I thought of the photo I’d seen in the Tabori crypt – what had happened to Alessandro? Or was that something I didn’t want to know?
‘Inside the house, it was a different story, however,’ said Gus.
Again he took a swig of water, draining the bottle.
‘I walked inside and Momma and Antonio were sitting at the table, doing what they always did, studying the Bible.’
‘Antonio? The Preacher?’
Gus nodded and continued talking. ‘I hated that black book, the power it had over those two. How it would take them away from the rest of us.’
Even now, so many years later, I could hear the hate still there in his voice.
‘Alessandro couldn’t help himself, he had to blurt all about me winning, but Momma was never interested in running. I wanted to tell Papa so I went outside, followed the path through the cane to the shed.’
Again, Gus seemed lost in the past and it took him a while to pick up the thread again. ‘Papa had finished sharpening the cane knives and was playing the mouth organ.’
I remembered what he’d told me that day in Berang Valley, how his father had been a gifted musician before they’d taken his arm from him.
‘I told him about winning, and he hugged me. That was maybe the only time my father ever touched me like that. I told him that tonight was the night, that it was time to pay back the final instalment. And my father, who had spent his whole life hacking at sugarcane with one arm, told me that I was stronger than him.’
The tears were glistening in Gus’s eyes.
‘You don’t have to go on,’ I said.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Gus. ‘Just give me a second.’
It took him a few more seconds, maybe twenty, before he could continue. ‘I went to bed that night but I didn’t sleep – how could I? And at two, I got out of bed. I already had my torch. I went back to the shed, picked out a knife. And then I hopped on my bike. It was about a fifteen-minute ride to his house. When I got there I leant my bike against the post and walked up the drive. A half-moon had risen and I had no trouble seeing.’
I knew I’d promised not to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘What were you thinking? Were you scared?’
Gus considered my question for a while.
‘Actually, I was just thinking practicalities,’ he said. ‘Should I have hidden the bike? Will the knife be sharp enough? Where to get rid of it, after.’
Practical stuff, I thought. Focus on the practical stuff.
Gus continued, ‘As I got closer I could hear him snoring. I had no excuse: he was there, I had to do what I’d set out to do. I pushed aside the hessian that served as the door. Panda was splayed out on the mattress, face up. I moved closer, tightening my grip on the cane knife. Next to Panda’s head I could see an empty bottle of rum. A herd of elephants wouldn’t have woken him. And then I was standing next to him, smelling his putrid smell.’
Gus’s noise wrinkled, as if he was smelling that smell again.
‘One more instalment and I would be free of The Debt forever. I thought of poor Bill’s bruises. That look on his sister’s face. If anybody deserved this, it was that fat pig. I knew that the police wouldn’t look too hard. Panda was hated from one end of the valley to the other; there must’ve been a dozen men who would’ve gladly done what I intended to do.
‘I planted my feet apart and lifted the knife up high. I’d slashed cane, I’d taken the heads off chickens; I knew what was needed. The cane knife high above my head, I hesitated. I couldn’t stop thinking of that cross, how it glowed in the dark. I thought of Father McGrane’s words. But one more instalment. One simple act. And I would be free of The Debt forever. And the world would be rid of evil.
‘I brought that knife down with both arms and could imagine how it felt meeting flesh, and gristle, and then bone. But as it came down, something dragged my arm away and the knife sliced into the pillow. Even then Panda didn’t wake, didn’t even stir. Again I raised the cane knife high, but it was no good. I couldn’t do it. I ran out of there and got onto my bike and I pedalled and I pedalled and I pedalled.’
We both sat there, said nothing. The bar at our feet, the one we’d used for the bicep curls, seemed to be looking at us, mocking us. Not so tough now, eh, fellas?
Gus looked at me. ‘Two days later, when I was swimming down at the beach, they came at me.’
I knew that story, I didn’t want to know any more.
‘And a month later she was dead.’
This, I didn’t know.
‘Who was dead?’
Gus looked at me, his eyes wide.
‘Bill’s sister, Elizabeth, the girl whose gravestone you saw in the cemetery. Panda beat her to death. His own daughter. He went to jail, and he lasted about a week in there. Rough justice, they slit his filthy throat.’
THURSDAY
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
Slowly, ever so slowly, the night ticked away, getting darker and darker, blacker and blacker.
The burn on my hand ached.
I replayed my father’s video over and over in my mind.
I retold Gus’s story over and over in my mind.
So many times that eventually they got mixed up, like some twisted mashup – Bag Lady became Panda, Panda the Bag Lady. One lives. The other dies. They both live, and they both die.
I had never been so utterly, terribly alone.
Who could I talk to?
My parents? Sure.
I wasn’t sure who they were any more. Was my mother Italian? My father a cold-blooded killer?
My friends? lol.
The night ticked away, getting darker and darker.
Is killing another human being ever justified?
I could google it.
Actually, I did google it.
Yes, it is, said some people.
No, it’s not, said others.
How can you judge who is to live or not? said some other people. Only God can do that.
Is killing another human being ever justified?
I thought of Gus, Australian champion, before they disqualified him. He hadn’t told me, but I looked it up: the Victorian he beat in that final went on to win a silver medal at the Commonwealth Games.
I thought of that gravestone, Bill’s sister mouldering in the ground underneath. If Gus’s arm had come down straight and true, and that cane knife had sliced through flesh, gristle, bone, then she would’ve lived. Maybe she would be alive today; a happy old woman, somebody who had – like a lot of people – gone beyond the hell of their childhood. Maybe she would’ve had children of her own, and grandchildren. Maybe she’d bake banana cakes or rescue injured wildlife.
But what about Bag Lady? I was pretty sure she hadn’t killed anybody, wasn’t about to kill anybody, when my dad poisoned her. There was nothing justifiable about that homicide. Or was she, as Robo-voice had said, just a piece of trash, a burden on society?
The night ticked away, getting darker and darker.
Is killing another human being ever justified?
Is killing another human being ever justified?
Is killing another human being ever justified?
Light started to creep into the corners of my room. I had to do something.
A run, I thought. No, not a run, that wouldn’t work. Something else.
A swim in the pool. No, too chemical. In the ocean, then.
Better. But …
And then it came to me, what I had to do, after the darkest, loneliest night of my life. I crept downstairs, and through the door, and into the garage.
Windsurfers, jetskis, canoes – you would not believe the crap in our garage. But it was exactly where I’d left it, a layer of dust clinging to it. And I felt a bit guilty – why haven’t I used you in such a long time, Hot Buttered Piranha? Why have I left you in here with all this other crap?
I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gone surfing – had it been that day at Burleigh Heads when there’d been a shark alert?
As I wiped the dust off my board with an old T-shirt, I realised it wasn’t the only thing I’d neglected. There, leaning against the wall, looking forlorn, looking unloved, was my bike, my Trek MTB. Why haven’t I used you either?
I attached the board carrier to my bicycle, put the board in the carrier, but then noticed – bugger! – that my tyres were flat. I pumped them up and away I went, rolling down the drive. ‘Dom, where are you going?’
Mom’s voice. I looked over my shoulder, and saw her standing on the front door, still in her nightie.
‘I’ll be back in time for school,’ I yelled, and pedalled hard. Away from her, and any objections she had.
When I reached the gates, Samsoni was on duty.
‘Surfing this morning?’ he said, his voice full of surprise.
‘I used to surf a lot,’ I said, and it was true – before I started to really concentrate on the running, I surfed all the time. I’d even entered a few grommet competitions, coming third in one of them.
‘I know that,’ said Samsoni. ‘It’s just that the waves aren’t up to much this morning.’
‘They’re not?’ I said.
‘The tide’s not right and the wind’s offshore.’
‘So you surf?’ I said, and I felt guilty, because this was something about Samsoni that I didn’t know, that I didn’t have a clue about.
‘Boogie board,’ he said, flashing that huge Polynesian smile of his. ‘Shark biscuit.’
I smiled back.
‘We should go together one day,’ I said, though I knew that would never happen.
Out through the gate and I cranked it up, eager to get to the water now, see if Samsoni was right.
Along a street with bungalows on either side. A few people out, some early-morning joggers, and then somebody I knew: Seb. Baggier-than-baggy shorts, ponytail bouncing, he was looking very strong, mowing down the joggers.
I felt a mixture of emotions, and wasn’t sure which one to go with.
Anger.
Anger at how he’d tricked me.
Anger at how he’d looked at me that day I’d gone to his house.
For a crazy second the thought came to me that it was Seb whose life I should take. That would show The Debt, wouldn’t it, if I took one of their own?
But it was only a crazy second.
Instead, when I passed Seb I yelled out his name and he looked up and I gave him the finger, thrusting it several times into the air just to make my point. I couldn’t see his reaction – I was too far past him – but I hoped he was upset or shocked, I hoped he was something besides loose as a goose on the juice.
Ahead, between two buildings, I could see a patch of blue. And then when I crested the rise, there it was, the ocean.
Samsoni was right – there were really no waves, none that could be surfed, anyway. Although they had shape, there was no size to them, they lacked energy.
Still, I got undressed. I carefully unwound the bandage from my hand – the burn wasn’t healing that well, but I figured that salt water would do it more good than harm. I velcroed my legrope around my ankle. I ran down to the water’s edge and launched into the surf.
The saltwater – surprisingly cool – washed over me. At first my burn stung like crazy, but then the pain subsided. Already I felt a million times better.
The dark, dark night was becoming the past, becoming history.
I started paddling out, and it didn’t take long for my muscles to start complaining about this unaccustomed exercise.
The surf may have been crap, but there were still other surfers out there. A Japanese girl, her skin almost black. Two grommets, one I sort of recognised – did he go to my school? – and an older man, on a Malibu. As I paddled past, they all silently acknowledged me, the fraternity of the wave.
Once out back, I went to the end of the line and waited, sitting astride my board. The gentle swell rolled under me, the board rising and falling, a slow sure heartbeat. The sun had started to let me know it was there, its rays warm on my back. Why had I ever stopped surfing?
The other surfers were intent on the horizon, looking for a rise of water, a set that could be ridden. But the waves that did pass were weak; not even the smaller grommet could coax a ride from them. The Japanese girl was the first to give up, paddling back to shore at a lightning speed. Then the two grommets decided it was time to head in, get ready for school.
So it was just me and the old guy, bobbing up and down out there.
For the next ten minutes – which is actually a very long time when you’re sitting in the surf – there was no change at all, the same anaemic waves. Not that I minded, I liked it out here, just bobbing up and down, getting more time between me and last night.
But then, towards the horizon, I could see something. A ripple of water. A set was approaching.
The wave grew taller, thicker.
The man smiled at me, and paddled, muscular arms ploughing the water. The wave crested, and he was on.
The second wave broke too soon, but the third wave was perfect.
I paddled hard, but I was already on, already on my feet.
It’d been ages since I’d surfed, but it felt very familiar. Still, I didn’t attempt anything too radical, just took it down the line.
And when the wave finished, I felt absolutely exhilarated. Punch-the-air-scream-out-something-dumb exhilarated.
And then I had two thoughts.
The first: If they take my leg, I can’t do this.
The second: I’m not going to let them take my leg.
I waved goodbye to Malibu man, he waved back, and I walked up to where my bike was. As I put my shirt on, I realised how ravenous I was, hunger gnawing at my stomach like a rodent.
Breakfast, I thought. Macca’s, I thought.
I wrapped the bandage back around my hand. I occy-strapped my board back on the bike, and pedalled along the bike path all the way to Surfers.
There were many people out, people power-walking, people cycling, people doing exercises at the exercise stations.
I stopped at Macca’s, chained my bike to the post.
It, too, was very busy; workers on their way to work, surfers after their morning surf, and other, more dubious-looking types.
As I joined the queue, I was so glad that I hadn’t brought my phone, because for sure it would’ve been jumping around in my pocket like a hyperactive kangaroo now, with Mom ringing to find out where the hell I was, telling me that school had already started.
I ordered a McBreakfast, and when it was ready I took my tray and went to look for an empty table.
When I saw PJ and Brandon I don’t know why I was so surprised; I often saw street kids at this Macca’s.
PJ yelled out, ‘Hey Dom, over here!’
I had no choice – I walked over to their table. As I sat down next to PJ I felt a little jolt to the heart. I so wished it was just her and we could sit down together and talk crap, but it wasn’t just her.
She asked about my hand, but then she was straight onto the Zolt. How, without a doubt, the highlight of her life had been meeting him.
He’s just a dude with a squeaky voice who crashes a lot of planes, I wanted to tell her. But I turned to Brandon and said, ‘How you feeling, Brandon?’
‘Really, really good,’ he said. ‘Never been better.’
PJ gave me a look – Don’t take any notice of him.
‘You want me to buy you something?’ I said.
‘You trying to fatten me up before you chop off my head or something?’ said Brandon.
Now I wanted to be back out there on my Hot Buttered Piranha, riding the swell.
‘Hey, check out the look on this dude’s face,’ said Brandon, indicating me to his sister. ‘Yeah, I’ll have a Quarter Pounder and French fries and large Coke.’
‘Okay,’ I said, getting the order right in my head. ‘What about you, PJ?’ I asked, just as her phone starting ringing.
‘Nah, food’s overrated,’ she said, ans
wering her phone.
I joined the queue, behind two sandy barefoot grommets.
‘The take-off’s a bit fat, goes into a grindy barrel, hits the reef and really sucks dry but then turns into this long easy cutback,’ said the first.
‘Filthy,’ said the second grommet. ‘See Mozzie’s wave? Took off late, popped the fins, slipped down the face, a big slash, filthy floater, and finished with the sickest aerial.’
I got Brandon’s order, but by the time I got back to the table he was stretched out on the bench seat and appeared to be asleep.
PJ was still on the phone. ‘No, we’re not coming to stupid Toowoomba. Not if he still lives there.’
Something from the other end.
‘Yeah, well, I’ll believe that when I see it.’
When she saw me, with my laden tray, she said, ‘I have to go,’ and hung up.
When I put the tray on the table Brandon didn’t move – he really was asleep.
‘Isn’t school starting soon?’ said PJ.
I nodded.
‘So aren’t you going to be late, naughty Grammar Boy?’
Her attitude was getting to me – what, she was the major badass just because she scabbed on the streets? What would she know about badass-ery? ‘Maybe I left school. Did that ever occur to you?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m not in any rush to get there, am I?’ I said.
‘But you will be,’ she said. ‘You along with all your snotty-nosed mates.’
She was really, really making me angry now.
But before I could say anything, or do anything, a manager was at our table, and he wasn’t happy. He had that typical loser look you need to be a manager at Macca’s: sort of greasy and pimply and round-shouldered.
‘I’ve told you two before that this is a restaurant and not a motel,’ he said. He had deep-fryer breath.
‘And I think I told you before that this a scummy Macca’s and not a restaurant,’ said PJ.
‘If he doesn’t sit up straight, I’m going to get security to escort him out,’ he said, indicating the prostrate Brandon.
‘You really are a disgusting –’ started PJ, but I cut her off – she was about to get us all escorted out.
Take a Life Page 10
