’m tellin ya. I might, Toot. Nah, it sucks. So how come you — To get wasted, G, but y’ know … It ain’t a good way to go … But does it take you out of it more than this dope, Toot? Take ya right out, enda fuckin story, for some ofem. What, like in — I mean dead, G.

  Then the darkness returned, and it was funny: ya head clears and it gets darker. In ya heart. Saying to Toot, Member when I told you bout, you know …? Yep. Oh don’t say yep like that Toot, like it’s sumpthin happens like every damn day, like it’s sorta normal. Or like it was me did it. G, I never said I — Well, it sounded like it. Sorry, G. That’s alright. (My it’s dark. So dark everywhere.) Well, Toot …? Yeow? It’s, uh, it’s been happening again. Oh, Grace!

  And the silence of the old car wreck so complete, like the dark inside and out. Toot saying how he c’d kill people like that, and no more because, well, we’re only young, we don’t have words only feelings, and we sposed ta have dreams, you know, like the white kids, most ofem anyway. But we’re just Pine Block Maoris, there must be Pine Blocks all over this rotten country, ya see it on the TV, hear it at school, read about it how we’re the ones doing all the bad things ending up in jail and places like that: Boys Homes, Girls Homes, Borstals, Youth Detention, Youth Prison, Mount Eden, Paremoremo, Mount Crawford, Waikeria, see, even a thirteen-year-old kid knows this. Ah, but what to do to do to do …?

  … can’t tell my mother, I just can’t, Toot. But why, G? She’s a choice mother, int she? Yeh, she’s alright I spose. But I can’t seem to get through to her, I can’t kinda like talk to her … (I can’t I can’t … I can’t go on like this) … as for him he’s the worst old man in the fuckin world, I had a gun I’d shoot him stone fuckin dead I would, Toot. I know ya would, G. And I’d help ya. Would ya, Toot? Course I would, G. You’re my best friend, aren’tcha? Sure.

  … had some more a that smoke. Yeah, me too. You got any glue, Toot? Told ya, no. And I did you wouldn’t be gettin none. We could really get wasted then, Toot. No way, G. Oh, maybe ya right, Toot. And spose it wears off, eh? just like this smoke? And, you know, fuckin life comes back stinkin as usual. Gotta go now. Sh
rugging out of the blanket. See ya, G. See ya, Toot. Hey! Whatcha doin’? Gonna give ya a kiss, Toot. No way, Hosay. Aw, c’mon, Toot. Just a little kiss good night. Nope. See ya when I see ya. Yeah, bye, Toot.

  Standing there … in the middle of Trambert’s paddock, the one backing onto the back of Rimu Street; hardly any lights left on in Pine Block, the Trambert place in darkness. Not sure where she was. Yes, I am sure, but I’m not. The two opposing thoughts feeling quite natural. Grass damp with dew between her toes. No shoes: wanna be quiet. So quiet they won’t know I exist. Cloud crossed over and covering the slice of moon some time ago. So hardly any light. No breeze. I can’t hear the shape of the wind, the noise of the obstacles it’d have to move around and over and under. But plenty of stars up there, in between patches of clearing from the cloud. A guitar playing clear as clear, yet the voices accompanying it muffled, deep, tired-sounding. Must be four or five or even six in the morning. Am I still stoned? Oh I wish I was. Grace centring on her head, her brain sensations for any lingering effects of the dope. Nothing. Gone. Like everything in this life that’s nice or pleasurable or, you know, has meaning — gone. Then she began walking.