‘How are you paying, love?’ she said when I didn’t pull out any money.
‘Uhh ... I think my dad has set up an, an account here?’
I could see the recognition straight away, even though she tried not to show it. ‘Oh, yes,’ she took a breath. ‘Okay.’ She put both her hands down flat on the counter and gave me a kind look. ‘Yes, I have the account details here,’ she said, shuffling through some papers in a drawer.
I waited in the awkward silence.
‘You just need to sign here,’ she pointed, and then stapled the till docket to the paper. ‘Your dad will sort it out with me later on.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled.
My shoulders are red where the backpack straps cut in and my legs are like jelly. The joke is, I’m too buggered to cook myself any of the food I lugged back. That walk is too far to do both ways in one day! One way, maybe, okay, you can do that, but both—with a load to haul on the way back? It’s too much. I can just hear Dad giving me heaps about being young and fit, blah blah blah. Shove it up your datehole, Dad, is all I can say. You need training to be able to do this sort of stuff. You don’t just stand up one day and crank out a marathon, do you? Jesus fucking Christ, he has no idea. I’d like to see him do what I’ve just done. I need a bit of humour in my day.
One good thing, though. One good thing. That shitty town does have a post office. Well, kind of. The shitty little shop is a shitty little postal agent, so they collect shitty mail. The woman explained it to me when I asked her if there was a postbox anywhere—there wasn’t even one of them, can you believe that? She just collects it all in an old Australia Post canvas bag. Talk about a two-bit town. There’s a phone box out the front of the shop. How very high-tech. Bet the phone doesn’t work. So, anyway, I could send my old man his stupid letter, and there was some mail waiting for me. I’ve got it in my bag, saved it for when I got home as a sort of reward, seeing as there’s jack shit else to do and I feel like I just survived the Kokoda Track. I got three things: one from the old man, one from Craggs, and one from—joy!—Bella. All that should provide hours of entertainment once I’ve slept off this pain. I’ve never been so tired or sore in all my life. My legs feel like they’ve been invaded by small men with hammers.
I might not even make it to bed. This old couch is actually quite comfortable, even if it does smell of twenty-year-old mushrooms...
11
A small package falls out as I open her letter. It’s wrapped in soft purple paper and for Joel is written on the outside. I look at it and my heart expands stupidly for a minute. I put it over to one side. Calm down, Joel. Calm. I straighten out the pages.
Joel,
How goes it out there, you crazy forest hippie?
Won’t tell you I’m missing you. Cool news first: the girls soccer team is cranking! We seriously rock! Razed Willetton to the ground like daisies under a lawnmower on Saturday. My old man was so impressed he could barely keep his gob shut ... he’s been calling us the Hammy High Hitwomen ever since.
I’m gunna go for the school play this year. This new drama teacher has actually managed to incite a bit of enthusiasm. He’s in his mid-twenties and is almost normal, as opposed to, say, being a fifty-year-old gay, washed-up, Shakespearean actor who prances around in silk scarves and talks about ‘metaphor’ and ‘when I was in acting school’. This guy ... you’d really like him. Auditions are in a few weeks.
I hope you’re okay down there. Squeeze it for everything it’s worth, you know?
I’ve got a warm spot in here for you, when all this is over.
‘I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.’—Carl Sandburg
Write to me.
Bella
Oh I am gunna curl up with this and go to sleep with a sunbeam smile on my face. I wanna be in that warm place of hers. She is one gorgeous, smart, amazing girl. She’s right, she’s so right. This is my chance, this is my time—this is no fucking joke, for Christ’s sake! Dad saved my lucky arse, he’s given me this major opportunity to sort out my shit. And Bella’s giving me one too. I reckon ... this is my last chance with her. I’ve gotta go for it and be strong and smart. I can do this, and I will.
I will.
She’s worth it, man, she is so worth it.
After I wind down a bit I turn to the little purple present. I pull away the tissue carefully along one end. A stone the size of a twenty-cent coin rolls out, and a tiny gift card. It’s the smoothest pebble, like a river stone. On it is painted the yin–yang symbol in black and white.
There’s a square of paper with it, which says:
In Chinese philosophy and art, the yin is the female element and the yang the male element. They are considered to be two halves of a perfect whole; one cannot exist without the other’s balance.
I read that over before turning to Bella’s card.
I love this idea about the parts balancing.
Love, B xx
‘When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.’
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
I lean back and look at all this stuff in front of me. It all makes sense. It comes down to one thing, really.
Bella. Bella makes sense to me.
12
It was never like I was going around snatching old grannies’ handbags or the coin cups out of streetside amputees or anything. No, I only ever did it where it couldn’t touch anyone directly—well, initially that’s how it was—like knock off a bunch of stuff at Coles, or Kmart. It’s not like anyone in particular suffers in gigs like that. These joints are all insured by big companies whose bosses earn a few million a year plus bonuses, so it’s no skin off their noses to lose a few CDs or some fishing gear every now and then. Kmart and places like that are making a rude amount of money, anyway, they’re always boasting about huge profits, so I think they can afford it. Dad spends a couple of hundred bucks a week on groceries and stuff at those places. I reckon Coles and Kmart (probably the same company with different names, anyway) owe me some gear after all that loyal custom. That’s how I rationalised it when things were still relatively simple. It made me feel okay about it.
The lifting’s so easy it’s laughable. All those scanning thingos at the front of the store don’t make any difference if you know how to handle them. The bottle shop gig was a different story, though.
It all changed that night with Craggs and Sull—and it was scary, maybe because we did it at night. Late at night, when most people are sleeping. Maybe I should have listened to the fear.
Things started out okay, but it was the tequila that fucked us up in the end. That stuff wires you. It was like Craggs was on speed or something—hyper, like nothing could ever touch him. I tried to get him to cool down but it was all happening before my eyes. It was like I was on a crazy long conveyer belt that wouldn’t stop; it just kept moving forward, onwards until it had gone too far, until we had crossed a line I had never imagined we’d cross and then it was done. It was done.
13
When the grog shop alarms go off after about thirty seconds, Craggs feels himself go cold all over, realising how way over their heads they are this time. It had seemed so easy: just go in, get the gear, get out. But it’s chaos, fucking mayhem—the three of them running around grabbing bottles of tequila and cartons of fags like bad guys in a cartoon, but, shit, Craggs thinks, looking at these guys, it’s hardly meant to be an episode of Road Runner . They need to get out of here but he wants to make the whole thing worth the effort. He looks over just as Joel sees the CCTV camera. It’s too late: the kid is staring right at it like a total moron. A stunned mullet. Craggs registers then that this is his last blast. The end of a beautiful thing. He slows down a bit, remembers to grab a bottle of Stoli.
Finally they load up and split. They drive around the southern suburbs, but it doesn’t matter how far away they go, the alarms are with them all the way. Craggs glances at the back: Joel is lying down. Toughen up, mate , Craggs wants to say, but shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the road
instead. They’re in his old man’s car, and he doesn’t want to stack it. A prang is the last thing they need.
Sull pats the dash. ‘Your old man let you have his wheels for once, eh?’
‘Well, he told me to fuck off,’ Craggs says. ‘So I did. Thought he’d appreciate me doing what he wanted for a change. And I can’t help that he taught me to drive when I was twelve, now, can I?’
When they laugh Craggs knows it’s more from the relief of being out of danger, if only for a little while. He washes down with tequila the thought of getting sprung by the cops.
After a while he parks opposite a servo and the three of them pass around the bottle. In the rear-view, Craggs sees Joel holding it up, peering at it—and listens to him crapping on for a bit about the worm. Craggs gets out of the car. When he sticks his head in the window a few minutes later, he’s holding up a crowbar. Now look at their faces!
‘What the fuck is that for?’
‘It’s for Sull,’ he says, grinning.
As usual, Joel hasn’t got a clue; he turns to Sull. ‘What are you gunna do with that?’
Sull is frowning. ‘No idea, mate. What are you on about, Craggs, you crazy bastard?’
Time to lay it down for them. ‘You see that servo?’
‘The petrol station?’
‘Yeah. They’ve got cash in there. A shitload of cash.’
‘Oh, Craggs, don’t be fucken insane,’ Joel says.
‘I’m not.’
There’s silence then.
Joel pipes up again. ‘Just get back in the car and chill out, all right? There’s about ten cartons in the boot we’ve gotta get through yet.’
Craggs keeps looking at Sull. ‘Whaddya reckon, mate?’
‘Don’t be a stupid fucker,’ Joel croaks in Sull’s direction. ‘There’s someone in there, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Whaddya reckon, mate?’ Craggs demands.
‘Well ... how much cash is in there?’
Craggs looks over at the joint. ‘Maybe a thou, maybe more.’
Sull drains the bottle of its last yellow mouthful. ‘You’re on. Let’s go.’
Sull gets out of the car. They piss on the sand. Craggs looks back at Joel. ‘You coming?’
‘Nah, mate, I’m not.’
Weak as. He shakes his head like a disappointed teacher.
He and Sull head towards the fluoro-bright building. He passes Sull the crowbar. Jesus. Sull holds it like he doesn’t know how. There’s no one else there apart from the person in the shop, no cars fuelling up. You can see the figure behind the counter. A chick. Shit. Hope she’s cool. Craggs looks back at the car, at Joel, his eyes tiny and shining in the blackness. Frozen.
Once they’re in, it happens in fast-forward.
The sliding doors shut. The fluoros are so harsh. Sull half raises his arm. The girl behind the counter is opening the till. Then a moan goes up, the moan of yet another alarm, and there’s a sudden blur of movement—and Craggs is leaping the counter, half climbing over it—and then the girl is dropping back, and he is grabbing Sull by the shirt, shouting Get up! and they are running to the car, the crowbar dangling from Sull’s hand.
Craggs shoves him into the car and sees Joel staring at Sull’s T-shirt. At the blood on it. Fine sprayed spots, even a couple on his face, like little zits.
They drive away in silence.
Sull begins to vomit in the footwell.
14
I was awake all night, waiting.
I found out later that the cops were over at Craggs’s within a couple of hours, then they busted Sull. They paid me a visit the next day. I was taken down to the station for questioning. McPhee was there, lording around like King Dick himself. Said he liked the mug shot I’d left them on the CCTV, and laughed. They’d already primed Craggs and Sull, but they still hauled me over the coals—wanted to know everything about the bottle shop and every detail about what happened afterwards: who was there, precise times, the works. I felt like a fucking rat but it was a huge relief to be able to tell them I’d stayed in the car, even if I was there, just further away. Hiding in the car. I bet that’s what Craggs thinks: that I hid.
I asked the cops about the person behind the counter. That was McPhee’s moment of glory, telling me about her head injury and that someone had gone psycho in there, vented some kind of dark anger on this defenceless chick, a uni student, he said, ‘working nightshift to pay for her studies.’ Eventually, he told me they reckoned she was gunna be okay, said she’d had a bunch of stitches and was under observation in hospital.
He leaned down and put his face close to mine. ‘You 100 per cent sure it wasn’t you in there, son?’
I could smell his breath. ‘I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with it. I stayed in the car.’
‘The stolen car.’
‘It’s his dad’s!’
‘Yeah, he stole it from his dad.’
I shook my head slightly. Whatever.
He nodded then, smug as. ‘Yeah, your mates told me you piked out on em.’
I kept my eyes steady on the table.
He paused and said to everyone in the room, ‘I guess this is one of those times you can feel lucky to be such a spineless prick, hey, Joel?’
Dad blew his fucking lid. I’m amazed he didn’t punch me out or throw me out or something. Looking back at what we did, I completely deserved anything he could have dished out. But he didn’t do anything normal like that—I wish he had, almost. No, what Dad did was worse. He stood by me, but he also agreed with the cops and didn’t argue or say anything when they started talking about detention and stuff. I guess I thought he might have tried to stop them when it got to that, but he didn’t.
They made it really clear what was gunna happen to Sull and Craggs. The two of them were going down, Sull big-time, because of what happened with the girl. Aggravated assault, that’s what they called it. That’s when the whole ordeal finally came down on me like rubble from the Twin Towers. I realised what we’d been involved in, and that we were going to suffer the consequences—really pay —for what we’d each done. It was Sull I felt the worst for; I felt terrible for him, thinking back over the night. It should never have turned out the way it did—he never set out to do anything like that. Craggs reckoned Sull was never meant to use the crowbar, just to scare the chick with it, but fuck, that made it worse somehow, like it was just some sick joke that got way outta hand.
I was freaked out for days afterwards. I couldn’t sleep or eat or anything. It was like I’d been pretending I was someone else until then, as though it wasn’t really Joel, and even if it was, nothing really bad would actually happen. But when the cops and the court got heavy and Dad made it clear he agreed with them, I guess it just hit home. I was going to jail. Juvenile detention, youth remand centre, whatever you wanna call it—they all mean the same thing. Joel Strattan was headed for the slammer. That’s when I really felt like I was in a movie, playing the starring role. And the lights were too hot, man; they burned right into me.
15
The rain dribbles onto the tin roof. Constantly uneven. I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, I can’t fucken sleep. I look over at the yin–yang stone and all I can see is the black part, it’s taking over everything. I can’t even remember what Bella said but all I know is I can’t see any fucken stars, that’s for sure. I roll around in bed until I’m boiling hot and then I get up, dying to do something, but what? I pace the shack, feeling this huge welling pissedoffness in me like I want to break out and run around and shout or something, but there’s nothing out there, and just being in here makes me want to break things. Everything is so the same, and there’s nothing to do. I want to see Bella! I want to talk to her about things, tell her I’m gunna get my shit together. I want to see her play soccer. I bet there’s dudes ogling her from the sidelines, especially now with me gone.
I’ve gotta get some music happening in here. That stupid old granny radio is gunna get smashed shortly. It might get smash
ed in a second if I don’t chill out. Every time I turn it on there’s someone droning on about when to plant your petunias or how to prune your lemon tree: it makes me nauseous. I think I’m going schizo out here. My brain is frying and there’s no one to help me get perspective. McPhee got what he wanted, I guess: for Joel to fry a fuse. That’s what he would have been betting on, for sure.
The rain’s getting harder. Now I know why no one builds houses with tin roofs anymore, it’s like getting your head drilled in the middle of the night.
The letter from Craggs is lying unopened on the table next to Dad’s. I slump down, and focus on it warily. Does it count as a breach of my conditions, even reading a letter from Craggs? Do I really want to read this? I have to read this, I say out loud, and tear it open before I can change my mind.
Blowjoel,
Bet you never expected me to write, eh? What’s that? You never thought I could write? That’s ten years in the slammer for that misdemeanour, you little shit. Well, I figured you may need the company out there with no one to chew the spew with. Me, I’m lucky—I’ve got Crusty and Max to listen to all day, every day. They like to go over their best gigs, mainly car jobs, so I’m learning heaps. And of course there’s always the gym to go to and get rid of some of that pent-up fuckedupness. Needless to say, mate, there’s a fair few mini Arnies around the place.
No complaints really, though, except that I’m bored shitless—this poxy letter shows you how desperate I am. Part of the deal here is social rehab, i.e. group therapy with some psych about two years older than us who runs these pathetic anger management workshops and—get this—‘Youth in a Changing World’ seminars. Give me a fucking break. Those still awake at the end of the session are probably the biggest psychos.
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