Gray.
Yair?
But Markus kinda doesn’t wanna ask where they’re going. He says instead, How many stars d’you think there are?
Grayson doesn’t answer for a bit. We’ve had this conversation, he says.
Yair, well, I wanna know what you think now.
Nothin’ different.
Truth is, Markus can’t remember what mi compañero had said all those years ago.
Their feet on the sandy track crunch out of time. Up ahead, a dim glow from the lights in town.
Markus quickens to catch up. He’s a little disappointed. Where are we going?
But Grayson shushes him.
The boys head by the road through the drying-out land toward Narioka. In the dark, the cliffs are indiscernible, and they could very well be on a vast plain that stretches forever without any borders. The hydrophobic-red dirt gathers from a crumble into pavement and then to bitumen. The main road. And the spiny strands of grasses and weeds, dead or dying and yellowish-grey, bind around each other to form the faux gold-rush buildings. Down Melville Street, past the newsagents, chemist, and past where, in the bright daylight, the young vagrants will smoke rolled cigarettes, drink Red Bull, and whack their children out front of the Chicken Ranch. Tonight, the footpaths are caverns of emptiness. The boys come to the public swimming pool.
Near the back of the complex, Grayson lifts a corner of the cyclone-wire fence. Big enough for a superhero, he says as Markus crawls underneath.
And a Greek god, Markus replies.
Grayson enters unaided, and as he stands up, he says, You told me there’s no such thing as gods or goddesses. He de-togas. He’s in his underwear and sprints toward the water, leaps and dives into the pool. He’s standing in its mid-section, where he turns and yells back to Markus, You comin’ in?
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Marika for her careful and considered editing on this book, as well as to the Scribe Publications team.
Thank you also to the following people for your much needed and welcomed support: Mum, Guy, Deni, Grace, and my friends from RMIT.
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