Coming Home to Roost

by Mary-anne Scott

  Mr Rashim was talking to the man on his far side, who wore a trapped expression. Elliot made sure he kept up his conversation with Zeya and her mother so he didn’t have to speak to Old Man Rash.

  The big surprise was that the senior Rashims left immediately after dinner, and as they walked off into the darkness to find their car Elliot felt he hadn’t seen anything so glorious in a long time.

  ‘They always leave early,’ Zeya said. ‘But they usually take me with them. I can’t believe I’m allowed to get a taxi.’

  ‘Your father can tell I’m trustworthy. Shame for him my wolf’s grin is hidden in the bad light out here.’

  ‘Show me,’ Zeya said. She came around to stand in front of him and he grimaced and bared his teeth.

  ‘You’re just a sheep in wolf’s clothing — not scary at all.’ They stood in the darkest part of the path looking at each other. To Elliot, Zeya looked exquisite; so different to any girl he’d ever seen. He barely breathed as he waited, and then at last Zeya leaned in and kissed him. It was scarcely a kiss; she slid her lips across his mouth, but she was there, so close. He waited again, touching her arms but giving her space.

  She lifted her face up and Elliot ran his fingers over the gold chain around her head. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered. He let himself breathe slowly and he could smell jasmine or something sweet. He waited some more, and then Zeya kissed him, deep and hard. Elliot pulled her in and savoured her taste. She put her hand on his neck, her fingers in his hair and he groaned.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d be doing this,’ Zeya said.

  ‘Is this, like, from Bangkok?’ he murmured.

  ‘It must be. It’s not behaviour the Burmese encourage.’ Zeya put both hands around his neck and looked up at him. Her eyes were black ovals and the faint misty rain fell on her face.

  ‘You should be inside, out of this weather,’ Elliot said. But he kept her close. ‘I don’t want to let you go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go. I don’t want a relationship either,’ Zeya whispered into his neck. ‘What does all this mean?’

  ‘It means we dig each other. Let’s just roll with the punches for now.’ Elliot kissed Zeya once again as if he could get drunk on her mouth.

  Zeya laughed. ‘Punches? I thought it was kick-boxing you were worried about.’

  ‘Tonight, Zeya, I’m not worried about a thing. I just wish you weren’t getting rained on.’

  As they walked back to the restaurant, they heard the sound of someone vomiting and moaning, and there, to the right of the main door, was the flimsy-dress girl barfing on the tiled steps. She held her friend’s hand as she threw away her evening. Her parents and a teacher milled around in helpless disgust.

  ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl,’ Elliot said as they slipped past and went back inside to their table.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Elliot asked Zeya. He looked around the deserted tables and saw that nearly all of Zeya’s classmates had left. Zeya smiled as she picked candle wax off the side of the candelabra.

  ‘Gone to other parties.’ She fed the shards back into the flame. ‘Father never lets me go to parties so no one asks me. This is the most he’s ever let me do.’

  ‘Do you always do what your father wants?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?’

  ‘Not always. I’m eighteen — old enough to make up my own mind.’

  ‘Old enough to vote,’ Zeya said with envy in her voice.

  ‘Yeah, but why would I?’ Elliot remembered his father also mentioned voting when he made his disastrous birthday speech, and he wondered why some people thought it was so important. ‘Politics is a load of rubbish. Bores me stupid.’

  Zeya’s face dropped. ‘But it’s your right, your duty. How can you say that?’

  ‘Well obviously I will vote one day,’ he hastened to add, ‘but for now I don’t know who’s who or what they’re on about. It’s like kindergarten kids having a go at each other.’

  Zeya spread her hand, palm down on the table and stared at it. She touched her thumb. ‘My father’s brother, Uncle Aung Win, lost his fingers fighting for the right to vote.’

  ‘Oh yuk — sorry.’ Elliot remembered too late that flippancy around Zeya was not a good idea. ‘Did they shoot his hand off?’

  ‘No, they took one finger at a time.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Why would I joke? Uncle Aung Win was a printer, for a leaflet protest, and every finger was a separate ink run, weeks, sometimes months apart.’

  ‘You mean he kept going back for more?’

  ‘When you’re under a dictatorship the right to vote becomes more important than the right to other basic human needs.’ Zeya made sawing movements at the base of the fingers on her left hand. ‘I think Uncle would haunt you from his grave if he heard you say you can’t be bothered voting.’

  ‘Your country’s crazy.’ Elliot bunched his hand into a fist and stuffed it under his arm.

  ‘We don’t want to be crazy. Generations of my family have never known peace — but how can we have peace if we’re not allowed to vote for our own government?’

  ‘It’s lose/lose for you. I take it Uncle Aung Win died?’

  ‘In the 1988 uprising. My father decided to escape after that.’

  ‘Your uncle must’ve been brave.’

  ‘Bravery’s relative. When the military started on his right hand, he renounced the leaflets and lost his courage, but they took his thumb anyway. He said his missing thumb gave him the most ghost pain. He called it his coward’s stump.’

  ‘Holy shit. I’d have quit at the first sign of a knife.’

  ‘You don’t know that. It’s only when you’re threatened that you find out what you’re capable of.’

  Elliot gathered up Zeya’s hands and held them. ‘So Uncle Aung Win died fighting for democracy and you live here where we’re free to vote but can’t be bothered?’

  ‘Freedom’s just a word. The girls in my class talk about losing their freedom when they have to stay late after school.’ Zeya pushed her chair back to stand up. ‘But speaking of freedom, I’d better get home before I turn into a pineapple.’

  ‘Pumpkin.’

  ‘Ha, not so sweet. I’ve probably bored you going on about Burma.’

  ‘No, I’m fascinated. I need a cause, maybe I could take it on, lend my weight and all that.’

  ‘No, you must have your own passions. What upsets you? What jokes hurt you?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Elliot said, rubbing the back of his neck. But he did know. He thought his private life was shabby compared to Zeya’s world.

  Elliot and Zeya grabbed a taxi and slid into the back seat together. She sat close to him and let Elliot put his arm around her and kiss her face. ‘Hey,’ he whispered.

  ‘Seatbelts!’ The driver had a wide face and a block neck. His beanie was pulled down low and it was hard to tell where his head finished and his neck began. He looked Asian and he stared resolutely at them through his rear-vision mirror. ‘No seatbelt, no drive.’

  Zeya slid across to the far side and clipped her belt on. She kept her head down.

  Elliot muttered ‘Stupid, bloody—’ under his breath. He took her hand in the darkness. ‘Hey,’ he said again.

  But she shook her head. ‘I’m like him — always an outsider. You would’ve said “stupid bloody Asian” if I wasn’t here. Is it better to live in safety as an outsider, or in fear in my own country?’

  ‘Yeah. Dumb choice.’

  ‘When I rang you the other night I was going to call tonight off,’ Zeya said. ‘I didn’t want the hassle with my father.’

  ‘But you couldn’t resist me?’

  ‘You sounded so keen.’ She looked at him across the back seat. ‘Desperate really.’

  ‘I was,’ Elliot said with a grin. ‘I am.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Arnie was cooking up black pudding and sausages for lunch and the smell drew Elliot upstairs as if it was a physical tow rope.


  ‘Here he is,’ Arnie said. ‘Thought you’d be driven out of your subterranean bolt-hole when this lot wafted your way.’

  Elliot grabbed three eggs out of the carton and laid them beside the frying pan. ‘And fried bread if we’ve got any.’

  ‘Did you need your karate moves on Old Man Rash last night?’ Arnie cut the air with his spatula before striking a pose. ‘Missa Rashim fight for daughter’s honour?’

  ‘That’s the sort of crap they have to put up with all the time. We pretend to be inclusive in this country but minority groups really suffer.’

  ‘Oh, I say.’ Arnie raised one section of the hedge that ran above his eyes and served as eyebrows. ‘One date with her and you’re an expert on racial tension?’

  ‘The Rashims are Buddhists. That means treating all people as equal.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting fancy lighting for a shrine next.’ Arnie laughed as he cracked the eggs on the side of his pan. ‘I need to find you an elderly lady to date so you can promote rights for us old codgers.’ He used his spatula to tap the kitchen window and it left an oily residue on the glass. ‘I’m going to need a ramp out there before long.’

  ‘Buddhists have strategies. Zeya was telling me. They learn to control their minds rather than letting their minds control them.’

  ‘All very commendable,’ Arnie said. He pushed the toaster down on two fat slices of white bread. ‘Get the butter out while we’re still allowed to eat it.’

  ‘It’s not about rules; it’s basically living well. “Do no harm” seems to be the basic thing.’

  ‘Admirable. So how does this help the poor girl back home who’s getting ready to have your baby?’

  ‘Why do you always go on about her?’ Elliot rattled dirty cutlery out of the sink and ran hot water over it. ‘The thing is,’ he called out over the noise, ‘she’s had millions of boyfriends; she sleeps around.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like “do no harm”. Gossip like that can be very damaging to folks.’ Arnie slid the food onto plates and carried it to the table. They sat opposite each other and Elliot began to tuck in. Arnie left him for two mouthfuls before he spoke again. ‘You don’t know the truth of that girl’s private life, so deal with facts, not rumours.’

  ‘Did we finish the tomato sauce?’

  ‘Are you the baby’s father? Did you have sex with her?’

  ‘Oh, for god’s sake.’

  ‘Answer the bloody question.’

  ‘Once.’ He glared at Arnie. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Once is irrelevant. It’s not about numbers, or what’s fair, or reputation; it’s facts.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘If you want to live by a few Buddhist principles then start off with honesty and humility is what I’m saying.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying and I will do all the right stuff if it turns out I’m the father. No point in doubling up the drama.’

  ‘Doubling up the drama!’ Arnie said in disgust. ‘Doing the right thing by your folks and preparing them for what might be coming is not doubling up the drama.’

  ‘It is. They’ll get all stressed and upset and it might turn out to be someone else’s kid.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, son, I really do, but it’s going to be more upsetting if they find out they’re grandparents and they didn’t get any prior warning. Being the last people in town to hear your own news is pretty tough.’

  ‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that. I’m doing it my way.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you, but you’d better take shelter ’cause I have a feeling that before long, there’s going to be some mighty big chickens coming home to roost.’

  ‘You have to come to my eighteenth. You can’t let me down.’

  ‘No way, Deeks — I’m laying low for a couple of months — you know how it is.’ Elliot sat in a deckchair at Arnie’s with his feet up on the railing. It was freezing outside, but it gave him space from flappy ears.

  ‘We’ve been to each other’s birthdays since we were four! You can’t miss this one.’ Deeks dropped his voice. ‘Dad’s away; all the lads are coming. Don’t let me down, Rooster.’

  ‘I’m keeping out of town, mate.’

  ‘Just arrive on Saturday night and leave on Sunday; no one needs to know you’ve been.’

  ‘What about Lena?’

  ‘Who? Never heard of her.’

  ‘No offence, Deeks, but you’re a blabber.’

  ‘Oh come on, Rooster, you know I don’t gossip; not about important stuff. Just come up and be with me on my birthday.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll ask Arnie for the van, but don’t say a thing.’

  Deeks let out a big sigh. ‘Atta, mate.’

  ‘Arnie?’ Elliot said, when he came inside. ‘I think I should head home. Deeks is turning eighteen this Saturday so it could be a good chance.’

  ‘Good on you. Make sure you give your folks my regards and I’m pleased you’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Take the van. You know how to deal with the starter motor.’

  ‘I won’t need to stop, it’s only four hours.’

  Elliot thought he must have jinxed himself because there was a hold-up on the longest, straightest stretch of road home and the van cut out and wouldn’t start again. His cellphone rang when he was dealing with the AA guy.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Roothsta! Where are you?’ Deeks’ voice was thick and wet-sounding. He must have peaked an hour ago and it was only 8pm.

  ‘I’m nearly there. There’s been a hold-up—’

  ‘Indians!’ Deeks screamed at people in the background. ‘He’s been ambushed.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Elliot said to the mechanic. ‘Hardly worth going now.’

  ‘No, you’re fine,’ he shouted over the revving engine. ‘Get moving and don’t stop till you’re there.’

  Deeks’ house was ablaze with lights when Elliot arrived and all the doors were open to the street. Patches of warm air blasted from the heat pumps and there were empty pizza boxes and bottles strewn over the tables.

  Elliot felt older than eighteen as he closed up the house and locked the doors across the front. He could hear the party noise coming from the garage and he delayed going out there as long as possible.

  There was a set of narrow windows on the side of the garage and Elliot was able to get a look inside before anyone noticed him. A big piece of plywood was lying across the top of kitchen barstools and the surface was set up for beer-pong.

  Guys were moving around the table in a weird sort of floating way; it was only when Elliot stepped inside that he realised they were all on wheels.

  Deeks was wearing rollerblades and he glided towards Elliot and embraced him in a collision hug. ‘My brutha,’ he said. A beery mist rained over Elliot’s face.

  ‘Roothsta’s here,’ he said to the group. Elliot waved and shook hands with Ratty, Mike, Will and about ten others from their year-group.

  ‘I’ll get myself a drink,’ Elliot said, as he peeled Deeks’ heavy arms off his shoulders.

  ‘Yeah, getdrink’n. Then put yrwheels on.’

  It was going to be a long night if Elliot didn’t make a fast effort to catch them up. Some of the guys were on kids’ bikes; a couple had skateboards awkwardly strapped to their feet.

  ‘I had rollerblades fer ya,’ Deeks said, pulling back the tarpaulin that covered the lawnmower. ‘I hid them here aftalunch.’

  ‘Is that when you started drinking?’

  ‘Well if I’m not wayshted, then the day is.’ Deeks grinned. ‘I can only say that when I’m pissed.’ He straightened up and rolled a bit on his blades. ‘Someone’s flogged’em, you’ll have to use thish.’ He pulled a computer chair down from a shelf and gave it a shake to clear the bugs. The back fell off. ‘You don’t need the leaning biths,’ Deeks said. ‘Only kneeling or sthanding; no sitting.’

  Elliot was far too sober for this sort of carry-on. He could drink fast and get into the game, or h
e could pretend to get involved and skive off as soon as possible. In the end, the decision was made for him.

  ‘If I stand here and blow this ball into that cup, then you all pay me five bucks,’ Ratty called out. He held a ping-pong ball above his head and waited for everyone’s attention. ‘If I miss,’ and he paused again for effect, ‘then I pay you all ten bucks. That’s ten each.’

  There was general excitement at the idea. Deeks forgot about the condition of Elliot’s chair, and called out over the shouts of agreement, ‘It’s my birthday; me firsth.’ He reached into his back pocket for money and lost his centre of gravity. Everyone saw him go, a graceful, ‘dancing on ice’ swoop. Deeks was too drunk to pull his hand out of his pocket and fell onto the lawnmower. His stuck hand scraped down the sharp blades.

  Deeks thought he was alright until he saw the blood. ‘Blood! Blood!’ He squawked like a bird and it was a catchy phrase because soon it was being chanted around the room. Elliot pedalled over. There was a shitload of blood.

  ‘He’s slashed his wrist,’ Will called out and Deeks went into a tailspin.

  ‘I don’t want to die. Save me, Roostha.’

  ‘It’s the back of your hand, you moron.’

  ‘Is that worse?’ Deeks’ voice was shaky.

  ‘Get yourself together. There’s no main arteries in the back of your hand.’ Everyone seemed to be looking to Elliot for guidance and he liked that. ‘Show me it.’

  Deeks offered up his hand and they all leaned in. ‘It’ll be tendons, they never heal,’ someone said in a helpful tone.

  ‘Call an ambulance.’

  ‘Yes! Gimme an ambliance.’ Deeks lay back on the floor gasping, like a fish on the beach.

  ‘You don’t need an ambulance; it’s just flaps of skin. I’ll drive you to the After Hours.’ Elliot climbed off his chair and walked to the door. ‘Wrap his hand and get him to his car; I’ll get the keys.’

  Mike and Will began to lift him but they kept skidding away. ‘Maybe take your wheels off?’ Elliot suggested.