I wanted to cry. I could feel that damn lump in my throat. What could I do? They were drunk, but that just made them angry. Peter got in a few punches before they had him on the ground and started kicking him. What could I do? What the hell could I do to help? There was only one thing I could do. I ran past them up to their car, I climbed in and fossicked through the rubbish and beer bottles until I found one. A mobile phone. Then I called the police.
“Where’s his fucking boyfriend gone?”
“The faggot probably pissed off.”
“I’m right here,” I said walking towards them. “And I have just called the cops so you better get the fuck out of here.” I didn’t sound tough at all. I threw the phone at one of them. It didn’t go far enough to hit anyone.
They pounced on me. They knew they had time to pummel me before the cops arrived and they certainly did. One punched me in the face, and I had totally underestimated how much that would hurt. Another punched me in the stomach and I fell forwards onto my knees. I tasted the blood in my mouth but I was happy because I knew if they were hitting me then they weren’t hitting Peter. At least I could do that for him.
Peter wasn’t happy. He managed to stand up and then he was pulling people off me as I felt another fist collide with my face.
“Come on guys, the cops are coming,” said one of them. I saw his face; he was in a pretty bad way.
They ran up to the car and sped away before I could even breathe normally again.
Peter was coughing up blood.
“You should have run when I told you to,” he said.
That hurt. I thought I had been very brave. “I couldn’t leave you.”
“Well you should have,” he said as he started to stand up. I tried to help him but he pushed me aside. Again.
“Don’t make things worse,” he said.
Then he walked slowly to his car, got in and drove away. He left me sitting there on the sand waiting for the police to take me home.
When the police arrived, they asked me what had happened and I tried to explain as best I could.
“We were just hanging out on the beach when these five guys pulled up and attacked us.”
They asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, but I told them to just drive me home.
My mum cried when she saw me.
I must have looked a mess. Blood everywhere, covered in sand. I tried to tell her I was fine, that it was no big deal, but I think she felt like it was all her fault and she had failed as a mother. My father went out and spoke to the police. I don’t really care what they told him.
“What did I do wrong, Hamish?” she asked me. “What did I do to make you do this?”
“Nothing Mum, it wasn’t your fault,” I said and that lump in my throat just wouldn’t go away. Why couldn’t I just tell her the truth? Why did it have to be this big secret? Surely she would understand, she was my mother for god’s sake. But I didn’t, I just hugged her as tight as I could without crying in pain, told her I was sorry a hundred times and went to bed. Then I cried. And once it started I just couldn’t stop. I cried because of the physical pain and then I thought about the night Peter and I went to the tree, and I thought about my sweet little sister’s face and my dad on his tractor killing all his cabbages and my mother’s eyes when she saw me get out of the police car. But most of all, I thought about Peter and how he left me. He left me there all alone on the beach. How could he do that? And I didn’t cry myself to sleep, I just cried all night.
At around three in the morning, I crept downstairs to call Peter’s home number. It took me ages to get the numbers right because my hands were shaking so much. When I finally managed to dial, his phone was dead. I don’t know why I even bothered to try; I knew they hadn’t paid their phone bill in weeks. He was struggling to get the money together for his car rego. Then I sat on the kitchen floor and cried because I couldn’t even fathom walking back up the stairs to my bedroom. I cried until my fingers went tingly and numb. I cried until I couldn’t breathe and I was gasping trying to get some air to my lungs. I cried until my eyes felt so dry that I thought they would fall out of my head. I felt like I was going to throw up, but there was nothing in my stomach. I heard my father’s alarm go off at four and I crawled back to my bedroom so he wouldn’t see me like that. It was so stupid that at a time like that I still wanted my dad to think I was tough, that I wasn’t a sissy crybaby.
I never went to my parents when I was upset. My father would always tell me to be a man and grow a pair. I never felt like I could tell my mother anything. I don’t think she ever really understood me, even before my sister died and I became such a depressed wreck.
We used to have a cat on the farm. She was grey. I named her Spoon. No idea why. My parents bought her for me when Paige was born. Some sort of parenting manual technique to stop me from getting too jealous of the new baby. They gave her to me in a little shoebox and I thought it was going to be the new pair of Converse I wanted. But when I opened the lid, I saw the tiny little ball of grey fluff and fell in love. I could pick her up in just one hand.
Spoon got hit by a car when I was eight. And nothing would console me. My parents didn’t tell Paige why I was upset; they didn’t want her to cry too. And do you know what she did? She went into the bathroom, climbed up on the little stool she used to reach the sink, and went into the medicine cabinet to get the tea tree oil. Then she brought it to me with a flannel and a bowl of water because she thought it would make me better. I guess she had seen Dad use the tea tree oil whenever he got hurt on the farm, and my mum always used it on Paige’s grazed knees. Paige always had grazed knees. My dad used to tell her she would never be a leg model. I guess he was right.
But there was no one there to bring me tea tree oil that night. And that only made me cry more. I don’t know if this happens to you, but I once I started crying about one thing, no matter how small or insignificant it was, I started to remember everything else that had ever made me sad and I ended up crying for ages because everything bad in my life came back to me. Maybe that was just depression. I guess that school counsellor idea wasn’t as ridiculous as I thought.
22.
The next day I felt like a pile of shit. I lay in bed all morning, trying to sleep, with a pillow over my head. I managed to drift in and out of nightmare-riddled sleep until I got up at around lunchtime. I kept dreaming of Monday back at school and what everyone would say. I was sure it would be the talk of the school. Big shot Peter Bridges, the guy infamous for sleeping with basically every girl in our year was secretly the boyfriend of Hamish Day, the lamest guy to ever attend high school. That was the first time I actually thought of myself as his boyfriend. It wasn’t something we’d ever discussed. I wasn’t sure if that’s what Peter would have called me. I made a note to ask him about it next time I saw him.
After that day, I would sometimes dream they’d attack us again. In the change rooms, or something, where the teachers wouldn’t know. My head was pounding and my face was purple. I think I may have had a cracked rib or two. I didn’t tell anyone because I was sure Peter had it a lot worse and I knew he wouldn’t be complaining. I had a half-hour long shower and tried my best to get dressed without crying again. It really hurt to lift my arms above my head.
When I went downstairs, the house was empty. My parents were probably out in the fields trying to catch up on all the work I had caused them to miss. I ate about sixty Weet-Bix and used up all the milk. Then I threw it all back up into the kitchen sink. It took a long time to try and wash it all down the drain. My dad got mad at me when I washed bits of food down the drain. But I wasn’t about to scoop that shit back out again.
I picked up the phone and dialled Annie’s home number. Her mother answered.
“Hi Mrs Bower, this is Hamish. I was wondering if I could talk to Annie.”
“Sorry Hamish, she went out early this morning to visit her grandma in hospital. I had hoped she would be back by now, we are having a family lunch today.”
&n
bsp; “Thanks anyway.”
I hung up. Annie wouldn’t be going home for a while if the family lunch involved that filthy uncle of hers.
So I tried her mobile number, but, as per usual, there was no answer.
I stared at the phone for a while. Then I called Martin.
I knew I had been a terrible friend to him, and I knew I had no right to ask for his help at a time like this. But what else could I do?
His mother answered the phone.
“Hey Mrs Archer, it’s Hamish.”
“Hamish! Goodness me! We haven’t seen you in weeks. We were worried something was wrong.”
“Oh no, I’m fine, I’ve just been really busy with school work and all that. HSC coming up, you know.”
“Oh yes, Martin has been studying away. Did you want to talk to him? I’ll get him for you.”
“Thanks.”
I could hear her walking up the stairs and knocking on his door. I wished she would cover the phone so I couldn’t hear their conversation.
“Martin, it’s Hamish on the phone for you.”
“Tell him I’m out.”
“But, honey, I already told him you were home.”
“Tell him I’m busy, I’m in the shower or something.”
“Martin Archer, Hamish is your best friend, you’re going to talk to him.”
There was a short silence before I heard Martin’s voice at the other end of the phone.
“Hello,” he said. He didn’t sound anything like the excited Martin who usually answered my phone calls.
“Hey Martin, listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much and for everything I said, I really am, but I could really do with a friend right now, can I come over?”
Silence.
“We can even play zombies if you like.”
I knew that would get him.
“Okay, okay, come over, I bet that girl of yours dumped you, right? And now you want to come crawling back to good old, faithful Martin.”
I hung up. I couldn’t explain all that over the phone.
I wrote a quick note to my parents telling them I was going to Martin’s. They probably wouldn’t believe it; classic boy who cried wolf.
I walked there. It gave me a lot of time to think. I tried to think of a hundred different ways of explaining things to Martin. I just couldn’t find the words. I guessed the best thing to do was to start from the beginning and hope he was still listening by the time I reached the end.
His mother answered the door. I should have been sadder that Martin no longer waited for me in the hall. But, honestly, I couldn’t find it inside myself to care. His mum, on the other hand, nearly fainted when she saw me. I had forgotten about my purple face.
“Oh my gosh, Hamish! What happened to you? Are you okay? Can I get you something?”
Bless her heart.
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs Archer. Just fell off my bike,” (I didn’t even have a bike) I said, trying to look past her to see if Martin had come down to see me. He hadn’t.
So she gave me a cup of weird tea and sent me upstairs.
Martin was sitting on the floor playing a video game. He didn’t look up when I walked in. He didn’t say anything either.
“Hey Martin,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. I took a sip of the tea but it was so hot it made my eyes water.
He paused the game – that was a good sign – and spun around to face me. I tried to smile.
“Holy shit!” he yelled. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Long story,” I said, putting the tea on his bedside table and sitting on the end of his bed.
“Jesus Christ… You look like… Jesus… Wait, did Peter Bridges do this to you?”
“No! Of course not!” If he had’ve been within reach I would have hit him, but he was still sitting on the floor.
He got up and sat next to me on the bed.
“So what happened?”
I didn’t know what to say. How could I start? Why did this have to be so damn difficult?
“Well, you see, the thing is…” I was floundering, I couldn’t find my words.
Martin put his hand on my shoulder in a very rare, serious moment.
“You can tell me,” he said and, like an idiot, I believed him.
So I started from the beginning, from the very first day when Peter picked me up from school and took me to the beach, to the night by the tree, when I found out that he was friends with Charlie Parker, and the night when he told me about how they were more than just friends. Somewhere in the story, I can’t be sure when, I started to cry again, and I just started rambling and I told him everything, the only thing I left out was Peter’s mother. I told him everything else, maybe not in too much detail, but he got the gist of it. And, oh man, you should have seen Martin’s face.
I was expecting shock, I was prepared for that, but it was the horror, the disgust and the fear that I really didn’t expect. He took his hand off my shoulder very quickly, he got up off the bed and he backed into the wall. At least he let me finish my story before he started yelling, that was sweet of him.
“You’re a fucking poof?”
I was trying to wipe the tears away from my face but it hurt too much. So I just sat there and cried while he yelled at me.
“All this time, all this time you’ve been a fucking poof? Jesus, you’ve slept in my bed!”
I stood up, I tried to go to him. That was a terrible idea.
“Stay the fuck away from me, you filthy poof!”
I stopped. His words seared my skin like a brand.
“Get out of my house! You’re a bloody freak!”
So I walked out of his room. I tiptoed down the stairs hoping his mother wouldn’t see me as I snuck out. She did.
“Leaving so soon, Hamish?”
Luckily, she was slightly deaf and therefore probably didn’t hear all the yelling.
I couldn’t think of an excuse, so I just thanked her for the tea and ran out the front door.
After that, I couldn’t face going home. I didn’t want my parents to see me cry so I walked. I tried to stay off the main road at the risk of seeing someone from school. But it was a Sunday afternoon and everyone was at the beach. Everyone except me.
I thought about visiting Peter, to check in to make sure he wasn’t too badly hurt, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to see me.
I decided to go home again. The guilt I felt for causing my parents so much pain was too much. I had forgotten, until then, that Paige went missing once. It was only for an afternoon; a pig on the farm next to ours had just had piglets and Paige went over to see them without telling anyone. She didn’t even tell me and she told me everything. She must have forgotten in the excitement. I mean, piglets were pretty cute.
My parents had been sick with worry, fearing she might have been kidnapped, hurt or dead. It was only an hour or so of not knowing before she came back in the front door smelling like pigs. They told her off like they’d never done before and sent her to her room. That was the only time they ever sent her to her room. I think they just wanted to know exactly where she was.
I found her in there crying her eyes out. And you would think it was because she got yelled at, but it wasn’t. She was upset for making them so worried. She’d felt guilty because she caused them one hour of worry and now I’d been going missing on a regular basis for weeks. I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I decided to go home and tell them the truth, tell them everything. I was sure they would understand.
The walk home was laborious. I’d never been beaten up before, and it wasn’t something I wanted to make a regular habit of. Of course, Peter had no choice.
When I got home, my parents were both still out on the farm. I hadn’t been gone more than an hour. Just like Paige.
I almost changed my mind. I almost decided to go back to bed and forget the whole thing. Instead I convinced myself to wait until the evening, for our dinner conversation. That would liven things up a bit. It meant I spent the res
t of the afternoon stressing, but I deserved that.
My mum came in at six to cook dinner. I had tried to study a bit, English mostly. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what a tautology was. She was making a lasagne.
“Can I help?” I asked, and I wasn’t trying to suck up or anything, I usually offered to help with dinner. In fact, I could even cook a couple of things. I didn’t know why I wasn’t more of a catch.
“Sure, you can chop the vegies.”
She wasn’t looking at my face. I hoped that was because it was purple, not because she was so disappointed in me that she couldn’t even bear to look at me anymore.
“How’s it looking out there?”
“Not great,” she said. “But not terrible either, at least the radishes are pulling through.”
Fucking cabbages and radishes. No wonder we were bankrupt, they had to pick the two least popular vegetables in the world.
“How’s the studying going?” she asked. My books were still open on the dining table.
“Not great,” I said. “But not terrible either. I know my Business Studies stuff off by heart. Maths is the bigger problem.”
She smiled. “Nice pun.”
My father came in. He looked worn out. A day in the sun and a night with no sleep will do that to a person.
He sat at the table and I cleared my books away from in front of him. He had no trouble looking at my face. He probably thought Peter did it too.
It was time for me to tell the truth.
“I need to tell you something,” I said.
They were waiting for me to tell them I was on drugs or in a gang or wanted by the police.
“Peter is not my friend—”
“You got that right,” my father cut in.
“And Annie is not my girlfriend anymore.”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry,” said my mum who, even in a pit of disappointment, was still my mum and didn’t want me to get hurt.
“Because I never really liked Annie, not in the way a boyfriend should. I always thought she was beautiful and fun and nice, but she wasn’t… Well, she wasn’t the one I really wanted.”
I Had Such Friends Page 18
