He sang the song again, tipping his head back as he blasted out the words, knowing that somewhere deep inside him a change of path and forgiveness of his father might one day be possible.
29
When Leon arrived at the football ground for the semifinal, it seemed the whole town had turned out. The car park was crammed with utes and four-wheel drives, nose-in around the boundary. Leon felt a surge of excitement. After a slow start to the season, it was amazing the team had made it this far. He’d been partly responsible for their success—he had that much to be proud of.
Players in tracksuits migrated across the oval to the clubhouse, while fans hung over the rail, waving scarves and streamers, calling: ‘Carn boys.’ ‘Carn the Lions.’ ‘You can do it.’ ‘Give ’em heaps.’ Leon saw Wendy waving at him from over near the goalposts. He grinned and waved back. Suzie was there too, but no Max; Leon wondered where he was. Shane was at the door to the change room, high-fiving everyone as they entered. His smile faded a little when he slapped hands with Leon … or was Leon imagining it?
In the change room, the men sprawled on the benches and it was crowded and rowdy, thick with the fug of sweat and Deep Heat. Leon tossed his bag on the floor and sat to pull on his boots. Mooney arrived a few moments later, swaggering in as if he’d planned a grand entry. The team gave an encouraging roar—just what that man didn’t need. He already had too much of an ego.
Now that everyone was present, Robbo puffed like a peacock and strutted round the room, red-faced and excited. ‘First time in a decade we’ve qualified for the semis,’ he said. ‘And it’s thanks to Mooney’s star goal-kicking efforts.’ He didn’t mention Leon, even though he’d scored at least as many goals as Mooney. Mooney was most-valued player, they all knew it. But he was erratic: one week on fire, the next caught up in brawls.
Leon sat slightly apart from the others. While the men bantered and talked big, he rubbed liniment into his thighs and calves where he still had a few tight spots from collisions with Mooney at training. He glanced up to find Robbo staring at him, and was surprised when the man nodded. This was the recognition Leon needed. Robbo might not say it in front of the team, but from that small gesture Leon knew the coach was glad to have him out there today. Leon would give all he could. The only problem was whether Mooney would pass the ball to him.
Robbo slipped into psych-up mode and started building the tension. His passion was contagious, and when he sent them jogging onto the oval to warm up, Leon was as fired up as the others, bursting into spontaneous grapevines and high kicks to loosen his hips and stretch his hamstrings. The crowd shouted encouragement and the team was jittery. Leon felt the collective edginess as they jostled and jibed and ragged one another, fizzing with nerves. Spirits were high.
But when Leon leaned over to stretch his calf, Mooney clamped his neck with a vice-like hand. ‘You’d better put that ball between the posts, Parkie, or I’ll tie you to that fucking big tree and set it alight.’
Leon was so hyped he felt like hitting out, but he shook loose and stared the blond man in the eye. ‘That tree has nothing to do with me. I’ve told you before.’
‘Have to take your word for it,’ Mooney sneered. ‘But I don’t have much confidence in your word.’
Toby shifted closer and Leon wondered if the two of them were going to lay into him right there on the field. But Toby broke into a grin. ‘Confidence, Mooney? That’s a big word. You been reading dictionaries?’
Mooney guffawed. ‘No, mate. Didn’t you know I’m full of vocabulary?’
Leon was grateful to Toby for defusing the situation, but Mooney wasn’t done yet.
He jabbed Leon in the chest with a finger. ‘Keep your fucken feet under you today, right, Parkie? Then we won’t have to work so hard.’
Leon glared at him. ‘We’re all going to have to work, mate.’
Mooney spat on the ground and leaned close. ‘Don’t call me mate. And just remember—it doesn’t matter how many goals you score, you’ll always be Parkie.’ He spat again, the mucus landing on Leon’s boot, and added, ‘You’re lucky the boys put up with you. You wouldn’t be here if I had my way.’
The game started well after the mandatory fights had settled. It was tense out there—the slightest shove and everyone was chesting each other like a bunch of oversexed bulls. Fortunately the umpire wasn’t taking any rubbish. ‘Oi, oi, you. Get back. Leave him alone. Back off so I can do the ball-up. Come on. Proper distance. You know the rules. If you don’t back off, I’ll have to give a fifty-metre penalty.’
It took a while for everyone to move beyond the scrambling at the beginning, when they were uptight and twitchy and wanting to sink a boot into the ball. There were pile-ups: men all over the ground, a few sly punches thrown in. Leon kept clear and hovered round the edge of the action, waiting for the ball to spit out. If he could get a hand on it and sprint clear, there would be no stopping him.
When things levelled out, the real game began. Leon’s team started stringing a few kicks together. Leon looked for space and ran into it, shouting for the ball when his teammates had possession. He took his first mark, not particularly elegant; it was just good to get his hands on the ball and develop a feel for its bounce, put in his first big kick.
The field was wet from early spring rain, pockmarked and uneven, soft underfoot, good for falling on. And fall they did. Toby sent a ball spinning Leon’s way and he leaped for it, but a ruckman from the other team charged in and wiped him out. It was a rough knock, but Leon was resilient. He sucked air into his lungs, spat phlegm and ran on, shaking his head and looking for the ball.
The other team scored first—a great doozey of a goal that set Leon’s mob moaning. ‘Fuck that.’ ‘Carn, guys. Heads up and get moving.’ The opposition celebrated like they’d won the Olympics, and it was only the first goal.
Back at the centre for the ball-up, Leon nodded at Mooney. The blond man scowled but shouldered in on the mob and flicked the ball Leon’s way. Leon was onto it. He scooped the ball mid-bounce and took off—he was away.
The field was clear so he took a few bounces as he ran. The defenders were charging after him, boots thudding on dirt. How long did he have before they launched a tackle and he lost the ball? He was going full pelt; just a few more strides would bring him within range of the goal. He heard heavy breathing behind and tried to balance himself and take those last two steps to get his boot to the ball. A hand clawed at him and caught his jersey, hooking under his arm. He faltered but swung his foot hard, connected with leather, and it felt good. The ball sailed between the posts for a goal.
He’d equalised. They were on the scoreboard.
Mooney offered a bearhug of elation, knocking him over, and the boys stacked on. It was supposed to be a celebration, but Leon was at the bottom of the pile—they were crushing the air out of him. Didn’t they realise what they were doing? Or maybe that was part of Mooney’s plan: to kill him on the field. Murder by stealth.
Things remained pretty even till half-time. One team inched ahead, then the other. Leon had been running hard, so he was grateful for the half-time break. In the change room, he drank then splashed water on his face and towelled off. Another fifty minutes of play to go and he already felt like an old man.
Robbo was going on about this and that, but his instructions didn’t mean much, really. Out there, plans and structure helped, but the ball had a mind of its own. You could put yourself in position and then it would take off on an unanticipated trajectory.
The third quarter was their best. Toby excelled in back pocket, and Mooney motored in the centre and on the wing. The others did their bit too, playing out of their skins. They scored a ton of goals and pulled well ahead—the supporters for the other team were hanging their heads.
Then Mooney was mashed in a terrible tackle. Leon saw a giant of a man deliberately thump into him, and Mooney’s mane of blond hair flicked back as he went down. He landed headfirst, and by the sound of the crunch Leon knew it was bad.
Mooney was sprawled out, unmoving.
The umpire shrilled his whistle to stop the game and they all began to run. Toby and Leon were there first, kneeling beside Mooney.
‘Fuck, he’s out to it,’ Toby said.
Mooney was like a sack of spuds, eyes rolled back, unconscious.
Leon took control, thankful for his remote first-aid training. ‘Get him in recovery position.’ With Toby’s help he shifted Mooney onto his side. Blood dribbled from the man’s nose and his breathing was rattly. Leon flicked out Mooney’s mouthguard and looked round as the team crowded in. ‘Someone call an ambulance,’ he said.
Robbo reached them. ‘What’s up?’
‘He’s unconscious. Can I have your watch? I need to check his pulse.’
Robbo whipped off his watch and put it in Leon’s hand, and a chill fell over the field.
‘Ambulance will be here soon,’ someone said. ‘They’re just finishing a call. Only five minutes away.’
The other team stood quietly, shaking their legs out. They had started jeering when Mooney went down, but now they realised that tackle had been over the top.
Mooney’s wife, Liz, ran onto the field, trying to get through to him. ‘What’s wrong?’ she cried, panicky. ‘What have they done to him?’ Leon was appalled a big brute like Mooney could be bashing her.
Toby took her by the arms and held her back. ‘Settle, Liz. He’s out to it. Nothing you can do.’
She was sobbing, mascara streaking down her cheeks. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘Sure, he’s just knocked out.’
She glanced around wildly. ‘Where are my girls?’
Over at the fence, Wendy had corralled Liz and Mooney’s daughters, and they were both crying shrilly. ‘Mummy,’ one of them called out. ‘What’s happened to Daddy?’
Leon kept watch over Mooney, whose heart rate was fast. But he’d been running, so wasn’t that normal? Leon wished the ambulance would arrive so someone else could take over. He was the outsider here, and they trusted him to look after Mooney—if something went wrong, he’d be scum.
Mooney started to kick and jolt in a convulsion. Liz sobbed hysterically, and Toby led her away.
‘What do we do?’ Robbo leaned over, face twisted with concern. ‘Shouldn’t we pull out his tongue?’
‘No,’ Leon puffed, trying to restrain Mooney’s limbs. ‘That’s an old wives’ tale. We have to keep him on his side so he doesn’t choke if he throws up. Can someone get me a handkerchief or something? He’s frothing at the mouth.’ Everyone seemed paralysed, so Leon ripped off his jersey and wiped the saliva away.
Mooney stilled, then his eyes opened and he moaned and tried to sit up.
‘Lie down,’ Leon said. ‘You’ve had a knock to the head.’
‘Where the fuck am I?’ the blond man mumbled, groggy.
‘At the footy, mate,’ Toby said. ‘Semifinal. Remember?’
‘What day is it?’ Mooney glanced around wildly, obviously disoriented, but he allowed Leon and Mooney to lower him back down to the ground. Then he closed his eyes again, his face deathly white.
Leon was relieved when he heard the siren wailing. Someone opened the gates and the ambulance bounced across the field. The paramedics shifted Mooney onto a stretcher and slid him into the ambulance. They let Liz climb in and then they were away.
After that everyone stood round discussing whether to go on. The team didn’t feel right playing without Mooney. Some of them wanted to call it quits—their will to win had driven off in the ambulance. But Toby’s jaw jutted. ‘Mooney would want us to finish. He’ll be pissed off if we pull out.’
‘We’ll have to forfeit if we stop now,’ Robbo said. ‘It’s up to you, boys, but it’d be a shame when we’re so far in front.’
Toby glared at them all. ‘Come on. Get your arses into gear and win the game for Mooney.’
Reluctantly, the team agreed.
Leon didn’t have a jersey anymore—his was covered with blood and saliva. For the past fifteen minutes he’d been bare-chested and now his sweat had dried cold. He offered to take a spell on the interchange bench, but that went down like a lead balloon.
Toby pointed a finger at him. ‘You’re on, Parkie, whether you like it or not. Someone give him a jersey,’ he yelled at the bench. One of the younger blokes, recently back from injury, did as he was told—a jersey came over the fence.
They took a quick jog round the field to warm up, and then it was on. But the team was more shaken than they’d realised, and there was desperation in their play that didn’t help their game. Leon had stiffened during the break and couldn’t find his pace, and Toby was out for revenge and kept giving away free kicks. The other team took advantage and started kicking goals.
In the end, the opposition won by three points, a total injustice. Leon’s team came off dejected and sore. They were in the dressing-rooms when word came through that Mooney had a nasty concussion but should be okay—he’d had a brain scan and they’d ruled out anything more serious. But it was a sombre team that trailed from the field and headed home instead of the pub. It didn’t seem right to drown their sorrows without Mooney.
Leon was limping across the oval to his car when Toby rocked up beside him. The big man looked rattled. ‘Everything okay?’ Leon asked, stopping.
Toby ran a hand over his bald head and shuffled awkwardly. ‘Hey, Parkie. Thanks for helping with Mooney today.’
‘No worries. I hope he’s all right. It was a shit tackle. That guy ought to be suspended. Robbo should put in a report.’
‘Good point. I reckon he should.’
Leon adjusted his bag on his shoulder, wondering what Toby wanted.
‘Mooney was a bastard to you today,’ Toby said. ‘It was good of you to help.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Nah, he was a prick. I wouldn’t have helped him if I was you. You’re a bloody hero.’
Leon didn’t see himself as a hero. He’d assisted Mooney out of a sense of duty, but it was really Liz and the kids that needed help. He felt a twinge of guilt—he ought to have done something about that by now, given he’d known about Mooney’s domestic antics for some time.
But Toby was grinning. ‘Reckon you’d help a leper,’ he said.
Leon smiled. ‘Yep. I reckon I would.’
Toby reached out and grabbed his hand in a solid shake. ‘Fuck off then, Parkie. You’re a better man than I am.’
30
Max stayed home from the footy because he didn’t want to run into Jaden. It had been a bad week—he was sure he’d soon be going to prison. After school yesterday, Jaden had shown him a little black book with a list of all the things Max had stolen. Jaden had written everything down in his messy, leaning-back writing.
Cigarettes
Fruit Tingles
Coke Cola x 2 3 4
Snickers x 2
Mars bar x 2 3 4
Mentos
Packet of lolly snakes
Cadbury’s chocolate block
Icy pole
Picnic bar
Tic Tacs
Twisties
Jubes
Freddo Frogs x 2 3
Violet Crumble
A two-page list with a word on every line. When Max saw it, he felt himself melting into the ground. Had he really stolen all that stuff? Jaden had made him do it, but that wouldn’t matter when the cops got him.
‘Five years is what you’ll get,’ Jaden had said. ‘Five years behind bars.’
Max looked at him fearfully. What did kids do in jail? Did they have TV and PlayStation? Would he be allowed to use his iPhone? And did they eat porridge every day? The food wouldn’t be like Mum’s spaghetti, and no way would there be ice-cream.
‘They put people like you in solitary,’ Jaden said.
Max wasn’t sure what that was. He decided not to ask.
Jaden flapped the notebook in his face. ‘This is your death sentence. You have to do what I say, or off you go to jail. Do not pass Go
. Do not collect two hundred dollars.’
Max’s ears pricked. Two hundred dollars would be enough to get Rosie fixed. ‘Where do I get two hundred dollars?’
‘It’s Monopoly, you idiot. Monopoly money is play money. Nobody’s going to give you two hundred dollars. You have to rob a bank to get that much money.’
Max’s knees went wobbly. He hoped Jaden wasn’t going to make him rob a bank. To do that you needed guns and escape cars and balaclavas.
Jaden poked him in the ribs. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I want you to get me some beer.’
Max shook his head. Beer would be harder than cigarettes.
‘Your dad has heaps,’ Jaden said. ‘He’s an alco, and alcos always have beer.’
Max was cross that Jaden had called Dad an alco because it wasn’t true, but he had to think quickly. ‘Dad’s given up beer. Mum made him stop.’ It was a good lie: everyone at school knew Max’s dad had come home and was in the doghouse, as Mum put it.
Jaden did a Chinese burn on Max’s arm and made it go red. ‘If I see your dad drinking beer at the footy then I’ll know you’ve got some at home.’
So Max didn’t go to the footy, because this morning Dad had put beers in the esky. And now Max was home alone. He didn’t like being home by himself, so he’d locked all the doors and played Call of Duty until he got sick of it. Now he looked at the clock on the microwave—just after five o’clock. The game would be over. He wondered who’d won.
Rosie started barking so he let her in and locked the door again. She wasn’t supposed to come in, but Mum wasn’t here so it didn’t matter. He sat on the couch, patted the cushions, and Rosie jumped up. He put his arm around her neck and laid his head on her fur. She was panting as if she was smiling. Did that mean she was happy?
There was more barking outside, so Max went to the window to see what was happening. Bonnie was yapping like crazy at the fence. She usually didn’t bark much. What could be upsetting her? Max was about to open the window and shout at her to shut up, when he saw someone on the footpath in front of his house. Someone tall and skinny.
The Orchardist's Daughter Page 24
