by J A Mawter
‘Heard you were pretty good,’ said a boy covered from head to toe in full protective armour.
Darcy straightened and twisted to an upright position, facing backwards. ‘Heard right,’ he said as he rested on the handlebars, balancing with both feet off the ground.
‘Amateur,’ scoffed the boy. He laughed when Darcy’s feet touched the ground, then rode off.
‘Amateur,’ chorused the boy’s team as they passed.
Following right behind came another team. They, too, stopped.
This team’s different, registered Mio. No fancy clothes or protective gear or gloves. She noticed that their bikes wore dents and dings like badges of honour—this team looked like them.
Standing astride his bike Darcy crossed his arms and waited for them to pass. His eyes went from rider to rider. All but one stared him down.
They reminded Clem of a pack of wolves looking for a sign of weakness. She wheeled her bike next to Darcy’s. The Freewheelers would stand their ground.
Suddenly, Bella started to bark, a bark that erupted with such force that it rattled her jowls.
‘Sh,’ said Clem, stroking Bella’s ears. ‘Shush now.’
Bella sat in Clem’s basket straining at her lead. Every now and again she made little whimpering noises, before breaking out into another barrage of barking.
Mio, Tong and Darcy watched, puzzled. It was unusual for Bella to go on like this. By now Bella was bucking so hard she was gagging. Froth formed on her flews, the loose flaps of skin that hung down from her upper muzzle. Clem was finding it harder and harder to contain her.
‘You better control that dog,’ warned the first rider, looking as if he was prepared to flee.
‘I’m trying!’ snapped Clem, who had wound her arms under Bella’s chest to pin her down.
‘She’s usually pretty good,’ said Mio.
‘Good dog,’ agreed Tong.
Bella’s head wrenched back and forth as she barked. Her nails clawed at the basket—Clem was sure she’d rip them out.
‘Psycho dog,’ said the rider. Shaking his head he went on his way. As each person in his team walked past they added their own name to the list.
‘Nutso.’
‘Schizoid.’
‘Insane.’
‘She is not,’ yelled Clem, but before she could say any more Bella broke free. She’d twisted her whole head out of the collar! Clem stared at the lead with the empty collar in disbelief.
Bella scampered up to one of the riders. This rider was much, much smaller than the others. The helmet, ten sizes too big, swamped their face so it was impossible to tell who they were.
‘Bella!’ called Clem.
Every obedience lesson Clem had taught went straight out of Bella’s head, and she continued to bale up the rider, yapping and snapping.
Clem unclipped the lead and collar and lunged, but Bella pranced out of the way and ran round the other side of the bike. When she sat at the rider’s feet she calmed down, the deep throaty barks fading to excited little yelps.
Clem scooted in front of the bike but Bella saw her coming and scooted the other way. ‘Bella!’ growled Clem.
Some of the riders began to laugh, guffawing at Bella’s antics and Clem’s rising frustration.
‘Shut up!’ yelled Clem, feeling like an idiot.
Darcy, Mio and Tong hopped off their bikes to help. But nothing worked. Bella ran around like a dog possessed. Every so often she’d zip over to the tiny rider and paw the ground and whine.
Without warning, the rider went into maximum acceleration, knocking Bella over in a tumble of furry feet and tail.
Yowl!
‘Bella!’
‘That’s uncalled for!’ yelled Darcy, charging after the rider. As he drew parallel he reached down and grabbed the handlebars, pulling the bike towards him so that the rider was flung off.
Bella swooped down on them, like an eagle zooming in on its prey. Her teeth closed around the rider’s coat. As much as she tried Clem couldn’t break Bella’s grip. ‘Bell, no!’ By now Clem was at her wit’s end. Bella was attacking someone and she didn’t know how to stop it. Clem’s hands and arms were decorated with long red welts. It was amazing that she wasn’t bleeding.
Suddenly part of the jacket tore away. Bits of pocket lay on the ground.
Tong clicked his tongue and held out his hand, trying to distract Bella so that Clem could get close enough to slip the collar on. Mio stood on Bella’s other side, wishing she had some juicy morsels of meat to bribe her with. Darcy leapt and held Bella down.
Clem slipped the collar over Bella’s head and made the band tighter. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, as she stared at the gaping hole in the jacket, wondering how much the jacket had cost and debating whether or not she should offer some money to repair it.
By now the first rider had doubled back. His face was mottled with anger. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he threatened.
‘Maybe my mum can fix it?’ offered Clem.
But the lead rider wasn’t listening. He was signalling for the others to join him. ‘Let’s go.’ As the team were about to disappear around the back of a pile of wooden spools the lead rider turned. With his finger rammed in Clem’s direction he warned, ‘Stay away from The Peak.’
‘Or what?’ asked Darcy.
‘Or else.’
The whole altercation had not lasted much more than a minute. The shockwaves lasted much longer. Bella was her old self now, her pink tongue hanging out and her tail wagging, unaware of the ruckus she’d caused.
‘That could’ve got nasty, Clem,’ said Darcy. ‘Maybe you should leave Bella at home next time.’
Clem’s voice sounded ragged as she protested, ‘But she’s a Freewheeler. She stays with us.’
‘She’s a nuisance, Clem. That’s what she is. A great big fat nuisance.’
Clem bent down to pick up the mangled pocket, and something fell out. She gasped.
It was another doll’s head.
Chapter Fifteen
‘You think you can meet us at The Van? We have to talk.’ Clem hung up and turned to the others. ‘Bryce’ll be there at half past four.’ She checked her watch then went on, ‘That gives me plenty of time to drop Bella at home. And we need a snack. Whose turn is it?’
‘I think it’s Bryce’s,’ said Mio. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring something. See you in an hour.’
The kids rode down the hill in single file. Clem offered Tong her bike, happy to walk Bella home, and Tong gratefully accepted. Clem, Bella and Mio peeled off. Tong and Darcy decided to ride circuits to pass the time. They rode up one street, then turned into another, then another, before heading back to their starting place near the station. This late on a Saturday they had a clear run; there were no hordes of people to outmanoeuvre.
‘Want to do timed laps or race?’ Darcy asked Tong.
‘Race!’ answered Tong without hesitation.
Darcy laughed. ‘I’ll say one thing for you, Tong. You’re born to win.’
‘Born to win,’ echoed Tong with a nod.
‘We’ll go on three,’ said Darcy. ‘One.’
‘Mt.’
‘Two.’
‘Hai.’
‘Thr…’
‘Ba!’
Before Darcy could even finish, Tong took off. The boys went from stop to full throttle in only a few thrusts. Thigh and calf muscles bulged. It was a long time before they began to burn.
Tong led for the first stretch, and the second, but by the time they’d rounded the corner for the third part of the block they were so close that Tong could feel Darcy’s warm breath on his back. By the fourth leg the race was over, with Darcy the victor and Tong trying to work out what he’d done wrong.
‘Race, pant-pant, you, pant-pant, again,’ said Tong.
‘You’re on.’ Darcy nodded his head, saying, ‘You sure are a glutton for punishment.’
‘Now you lose. Me win.’
This time Tong’s determination paid off.
On the fourth leg he was still in the lead. He glanced over his shoulder, to see whether or not he could afford to ease up, but that one move cost him.
‘Never look back,’ said Darcy, whizzing past. ‘It slows you down. That’s how you lose a race.’
‘Yes,’ said Tong. He hung his head and turned away, not wanting Darcy to see his shame. He’d been so sure he would win that race. He’d even bragged that he’d win. What was it his grandmother used to say? Translated, it meant, The higher you climb the heavier you fall. His head hung lower. So much wisdom in that wizened old frame.
‘You missed by that much,’ said Darcy, lowering his pointer finger to his thumb so that they were only a millimetre apart. ‘You’ll beat me next time, you’ll see.’
‘Yes.’
At half past four they all met up at The Van. It was a huge relief when Bryce joined them.
‘Special occasion?’ he asked, eyeing the plate of food Mio had brought.
‘Not really,’ answered Mio. ‘Dad made a stack of these and let me bring some.’
Clem leant forward and sniffed. ‘What are they?’
‘They’re called kushi-dango, or sweet skewered dumplings.’
‘Mum’s dumplings don’t look like that,’ said Clem.
Darcy flicked her on the shoulder, saying, ‘That’s ‘cause they go in chicken soup, stupid.’
Bryce reached over and picked up a bamboo skewer with four dumplings on it, all of them covered with a sticky glaze. In true Bryce style he scoffed the lot. ‘Yum-m-m-m.’ He licked his fingers, adding, ‘These are now my official favourite. Okay if I have another one?’
‘Wait your turn,’ scolded Mio, although inside she smiled, pleased that her dumplings were such a success.
‘I’ve seen anime characters on TV munching on these,’ said Bryce, now on to skewer number two.
‘You’re right.’ Mio nodded. ‘They’re really popular in Japan. Everyone loves them.’
When the kids had had their fill it was time to get down to business.
‘We need to talk, Bryce.’ Clem kicked off the proceedings. ‘We need to know who took Tong’s bike.’
‘How would I know?’ Bryce’s face turned the colour of a blood plum. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
Darcy jumped in, saying, ‘We think it might be the same person who bombed our van.’
‘And left your key-ring up at the tower.’
‘Sounds like a long shot if you ask me,’ said Bryce. ‘Personally, I have no idea.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Darcy thumped his hand on top of the TV and the sound resounded in the confined space.
‘I don’t!’ Bryce bristled like a cornered animal. His lip curled into a snarl. ‘I don’t know who took the bike or who brought the key-ring back. Honest.’
At the word ‘honest’ Clem blanched. What had Bryce’s father said yesterday? That he was back to his old ways.
‘What about the graffiti?’ persisted Darcy.
‘What graf?’
‘PHREE and the star.’
Mio, Clem and Tong sat back, quietly relieved that it was Darcy who was slugging it out and not them.
Bryce’s features softened as he answered. ‘I’ve no idea who PHREE is. In another place, another time, I used to be PHREE. But not now…Not since I went to court. Could be anyone using the name PHREE. Lot of people want to be free.’ His voice grew quiet. ‘Not just me.’
Clem noticed that Darcy’s lips were compressed into a thin line.
Bryce went on. ‘As for the star. Who knows?! Could be any old star.’
‘But it’s not. It’s a shooting star.’
Shooting star.
Bryce catapulted back in time, to the night of Shooting stars are nature’s graf. He remembered Adz and him talking for ages about all the great singers and bands who’d written songs about shooting stars. There was Kelis and Elliott Smith and Golden Smog, Ashanti and Bad Company, even the old legends like Bob Dylan and Elton John. Snatches of stanzas and bars flitted in and out of his head, like his own personal music show. Bryce settled back, allowing the warmth of the music to flow through his veins. Then he realised something, with a pang. Lately, music was gone from his life. What with fighting with his dad and fighting with his friends, there was no place for music.
‘Bryce?’ Clem shook him back to the present, her voice catching. ‘What is it, Bryce? You okay?’
Bryce slumped with his face in his hands.
Mio and Tong kept a respectful silence. Darcy watched, his face sceptical.
After a few moments Bryce looked up. ‘I can’t help you,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Clem, patting his arm. But again she asked, ‘What’s with the shooting star, do you think? What’s it mean to you?’
Bryce took a measured breath before answering. ‘Nothing really. Except those lyrics by Boyzone. The ones about night-time being the only time when you feel good, ‘cause the rest of the world disappears and you can look at the stars and pretend you’re not really here.’ He looked at Clem. ‘It’s how I feel.’
‘Why…?’ began Darcy, but Clem hushed him. ‘Keep going,’ she said. Bryce’s eyes, wide and ringed with lashes, reminded her of Bella’s. She resisted the urge to pat him.
‘In the song, see. There’s this lone star, looking for a time and place that don’t seem wrong, and can’t you see? That’s lots of people. Me. Never fitting in. Life is always wrong.’ And then he sighed, a gusty sigh that ruffled the curtains in The Van.
Chapter Sixteen
Bryce cycled home from The Van, his thoughts at first swirling in his head in masses of brown and blue and black, then finally taking form in words. A bar of music was added, then a melody. Bryce tested them out, his voice ringing pure through the chilled afternoon air:
Wanting to fly
Willing to try
I don’t know why
He paused, searching for the next line:
I crash to the ground.
He hummed the tune, trying it on for size, then added the lyrics again, delighted at the way they all melded together. Searching for a second verse, he pedalled half-heartedly, the meanderings in his head mirroring the meanderings of his bike.
Soaring up high
Never say die…
He stalled, unable to find the words for what he wanted to say. Bryce was so distracted by his song lyrics that he forgot to watch where he was going. Too late, he was centimetres away from crashing into a café placard advertising hot coffee and donuts. Bryce swerved, then swerved again as he realised he was about to wipe out a street tramp napping in the late afternoon’s rays. The bike wobbled, rammed into some low railings, then flipped right over the top of them, depositing Bryce on the other side as well.
This was a part of the station Bryce had never seen before. The walls were blackened, and etched into the grime was the unmistakeable warning: Keep Out.
Bryce looked for an exit path then glanced upwards to where he’d fallen from. The ground on this side of the fence was much lower than the ground on the street side. He realised he wasn’t tall enough to climb back over, especially not with a bike. He swung around to examine his surroundings. There was rock, and a brick and cement wall, but no obvious exit. Bryce cursed himself again. He had no choice but to leave the bike and look for a way out on foot. He pushed the bike deeper into the shadows and secured it to the fence post with his trusty chain, then picked his way along the back of the building. Suddenly he stumbled into a courtyard. He looked around and whistled appreciatively. Four huge walls. Graf heaven. A place to paint where no-one would move you on or arrest you. A place to nurture talent.
The artwork here was different to that on the streets. On the streets crews left tags and throw-ups on every surface they could find, like dogs marking their territory. Here, graf was a celebration, with vibrant colours and forms rejoicing in life, demanding respect. Normally graf didn’t last. It got painted over, sandblasted, postered over, scribbled on, scrubbed off and built over. But here,
some of it had even had a chance to fade. Bryce stood back, admiring the styles, which ranged from rounded to chain-like, to bubble lettering, to gothic, to computer font, to 3-D; the writers with names like Nite Wolf and Swet, Jungle, Phunk, and Xtreme 703.
Bryce was struck by an almost overwhelming desire, the desire to paint, to grab a spray can and lose himself in a creation. He ached with it. But then the words of the judge rang in his head and he knew that he couldn’t. He lay down on the stone floor to gaze up at the artwork, like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel. How could anyone call this vandalism?
Bryce studied one particular wall, admiring how the writer had been able to dream their own world. They’d drawn a livid blue sky, and the ground was black, studded with yellow grids of light. Figures floated in the air, moon-dust sprinkling from their hands and feet, leaving a vapour trail across the heavens. How Bryce longed to join them. They looked like falling fireworks. And to the left, in a swish of reds and yellows and oranges, Bryce saw one: a shooting star. He frowned, then sat up and looked around. Dotted around the walls in varied shapes and sizes were heaps more.
Under the picture the writer had written, Loneliness is the price of flight. Bryce felt as if the message was meant for him.
He leapt to his feet, his heart pounding. That’s it! he thought. He’d found the way to make contact. He’d communicate through the shooting star. He’d find whoever took Tong’s bike, whoever bombed The Van. He quivered with excitement. He’d found a way to get back with his friends.
And he’d found a way to get back to graf! Laughter bubbled from his heart, pinging from his lips like soap suds.
Wanting to fly
Willing to try
I don’t know why
I crash to the ground.
Soaring up high
Touching the sky
Never say die
