Confessions of a Liar, Thief and Failed Sex God
Page 1
Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgements
Give Me Truth
David
BILL CONDON's young adult novels Dogs (2001) and No Worries (2005) were Honour Books in the Children's Book Council Book of the Year Awards. No Worries was also short-listed for the Ethel Turner Prize in the 2005 NSW Premier's Literary Awards. Daredevils made the long-list in the inaugural Inky Awards, Australia's first teenage choice awards. Give Me Truth is Bill's most recent young adult novel for Woolshed Press. Before devoting himself to novels, Bill had a long and successful career as a writer of short stories, plays and poetry for young people. His work encompasses many genres and he has close to one hundred titles to his credit. He lives on the south coast of New South Wales with his wife, the well-known children's author Di (Dianne) Bates.
also by bill condon
Give Me Truth
CONFESSIONS
OF A LIAR,
THIEF AND
FAILED SEX
GOD
bill condon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Confessions of a Liar, Thief and Failed Sex God
ePub ISBN 9781864714357
Kindle ISBN 9781864716757
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Woolshed Press book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Woolshed Press in 2009
Copyright © Bill Condon 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
Woolshed Press is a trademark of Random House Australia Pty Ltd. All rights reserved.
www.woolshedpress.com.au
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Condon, Bill, 1949–
Title: Confessions of a liar, thief and failed sex god/Bill Condon
ISBN 978 1 74166 454 6 (pbk.)
Target Audience: For children
Dewey Number: A823.3
Cover design by Katherine Barry
Typeset in 11/18 pt Adobe Caslon Pro by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia
Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
10 987654321
With love to my sisters,
Nanette and Colleen,
and my wife, Di.
1
One huge shiver trudging on to the oval, that's us. First thing on a frostbite Monday morning.
Johnno blows his whistle and we're away. He's Brother John officially, but not to us.
'Jog, boys. That's all I want from you. Nice and easy. Just to limber up.'
I let the main pack go on ahead. Nearly all of our class. I'm waiting for someone and he's late, as usual. That's cool. I'm right at home with the stragglers.
Alan Marshall bobs along, Nick Cleary after him, then Tony Moses, then me, Neil Bridges; single file, freezing cold – bobbing along like a row of shooting gallery ducks.
Seagulls squawk up a storm all around us; having their breakfast or laughing at my dopey running style – it's hard to tell which.
Marshall and Cleary argue about who should have won the weekend footy game; Moses curses the wind for mucking up his hair.
I watch Troy Bosley now, wandering sleepily down the path towards us, taking his own sweet time. He's got a cigarette dangling from his mouth, but he doesn't smoke. Typical Troy act; he likes to push the boundaries, strut the highwire without a net. It's more than just showing off. He can't help it. Troy has his highwire days, but he has nosedives, too. You ask him, he'll tell you straight; he can get crazy.
Smoking's one of the most dangerous things you can do at our school. No one's ever been stupid enough to get caught, but if they did catch you the Brothers would have a great time. After they got through with the strap they'd probably get a couple of heavyweight nuns from the convent to sit on you and squash you to death, to prove smoking is bad for your health.
Now Troy lopes up to Johnno who's standing at his usual place in the centre of the oval.
'Sorry I'm late, Bra. Slept in. Missed the bus. Sorry.'
Johnno has retired from teaching after forty years. That means he started in the 1920s. He must be so ancient. These days he calls himself a potter – 'I potter around, doing a bit of this and that.' Today he's filling in for our real PE teacher, Mr
Matthews, who's sick – which doesn't say a lot for PE. Johnno doesn't notice the ciggie burning behind Troy's back; makes no comment about the defiant smirk on his face.
'Not to worry,' he says. 'Off you go with the rest.'
First chance he gets, Troy flicks the butt between Cleary and Marshall.
'Hey!'
'Watch it!'
Grinning, he swaps a high-five with Moses, veers off-course and shoulder-charges me. I dig an elbow into his ribs. He bumps me. I pay him back. We're dodgem cars, bouncing off each other and laughing.
Johnno blows his whistle. He flings his arms about as if he's chasing a swarm of bees.
'You two. Stop that. This instant!'
'Right, Bra.'
We go back to jogging. For a while.
I fix my sights on a tree up ahead.
No need for me to explain the race rules to Troy. We've done this before.
'The gum tree,' is all I say.
As always, I give myself a few steps head start. It's never enough. Troy thrashes me again.
'Aw, real sorry Neil.' He's loving it. 'Did you get lost, mate?'
I have to go through this humiliation and then cop it from Johnno, who's attempting to blow a new hole in his whistle as he hobbles over to us.
He puts on the stern Brother's face because he has to – it's part of the uniform. Doesn't fool us. We all know the whistle's the most dangerous thing about him. He's different from most of the Brothers. They're probably good people deep inside, but it's the outside we see the most. They've got their rosary beads in one pocket and their strap in the other. Strapping and praying, that's what we see.
'Do you boys know what the word "jog" means?' he says.
'Sorry, Bra.'
We hang our heads and look pathetic. It never fails with him.
'Get off with you then.' He gives the whistle another blast. 'On your way. And this time I'll have none of your nonsense.'
Troy unleashes a war whoop. He keeps it going as we set off after the main group. We're not bobbing along now, we're flat-out racing.
The coldness slips away fast and the running makes me feel free. Sometimes I wish that all day long I could just run.
2
Run from school, that's what I'd like to do. It can get you down a bit when it feels like every day is a war and you're always on the losing side. Other than that, life isn't too bad. I have a roof over my head, good parents, a brilliant dog called Dusty, and a brother named Kevin who thinks he's hilarious when really he's just insane.
For instance ... one night I wander into the bathroom, flip back the toilet lid, unzip my fly – and freeze.
Heavy breathing. It's coming from behind the shower curtain. My pants are zippered up in world-record time. I twist the doorknob but barely get halfway out the door before the shower curtain is flung open.
'Rahhhggghhhh!'
A maniac lunges at me. He's got a raincoat on and knee-high gumboots. And he's holding an axe!
'You bastard!' I scream as I realise who it is.
He's laughing too hard to care.
From the kitchen, Mum calls, 'Take that language outside, Neil.'
'You heard her.' Kevin swings the axe above my head. 'Take your language outside.' Softly he adds, 'Little bastard.'
If there was a game called Brothers, leaping out from behind a shower curtain with an axe would have to be a part of it.
'You just wait, Kevin,' I say. 'As soon as you go to sleep, I'm going to get you.'
'Bring it on,' he snarls.
I smile, but I make sure he can't see me.
Kevin is nineteen. I'm three years behind him. Don't think I'll ever catch up.
He's got a motorbike. I've got a bus pass.
He's got his own bank account. I've got my own toothbrush.
He's got Elvis sideburns. I'm secretly using Dad's shaver, but I just scrape off soap.
He's got a girlfriend. I've got several excellent magazines.
The unlucky girl's name is Rose Alexander. When I first heard about her I thought she'd have to be a bottom-of-the-barrel type to go out with Kevin. I was wrong; she's not too bad at all. I think she must have taken pity on him. Sucked in, Rose.
Sometimes I get depressed about not having a girlfriend, but then I remind myself that everyone starts off as a virgin. The trick is not to make a career of it.
Kevin's an apprentice electrician down the mines. He's suited to underground work. The deeper the better, I reckon.
3
My mum and dad work long hours and come home tired. Dad's gone before I wake. He's never bothered to get his driver's licence so it's a 6 am train to the city, and the 5 pm train back home. He's a painter for the Post Office. Pushes a brush around ceilings and walls all week, and on weekends – after we've been to Mass and he's done the yard work – he spends hours out in the shed, painting again, but the kind of thing he likes to do. He calls it doing his Van Gogh impression.
Dad uses anything he can find for a canvas: the back of a sign, a piece of cardboard, or – his favourite – the lids of used ice-cream containers. The shed is full of his masterpieces. Apart from me and Mum and Kevin, no one will ever see them.
It feels sad to me that he can't spend every day doing what he really wants, but Dad just shrugs it away when I tell him that. 'Gotta earn a crust, mate,' he says. 'A man can't live on dreams.'
Mum's the driver of the house. She's also the cleaner, the cook, the chief organiser of everything – 'Boss of the world,' Dad calls her when he's sure she's not listening – and she's the one who does most of the praying. Monday to Friday Mum's out the door by 7 am for her start at National Transformers. It's a factory job, that's all I know. She doesn't talk about it. There's a five-dollar-a-week bonus if she clocks on each day by 7.30. She never misses.
Every night at six we eat dinner at the table – we all take a turn at saying grace – then we clean the dishes and watch TV till 9.30. The reason it's so early is that we have to wash before going to bed. It's Mum's rule. Her father died in his sleep when he was forty-eight. He had dirty feet and Mum's never forgotten it.
Mum goes first: has a fresh tub to herself with all the perfumed bath salts she likes – the smell stinks up every room, there's no escape – and then she pulls out the plug. It's the one luxury she has. Dad has a three-minute shower. I don't think he's real fond of water, but he has another shower in the morning so he's fairly clean for a bloke.
I get the worst fate possible. I have to take the bath after Kevin – using the same water as him. There isn't much hot water left after Mum and Dad have had their turns, so Kevin's bath is always lukewarm. Mine is stone motherless cold. That's because I spend ten minutes before I get in, fishing out the black and curly pubes. I bet Kevin just plucks them off him and sprinkles them all over the bath for fun.
On Saturdays Mum cooks and cleans. She doesn't want any help. 'You'll only get under my feet,' she says. Makes her sound like a water buffalo. I get up early and walk Dusty for an hour or so. I let her off into the marshes at the creek and she goes fossicking after rabbits. She's got no chance of catching one – just as well too, she wouldn't know what to do with it. When I get home again I work outside with Dad. Kevin used to help us but he's got Rose now. Dad mows the lawn and I do the edges. It's probably not much to anyone else, but it means a lot to me when he says I've done a good job.
Dad always finishes up with a glass of home-brew – only the one each week. He pours me a shandy, but the older I get, the more he cuts back on the lemonade. His grog is rough as guts, but I never complain. It's good to be able to share something with him.
Every Saturday night Mum writes in the huge old family journal, jotting down everything we did during the week. It was her father's journal too, and before that her grandfather's. 'One day,' she says, 'it'll be yours.' I hate it when she talks like that.
Sundays we go to church. Kevin's given up on that, too. Mum is right into religion, and Dad backs her up. I make all the right noises at the right t
imes, but I'm not really sure about anything. It would be different if you could actually see God, instead of having to take everyone's word that He's around. I suppose it's just a matter of hanging in there. Maybe one day I'll walk into a church, and God'll be there for me, clear as day.
4
When I'm not at home with my family I'm off somewhere with Troy. He lives two streets behind me. Half a mile on from his place is Bottle Brush Creek. It's all stinking mudflats when the tide is out but when it's in we go fishing and hunting around the banks for blue-tongue lizards. One time we made a canoe out of sheets of corrugated iron tied together with wire.
Troy was sure it was going to float. I told him there wasn't a chance.
We both agreed on one thing: last one to abandon ship was chicken.
As soon as it hit the water the canoe began its Titanic imitation. That's when I bailed out and scrambled to dry land. Troy rode it till it sank beneath the surface. I always end up being chicken. It's hard not to be when you're up against Troy. He doesn't know how to back down.
* * *
The railway bridge is built over the creek. That's where we are today.
'I've got an idea,' he says. 'You game, Neil?'
'Depends what it is.'
'So you're not game?'
'You wish,' I tell him. 'I'm more game than you – no matter what it is.'
I follow him along a rough and narrow track that leads us under the bridge – under the tracks.
'Yeah, this is perfect,' he says. 'Watch this.' He shoves his head up in the gap between two sleepers. 'Fann-tastic! Give it a go, Neil!'
'Are you mad? What if a train comes?'
He drops back down next to me. 'That's the whole idea, bird brain. We stick our heads up when a train's comin'. First one to move is chicken. You still game?'
No, I'm not. It's too dangerous. It's ridiculous.
But then I see this smart-alecky grin creep over his face as if he knows he's got me.
'Sure,' I tell him. 'Let's do it.'
We wait there looking down the track for a good fifteen minutes and then we see the red rattler curl around a bend.