by Stephen Orr
‘They can’t get you if you had to do it,’ I said.
‘Didn’t have to.’
‘Yes, you did.’
Moot point. According to Anne, John had said, If you hadn’t a rung ’em none of this woulda got going. And she’d replied, What choice did I have? Then Gary had stepped in and John had laid him flat, then his Mum, then Curtis, coming in the door. All of them.
‘Got a telly,’ he said.
‘That’s one thing.’
‘Yeah … Fortune, all to myself.’
‘They’ll give you bail.’
‘No, they won’t. Dad reckons next week, if we can get someone decent. But if the judge reckons I might …’
‘What?’
‘It was a pretty decent whack, Clemmy.’
I’d heard. How Anne had stood, approached John, held his arm, and how he’d hit her again, right in the face, but held her there so he could keep going, a second, third, fourth time. Until Curtis got up, grabbed the smokers’ stand (aluminium, but with a concrete base to keep it stable) and struck him across the back of the head. How John had fallen, unconscious, and how Anne, even then, had knelt beside him and said, ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘That’s the problem with Mum,’ Curtis said. ‘She never understood him. She couldn’t see how biga cocksucker he was.’
‘Mums can’t,’ I said.
‘Well, they oughta.’
He was watching the game, and seemed to have settled into the truth.
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘Nothin’. Just sat and thought, I hope yer dead, you cunt. See, I needn’ta done it, but I did.’
‘He would’ve killed her.’
‘Maybe. Did they say how he was?’
‘There’s swelling on the brain, so they’ve put him in a coma.’
‘Right. Coma’s better than nothin’. If I gotta go to McNally’s, might as well be worthwhile.’
‘Na,’ I said, ‘there’s no chance of that. They came back later and me and Pop told them all about him.’
He was still looking out the window.
Pop was saying, Curtis wouldn’ta done it unless he had to. He’s a good boy, smart, thinks about things, gets good marks. Whereas that other one …
They’d said they knew about him, how he had a file a mile long. I’d said, Curtis has been my mate for years, never raised his voice, never got angry. And I’d told them how shocked I was. They’d seemed happy, and drank some of the wine Peter had given Pop, and said, Shouldn’t be much of a fuss. He was threatening his mum’s life.
‘I gave him a good whack,’ Curtis said. ‘I really felt it: muscle, but bone too. Like when you break a length of timber. Just my luck, he’ll get better and they’ll lock me away.’
‘That’s not what the cops were saying.’
‘Doesn’t matter what they said. Matters if someone’s dead, and who did it.’
‘Your parents’ll say—’
‘I don’t give a shit what they say … long as he’s dead.’
I wanted to ask who’d called the ambulance, because I guessed it wasn’t him. What they’d done, said, as they waited, because I guessed he didn’t attempt first-aid. How long it felt, sitting beside the body, the blood on the floor. What they said to the ambos when they arrived, and the first coppers. How long it’d been before Gary had come around. All of this interested me, but it could wait until we were sitting on his porch, and he was telling me his top ten.
The constable entered and said, ‘I gave yers longer.’
‘Ta,’ I replied. I said, ‘Try get back tomorrow.’
‘Na, leave it.’ But he was still watching the softball game.
‘Pop wants to come, and Mum.’
He half-smiled. ‘Tell them not to, eh? Not now, anyway.’
‘Right … keep cool. Coupla days, eh?’
But again, he was lost in the small figures, running.
The handwritten sign on the door said ‘Finished’. The freezer had gone, and the fridge, the table with its pile of Posts and ashtrays that had never been emptied. I could see the outlines on the floor; the indentations, the decades of dust. The till, too, had gone, but the menu remained: potato and pineapple fritters, fishcakes and flake. It would be there for years to come, a reminder of all the shit I’d ordered, the chips we’d shared around the television, the Cokes John had flogged, the mixed lollies me and Jen had climbed the back fence for. Years, until someone turned it into an adult book shop, with Don’s ghost floating between the fluoros.
‘He shut up,’ the man from the next shop (a home-brew place where Peter bought his oak chips and yeast) said.
‘When?’
‘Sunday. Fella arrived with a truck and they loaded everything. That was it. Without so much as a goodbye. Maybe he’s in trouble with the law?’
‘I don’t reckon.’
As he went in he said, ‘Pity. Looked forward to a Chiko Roll every day.’
The grey-looking fish. The hot dogs. As Don said, Your dad was in here.
Yeah?
I been telling him …
What?
No reply. As he shook the chips, and the burnt bits sunk to the bottom.
All this time? I asked.
He brought you in … few days after you were born. He wanted me to see; he’d promised. You and your fat arms … like Anthony.
More hot chips, his nose wiped on the back of his hand. Ever since then, he said, we’ve been talking about our boys.
I wondered if Dad was the only one to have asked.
I made off down North East Road. Past the car yard, with its Bulljaw dreamings, and chases around and under the cars, laneway skid shows, as the transformers hummed. It had been a good morning. A three-hour history exam. Me, settling in, sharpening my pencil, turning over the exam paper and reading the first essay question: Which major historical events led up to the Russian Revolution?
Bingo! Thanks, Peter. I used my ten minutes to regurgitate the facts he’d made me memorise: Lenin, Trotsky, Bolshevik versus Menshevik … Then, ‘Your time starts now.’ And I was off, my hand flying across the page, the thoughts cueing, patterns forming and linking across the school’s cheapest A4. So that, three hours later, when White said, ‘Time’s up, pens down,’ I sat back, breathed deeply and thought nice bloody work.
‘Clem!’
I turned, and there was Vicky, in her blue dress and corporate jumper, running towards me. ‘So?’
‘Beautiful.’
She wanted the whole story, but I couldn’t be bothered. ‘I don’t want to be over-confident but, you know …’
‘Good, Clemmy.’
‘Clem.’
‘Clemmy.’ She pinched my cheek.
‘And what about your job?’
‘It’s so fucking boring.’ She was off: the view of a brick wall from her window, three paper cups per worker per day in the drink fountain, how her boss, Mrs Lange, set an alarm so she couldn’t leave early. ‘A few weeks,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’
‘But you’ve just started.’
We reached the Polish hall and stopped and sat on the steps, and had a smoke.
‘Here’s the plan,’ she said. ‘You go to university, get a good job and make lots of money.’
Ernie and Fi-Fi walked past. I hid the smoke. Ern said, ‘How’s school?’ I said, ‘Good.’ School. Like I was still in Prep, and drawing dragons. That’s all he knew: Clemmy, in short pants, heading off with his satchel. ‘Just had my history exam.’ And I told him about revolutionary Russia.
‘Just as well we had that talk,’ he said, as Fi-Fi dry-pissed.
‘Just as well,’ I replied. ‘Even used a few quotes from the manifesto.’
He walked on, waving, realising my smoke was burning down and we had better things to talk about.
‘Say hello to yer mum, Vicky.’
‘Will do.’
I smoked, she smoked. ‘But I thought you were the ambitious one,’ I said.
‘Ambitious? But Evans l
oves me, if you know what I mean.’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘So the job’s safe?’
‘No, few weeks, then I’ll tell them to shove it.’ She lowered her head to the smoke, took a puff, smiled.
The door moved in the breeze. ‘Look.’ I went in, and she followed. Dom Polski watched from the wall, and there was a flag, and a coat-of-arms. A rack of clothes, folksy. She put on a coat. ‘Attention, comrade!’
I saluted. I remembered the hall, from an earlier Sunday school experience, me and Jen in a circle of plastic chairs as someone told us about fish and loaves. But now it was middle Europe. There was a record player, and Vicky switched it on. ‘Dance!’ she demanded.
So I approached, and we joined arms and waltzed to orchestra and accordion. Little circles, big ones, close, arm’s length, running around, chasing each other, throwing off coats and trying on jackets, until we were together, again.
‘So, that’s the plan: you keep me in luxury.’
I felt her lips on mine, and her tongue, and then, the floor dropped, and we were sitting in a pile of fur and velvet.
‘What if someone walks in?’ I asked.
It was like I’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Where the hand went, how quickly it moved, where it lingered. She, too, seemed to have the same knowledge.
‘Not a good idea,’ I said.
‘Not a good idea.’ She giggled.
‘Remember what happened to Curtis?’
She knew how every button and latch functioned, how my belt had to be pulled tight before it was loosened, how then everything fell away.
‘I can’t afford to …’ But all I could think of was Bob Grummet’s chemist, me, walking in, pretending to look at the bandages. And the girl, ‘Can I help you?’
‘No, ta.’
As I thought, What are you thinking? Stepped towards the door, but stopped, thought, It’s easy. Pick up the box, place it on the counter, hand over the money. Come on. She must sell a hundred packs a day … to dirty little boys … Come on. As I moved to a spot between the condoms and the tampons, and the girl walked past, again, and smiled, and must have known. As I thought of why I was here: Vicky smiling, running a finger along my collarbone, saying, ‘Thing about boy scouts, they’re always prepared, eh?’
‘I reckon.’
As I picked up the box, walked to the counter, but saw Hester Glasson.
‘Hi, Clem.’
‘Hi, Mrs Glasson.’
‘How’s yer mum?’
‘Good, ta.’ As I turned, so the box was hidden, and trawled the aisles until she was gone.
But, of course, I hadn’t taken them to school, so I didn’t have them now. Luckily (perhaps), she said, ‘It’s okay, there’s no chance.’
Encouraging, but I thought of Tracey, and how she’d apparently known.
Still, there was no point fighting it. The revolution had been fought, and won, or lost, depending on your view.
We walked home in dusky light. Vicky had spearmint leaves and said, ‘There were always fewer of these.’
‘Where?’
‘Don’s mixed lollies. Always more jubes, and cheap shit, and less spearmint leaves and milk bottles.’
‘And teeth?’
‘Exactly. Teeth.’
As we commiserated the last of the lino, a gold chain on a hairy chest.
‘They used to have them at school,’ she said.
‘Teeth?’
‘Spearmint leaves.’
‘They never did.’
‘I remember the smell of them when you went in, at recess, in winter. It’s strange, but I only ever remember it being winter.’
‘With their five cent mugs of soup,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’
As we celebrated the moment: every girl and boy with his or her mug, lined up in the rain waiting for cheap soup.
‘And the smell of pasties, and you, with yer half pie and chocolate doughnut.’
‘Courtesy Mum’s penny jar.’
‘And, best of all, the baker, in the morning.’
We were there, standing in our jarmies in the middle of the road as the baker opened the back door of his van and golden light flooded Lanark Avenue; fresh bread, rolls, finger buns—the lot. Us, breathing it, the day, too; ready to be buttered, cut, and wrapped in greaseproof paper.
Although it was only a short walk home, we made it last. Every rose, and mock orange, the smell of Pop’s feet when he cut his nails, dog shit when you stepped in it, vomit, which never really washed out of sheets, piss, too, on the pants in the bag.
We passed Peter in his shed, testing wine. He didn’t see us. It didn’t matter.
‘What’s tomorrow?’ Vicky asked.
‘Economics.’
‘Better let you go learn.’
I waited. There was no kiss, just a squeezed hand.
As I approached the door I heard a gravelly voice. ‘… on a coat hook … and he was only a few inches above the ground.’ I stopped and listened, but there were no more words.
I went in and Mum and Pop were sitting at the table. No one had put on a light, and I couldn’t make out who was sitting with them. Then everyone turned. Anne had been crying, and Gary’s face was set hard. He looked back at the table, at a smoke, burning in the ash tray.
‘You better have a seat,’ Mum said.
And I knew. Straight away.
Later, after Anne and Gary had left, and Mum and Pop had gone across the road to tell Les and Wendy, and the whole street, I guessed, I went to my room, put my novel and my notes and my book of observations, and everything I’d ever written, in a box. Then I went out and lit the incinerator, and started feeding the flames. None of it meant anything.
I turned, and Vicky was there. She stood beside me, watching the blue tops. I took the last document, the novel, and went to drop it in, but she took it, held it against her chest, said, ‘You might regret it later.’
I did the Economics exam, and again, seemed to know what I was talking about. Praise the Lord of Shiraz, and his gentle, whispered ways. For three long, hot hours I’d heard him in my ear, telling me what to write, the best way to weld a sentence, and make a paragraph. The next day was English, and Mrs Masharin was there, saying, That is not an original thought, Clem. That is not a relevant quote. But: Now, that’s a point.
Then, one day in early November, when it was all over, school done at last (shorts and knobbly knees, Venn diagrams and pissy toilets), I lay on my bed and thought of the past few months; 1984, with its dodgy predictions, all and none of which had come true. The Fool and the Magician dancing around my room as Curtis (at the window) said, You got lucky yet?
Mind yer business.
Just remember, I beat you by six months.
I’ll remember.
As long as you live, you’ll always be second, Clemmy.
That seemed fair. He was the mould, and I was the copy. Always had been, always would be. And no one, really, would ever know. My grandkids, perhaps, saying, Pop, he’s a bit strange, eh?
Me replying, There’s a reason.
Why?
Fella I used to know.
And they’d lose interest and run off and I’d be left looking out of my window, saying, You got any smokes, Curtis?
Plenty. Under the floorboards. Come on.
Anyway, the house was silent. I imagined the moment. The sound of the postie, me in the drive, at the letterbox, opening my results, Mum looking over my shoulder. Come on, then. As all the promises, threats and persuasions came home, at last, to roost. Every hope and half-wish of every teacher and relative and neighbour, Jen, Pop, Mum, Val, Peter, especially, because he was hoping the most (or maybe Mum, seeing something better, but the same). Curtis saying, Ninety-three … you prick. No way you’re that smart. Mum, Pop and Val, and all of them, dancing across the Santa Ana (freshly mowed, always freshly mowed). And me, nonplussed, cos when you grow up fibro everything’s a bonus. And anyway, my life was already planned. Who I’d love, where I’d live, how
I’d think and feel about everything and everyone I ever met. See, that’s the thing about Gleneagles: you finished where you started. The machine kept working, regardless of any reason why it shouldn’t. It just kept going, day, night, and the bits in between.
A hot day. A walking day. So I set off past David (‘Any word yet?’ ‘They reckon December three. I’ll let you know.’). Ernie, asleep on his porch. To the corner of Lanark II, the spot where street became car park. Falcons everywhere, but there was no point complaining. That’s just how it was, and always would be. That’s what made this place perfect: the fact that it was so dull, lacking culture, intellect, nature, beauty, enlightenment, history—pretty much anything anyone might want. Yep, we had it all, if you know what I mean. Across the road, past the stadium, with its sub-floor vents where me and Curtis dumped our uneaten lunches. I said, What cher doin’ tonight?
Wanna come over, make some Twistie necklaces?
Packets shrunk in the oven, laced together and worn around the neck.
Na, they look shit.
Just walking, because there wasn’t a lot to say, cos not much had happened since yesterday, or the day before, or the four thousand three hundred and thirteen others we’d known (Curtis had calculated).
Down the road that led to the primary school. Past Mrs Porter’s place (her husband dead at thirty-seven). My old school. Another million smells, and things to remember, but I want to write another book about that. I stopped beside the fence, watching the usual ball-kicking. Mr Gottl was there, and he noticed me. ‘Clem?’
I was a bit embarrassed, hanging around like I had nothing better to do. But it was too late. He came over and said, ‘How are you?’
‘Good, you?’
‘Jesus, come in.’
I did as I was told. You always did with your old teachers, no matter how much water had passed under the bridge. As his class played football he said, ‘You musta just finished …?’
‘Year Twelve.’
‘No? And me here, still doing the same thing.’
‘Same tops,’ I said.
‘Well, they wash them. But five years, that’s not so much when you’re my age.’
Then he asked me for the highlights, and I said there weren’t many, and I asked if he ever noticed maps drawn in chalk in the lunch shed, and he said yes, and I explained. And he asked after Curtis, and I said he was okay, still a pain, but okay.
