‘For you,’ he said.
I took the book and said, ‘What’s it about?’
‘War,’ he said. ‘But many other things as well.’
I left his office for the last time, the book in my hand.
The afternoon sort of noodled along; I got out of the habit of saying this is the last time I’m going to do this, the last time I’m going to do that.
The last time I’m going to urinate in this urinal. The last time I’m going to sneak into the library to check my text messages.
The final siren went and that was it: the last time I’d hear that final siren. But there was one more person I felt deserved a goodbye. So I made my way down to the change rooms. The very last time I’d walk through these doors.
‘Here he is, captain of my soul!’ said Charles.
‘Ah-soul!’ said Bevan Milne, making the obvious joke.
It went on like this, the usual mucking around. Towel-flicking. Yo-momma’s-so-fat jokes. Eventually everybody quietened down and we got busy getting changed.
‘Is this all there is?’ I said, looking at the empty benches.
‘Bailey’s been poached by the football team,’ said Charles.
‘Jaxon’s concentrating on his swimming,’ said somebody else.
After we’d changed, we went outside and Coach was waiting for us by the long-jump pit, wearing her faded school tracksuit, whistle and stopwatch dangling around her neck. She went through the usual early-season stuff.
Please, one last Hakuna Matata, I said to myself as she started winding down.
‘Okay, let’s get out there,’ she said.
If she wasn’t going to do it, somebody had to.
‘Just a minute,’ I said, using this new public voice I’d recently discovered I owned.
Everybody stopped.
‘Remember, every morning in Africa a gazelle wakes up knowing it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa a lion wakes up knowing it must run faster than the slowest gazelle or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle: when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.’
I was getting quite a few funny looks, but so what?
‘And remember, boys,’ I said, offering up another of Coach’s favourite sayings, ‘pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.’
Training was pretty standard. Given that I hadn’t done much running, I actually felt pretty loose. I kept waiting for the perfect opportunity to tell Coach I was leaving, but it never came up – she was either with somebody else or we would’ve looked too conspicuous. It was only after I’d changed and Coach was in the carpark getting into her crappy little Hyundai that I felt comfortable talking to her.
‘Hey, Coach,’ I said. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re quitting running again?’ she said, keys dangling from her hand.
‘No, I’m actually leaving school.’
‘So you’ll be competing for another school?’
‘No, I’m leaving for good. I’m joining the workforce.’
I’m not sure what reaction I expected: disappointment, anger, but not what I got: Coach looked really quite happy.
‘That’s great news,’ she said.
‘It is?’
‘Yes. Toughen you up, working for a living. And you can join a proper athletes club, not this toffee-nosed establishment. The Gold Coast Sharks – we train Tuesday and Thursday nights at the Carrara Track. You know the place, just by the football stadium. I’ll send you a text with the details.’
‘Okay,’ I said, though I was thinking that the chances of me training with the Gold Coast Sharks were pretty slim.
‘That friend of yours – what’s his name? – has actually started training with us. Got a lot of promise, too.’
‘What friend?’ I said, not having a clue who she was talking about.
‘He was going to come here on a scholarship, remember?’
‘Seb?’ I said.
‘That’s right, Seb. And like I said, a very promising runner, ideal training partner for you, now that I come to think of it.’
Been there. Done that.
Coach got into her crappy Hyundai and took off, and I made my way – yes, for the very last time – through the school and towards the gates. As I walked between those stone gateposts I looked back. Somehow, tears found their way into my eyes. More followed. And more. Okay, I was sobbing like some pathetic baby.
I didn’t want to leave my school.
I loved my school.
But I had no choice, absolutely no choice.
I couldn’t go to school and do what I was going to do. Take a life. Murder Brandon.
That just wasn’t something a schoolkid did.
THURSDAY
IT GOT A BIT MESSY
To say it got a bit messy that night is a bit like saying it got a bit nippy during the Ice Age. It started off okay, but that’s only because my parents weren’t there when I got home. Toby was parked in front of the plasma, watching some cooking show – Nasty & Nastier were in the final against Horrible & More Horrible, and may the least objectionable people win – while methodically working his way through an oversized bowl of organic corn chips. After the usual small talk – this show sucks, not as much as you, etc. – I told him the news. He actually hit the pause button just as the final judge was going to give the final mark.
‘No way?’ he said.
‘Way,’ I said.
‘No way?’ he said.
‘Way,’ I said.
This went on for a lot longer than you’d think until we both found some more dialogue.
‘Do you reckon they’d let me leave when I’m fifteen, start a cooking apprenticeship?’
Actually, it made more sense for Toby to leave school. His grades were even worse than mine, and really, what was the use of him learning about photosynthesis or calculus when everybody knew he was going to become a chef?
‘They can’t stop you,’ I said.
He punched the air with both fists – a very un-Toby-like gesture – and hit the play button.
Miranda was by the pool, doing her tai chi.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I said.
‘About time,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘All this weird stuff that’s been going down with you, there has to be some explanation.’
‘Okay, I’m leaving school.’
Miranda glared at me. ‘That’s not an explanation,’ she said. ‘That’s just further weird behaviour.’ So far, so good – sort of.
It was only when Mom got home that it began to get messy. She started off with a big lecture about this morning’s incident, and you could tell she’d been preparing this speech all day, because nobody who isn’t in a movie or Dr Chakrabarty is that articulate off the cuff. Anyway, according to her, both Dad and I had behaved BADLY, had shown a lack of RESPECT for each other as family members. And even though she expected Dad to APOLOGISE she expected me to do it first.
I let her finish her speech and then I said, ‘Mom, I’m actually leaving school. Today was my last day.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision.’
As if.
She launched into another speech, which wasn’t so prepared and was nowhere near as articulate.
In the end, I said, ‘Mom, I’ve made my mind up – I’m leaving school.’ That’s when she rang Dad and ordered him to get home pronto.
There was this half-hour ceasefire where Mom and I just glared at each other; I could picture Dad hammering his Porsche along the freeway, his face a mask of fury.
Then with the roar of an exhaust, the screech of brakes, it was two against one.
Except it wasn’t.
I wouldn’t say Dad was on my side, but I wouldn’t say he was totally on Mom’s side either. He kept saying stuff like, ‘Let him see how tough it is out there, see how long he lasts.’ And Mom kept sayi
ng stuff like, ‘But he’s only a child.’ This went on for an unbelievable amount of time: animals became extinct, ice caps melted, Windows 242 was released. As for me, I didn’t shift my position.
Eventually it was agreed that it was my decision, but I would have to live with the consequences of that decision.
‘And that means paying board,’ said Mom. ‘I’m not having any freeloaders in my house.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m actually going to stay with Gus for a while.’
Before I said this, I hadn’t considered it at all. But now it seemed like a great idea – it would give me the freedom to do what I needed to do. I hadn’t asked Gus, but I knew he would say yes.
And it all ended with a big squeezy group hug?
No, not even close.
It all ended with me telling Gus what had happened and him saying, ‘Yes, that’s okay,’ and me getting my stuff and carrying it to his place and taking over his spare room, the one that had cartons and cartons full of old running magazines. It all ended with me sleeping – or trying to sleep – on a bed that was nowhere near as comfortable as mine, on sheets that were nowhere near as Egyptian as mine. It all ended with me eventually falling asleep and having more dreams that were like horror movies on crack, full of amputated limbs, and murdered kids, and Bag Ladies twitching to death.
Yes, it got a bit messy.
MONDAY
WORKING FOR THE DOG
My guess was that even if I chained my bike to the post outside it would last, say, all of ten minutes in the Block. As soon as I wheeled it through the doorway of Cash Converters, the rat-faced ponytailed man behind the counter said, ‘We don’t need no more bloody bikes.’ Pointing to all the bikes in one corner, he added, ‘Especially not hot ones.’
‘I’m taking it upstairs,’ I said. ‘And it’s not that hot.’
I did just that, carrying it upstairs.
There were two men waiting, slouched on seats. Both of them would be excellent contestants in the brand new TV show I’d just devised called Australia’s Worst Tattoos – Ink that Stinks.
‘Hey, you can’t bring that thing up here,’ said the receptionist.
She was wearing a denim jacket, denim jeans; she obviously took her fashion tips from her boss. I guessed I couldn’t really talk, because I, too, had embraced the denim – I was wearing the nasty stonewash jacket that Hound had given me the other day.
‘Could you tell Hound?’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
The receptionist picked up a phone and said, ‘Hey Hound, some idiot kid’s brought his bike upstairs.’ She listened for a while and then turned to me. ‘Is your name Dom?’
I nodded.
‘Okay, Big Dog’s waiting for you,’ she said, a friendlier tone to her voice. ‘You can put your bike against that wall if you like.’
I did that, and continued on to Hound’s office. I knocked, he told me to come in. But when I did, he was hanging upside down in some sort of machine.
‘Hell,’ I said. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘It’s an inversion machine,’ he said. ‘I got a back issue, L4-L5 disc. This does wonders for it. Supposedly.’
Let me tell you something – it’s not that easy conversing with somebody when they’re hanging upside down like a fruit bat. All those facial expressions that are so important for communication, well, they’re back to front. I mean, was he smiling or was he frowning? or ?
We talked some rubbish for a while before I got around to what was really on my mind. ‘Were you serious when you offered me a job?’
‘The Hound is always serious,’ he said.
I’d known the Hound for quite a while, and this was the first time I’d heard him refer to himself in the third person. I wondered if it had something to do with him being upside down, all that blood pooling in his head.
‘Then I’d like to take you up on that offer,’ I said.
‘You don’t want to discuss salary packages, superannuation or promotion opportunities?’ said upside-down Hound.
‘No, I just want to leave bloody school,’ I said, remembering the sloshy old tears I’d shed as I walked out through the gates. ‘But you need to sign a form that says you’re providing proper vocational training for me, something like that.’
‘Okay, you’re hired,’ he said, still upside down. ‘When do you want to start?’
‘What about right now?’
‘Suits me,’ said Hound. ‘How about you begin by getting me out of this thing?’
So I started my working life by extricating Hound from his inversion machine.
‘Nice jacket,’ he said when he was on his feet again. ‘Now let’s find you somewhere to work.’
Actually, it was Jodie – that was the receptionist’s name – who found me a desk.
Technically it was probably a table, and it was situated in this weird little corner of the office just near the men’s toilet. Just how near became apparent when one of the contestants in Ink That Stinks went inside. I could hear everything, all his movements, even him tearing off the toilet paper. There were no washing-hands noises though; I really hoped he didn’t work in the food and beverages industry.
As well as a desk, I had a computer, an ancient desktop that looked like it’d been around when Bill Gates was only a billionaire. Still, I had a job, I had a desk, I had a computer – I was chuffed.
Now all I needed was something to do.
It wasn’t long before Hound appeared, waving a piece of A4 paper. He whacked it down on my desk. On it were some names and addresses.
‘Need you to do a credit check on these three,’ he said. ‘Major scumbags.’
I waited for him to tell me how to do a credit check, but no such information was forthcoming. He just walked off, spurs jangling. Okay, I made that up about the jangling spurs, but Hound was the sort of hombre who should’ve worn spurs, even without the horse.
So it was the old leave-him-to-his-own-devices, which suited me fine.
Google, as always, was my friend. It didn’t take long to find out that it’s actually very easy to obtain a credit check on major scumbags, on anybody really.
As long as you are the person applying for it and can provide some ID.
As for checking somebody else’s credit rating, not so straightforward.
But I guess the Zolt was right, I’m devious. And I’m pretty good on Photoshop.
So I was able to manufacture the appropriate ID and pull the credit rating for these three individuals. Not one of them made pretty reading: loan defaults, bankruptcy, fraud – like Hound said, major scumbaggery. He was very happy with my work, however.
‘You’re a bloody quick study, you are,’ he said.
For the rest of the day the work was sort of the same: a few more credit checks, and then I had to find out all I could about a list of companies that Hound gave me. Again, Google was my friend. Again, Photoshop was my friend. Again, Hound was very happy with my work. And I really felt like I’d achieved something, like I’d acquired some useful skills that I was never going to acquire at fuddy-duddy old Coast Grammar.
Something else: for stretches of time, I’d managed to keep my mind off the sixth instalment. I knew I should be doing the planning – I thought of Gus feeding Panda’s dog devon every night so that it got used to him.
But I couldn’t bring myself to start. And, unlike other instalments, there was no deadline.
Though I sort of wished there was.
Something to make me do this terrible thing.
After finishing work at four – Hound said I could have an easy day on my first day – I took my bike downstairs. There were men lounging outside the Cash Converters, smoking, talking, being tough. Amongst them was Red Bandana wearing his signature headwear. He wasn’t actually smoking. Or talking for that matter. But he made up for the lack of activity in these two areas by looking incredibly tough.
I kept my head down, hoping he wouldn’t recognise me.
And he didn
’t. It was the rat-face ponytailed owner of Cash Converters who said, ‘Hey, Chop, isn’t that the kid you’ve been looking for?’
Red Bandana’s arm shot out and his paw grabbed a handful of my shirt. My bike fell, clattering, onto the ground.
‘I’ve been looking –’ he started, but I wasn’t going to let him get the first sentence in.
‘If I were you, I’d let go of me,’ I said.
He stared at me, and I could see the shock registering in his face – Who does this kid think he is?
‘I’m working for Hound de Villiers,’ I said, though I really don’t know why I bothered with his surname – everybody knew Hound. ‘And I don’t think he’d appreciate one of his employees calling in sick tomorrow.’
I wouldn’t say he let go of me immediately, it actually took a while, but that’s probably because it took his miniscule brain a while to process all the new information it had been fed.
Coast Surveillance didn’t seem to have much of a superannuation plan, I’m not sure the promotion opportunities were great and on-the-job training seemed to consist of the phrase ‘You’ll work it out, Youngblood’, but working for Hound certainly had other advantages.
I turned back to Ratface Ponytail and gave him a taste of my patented death stare; he’d keep, the dog. Then I hopped on my Trek, and got the hell out of the Block.
I certainly wasn’t in the mood for going home, that sort of thing was for schoolkids, so I decided to go and see a movie. It seemed such an outrageous thing to do – go and see a movie on weeknight – that I almost had to pinch myself a couple of times to make sure I was actually doing it. But I was doing it, cycling to Pacific Fair, chaining my bike to the bike rack.
As I walked in, there were all these kids from various schools in the area, including Grammar, hanging around. I recognised a couple of them, and they acknowledged me with a nod. Schoolboys, I thought. Haven’t they got anything better to do with their time? It’s not as if homework does itself, is it?
Up the escalators and I was in the parallel world that is the cinema complex, with its thick carpet, garish lights, arctic aircon. I scanned the board. There was nothing I really wanted to see, so I just went for the film that looked the least offensive, running the gauntlet of popcorn and soft drinks and lollies and chocolates, until finally I got through to the other end and found cinema 18. There was only one other person in there, so I made sure I took a seat as far as possible away from her.
Take a Life Page 12
