All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  ‘You must think I’m weirdo,’ I say finally. ‘I just don’t come into the city very often, so everything looks new.’

  He shakes his head, smiling. ‘I don’t think you’re a weirdo.’

  We get off the bus and retrace our route back towards the lot’s north gate under the light of streetlamps. There’s water in the gutters, and our footsteps echo in the quiet street. The Spiegeltent glows enticingly in the near distance–we’re close to home , but I still haven’t raised the topic of the fire, and what Zep did that night. I’m actually not sure how to start.

  Zep starts for me. ‘Did you know you were putting yourself in danger when you went to help Lee that night?’

  I try to compose my face. ‘I…I wasn’t really thinking about it. I just saw him fall, and then everyone was running, and the fire truck arrived, and it was all…campur aduk.’

  ‘Chaotic,’ he suggests.

  ‘Yes. Everyone was mixed up. Patrons were in the ring, running. Everyone was panicked, it was noisy. And I saw Lee waving, and I thought maybe no one had realised he was in trouble.’

  We’ve made it to the next pool of streetlamp light, and Zep looks at me. ‘You didn’t run.’

  ‘That wasn’t on purpose,’ I point out. ‘I was…stuck. I’m not very good with chaotic. Too much happening, too much noise, and my brain gets overloaded. Like those deer that stand in the middle of the road–’

  ‘Stuck in the headlights. They freeze.’

  ‘Yes! Like that.’

  ‘It was really smoky by then,’ he prompts.

  ‘Yes. Like I said, I wasn’t really thinking. I just saw Lee waving, and I went to him…’ We’ve almost reached the end of the block, I realise. ‘You didn’t run either.’

  ‘I was helping clear the way for the fire truck,’ Zep says, scuffing his boots on the pavement. ‘So I was in the ring when things got bad. Wrong place, wrong time.’

  I slip my PT card into my bib pocket. ‘Well you were in the right place and time for me.’

  Zep gives me a thoughtful look. ‘I’m glad I pulled you out, Ren.’

  Me too! I’m about to say it. But just as I open my mouth, a man steps clear of the shadow of a building nearby and walks straight into our path.

  He’s older, in his late thirties maybe. He’s wearing jeans and a black workman’s jacket, and he says, ‘Hey, Zep,’ as if Zep is a friend.

  Zep’s face falls. He touches my elbow, his voice quiet. ‘Ren, turn around.’

  ‘Who is this guy?’ I whisper.

  ‘A friend of my dad.’ But not, from his expression, Zep’s friend.

  When we turn under the streetlamp, another man is standing ten feet away in the other direction. He’s wearing dirty khaki coveralls, and when he smiles, I see the glint of a gold tooth. Zep was right about the friend thing. Both these men are smiling, but they don’t look friendly. Their body language is all wrong.

  And now we are the meat in their people-sandwich, here on the dark sidewalk, as they come closer. Zep moves us to step off the curb, but the man in the coveralls matches our move. The hair on my arms lifts. I would feel afraid, but Zep has his hand on my lower back now, which is distracting.

  Zep’s jaw tightens as he speaks to Jacket Man. ‘Whatever Angus is paying you–’

  ‘Angus isn’t paying us,’ Jacket Man says. ‘We’re just doing this as a personal favour.’

  ‘This is about loyalty,’ Gold Tooth Man says. ‘Remember loyalty, Zep?’

  ‘You think Angus will be loyal to you?’ Zep says, and I have no idea what is going on. ‘Wow. That’s funny.’

  Jacket Man edges closer. ‘Don’t make this worse for yourself, kid.’

  ‘Angus has as much loyalty as a pit viper.’ Zep’s whole body is coiled and tense. ‘Think about it. If he’s willing to hire you guys to give his own son a beating, what’s he willing to do to you?’

  I’m still getting my head around the idea of these people administering a beating when Zep squeezes my waist and leans in close to whisper.

  ‘Ren, when I push you, run.’

  ‘No way!’ I whisper back.

  ‘Gotta admit, though,’ Jacket Man says, ‘you’ve been a pretty terrible son, Zeppelin.’

  ‘And you’ve been a terrible henchman, Malcolm,’ Zep shoots back, ‘so I guess we’re square.’ Then he shoves me, hard and fast, and says, ‘Go!’ right before he takes a swing at this Malcolm guy.

  Zep’s shove sends me sprawling into the street. In the time it takes me to roll upright, Jacket Man–Malcolm–has grabbed Zep around the neck. Gold Tooth Man punches Zep in the solar plexus, really hard, and Zep makes a gasping, retching sound. He twists in Malcolm’s grip and kicks out at Gold Tooth Man at the same time.

  For a second, I think Zep will break free. Then Malcolm wrenches Zep sideways against the wall of the building, and I hear a crunch. Zep groans, and I realise he’s not getting out of this. He’s going to get beaten up. And it’s going to happen right in front of me–unless I do something.

  I don’t think about it too hard–I jump on Gold Tooth Man’s back. I pull at his hair, and he yells and rears, but I cling onto him like I’m bull-riding. Over Gold Tooth Man’s shoulder, I see Malcolm deliver a series of punches to Zep’s body. Zep’s hat goes flying, then Gold Tooth Man spins around and the whole world goes dizzy for a second.

  He slams me into the wall behind us and I have to let go. I make myself boneless, roll into the gutter, but I still feel impact at my hip, my forearm and my knee. Nothing hurts yet. I don’t think that’s true for Zep: he’s curled on the pavement, protecting his sensitive parts as Malcolm kicks him.

  I scramble for my training bag and dig for what I need. My fingers scrabble frantically through my belongings as Malcolm grabs Zep’s wrist, as Gold Tooth Man looms over Zep’s body. I hear Zep’s strangled cry of ‘Not the hands!’ as I finally find what I need.

  I yank my taxi whistle out of my bag, put it to my lips and blow like my life depends on it.

  The whistle shrieks in the quiet street. Malcolm and Gold Tooth Man look up immediately. I step off the curb, blowing and waving my arms. Once I’ve got Malcolm and Gold Tooth Man distracted, I pull the whistle away and start yelling.

  ‘OVER HERE! HELP! POLICE! HELP!’

  I jump up and down. I wave and blow my whistle and draw attention to myself. At some point in this procedure, Malcolm and Gold Tooth Man decide that drawing attention is not part of their game plan–they back away, turn and walk smartly in the direction of the CBD. I blow my whistle until they’re around a corner and out of sight. Then I run back to Zep.

  He’s over in the shadow by the wall, on his feet but leaning heavily over one arm and breathing hard. His black fringe hangs down in wet strands: at first I think it’s wet with blood, and my heart flies into my throat. Then I realise it’s sweat, plus the dampness of the puddles in the gutter–my own overalls are wet at the knees and on the backside.

  There’s blood elsewhere–Zep’s face is a mess. But when I go to help him, he shies away.

  ‘It’s me.’ I sound breathless. I put my hand on his shoulder and he twitches under my palm. ‘W-we need to get you medical attention, Zep.’

  He turns away from the wall, reaches for me. His weight goes on me all at once, and I have to brace.

  ‘Chester,’ he rasps. ‘Get me to Chester.’

  He stumbles, gasps. I right us both, get us under the streetlamp. Zep puts his free hand on the lamp post until we steady. I hold him around the waist, under his leather jacket. His body is hot, his breathing as ragged as my own, and the fabric of his Henley is damp. He slings his arm more firmly over my shoulders and I try not to squeeze him too tight.

  ‘You need a hospital–’

  ‘It’s not bad.’ His voice shakes. He reaches back with one hand and drags his hood up over his head, throwing shadow over face. ‘
Get me to Chester. Then you can run away as fast as you want.’

  My back straightens, even under his weight. ‘I didn’t run when those guys arrived. Why would I run now?’

  The whites of his eyes show under the hood for just a second, then he tucks his chin down. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t run,’ I insist.

  He looks at the ground, mopping blood out of his eye with the cuff of his sleeve. His hand is trembling. ‘I guess you don’t. But you don’t want to be around this kind of shit. Getting jumped in the street–nobody wants that.’

  He’s ashamed. I realise it at the same time I realise he feels bad, that I had to deal with what just happened. He feels like it was his fault.

  But it’s not his fault.

  And I’m angry now, angry at the people who did this to him. Is this all because he had the guts to stand up to his father? I don’t know Zep’s father, but I don’t think I like him very much.

  ‘I’m taking you to Chester.’ I tug Zep’s arm into position over my shoulder. ‘And I’ll make sure you’re okay. Although I still think you need a hospital.’

  Zep swallows, blood slick on his lips and chin. He tilts his head back a little so he can see my face. His eyes, under the shadow of the hood, are so dark they’re almost black.

  ‘Okay.’ He turns forward, so we’re both directed towards the north gate. ‘But Chester first.’

  We head for the gate. I stoop and quickly snatch up Zep’s hat as we go.

  By nine a.m. on Wednesday morning, I’ve used up all my diversions. I’ve trained, studied and eaten chocolate before breakfast. Now I’m here in the mess queue again, and Sorsha is behind me again, and she’s talking to me again. But all I can think about is last night’s attack.

  Sorsha says something that’s inflected like a question. I realise too late that I’m supposed to reply.

  ‘Eh, ma’af, I missed that–could you repeat it?’

  ‘You’re wool-gathering today,’ Sorsha says.

  ‘Hm?’

  She grins. ‘You’re like me when I’m on anti-anxiety meds. Did you get enough sleep last night? What’s going on with you?’

  My cheeks warm. ‘Sorry. I’m just thinking about…things.’

  I am thinking about things. I’ve been up all night, thinking about things. Most of the time, I was lying awake in bed remembering parts of the fight. And then I spent some time thinking about the long, lurching trip to Chester’s, and how that felt, with Zep heavy on me and his arm over me, his hand clutching my shoulder, both of us breathing hard.

  He was warm. Even though I knew it was illogical, I was worried he was developing a fever. But we only stumbled once on our way down the Parade Road, and Zep grunted and righted himself immediately. In the middle of that stumble, he put his hand on my stomach. I don’t think he would even remember it happened.

  At Chester’s van, I banged on the door and Chester–who looked shocked and concerned, and a little like he’d just sat down to eat his dinner, which turned out to be true–helped us inside. He sat Zep on a chair in the van’s kitchen and made him hold a cloth to his nose while first aid items were collected.

  I helped collect some of the items and arrange them on the kitchen bench. When I went to move a box on the bench to give us more room, Chester pulled my hand back.

  ‘Not that! It’s full of indoor fireworks for Bill’s act.’

  My hands jerked towards my chest. ‘What?’

  ‘Bill’s such a pyro, he doesn’t trust himself with them…’ Chester looked sheepish. ‘It’s a long story, forget it. Just tell me the story of what happened tonight.’

  So I explained to Chester what happened, then I stood back and watched.

  Chester pulled on latex gloves and prodded at Zep’s face. ‘Hm.’

  Zep tugged back the hood of his jacket. ‘It’s not bad.’

  ‘You keep saying that,’ I pointed out, ‘but you should know that every time you say it, I take it to mean the opposite.’

  Zep scowled.

  Chester’s face was neutral. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not serious, but let me check. And I need to look at your ribs.’

  So Zep pulled off his leather jacket and his Henley. And I just stood there and sucked in a breath because a lot of his skin was suddenly bare, and I felt strange because bare skin, but also injuries, so it was confusing. There were red scrapes and dark grey contusions on his back and shoulders and sides.

  ‘Wipe off a little,’ Chester said, handing Zep a gauze pad he’d dampened with something from the medical box.

  Zep dabbed at his face with the gauze and hissed. He closed his eyes, and that gave me the chance to look at him more directly. He had tan skin. Not as brown as mine: a much lighter shade that looked smooth as polished wood. He had pectorals, and defined biceps, all of him hard and taut and glossy with sweat, no softness on him anywhere. He had a tattoo on his upper arm, of a skull inside an ace of spades. It didn’t look like a professional tattoo.

  Bruises stood out on the skin over his teres major and latissimus dorsi, under one shoulder blade and down his side. But the bruises didn’t stand out as much as the shiny white marks other places on his back. He had three obvious scars: one low over his left kidney, another thin stripe on his right deltoid, one blooming in the curve of his shoulder blade. Other smaller ones.

  Zep had lived on the street for a stretch of time; I remembered that, and wondered. Was this the evidence of it, on his skin? Testimony to a life of hardship, bangs and scrapes and burns that never received the medical attention they needed at the time? Or were some of these inflicted on Zep by other people? Maybe by his father?

  The thought made me squeamish. It also made me blush and look away. It wasn’t fair that Zep was forced to reveal this vulnerable side of himself to a stranger like me, someone he’d only conversed with a handful of times. I felt out of place, standing there in Chester’s van. I shouldn’t have stared.

  That’s what I thought last night. It’s what I’m thinking now, as Sorsha keeps looking at me with her eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’m-I’m sorry.’ I blink at her. ‘I’m not really…feeling very well this morning.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Sorsha’s tone softens. ‘Is it your lungs?’

  Aduh, bodohnya aku. I shouldn’t have implied that the problem is my smoke inhalation injury. Firstly, it’s not true. Secondly, I don’t want people to think I’m incapacitated because of my lungs. The last thing Klatsch’s needs at the moment is a contortionist who can’t contort.

  But better to just go with it now than reveal Zep’s secret. I don’t think explaining what happened last night is a very good idea. That’s Zep’s personal stuff. I don’t want to share it without his permission, after witnessing it all without his consent last night.

  ‘Uh, I’m just…’ Thinking up an excuse. ‘…taking Fleur’s advice and having a rest day. That’s supposed to help, right?’

  Sorsha gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Well, I think you’re supposed to give yourself more than a single solitary day, but sure. You should rest up if you’re poorly. I mean, we re-open soon. If you don’t rest now, when will you get the chance?’

  This idea has not occurred to me before. And it makes me feel slightly sick. I keep my smile on. ‘Right. So I’ll rest for today, and hopefully by tomorrow I’ll be ready to go. As long as I’m okay for the workshop on Friday night.’

  ‘Yeah, the workshops take it out of you, huh?’ Sorsha moves her tray along the serving line. ‘I had no idea that teaching was going to be so intense. I thought I’d just be demonstrating and then the students would copy me. But they needed a lot more attention than that.’

  ‘You’re teaching kids, though, yes?’ I receive our plates from Judy, and place them on our respective trays.

  ‘Teenagers, mainly.’ Sorsha collects cutlery for both of us. ‘Some of them are doing it for fun
, some of them have real potential. And some of them are a bit bratty. I was bratty at thirteen, so I can relate. I’m mainly just channelling Alby, while trying not to be too brutal.’

  ‘I’m teaching adults. I think that’s easier.’

  ‘Your class went all right?’ She indicates a corner table, and we head for it.

  ‘It went well.’ I shove away thoughts of the street, the aftermath, as I find my seat. ‘I don’t feel as responsible for an adult student’s well-being. If they push themselves too hard, it’s kind of their own fault.’

  ‘Yeah, you can’t be like that with kids.’ She digs into her food. ‘I spent a lot of my time telling them to take it easy. Kids throw in everything they’ve got. The only thing holding them back is fear, but some of them don’t even have enough sense to be scared. I’ve been telling those ones gory stories about my career injuries, to encourage them to consider self-preservation…’

  But I’ve drifted away from the conversation again. Last night, I asked Zep if he wanted me to stay, and he said he was okay, so I left Chester’s van and returned to my dorm room. I haven’t heard from Zep since then. I checked with Chester this morning before coming to the mess: he would only say that Zep was recovering fine, that he was back in the dorm. I wasn’t expecting a play-by-play update, but I’d like to know if everything is resolved.

  A few sentences ago, Sorsha said: The only thing holding them back is fear. Maybe Zep’s afraid of what I might say, or embarrassed about meeting me again, because I’ve seen him when he’s vulnerable.

  Well that’s not going to work. I can’t unsee what I saw. And Zep saw me when I was at my most vulnerable. If he really wants to be left alone he shouldn’t commit random acts of kindness, like rescuing people from tent fires.

  Sorsha is speaking and I’ve missed it again. ‘Ma’af lagi–could you repeat that?’

  She grins as she breaks a bread roll in half. ‘Go back to the dorm, Ren, and get some rest. You look like you need it.’