by Brown, Honey
‘I can’t get past it,’ Nathan’s mother murmured. ‘He was at the market? I don’t understand it. I can’t work it out. I don’t know if I want to work it out.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Pauline. It’s not that much of a shock to us, though; we see it all the time. It’s a web. These kids get stuck . . . My gut? What experience tells me? It’s always a bit of what you think and nothing like what you thought.’
‘He’s up against it, isn’t he?’ Nathan’s father said. ‘If they find him?’
‘Bloody oath. They’re not going to pass up a fall guy. He’s got a rap sheet that makes it all too easy. I better go.’ He put his smoke in his mouth and got up, lifted the chair and placed it in tight against the table. ‘Pete’s got too much pulling power to piss off. Try saying that with a ciggie between your lips.’
He had a shoe rack now, five pairs of shoes on it, not counting his farm boots and gumboots by the back door. Not counting his slippers. He had coats on hangers. A farm coat, a stonewash denim jacket, a duffel coat. In the drawers were socks and jocks and T-shirts, three different pairs of jeans, trackpants, jumpers, singlets, shorts and swimming trunks. Nathan took the plastic bag from the top shelf of his wardrobe. Folded inside were the clothes he’d been found in, packed flat by Nurse Rosie, at Nathan’s request, the bag tied off tight, not yet untied. Nathan sat down at the desk and tore the plastic.
He took out the Wrangler jeans. They were dirty, stiff with dried sweat, smudged with soot, ash, misted blood and bigger dots of blood, melted chocolate, grass stains; they smelled of fire smoke, stale cigarette smoke, gunpowder. From the pocket, in with the spare bullets, he took out the photo he’d taken from the Boytime Co-op pin board. It was the picture of Billy with his gloves on, grinning with his mouthguard in.
Nathan’s mother had sat on the bed. He passed the picture to her. ‘That’s him.’
‘This is him? William Benson?’
She switched on the lamp.
In the hospital, when Nathan met his mother, the amount of pain in her had amazed him. He’d looked into her face and seen her torment. She’d barely been able to stand under the weight of it. It had dawned on him: what had happened to him had happened to her too. Maybe not physically in the backroom with him, but there mentally, every step of the way. The same with Nathan’s father. The hurt in him had been huge. It had winded him, made him shake, had him crying. Written on both their faces: taken too, dragged from life, locked away, sleepless nights, empty days, painful moments. Years of it. Nathan’s mother, after seeing Nathan, had been treated for shock in the next room.
His mum was shaking again now. She’d taken the soggy tissue from her sleeve. The pain was back. Nathan didn’t know what to say to her about it. He didn’t know how to tell her he was sorry. It felt like his fault.
His father had come into the bedroom. He glanced at the torn bag and dirty clothes. He stood a few paces back. Nathan related to the way his father held things in, chose his words. It wasn’t about being closed off; it was about not falling apart.
His mum passed the photo to his dad.
‘That’s him.’
Nathan watched for the reaction in his father. This was Nathan’s test. He needed to see for himself what they really felt about Billy. He needed to know if his parents were forgiving, open to understanding, able to push past blame. Hurt didn’t seem to surface in Nathan’s dad, or anger. He seemed curious. After glancing at Nathan, he handed the photo to him.
Nathan took the photo and pinned it to the corkboard above his desk. Beside the times tables sheet and that week’s words. It was right to have Billy up there, in the open. Billy gave the corkboard colour. If Nathan was to step back from the desk, look at the picture within the context of the room, Billy’s vibrancy and attitude made everything else look straightjacketed and lifeless, as though he was the only real thing in there.
From the pocket of the jeans, Nathan took the spare gun bullets.
As soon as his mum spotted them, she sobbed.
‘I shot Billy’s father. I took the gun.’
‘It’s not fair,’ his mother cried.
‘Kovac lit the fire, not Billy. Kovac hit the woman. Billy saved her. We were at the shed because of me.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I killed Joe. I hit him. I didn’t give him his tablets. Billy took me from the house because I asked him to.’
‘No one blames you.’
‘Billy left me down the creek for you to find me. I followed him down there. He didn’t make me go.’
‘No, Nathan, no, it wasn’t your fault . . .’
‘They took Billy too. He was trapped too.’
‘He wasn’t, though; he got away.’ Nathan’s mum was back there then, at the market, at the hospital, slumping on the bed, too much weight, too much sadness. She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest. ‘He could have told someone. How hard is it to tell someone?’
‘Harder than it seems.’
Nathan palmed his tears away.
‘Why aren’t his mother and the caretaker blaming you for the shooting?’ Nathan’s father said.
‘They’re trying to help me.’
‘Why is William hiding if he hasn’t done anything wrong?’
‘He’s scared.’
Nathan got up and went over to his mum. She was fighting to breathe. Rocking with the grief. He sat beside her. ‘He was trapped. But no one looked for him, so they didn’t have to hide him.’
She cried harder, gripped him, pulled him to her. She was clinging, not wanting to let go. He put his arm around her and let her press her face against his neck, let her touch his hair. ‘My boy,’ she said. ‘My beautiful boy.’
‘Do you know where to find him, son?’
‘I know where to look.’
‘Left turn?’
They were in the city. It had taken them two hours to get there. Nathan was holding the mud map his father had drawn for the trip. The bigger map was opened up between them, on the middle console. His father glanced at it.
‘Left,’ Nathan said, reading from his dad’s map.
‘And then left again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Street name?’
‘Ha–ay–te. . .Hat-ter, Hatter?’
‘I think we’ve got this nailed.’
A notice on the co-op door told them it was shut. They had an hour before it was due to open. It was eleven a.m. Monday. Nathan thought about explaining the Fanta can technique, but he couldn’t really see his dad throwing empty cans at windows.
Not many businesses in the area were open. They walked around the streets. It was overcast. They had jackets on. Drizzly rain began to fall.
They made their way back to the car. Sat in silence.
‘You learn things fast, like your mum,’ his dad said, out of the blue. ‘A good memory for things.’
‘The home schooler said that because I was read to up until I was four it helps with my learning.’
‘She said that?’
‘She says when it comes to a person’s brain the important years are younger than anyone can imagine. As a baby. She said it’s how much love you get then that matters. One and two are really important. You make all the big connections then. Your ability to learn happens then, too. Even the way you react to things. It’s all decided when you’re tiny.’
A gentle smile lifted his father’s face. ‘She sounds like a good teacher.’
The co-op’s roller door rattled up. Behind it was a small foyer. Hog was in sweatpants and a jumper with the co-op logo on it. He had on slippers and a beanie. He carried out an ice-cream sign and set it up by the light pole. He scuffed up the steps, through the foyer, and back inside.
Nuts must have arrived without them noticing. Jogged up the alleyway, perhaps, gone in the back door. He was flushed, dressed in a T-shirt and rolled-up trackpants. The ends of his hair were damp with sweat. He greeted them as they walked inside.
‘G’day there.’
‘Hello,’ Nathan’s dad said. ‘You must be Hog?’
‘I’m Nuts.’
Nuts hadn’t recognised Nathan. Hog walked up. He didn’t recognise Nathan either.
‘Hello, Hog?’
Hog and Nathan’s dad shook hands.
‘What can I help you with?’
‘I’m Mitch Fisher.’
It didn’t click. They summed him up. Eyed him head to toe. Nathan guessed Hog and Nuts wouldn’t see a lot of moleskin pants and cable knit jumpers in the gym. Not many farm boots. The downstairs lights were on. The place smelled of disinfectant, less like feet this time. Winter seemed to have cooled things down.
‘You’ve met my son, Nathan.’
‘We see a few kids.’
‘Nathan Fisher.’
Hog’s and Nuts’ faces opened up and their arms folded in. ‘Oh.’
‘He said he met you both. I hope you don’t mind us dropping in.’
‘Changed much?’ Nuts said to Nathan.
Nathan’s father smiled, looked at Nathan too. ‘He’s put on weight pretty quick.’
‘Middleweight.’
‘Probably so. In time.’
‘Quick time, I’d say.’
‘Can we talk somewhere?’
‘You wouldn’t pick it,’ Hog said, ‘but Mondays are busy for us.’
‘Just a quick chat?’
‘We got somethin’ startin’ real soon.’
Hog had slouched back into himself. His arms had not shifted off his chest. Nuts had loosened one arm, was scratching his ear, rubbing his neck.
‘We don’t want to hold you up. We wanted to ask about William.’
‘Billy,’ Nathan said.
Two teenage boys came in through the foyer. The boys whooped and whistled.
‘There you go.’ Hog waved in that direction. ‘It’s startin’ already.’
‘We were wondering if you could help us find him.’
‘Fizza!’ Hog hollered. ‘Pull it together!’
The whooping and whistling stopped. Another teenage boy came in.
‘Nathan thought you might know where we can find him.’
‘He said I could find him through here,’ Nathan said.
‘We ain’t seen him.’
‘We’d like to help,’ Nuts said.
‘But we ain’t seen him.’
‘He didn’t leave a message?’
‘Nope.’
Nuts discreetly shook his head.
The boys turned music on. One of them started skipping. More boys came through the doors.
‘Could we come back at a better time?’
‘Different day ain’t gonna change it.’
Nathan’s dad parked in front of the kiosk out on the road and they walked up through the gates into Newhaven Hill Caravan Park. The grounds were smaller than Nathan remembered them. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been there, eight months, but the dirt track seemed narrower and the gumtrees not as tall. Scotty’s house was more like a shack than a home. He’d taken down the bedsheet curtain. In its place was an orange blanket. Under the carport the same two cars were up on bricks. Everything was wet. It was cold, grey and quiet. A few magpies warbled. The gravel track crunched damply underfoot. His dad went around to Scotty’s kitchen door, where the office sign was pointing. He knocked and came back down the step and stood on the path with Nathan.
A couple of rusty tyre rims leaned up against a soggy cardboard box on Scotty’s lawn. You could hear the TV on inside the house. Nathan was smiling before Scotty opened the door. He didn’t disappoint: his small frame and pinched-in expression, glasses, jeans and thongs, a T-shirt with a car on it. Scotty was like a rabbit in Nathan’s mind. Spoke like a rabbit. Jumpy, like one.
‘Yeah, what?’
He was speaking from behind the wire door.
‘Hi there, my name is Mitch Fisher. I was wondering if I could have a word?’
‘Yeah?’
‘From what I believe you’ve met my son, Nathan?’
‘Hey?’
Scotty opened the wire door. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at Nathan. He then swung his eyes to Nathan’s father’s face, looking, it seemed, for signs of aggression. A small bright smile lit Scotty’s face.
He held the door wide.
‘Jeez, hell, hey. Bugger me. Come in. I wasn’t expecting this. Mitch, you said? Scotty. Nice to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘Seen you on the TV. You’re a big bugger, aren’t you? I got the heater on. Hey, Nathan, how are you? It’s real good you’ve dropped in. Sit down, sit down.’
The fruit bowl had grapefruits in it. The red toolbox was there, the table and foam-filled cushions on the chairs, the board with all the keys. Lino floor. It was warm. The hallway door was closed. Nathan couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. His dad kept looking at him.
‘I’ll get you a cuppa. You wanna hot drink, Nathan?’
‘A cordial please, Scotty.’
After going through and turning off the TV, Scotty made the drinks and sat down. All the while he talked about how pleased he was they’d come.
‘I’ve talked enough to the police. If I don’t ever see another copper again in me entire friggin’ life it’ll be too soon.’
Nathan’s father was relaxed. He had one hand around the mug of coffee and leaned forward on the table, held Scotty’s gaze.
The conversation somehow turned to cars. They talked about broughams. Ford Gran Torinos. Scotty was saying he knew someone who had traded a yellow 1965 Galaxie 500 on a Torino GT hardtop. Nathan hadn’t known his dad could talk so fast.
‘Can I use your toilet, Scotty?’
‘Don’t reckon it’d be much of a visit if you didn’t.’ He gave Nathan a knowing smile.
The poster of the woman was gone. A new poster was in its place. This woman was blonde. She was kneeling in the sand, naked. Not even the beach backdrop could elevate the picture to something special. It was all to do with the woman’s eyes. They weren’t saying anything. No fearlessness. No devil glint. Nathan turned around and peed, even though he didn’t really need to, had to stand there for a while before it happened.
When he went out, the conversation had switched to Billy.
‘Wish he did,’ Scotty was saying, ‘but he hasn’t been within cooee. He’s got it in his head that the cops will pile everything on him. He won’t even go to his mum’s.’
‘Is she still in the caravan park?’
‘She’s moved out. He’s visited her at the new place, but won’t stay there. His mum and me haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s trying this time. I suppose. We’ll see. She wants him there with her. He tells her, though, that the cops will find him, same thing if he comes here. He’s rattled. Doing it tough, I think.’
Nathan sat back down.
‘Is there some way we could get in contact with him?’ Nathan’s dad asked.
‘I could tell his mum to mention you came to see him. He rings her pretty regular.’
‘Nathan would like to talk to him. We’re going to tell the truth about the shooting.’
‘Ah, okay, I see.’
‘If they tell their story together, I don’t think Billy is going to get in any trouble.’
‘That’s gotta be what has to happen. It can’t go on like it has been. Billy’s not gonna come around easy, though. It’s not just the cops; he’s paranoid about the church too. It sounds stupid, I know.’
‘Is he in Queensland?’ Nathan asked.
‘He did mention something about Queensland. I think he musta given whatever money he had to his mum. She’s been buying up big for the baby. Be just like Billy to give it to her. Just like her to ask for it too,’ Scotty muttered. ‘He’s not interstate.’
‘You’ve got no idea where he might be?’
‘My guess, he’s sleeping rough. Moving around. Other than me and his mum, I can’t think of anyone he knows who wouldn’t sell him out for a packet of smokes, or to get on the good side of the cops, or who isn’t tied u
p with the Mission.’
‘Could we go and see his mum?’ Nathan’s dad asked.
‘Hmm, not sure she’d be up for that. She might feel a bit shit, you know? I’d have to check. She’s pretty guilty about it all and that.’
Nathan’s dad frowned. ‘About covering for Nathan? We know he did it. We’re not angry that anyone tried to help him.’
Scotty pinched his nose and looked down. Sneaked a look at Nathan. ‘Probably more about things way back then. Looking back, I reckon she thinks she could have done a bit more.’
‘Is there anywhere else we could try?’ Nathan asked.
Scotty tapped his teeth and thought. He danced his fingertips on his lips. ‘I don’t think so. I’m just trying to remember stuff his mum’s said. She reckons he talks like he’s losing it. Saying he’s being followed and he can’t go out, stuff like that. Says he’s changed the way he looks so no one will recognise him. It might have all caught up with him, I think. Billy can’t see it, but if he starts talking, everyone’s gonna listen. He’s got some stuff to say, all right. About the Mission mainly. If you’re next to him, Nathan, the Mission can’t knock him down; they won’t be able to touch him. Someone’s gotta get that through to Billy, though.’
‘I’ll leave my number. If you could tell his mum we’re going to set the shooting straight. Tell her Nathan’s still got his clothes from then. There’s going to be evidence. It’s all pretty clear.’