Hey Brother

by Jarrah Dundler

  5

  I was at the top of the driveway tossing rocks up in the air, whacking them with Shaun’s old cricket bat and watching them sail down to the bottom paddock, when I heard a car rumbling along Findle Creek Road.

  A dusty ute spluttered round the bend and pulled up at our front gate. The passenger door eased open and a scraggly scarecrow-looking fella climbed out.

  Trevor! Mum’s brother—Uncle Trev!

  ‘Shit!’

  Trev pulled a duffel bag from the tray of the ute and slung the strap round his neck, then heaved a carton of VB onto one shoulder and a slab of scotch and dry onto the other. He booted the rear wheel of the ute and let out a hooroo to the driver so loud I could hear it all the way up at the house.

  I raced into the kitchen. ‘Mum! Mum!’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘It’s Uncle Trev! He’s coming!’

  ‘Yeah…and?’

  ‘What, you knew?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘What? Why? Why’s he coming? And why’s he got his bag? Mum…he’s not…’

  ‘Staying?’ Mum stirred the onions in the frying pan. ‘Yes, Trysten, Trev’s staying.’

  ‘What? For how long?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t bloody know. Jeez, just calm down, would ya.’

  ‘But…well, where’s he gonna stay?’

  ‘The shed.’

  ‘What? That’s Shaun’s shed! What about his stuff?’

  ‘Ah, lay off! I don’t need to be given a hard time about this. I’ve got to let Trev stay. He’s my brother. He needs a bed. What else am I gonna do?’

  ‘Well, why can’t he stay at his own place?’

  But before Mum could answer, there was a thump as Trev’s duffel bag landed on the front verandah. Mum placed the wooden spoon on the bench and darted to the fridge. Before I could even say that I supposed it was okay if Trev stayed as long as they didn’t hit the booze too hard, Mum was holding two frosty bottles of beer and Trev was standing in the doorway ready to receive one.

  Next day on the bus Ricky was almost as up in arms as I had been.

  ‘Oh, no! Not Trev! Shit, brother—he’s bad news.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s even worse than my old man.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Didn’t you say he’d done some time?’

  ‘Yep. Well, that’s what Shaun told me.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘The shed.’

  ‘What? He can’t. That’s Shaun’s shed!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Shit! Your mum’ll be really hitting the turps now, hey.’

  ‘I know, Ricky. I know!’

  ‘What are ya gonna do, brother?’

  I slumped in my seat. ‘I don’t know, Ricky. I don’t fucken know.’

  It was even worse than I’d imagined.

  Mum and Trev hit the grog harder than a dozen seniors partying at schoolies. Mostly they drank in the lounge room, gasbagging about their childhood—growing up at Sunnyvale, the pineapple farm Pop’d owned five hundred clicks north of the border. Oh, they’d had some great times there. Riding their dumb fucken horses up and down the hills and valleys, skipping off to the coast on the weekends, swimming in the crystal-clear ocean. Oh, how wonderful life’d been then. Oh, what a place it’d been. Slice o’ heaven! Oh yeah, Trevvie—it sure was! Oh, how different it might’ve been if my nan hadn’t got the big C and croaked so early (only forty-eight, Kirsty! Ah God, I miss her). Pop mightn’t’ve given up on pineapples to try his luck with cattle at Findle Creek, and Mum mightn’t’ve worried about how Pop’d cope on his own and moved down to Small Town to be closer to him. Mightn’t’ve got knocked up when she was twenty-one (not that she’d trade Shaun for the world…of course not) by one Gregory Black, a lanky fella ten years her senior who proved pretty damn useless at holding down a job and even more useless at running a farm. And maybe Trev mightn’t’ve ventured up to the far north when his little sis Kirsty went south. Mightn’t’ve got caught up in the scene up there. Mightn’t’ve given Pop another reason to be disappointed in him, so disappointed that he got written out of the will (not that I’m saying ya haven’t looked after me, Sis). Why, maybe, just maybe he might’n’t’ve turned out such a drug-fucked piss-head! Bwhahahahahahaha. That one set ’em both off laughing, because bwhahahahahahha, that was always gonna fucken happen!

  Every night it was the same old stories, just told in different ways. Blah-dee-fucken-blah! The gasbagging wasn’t the worst part, either. Worst part was what they did after their little strolls down memory lane, after they’d sunk so much piss they had to shout in order to understand each other: they’d crank the music up.

  Wasn’t their taste in music that shitted me—mostly they played Trev’s rock ‘n’ roll stuff that wasn’t too bad. It was what they played the music on: Shaun’s stereo! A Sony HWX. Four speakers. Subwoofer. Five-disc changer. The works.

  When Shaun’d told me to take care of his stuff, I knew he really meant wreck anything and I’ll tear yer nuts off. Since he’d gone I’d been up there a few times, listened to some of his metal CDs while I whacked the balls round the pool table—but I never ever ever cranked up the volume more than halfway. I was too scared of popping the speakers. Yet here was Mum and bloody Trev blasting the bloody thing full bore like they didn’t give two fucks if it blew sky high!

  I kept waiting for them to let up, figuring sooner or later they’d have to lay off, but each night they just partied harder and later, each morning the house stunk worse than the morning before, and each day Mum slept later and later. After a week I was so jack of it I decided I’d try to get some help from Old Greggy Boy. It took me a while to suck it up and go see him after my last visit—cursing my luck with his stupid words—but I had to do something.

  It was late Sunday afternoon when I slipped off down the slope through the dimming light to the sound of Mum and Trev cheersing each other on the front verandah.

  Dad had pulled his camping chair right up next to the fire pit and was eating two-minute noodles from a pot, using his fingers as chopsticks. He always had the fire going, even when it was hot, so he could put the billy on for tea, or cook some snags or noodles or beans. He preferred the fire to gas. Smelt better, he said. I think he just loved getting lost in it. That’s what he was doing while he was slurping up the noodles—staring at the flickering flames same as he did with the trees in the daytime.

  I dragged the spare chair to the other side of the fire and as soon as I said, ‘Trev’s staying,’ zhooom—Dad’s eyes went round as twenty-cent pieces.

  ‘Trev?’ he said in a strained whisper, like he was talking about some evil bush spirit whose name you weren’t supposed to utter.

  ‘Yeah, Trev. Uncle Trev. Mum and him have been at it nonstop for days.’

  Dad placed his pot on the ground, held his head in his hands and took four deep breaths. I’d seen him breathe like that before—when he was getting angry but trying not to show it. Good, I thought, that anger might move him into action.

  After a bit he picked up a stick and poked at the coals in the fire. Sparks billowed up, danced into the dark. Dad crooked his neck back and watched the sparks rise and then disappear. Then he looked over his shoulder up the slope.

  He was thinking. Was he considering a plan of attack?

  ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Ya gonna help us out or what? She’s up now. But by the end of this session she’ll be downer than ever before.’

  Dad cast his eyes back to the fire. ‘Help? How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘I dunno. Come up and talk to her. Tell her to lay off it.’

  ‘Cah!’ Dad stood, kicked back his chair and paced round the other side of the fire, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘She won’t listen to me! Never has. Never will.’

  ‘Well, go and talk to Trev then. Tell him to piss off.’

  Dad froze and in the glow of the firelight I saw his eyes flash with something that I reckoned might’ve been fear
. He hung his head low and turned away.

  Trev and him must’ve had a big blue once, too. Jeez! No wonder Old Greggy hid down the creek—he’d put the whole bloody world offside!

  ‘Ah, fuck it!’ I hocked up a big loogie and—phteeww—spat on the grass and fled across the flats.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a new eruption of sparks billowing up higher and higher into the darkness like they were trying to reach the stars.

  Dad must’ve thrown something into the fire. Something heavy, I reckoned. Real heavy.

  6

  I slammed the fridge door. I couldn’t fucken believe it! The two-litre orange and mango juice—my juice, the juice I had every morning with breakfast—that I’d only had a couple of cups from was missing. I tore round the kitchen. No sign. Lounge room, where they’d been partying? Nope, just Mum and cans and ciggie butts and rubbish and more fucken filth. Back verandah? Where I’d seen Trev sitting on my way back up from the creek, looking like he was up to no good? Yep, there it was, lying crumpled on the floor next to an empty bottle of Kirov vodka.

  ‘Fucker!’

  I slung my bag over my shoulder, stormed through the house and slammed the front door on the way out.

  At the top of the driveway I lined up some fist-sized rocks and booted them into the bottom paddock. Take that, ya fuckheads!

  Halfway down the driveway I took a detour to the old dairy. It was in a state when I got there—sheets of rusting roofing iron, rotting timber posts and a grimy window pane—and it was in even more of a state when I left. I rammed one of the timber posts into a sheet of iron again and again till it folded in half. I hurled the post through a pane of glass. Then, with a black texta from my schoolbag, I wrote something nasty about Uncle Trev across the besser-block wall.

  At the bus stop, I found a hefty stick and whacked the round purple flowers off the Scotch thistles, imagining it was Trev’s balls I was hitting. When the bus pulled up I dragged myself on, not saying boo to Josie because I was just too fucken tired. Four times their music and yelling and yahooing had woken me in the night. I propped my bag up against the window, rested my head against it and closed my eyes.

  ‘Hey, Tryst. Hey, wake up!’

  I opened my eyes. Ricky was poking my gut with a pen.

  ‘Big night, brother?’

  I looked out the window. We’d already arrived at school. I’d slept the entire ride. Almost everyone was off the bus, including Jade and Jessica.

  Shit!

  ‘Yep, another big one.’ I was pissed off—I’d missed out on getting my morning smile from Jessica. I didn’t feel much like talking, but as we walked through the gates and into the quad I told Ricky about Mum and Trev’s latest party, about my visit to Dad and how worked up he’d got, like he was actually really worried about Mum this time, and how I thought he was scared of Trev.

  Ricky nodded after I spoke, pursing his lips, crumpling his brow. He even took his cap off and plunged his fingers into his curls and scratched his scalp. He was taking it more seriously than ever.

  ‘We need to get Trev out of there.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit. But how? He’s tough, and mean as.’

  ‘Mmm…’ Ricky scratched his chin and then shot his finger up in the air. ‘I know! I got it! Yeah, that’s it; hey, brother.’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘We need to find his weak spot. We need to find his Hercules Eel.’

  Haha. I shook my head and laughed and laughed as I walked off to first period. Hercules Eel? It’s ‘heel,’ Ricky. You dumbarse.

  Mr Leckie’s Civic Issues was one of those mixed-year classes with some tenners, us niners and even a few kids from year eight. Most of the class was spent yammering on about what was going on in the world—global warming, genetic engineering, mad dictators. For a while there I’d joined in on the discussions, throwing in my two cents. But after a while of being shot down by these three year ten kids who sat up the back row—Leith Sacher, Kara McKenzie and Bilko Baker, all kids of those forest-dwelling dope-smoking hippies who fed them all their wild ideas—I just gave up. It was too bloody frustrating. Leckie never challenged what they said, just encouraged them, saying stuff like ‘well put’ or ‘valid point’, whereas me or anyone else would get a grilling from both him and his pets. I was regretting signing up for Civics, till Jessica joined the class.

  More and more she challenged them, and Leckie. I don’t know if I agreed with half of what she said, but it sure was good to see her giving it back to them, arguing the other side. Plus, she sat in the seat behind me, next to Anna Hall, which meant if the light was right, with my body angled to the left, my chin in my palms, and cupping my fingers round my eyes I could peer out the window and catch her reflection. And today, with the charcoal-coloured rain clouds that had rolled into town and the bright fluoros inside, those windows were like mirrors. Perfect weather for checking her out.

  I got lost there for a bit. I’d tuned out completely—spying on her legs, looking at her thighs, wondering what it’d feel like to run my hand up the inside of ’em—when Bilko said something that made me tune back in.

  ‘Howard’s just going to use Bali as further justification to continue on with Bush and their so-called war on terror. Iraq’s next. They’re trying to pin Saddam for those WMDs, but it’s not about that, it’s about the oil and increasing the profits of the arms manufacturers.’

  I took my eyes off Jessica’s reflection and turned round. Bilko was sitting straight in his chair, chest puffed out. I looked at Leckie—peering down his glasses, lips puckered together like he was sucking on a lemon. Fucken loving it! Dickhead.

  Leith, the big gangly ponytail-wearing one, the bloody worst of ’em, threw his two cents in next. ‘Yeah, sir. That’s what it’s all about. Everyone’s been fed a bunch of lies, yeah. If we go into Iraq it’s just going to make things worse. We shouldn’t be going there. Shouldn’t’ve gone into Afghanistan either.’

  Huh? What was this dickhead talking about? I was about to ask him just that when someone behind me spoke—Jessica.

  ‘Are you two serious?’ she said, staring at Bilko and Leith as if they were the dumbest people she’d ever laid eyes on. ‘Not get involved in Afghanistan? What, and let the Taliban keep stoning women to death for just talking to other men, and making their kids get married when they’re twelve, and blowing up magnificent old Buddha statues? Of course we should be getting rid of them. Those guys are friggin’ A-holes!’

  ‘Jessica,’ Leckie said in that tone his voice took on before he’d ‘caution’ you.

  ‘Ah, c’mon, sir,’ said Jessica. ‘I said “A-holes”, didn’t I?’

  Leckie looked like he was about to say something else when Kara piped up.

  ‘Y’know, Jessica, I don’t agree with any of those things the Taliban were doing either. Not at all. But, it just feels like we’ve gone over there for the wrong reasons, y’know. For, like, revenge.’ Kara turned from Jessica and looked at Leckie. ‘It’s like that line you read us the other week, sir. The one Gandhi said?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Leckie, nodding, peering over his silver-rimmed glasses. ‘An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kara, smiling a sickly sweet smile at Leckie. ‘Yes, that was it. That was the one.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jessica huffed. ‘Well, what about this one? A stone in the head leaves an oppressed woman dead!’

  YEAH! Take that!

  ‘Jessica,’ Leckie snapped. ‘That was a tad inappropriate. You’re cautioned!’

  ‘What the…? Ah, c’mon, sir, I was just—’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Leckie turned sharply from Jessica and looked round the room. ‘Ah, yes, Leith.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, sir, the war in Afgahnistan was and is unjustified. I mean, Bin Laden’s not even from there, yeah? He’s a Saudi, but the Yanks won’t touch them ’cause they sell them cheap oil…’

  I heard Jessica mutter to Anna, ‘You reckon he takes notes when his hippy dad spouts this b
ullshit?’

  ‘It’s the Yanks, right,’ Leith continued, ‘the Yanks that are the true terrorists of the world. And following them, well, that makes us terrorists, too. Shouldn’t be going to Iraq and shouldn’t have gone to Afghanistan.’

  Leith was getting louder. Almost shouting. Getting way more worked up than Jessica had been. Leckie didn’t pull him in line, but. Just nodded for him to go on. Dickhead didn’t mind people getting fired up, as long as they were getting fired up about the same things he believed in.

  ‘Bush and Howard,’ Leith continued, louder still—holding his hands out palms up like he was a reverend delivering a sermon—making sure his voice could be heard over the conversations that were taking place. ‘They’ve got blood on their hands. Our soldiers too. They’re murderers. The lot of them!’

  I thumped my fist on the table. ‘What did you say?’

  My words ricocheted round the room like bullets.

  A hush settled.

  I pinned my eyes on Leith. He looked back, shocked, confused. I kept him pinned, but from the corner of my eye I could see everyone else’s faces directed to me.

  Bilko—the little weedy ranga—leant towards Leith and whispered. In the quiet I could hear every word, and I reckon everyone else including Leckie could, too. ‘I think his brother’s in the army.’

  At that, Leith’s eyes shot down to his desk. Shamed. Scared. Like he’d just smelt a shit and that shit was his own.

  Then he lifted his head and looked me in the eye. ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Yeah. I think I did. But could you say it again?’

  My right foot bounced up and down. The rapid donk-donkdonk-donk-donk of my sneaker heel hitting the carpet and the constant hum of the fluoro lights were the only sounds in the classroom. My heart thumped, my fingers tingled and I could feel the pulse in my neck. Last time I’d felt like this was just before a fight.

  Leckie seemed to be figuring out what might be coming next. ‘Trysten.’ His voice was timid, shaky, as if he was scared he was the one about to get decked. ‘Leith was…he was just…’