by Belle Brooks
By the time I’ve thrown Alan’s bag into the tray of the ute along with the wheelchair I know he will need at times, but I sure as hell won’t let him rely on, Alan finally makes the distance and stops not far from my feet.
“What’s this now? New car? What happened to your rusty old shit heap?” He scrunches his face tight.
“Yep. New car. That rusty old shit heap caught fire.”
“Shit, hey? Righto then. Where do you want these?” Alan points to the crutches tucked under his arms.
“In the back with you, I’d say.”
“Cool.”
I take a moment to look through the passenger window to check on Tessa. She’s sleeping. I pause for a moment and wait for her chest to rise and fall. It does.
Opening the back door, I offer Alan my arm in support. A little lift is all he needs—he underestimates his own strength. He’s strong.
“Who’s the old chick in the front?” Alan wiggles his eyebrows as he fastens his seatbelt.
“Ms Simon. Our new flatmate.”
The sound of her raspy breaths and snores tell me Tessa’s sleeping soundly. It must be deep because all this noise hasn’t woken her. Anybody could have stolen the car and she wouldn’t have had the foggiest idea it had happened.
“You need anything?” I offer Alan.
“Nope.”
“Right. Let’s go then.” By the time I have the driver’s door open, Roxie has managed to plant her furry butt in my seat.
“Really?” I smile, scuffing her hair. “You better move, dog, or I’m going to sit on you.”
She doesn’t move a whisker. No surprises there.
“Roxie, come here,” Alan instructs with an outstretched hand.
Roxie doesn’t hesitate clambering into the back and sniffing wildly over his clothing.
It’s a blue-coloured remote the size of a matchbox. Three grey buttons rise out of the plastic covering. The question I’m asking myself is which one of these buttons opens the garage door. Of course, the third button I push is the one that has the door going upwards.
Tessa snores, one loud sound before it catches in her throat and has her coughing and spluttering. The rapid rate with which she draws breath through the points in her nose and the desperation of her hand clutching the tubes has me shaking my head. I knew all those cigarettes she smoked over the years would do her in. It’s a tragic way to go, really.
“Is she all right?” Alan’s concern doesn’t go unnoticed, and I nod in response.
“You’re all right, Tess. Calm down.”
Her eyes are so wide and the blue colouration flashing her lips momentarily has me cringing. I knew she was sick, but I guess I’d never really wanted to acknowledge the extent.
Driving the car forward, I shift the stick into neutral and pull up the handbrake. Turning the engine off, I swing my vision between Tessa and Alan and have one moment where I think what the fuck am I doing? The doubt doesn’t last long.
“Where are we?” Tess says.
“Home. We’re home.”
“Home.” There’s surprise to her tone.
“Yep. Home. Hold tight for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
I think it takes all of thirty seconds to remove myself from the car and make it to the screen door, the one separating the house from the garage.
I’m surprised when I enter the kitchen, mainly because it’s set up with appliances on the bench and there’s a fridge in a space no fridge was when I left.
Bang!
The noise is coming from the upstairs level, so I hightail it through the open space, taking the stairs two at a time and racing towards the master bedroom where the banging sounds grow louder.
Shit. I didn’t see any other cars in the driveway. Who the hell is here?
“About fucking time you got here. Dude, what arsehole is not here when the removalist and unpacking service arrives?” Blocker is shaking his head and holding a wrench in his grease-covered hand. “You’re going to stand there with your mouth hung open then?” He uses his free hand to scratch his bare chest right over the skull and rose tattoo he had done when we were adolescents.
“What are you doing here already? Where’s your car?”
“I rode the bike. I parked it round back.”
“Fair enough. What have you been doing?”
“Helping your hired help set your fucking place up, that’s what. Everything’s done, you slack bastard. If you don’t like where I told them to put stuff, or where I’ve put stuff, then sort it later, right?”
“Right. And everything’s been done?”
“It’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
“What are friends for? Anyway, where have you been?”
“Hospital. Getting Alan. I picked up Tess as well.”
Blocker cocks his overgrown eyebrows. “Thought you were doing that later today.”
“Time to kill. I Thought I’d get it over and done with.”
“Fair enough. Where the hell are they then?” He wipes the sweat dripping from the front of his crewcut over his forehead.
“In the car. Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.”
He chuckles dryly. “Fucking frazzled prick.”
He continues to chuckle as I jog down the hallway and take the stairs three at a time on my way back down.
I’m not frazzled. Or am I?
Tessa is the first I help out, and once she’s clutching the handle holding her oxygen tank, I offer my arm for Alan to take as he makes the small jump to the ground.
“Thanks, Tank.” He smiles before retrieving his crutches.
“This way,” I say.
I don’t take the pair of them on a tour. Right now, their bedrooms will do. I’m still shocked as to how all the shit I bought to furnish some of this house is here and already unpacked. The removalists said they’d arrive a little after 1:00 p.m. Also, I’m confused as to how Blocker knew to be here earlier than planned, and what the hell the wrench was for.
Making the back end of the lower level, I point to the two doors on either side of the lounge room, which has already been furnished with a rustic brown corner lounge and a television mounted to the wall. Seriously, when did this happen?
Alan is staring at me, and I’m pretty sure from his puzzled gaze I look rattled … and I am. I’m definitely rattled.
“Right.” I puff out my cheeks and release a hasty breath. “Tess, your room is on the right. Alan, yours is the left. These are the only two bedrooms on the lower level of the place, and they are yours. Tess, I’ll have the rest of your stuff brought over from your apartment before nightfall, and Alan, you can go out tomorrow and buy some stuff to make your room homely, or whatever teenage boys do nowadays.”
“Tank.” It’s all Alan says before his mouth hangs wide-open.
“Finlay, how can you afford this?” Tessa’s eyes are wet and she sniffs.
I’m not sure if she’s about to cry or sneeze, but she’s searching for my reaction.
“How do you think?” I whisper.
Her lip quivers and then the moisture previously coating her pupils drips from her lower lid and races down either cheek. “It was you. You were the winner.” She’s breathless.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Alan says with disbelief.
Running my hand over my still uncut hair and down my face, I take a moment to think about how this one night changed everything. How one piece of flimsy paper meant I’d live a life I’m not even sure how to live.
“Well, I’m just glad someone deserving won all the money. Finlay, you deserved to win the lotto.”
Tessa’s smile beams with a mixture of pride and relief, and I’m pretty sure I’ll hold onto this image for the rest of my life. I’ve seen that look of pride twice before: once when she took me in as a six-year-old orphan and I let her hold me tight; the other time when I came back for the safety of her arms after what happened with Penny.
You see, Tessa isn’t just
the neighbour who lived above me in those shitty-arse apartments for the last six years. Tessa is so much more. She’s so much more than just a foster mother. She’s a saint.
Chapter Eight
Nightfall leaks across the once brilliant blue sky until it’s a heavy black in some parts, and a soft moonlit grey in others. Blocker, Sailor, Tardo, and Rance stand around the grill, beers in hands, chatting in such a comfortable way, it’s as if they’ve always had a friend who is a multi-millionaire.
I’m a multi-millionaire.
The orphan boy without a place to call home for a short while. The teenager who grew up to be the guy least likely to succeed in life—the loser of the pack. The young man who lost the love of his life to the blade of a steel knife. Life was never going to be easy for a nobody like me, and it was evident from the beginning, even more so in high school. That social positioning can really put a target on one’s back. If it wasn’t for these four guys standing not far from me, I probably wouldn’t have stayed in school. I probably wouldn’t have bulked up from the little runt I was, and I probably wouldn’t have survived past the age of eight when these four kids came to my rescue on my way home. Apparently, I had the nicest shoes for the likes of crooked drug dealers that day, and they could fetch at least a blunt to keep their needs satisfied.
Now I’ve finally made it, and I’m guessing poker night will be a regular meeting at mine from now on. No more wrong-side-of-the-tracks sessions for us.
Flipping steaks is the Aussie way to socialise in one’s backyard. Before, we’d complete this ritual in a tight courtyard; now, we have a grassed area bigger than the school that educated us. Who would have believed it? Not me, that’s for sure.
“Fuck off, you tosser. What? You got cement for brains, you dumb shit?” Blocker cusses, loud and proud. He’s a rambunctious guy. What you see is what you get, and if that prick doesn’t like you he’ll make sure you know it. Class clown who enjoys putting a person back in their place. His lack of height has never held Blocker back, because his dominating stance and straight-shooting abilities have always secured him power.
As usual, Blocker’s having no trouble giving Tardo a good serving, and Tardo backs down without a flinch of his muscles.
“Whatever.” He relents.
He’s never one to give lip back; actually, Tardo’s not one to say much at all. Watching Tardo’s broad shoulders slump as his head follows suit has me wondering, firstly, what the hell Blocker is giving him shit about. And secondly, if we would’ve made it through our lives so far without each other.
“Here’s hoping Tank gets us some bloody great pussy with all this money of his. I just want some high-end pussy, dammit.”
That’s Rance, with his disrespectful talk of women. He’s an expressive fellow and an absolute pig. Probably why he doesn’t get serviced as much nowadays in the gentleman area without having to pay for it. He’ll learn one day you need to be respectful if you want a classy bird to suck you off. Rance lacks such a filter—I wonder how many drinks will be splashed in his face before he has an epiphany. Right now, I’d say many more than the hundreds he’s already received.
“I calculate you’re going to turn into a decent human being in about ten years, Rance. The probability of this happening I’ll base off all our current ages ... twenty-six … and the maturity of your mind, give or take a few years. Here’s hoping with time you’ll grow up, fucker.” Sailor is the geek of the group, and he’s also the type of person who astounds you. He holds his liquor like a veteran biker and does calculus like a math whizz. He’s also a romantic git with all his poetry and stuff. How he found his way into our tight circle still baffles me, yet it would be lacking without him.
“Go fuck yourself, Sailor.” Rance lands one hard punch into his narrow chest, and Sailor flips him off in return. Nothing new there.
“Beautiful night for it, lads. Here’s to a brighter future for us all.” Blocker holds his beer out from his body, and the boys follow suit until the sound of clinking glass rings loudly.
“Cheers,” Rance adds, and with a shake of my head, I trot the remaining distance to join the pack.
“There he is, the fucking legend. Frank the fucking Tank,” Rance announces, before reaching into an Esky placed a step from his feet on the ground and retrieving a beer. “Hey, Tank, you’re as rich as that pretty boy Slade now.” He places the beer in his mouth, utilising his teeth to flick off the cap. “Here, Tank. Get this in ya, would ya?” He grins, passing over the cold brew.
“Thanks.”
“No worries. Least I can do since you’re paying for all this crap.” The cheeky smirk following doesn’t go unnoticed, but the amused huff from his nose I choose to ignore.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it, Tank?” Tardo speaks softly.
“Yeah, mate. It is. But—”
“Hey! I’m guessing you’re Alan.” Rance has his back to me when I flick my attention in his direction. “Come join the party.”
Alan is hesitant at first. In fact, he looks as though he’s just seen a ghost.
“You’re right, come on over.” I hope to ease his display of nervousness.
The twitching of his eye and lip give him away. This kid has been through more than enough these past couple of months. He’s bound to be lost and confused.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, swinging his body through the centre of the crutches tucked under his armpits.
“Alan Tumbling, meet Maverick Holden. We all call him Blocker. Ranwick Crawford—”
“Just Rance. Everyone calls me Rance,” Rance butts in, outstretching his hand, which Alan promptly shakes.
“Lucus Tardino … or Tardo, as we refer to him,” I continue. “Finally, this is Sailor Marsh—”
“Nice to meet you Alan.” Sailor offers an enthusiastic wave.
“Okay.” Alan nods. “Nice to meet you all.”
“Likewise.” Sailor is quick in reply.
“These fellows are the boys I’ve grown up with. You’ll see them around a fair bit, okay?”
“Sure.” Alan seems apprehensive. His soft tone and slumped shoulders are a dead giveaway.
“How about I get you a seat, Al? Hell, Blocker, help me get everyone a seat.” Rance places his beer on top of the Esky, and Blocker follows suit. “Be right back.” Rance gives a thumbs-up before the pair of them stride towards the back entrance of the house.
“Sorry, Tank. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. I kind of needed fresh air, and I heard the chatter—”
“Nothing to be sorry for. This is your home now, Alan—feel free to do as you like.”
Alan shifts his chin towards the ground and bobs his head.
A semi-circle is the chosen set-up as we pull up stumps. Three Eskies full of beer are placed in the centre and act as portable coffee tables, and for Rance, a corner of one becomes his foot stool. In a matter of minutes, we’re settled and conversation is effortless.
“So, Al, Tank tells us you’re going back to school.”
“Yep. Seems like it.” Alan leans back, puffing out his cheeks.
The boys take no time bouncing questions at Alan after this, and he does well in answering them, even the ones about the day of his accident and the eventual loss of his leg to infection.
“Your burger, Tank.” Tardo holds out a disposable plate with a loaded steak burger resting in its centre.
“Thanks.” I’m starving, and this burger looks good. Fine dining from here on out. Real food, real meat, and good company—not much more one can ask for.
The night is full of laughter, and every thirty minutes, one of us does the walk back up to the house just to do a check on Tess, who has so far slept for hours. I didn’t realise how much Tessa would sleep, and I wonder if it’s because she’s worn out from today or if this is a regular occurrence.
On his return, Rance lifts his thumb in the air.
“Tess is all good, yeah? And is Roxie still curled up on her bed with her?” I ask the same question every time.
Honestly, I hadn’t even thought this far ahead. Would Tessa need a nurse? I mean, she didn’t say anything about needing assistance earlier this evening when the boys set up her room for her with the things I had brought over from her apartment.
“Tank. Nurse for Ms Simon.” Rance waves his hand in front of my face, alerting me I hadn’t answered his question.
“Yeah. I might ask if she wants one.”
“Now you’re thinking, numb skull.”
“Hello.” It’s a deep voice coming from within the dark.
“Hi,” I call, standing to my feet.
“Banter. George Banter,” he says, stepping out of the shadows.
I walk towards him.
“I’m your neighbour. Number fourteen. Next door.”
“Nice to meet you.” I outstretch my hand when I close in and stop by his feet.
“You too, son.”
“Crossley. Tank.” Why did I say my name like that?
Banter is casually dressed. Light T-shirt, no collar. Black pants, mid length.
“Would you like a drink Mr Banter?”
“No, son. Don’t want to be an imposition.”
“No. You’re more than welcome.”
“I’ll pass.” He lifts his hand in a half wave, directing it to the boys sitting around the Eskies. “Quiet night?”
“Few drinks in celebration, yeah.”
“Settling in well?”
“So far so good.”
“Let me know if I can help you with anything.” He flicks his eyes to the watch wrapped around his wrist. He shifts from each foot as if he needs to be somewhere.
“I will. Thank you.”
“Walk me out.”
“Sure.” How did he even get into the yard in the first place? I don’t ask, but remain curious.
I soon learn Banter has entered through a gate on the side that has been left open. We walk through shoulder to shoulder.
“So what do you do for work, Mr Crossley?”
“Right now, not much. I’m new to the area. But, I am wanting to open a motorcycle store just on the outskirts of town. There’s this property that would be perfect for what I have in mind. I’m going to see if I can buy the land. It’s a huge piece of land—”
