Once Were Warriors

by Alan Duff

  They helped each other haul the fulla to his feet. Jimmy did the talking. Back tamorrow, cuz. TV or the bread. Or your fuckin head. Ya get that? He let the fulla go and punched him again. Then shoved him backwards, stumbling, bleeding, moaning, falling down in his own passage. Nig followed his leader off into the night.

  Next night they were back. Mob-handed. Three carloads ofem, and gang-dressed up to the shaded fuckin eyeballs.

  Woman answered the door, but only after Warren, the other pros given his probation entry the same time as Nig, kicked and pounded with his half-mitted mit on the door: Ya bedda answer it! Scared out of her wits she was. Where’s ya husband? He’s not here. Oh please, boys, I’m just an — The fuckin TV, lady. Or else the bread. And don’t forget the extra thirty bucks for our collecting fee. But we don’t have anything. Please. (And Nig wanting out.) So ya husband left ya to cop his shit, did he? No, he — He’s a fuckin wimp. What else ya got then? Nothing. Honest to God we have nothing. No fridge? freezer? Warren swinging a smiling head at Nig beside him: No jewels? Laughing. Just like a version of Jimmy Bad Horse. We own nothing, sir. (Sir? Nig wondering at that.).

  So Warren shouldered the woman aside. Left Nig standing there not sure what to do. The other Browns came marching past Nig. He followed them. Watching how they swaggered and had that sway the way they do, but Nig horrified that it was in another person’s house. And this woman following up behind em bawling her eyes out and beggin please don’t scare my children. And one of the brothers telling her, Lady, we’ll kill the lil fuckas ya don’t shut ya mouth. Heavee.

  Then another bro must’ve smacked the lady one because when Nig turned she was on the floor bleeding. And all these brown leather jackets and Brown Fist headbands and boots and filthy jeans and shades … (Man oh fuckin man, what’ve I got myself into?) Banging and crashing goin on as Warren threw things around, yelled, threatened the woman; and then her kids startin up, cryin and screaming (no fuckin different to my old man goin off his face when I was growin up and so were my kid brothers and sisters tryin to do the same: to just grow up. In peace.)

  Into the sitting room, Warren lookin round the joint. Nuthin. Just a few ducks on the wall which he, Warren (the kid turned into a man I don’t recognise. And not even a patch member yet.) tore from the wall, one by one, chucked em at the wall opposite, one on the fireplace, the other through the window. (Jesus Christ …) Nig unable to believe his eyes. Man, these cunts’ve got zilch, man. I mean, zilch. Warren’s breathing all funny. (Nig feeling helpless; lost, sad, an invader. Helpless.)

  Right. He marched out of there, up to where the woman was still sat against the wall bleeding, and bawling her poor eyes out. All these heavies lined up down her hallway. And all over a lousy fuckin TV; and not as if it was their TV, the Browns’, it belonged to some white prick with a business in town gettin dumb Maoris to do his dirty work forim. That’s how Nig Heke was fast seein it.

  Warren standin over the woman. (What’s he gonna do?) Man, man … Nig starting to tell Warren to lay off when Warren up and kicked the woman in the face with his heavy boot. Nig heard the pop of her face bursting. And he had to close his eyes. And he thought of how it was like being back home, you know, with his old man beating Mum up. But he never kicked her. (I never saw him kick her.) Warren did it again. And again. And Nig having to close his eyes or he was gonna murder this cunt he was, Brown brother or not.

  Back at the gang HQ, and Warren and Jimmy Bad Horse in a huddle, talking quietly. And Nig standin around with some of the bros and a cupla sisters, and Tania one ofem, but he couldn’t look at her, at anyone. Just in a daze. Numb all over. Then Jimmy called him over, Hey, Nig. Here.

  Whassa fuckin story, man? About what, Jimmy? Bout you lettin Warren here do all the work? (Call that work?) Not my scene, man. Wha’? Jimmy’s mouth dropping open. Beating up on women, man. Nig shaking his head, Not my scene. Oh, is that right, angel face? Jimmy steppin up to Nig. So what is your scene, boy? Nig embarrassed; not wanting to be singled out. So he just shrugged, dunno. How you think we live in this world, man? Ya think the food falls outta the fuckin sky? Eh? Ya think maybe one of your angel friends drop us our groceries just whenever we want it? Do ya? Jimmy flicking a finger under Nig’s jaw. And Nig thinking: Back off, man. And wanting to warn Jimmy to back off, leave him alone. But he couldn’t.

  Then Jimmy punched Nig, a roundhouse right which Nig saw coming from a mile, but what could he do but wear it? He staggered from the blow. And Jimmy was telling him in that high-pitched squeaky voice that didn’t really sound, you know, a leader’s voice: Ya gotta lotta makin up to do, Nig. A hell of a lot. (The dream’d turned to a nightmare. And so soon.)

  13. Letter from the Grave

  … God … my God … my — Ain’t no God! Beth, at the letter the cops’d left her with. From (it can’t be real) her. Grace. (My dead girl. Speaking to me. To Mummy. To her mother!) Beth screaming inside. Weeping inside. Weeping and screaming and not fully comprehending.

  Over and over she read the scrawled last words of her daughter. But still the message not reaching home. So reading it again. Again (Got to get it right.) But each time the message so overwhelming Beth could not think straight. As if being dead — by her own hand — is not enough … now this?

  And a day passing with a mother her mind hardly knowing where she was, who she was … just this message going over and over in her mind: … Mum, I was raped. I feel so, I don’t know, dirty or something. As if I did something to deserve it. I feel so bad, Mum, I just want to die — Beth unable to get past that part without shoving the letter away or other violent recoil … Mum, I think it was Dad — AEEE!! the scream going up in her mind. Dad — Dad? Dad. Jake? Dad. My husband? My kid’s own father? Hate building.

  I’ll killim. I’LL KILLIM! (calm down, Beth.) Telling herself, you gotta keep your anger under control. Wanting a drink — No, I won’t drink again. Lighting yet another cigarette. Mind arguing with itself: Why shouldn’t I have a drink? Not as if I ain’t got good cause. Deciding, several times that day, Right, I’m going next door gonna borrow some relief from this damn nightmare. Yet each time overcoming the desire. So eventually the voice in her head trying to persuade her to have a drink faded away.

  Waiting up there, in her bedroom — my bedroom — all evening; had sent the younger ones to her sister for the night. Just her and Abe left, and not that he was actually physically at home; kid spent most of his life out on those miserable streets, wouldn’t surprise a mother if another of her kids’d up and joined the Brown Fists. And thoughts of her family picturing in her mind like some ruin, some terrible accident that’d befallen half her brood with em lying all over the road. Dead and dying. Knocked over by life. By being Maori. A loser. A member of a race on its way out. Kaput. My own children. And all that hope a woman’d once had forem. Though it did occur to her that never had she anything specific laid out in her mind as to how to secure this future for her kids. It was just hope, with no structure, no game plan to apply to it. No structure, woman. You got no structure cos your race ain’t got no structure. We just wake up each day and take what comes. Which, when you think about it, ain’t a hell of a lot. And why should it be? Life don’t come marching into your kitchen saying, Here take me I’m free and there’s plenty of me. Does it? You got to … you got to … Well, work for it, Beth supposed in her unenlightened state and general misery. Oh, but don’t forget the anger.

  Hours of it — thinking. Just thinking. And waiting. For him. The black bastard. The rapist. Of his own daughter! To come home. And praying — for once in her life — that he’d come home with a bunch of his precious boozing mates in tow. Lots ofem. So angry she almost relished the thought.

  A whole bunch ofem. (Oh good.) Beth all purpose. All fixed determination. Yet scared out of her mind: (Maybe he didn’t do it. Grace said she thinks it was him — Nope.) Unable to believe otherwise now. I’ll killim. Telling herself, Think of the letter, think of the letter, to give herself the courage.

  Let
tin em settle in. Coming down the stairs. Stepping into the kitchen. Just think of the letter. Hey! It’s Beth. Come an have a beer withus, Beth, honey. Sonny Boy Jacobs greeting Beth. She hadn’t seen him in ages. Smilin that trademark smile at Beth, Come an give Sonny Boy a kiss. Laughing. And fuck Jake Heke, I ain’t scared of Jake. Looking at Jake with a confident grin. Beth regretting the timing of Sonny Boy’s long absence being marred by this. She brushed aside Sonny’s outstretched arm. Sorry, Sonny, but I got something to say to my husband here. Spat the word out. Never wanted it to leave her lips again. Ever.

  Beth drew in a breath. Went to full height. She caught Jake just about to snarl something at her after his first reaction of confusion. She stabbed a trembling finger at Jake: You, mista. Shaking all over. With rage. (And fear. What if I got it wrong?) Think of the letter. Accusing finger at full arms length. You — You! Clutching the letter in her other hand. Lifting it aloft. You — raped — our — dead — daughter!

  Table went up. And everything with it. Bottles, glasses, ashtrays, lighted cigarettes, packets of them. Everything. And Jake roaring like an enraged bull. And Beth standing there, standing her ground. Ready for the worst. And the worst coming for her.

  In slow, mad motion he was coming for her. Except he didn’t make it: Sonny Boy Jacobs stepped across Beth’s vision of her husband, Holdit. Jake trying to sweep Sonny Boy aside — Man, I said holdit! Sonny Boy slammed Jake against the wall. And the others were picking themselves off the floor, dusting themselves down, picking up toppled chairs, a smoke still burning. And Jake yelling that he was gonna KILL Beth.

  Beth staying her ground. (Think of the letter.) Jaw jutting. And Jake threatening Sonny, Sonny, you beddda let go a me or — Oooof! as Sonny drove a punch into Jake’s belly, asked him, Or what, man? Then Sonny turning to Beth, Show me that letter. Narrowing eyes at her, And you bedda be right, woman. Or you the one gonna cop it. And Beth managing to get out: My Grace … she left a note … cops didn’t want to show me … not till she was — She said — she said. She said he — throwing the accusing finger at Jake slumped and groaning in Sonny Boy’s grasp — raped her.

  Jake. Walking the streets. The Pine Block streets. Hurting. My pride, man. Of Sonny Boy hitting him. That other matter not yet sunken in. Accepted. It couldn’t be, because a man’d not done it. Just Sonny Boy Jacobs then, a picture of him, the feel — the force — of his gut punch. The strength of the man. The easy way he handled Jake. But this cannot be.

  Walking. Walking and hurting and that other matter drifting round and round in his mind of not being true, it can’t be true. I’m not like that. But then again … you know how drunk a man gets, he don’t remember nuthin half the fuckin time. But surely he wouldn’t do that? Man don’t even have thoughts like that, of, you know: havin sex with kids. Let alone his own daughter. But then again … thinking of the dreams, how violent they were, how — a man don’t have the words — but he knows his dreams are strange.

  Sonny Boy! Pop! just like that: poppin up in his mind, even his troubled mind, as this … this thing, this idea, this notion, this force more powerful than his. Than my force. Than my power. Clenching his big fists, thrusting them up in the early morning cold air with the streetlight giving him a taller shadow, and those mits huger in their black image on the footpath, Than this! Feeling his old power surging through him. Come to me now, Sonny Boy. Wanting the man. Wanting him. And this hot feeling rushing down his face, of shame. The shame of a beaten fighter. Beaten at his own game. And Beth and her accusation, the cause of it, barely a background murmur so strong was Jake’s shame at being handled so effortlessly by Sonny Boy Jacobs. And that hurt coming on real strong. Enough to kill a man on. To kill him: Sonny fuckin Boy. Walking.

  Car going past. Nother one coming up, slowing. Jake eying it: Lettim stop. Lettim try me on. Let a whole fuckin carload ofem try me. Ready for anything, anyone. (Even him? Sonny Boy?) Car crawling along, kerb hugging. Browns. They’re Brown Fists. But Jake not worried. Even if they gotta gun I ain’t backin down. Fuckem.

  A hand comin out the passenger side, the front. With a woollen glove with the fingers cut off how they do.

  Fuckem.

  Hand givin Jake the fingers and him immediately thrusting the same in reply.

  Fuckem.

  It then occurring to Jake that his own son might be one ofem in that car now stopped, its engine idling. Who’s that meant ta scare? Jake thinking in contempt of the engine revving, dying, revving up again. Stopping himself. Staring at them. Not that he could see their faces in the light, how it was falling from the power poles. And no moon, not even a lousy star to help see em with. But it don’t matter.

  Fuckem.

  Standin there. Feeling warrior. (I’m a warrior, man.) But a voice same as Sonny Boy’s tellin Jake, Ya suck, man. (And ya fucked ya own kid. And that’s why she killed herself.) That’s what the voice of Sonny Boy Jacobs was saying … starting to come back to a man now. The blood draining from him. Man, what’s happening? That Brown Fist car just sat there revving in the poor streetlight, that half-mittened hand hanging out the side. And a man’s thoughts returning to him like Grace herself calling. Callin from the fuckin grave.

  Swallowing. Courage fleeing. Just up and fuckin off on a man. Just this shell of him standing there, being stubborn, stupid, waiting forem to move first. Inside the man it was like a …? like a kid or sumpthin …? Like a kid was cryin. And that car revving and unrevvin, and a man’s tall shadow there on the footpath. And his thoughts. And Sonny Boy’s greater strength. And greater confidence. And the streetlight this funny yellow in the outers of a man’s eyes. And beyond that this dark. This terrible dark.

  Eyes watering — with fear, not tears. The carload a Browns still there. Revving. Easin off. Revvin. Voices in Jake’s head goin: Ya did it! No, I didn’t! Ya did! No, honest, I didn’t, man! Like an adult being answered by a child. Car engine revving. Voices arguing back and forth in his mind and the child losing the argument. Or having its denial disbelieved. Like bein accused all ya life of bein a slave and hardly able ta understand what a slave was, and when ya did it hurt ya to the bone. Way deep inside it hurt. That adult voice in his head, it was like that: hurtin. To the core of him.

  Walking off. Fuckem. But the fuckem not like the fuckem of old. Nothing like it. Just a hollow echo. And another in a man’s head, his ears, of a voice laughin at him as he walked away: Ya suck, Jake Heke! Ya suck! Laughin. Laughin at a man. At the best fuckin rumbler in the whole of Two Lakes — it wasn’t for Sonny Boy comin back ta town. Laughin at me. Tellin me I suck. Tellin me I — No way, man. I didn’t. I-did-not-touch-her.

  Then o — ooooo — a hurt comin on like no hurt ever before. Not in his whole life. Not even in his dreams, his mad bad dreams.

  Walkin. The streets. Of not Pine Block but this …? this place, eh … this place in a man’s mind his bad dreams’d often touched on, hinted at, of terrible, terrible hurt. (Like my mummy and daddy and all my uncles and aunties and cousins and friends — oh, everyone — from childhood. Don’t only not like me but hate me. Me. Just a lil kid. And they hate me.)

  Not understanding it. Any of it. Not Sonny Boy being a better physical man and not that kid’s accusation from the grave. None of it. Only hurt. I only know I hurt. Walking … in this, uh, this place …

  14. Hark! The People Cometh

  Every day; evenings, afternoons when the kids were coming home from school, at nights when they were out on the streets, Beth Heke out there with them. With a message: I’m here to help you. Any of you. You only have to feel you got a problem and I’ll listen. 27 Rimu Street’s where I’m at. Driven. By what, she wasn’t sure. Grace, yes. But Grace wasn’t the all of it. No. A woman’d just woke up one morning and thought: Streets. I’ll go out onto the streets where all this misery’s at and do what I can.

  She told them, You’re hungry, I’ll feed ya. Just call. Though it took some time before kids started to drift in; hanging around outside her house at first. Then one kid gett
in up the courage to knock on her door to tell Beth he wouldn’t mind, you know, sumpthin to eat.

  Soon it was a regular every-night arrival ofem. So money was the next problem. So she ran food raffles. Had her regular kids who came to her for food sellin the tickets door to door in the neighbourhood. Resistance at first but they came round. As Beth knew they would. Eventually. So a big pot on the simmer all day. And half the night. Stews, pork bones and spuds and watercress from the creek on the Trambert property that her own children picked for the communal pot.

  A woman seeing little changes in her adopted charges, like responding to her barking to use their manners, and as they didn’t have manners to use she taught them. A willingness to help; more and more these half-homeless kids offering to help Beth at whatever she wanted. You just tell us, Mrs H, they called her. Mrs H. Pity about the H part being missing. Or kicked out more like it. Beth hadn’t set eyes on the man. (Lettim rot in hell.) Though there were times when she found herself wondering after Jake, at how he was doing, where he might be living. And what was going on in his (dirty) mind now that the whole world knew what he’d done. (But I can’t forgive him. I think of him, but I can’t and I won’t forgive.) Besides, too much to do. Too many neglected kids out there.