Confessions of a Liar, Thief and Failed Sex God

by Bill Condon

  'Quiet!'

  The voice thuds into the room first. One step behind is the new teacher.

  In seconds everyone is at his own desk. The teacher doesn't need to tell us to sit up straight and pay attention. That was stamped into our brains years before.

  He's a lay teacher. We've got three others, Mr Matthews – who only takes us for PE – and Mr Wilson and Mr Harris. All the rest are Brothers. Apart from Johnno every one of them is handy with the strap. Some only use it as a last resort. Some whenever they feel like it. Mick and Clementian are the worst offenders, but that's all right because you know what they're likely to do and that helps you handle it. This new teacher is something else. It's all unknown territory with him. I can feel the danger.

  'My name is Mr Delaine. I will be teaching this class Mathematics.'

  His hair is black and smooth with oil. His face is cratered by acne. His suit is dark blue, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses so we can't tell who he's staring at.

  'Out the front.' He nods at Alan Honan.

  Honan stands and stumbles to the front of the classroom. 'Me, sir?'

  He's the school captain, always in the top three when we have exams. No one ever gives Honan the strap. He's the golden boy.

  'You. Put out your hand.'

  'But I didn't do anything.'

  'Did I ask you to speak? Hand. Out.'

  Three cuts with the strap.

  'Other hand.'

  'But, sir –'

  'You don't want to make me lose my patience, boy. Believe me.'

  Honan holds his left hand unsteadily and takes three more.

  'Sit down. Now all of you. Out the front. Form two lines. One on each side of me.'

  We know better than to argue or ask questions. We go easily, without complaint, maybe because it doesn't seem possible that he'll strap the whole class.

  'You first.'

  Soon we know how possible it is. He won't listen to questions. He won't take excuses. Six of the best for all of us.

  A few pull their hands away. To stop them doing it again they cop one around the legs. It hurts twice as much there. The voice cuts into them as sharp as the strap: 'Put your hand out. Now.'

  I don't pray this time. I just know it won't work.

  22

  A bunch of my classmates cry and they don't care who knows about it. For most, being cool isn't an issue right now. Pain blanks out all that stuff. No one sniggers or looks down on them. We all understand how much it hurts.

  Troy is next. He turns back to me, to the class, and winks, a grin smeared across his face. I don't know if the teacher sees it or not but it seems he packs extra power into hitting Troy – maybe he just picks him as one who needs special attention. He whips the strap down harder and faster. After the third one I see Troy's legs shaking. After the fourth Troy holds his hand under his arm trying to find some relief from the pain. He leaves it there too long and the strap lashes the back of his legs. Troy buckles and gasps then sucks in a breath and holds out his hand again, for the fifth, for the sixth.

  He walks quickly back to his seat, eyes to the floor, the grin hacked out of him. But then he breaks. His face twists and grimaces, his mouth opens, and he cries. Troy looks away fast when he catches me watching. I wish I hadn't seen him. Neither of us has anywhere to hide.

  Now it's my turn. I know the strap is coming but it's still a shock. I'm not conscious of anyone else in the room except the figure in front of me and the strap, flashing down. It's the same each time; a jolt of electricity, raw pain. I can never get used to this, never be prepared for it. My hands feel like they're burning up from the inside. I don't know why I'm not crying too. It's got nothing to do with being brave. I'm barely holding it together, like everyone else. Maybe I'm not smart enough to cry – 'no sense, no feeling,' Clemen-tian says. Or maybe I'm too stubborn.

  I've had the strap a heap of times – more than I can remember. Usually for not doing my homework. That's fair enough. Most often it's one or two whacks for little things: being out of uniform, talking in class. And when I've got a six, I've had a good time earning it. We don't hate the Brothers for using the strap. You take it and forget it. But I don't think any of us are going to forget this. He gives the whole class six each on his first day. He doesn't even tell us why.

  Now the last boy is back in his seat. The room is absolutely silent. Not even the ones with tears glistening in their eyes dare to sniffle. The teacher stands with his arms at his sides, holding the strap ready to go again as if that first round was just a rehearsal.

  'My name is Mr Delaine. I will be teaching this class Mathematics. Are there any questions?'

  No one says a word.

  For the rest of the day, long after the ache has left our hands, the new teacher invades our thoughts and conversations. We wonder what's up with him; whether he's crazy or just sadistic. A bit of both, most of us decide.

  We've got some good teachers.

  Mr Wilson has us for English. You have to just about set him on fire to get him stirred. Once he praised a story I wrote. He gave me this big build-up in front of the class. Since then he's always been my favourite teacher.

  Last year Brother Geoffrey took us on a bus into town to see The Sand Pebbles. He didn't have to do that; even better, he let us talk him out of taking us to watch The Bible.

  There are others I like, too, but I don't think about them much. They don't dog my footsteps home or crowd my head with thoughts when I try to sleep – scared and angry thoughts. And of all the bad teachers this one's the worst, the meanest – the new champion of the strap. Delaine.

  23

  Going home it's all blue sky and sunshine, as though we just dreamed the rain. We spill out onto the footpath of Sandy Bay Road and file down it in a ramshackle stream of ones and twos, threes and fours. I'm a one. Slouching along ahead of me is Troy.

  'Hey. Hang on.' I jog over to him. 'What's yer hurry?'

  He stops until I catch up but then ploughs on, head down as if he's the only one left in the world. I know he's really down about today. A finger-snap – that's how long anyone will remember that he cried. I could tell him that for a hundred years and he wouldn't believe it. It's bad when you can see someone falling but you can't do a thing to stop it. I feel that way now about Troy. He'll go home and sit in his room, drawing for hours. He draws comic book superheroes and monsters. Tonight I reckon the monsters will look a lot like our new teacher.

  I grab his arm. 'Hey, it doesn't matter what happened today.'

  He pulls away from me. 'Never said it did, did I?'

  'Then get over it. Forget that prick of a teacher. Okay, today was bad, but I'll bet it never happens again.'

  'How would you know?'

  'I just know. It was a one-off.'

  'You don't know anything, Bridges.'

  He never calls me by my last name.

  'I don't want to be here anymore.' He says it as much to himself as to me. 'It's like this all the time. They win. I've had enough.'

  That knocks me sideways. While I try to think of something to say he stomps off, so alone. I call after him. 'Troy. Wait a second.' He keeps going.

  I understand how he feels. It's hard enough when you know what to expect from teachers, when you've got them all worked out and labelled. You still can't relax, but you have a rough idea what might happen; you can be ready for it. You can't be anything but scared when a teacher smashes all the rules, first day; just drops on you like a brick, with no reason.

  I catch up and walk by Troy's side.

  'At the very most it'll be just these first couple of days that might be bad – but today was the worst of it, right? It can't get any worse, can it?'

  No answer, but I keep trying.

  'Concentrate on the weekend. No school. No stupid teachers. We'll do something – both days if you like. Go fishing or bowling – you can come over to my place and listen to records. I'll even go do that dopey trick with the trains again! Anything you want, I'm up for it. I know – we c
an catch a train into Sydney – check out The Cross. You've always wanted to do that. Come on, Troy. You with me?'

  'I'm not going back to school,' he says. 'Not ever.'

  'Now you're talkin' crap. Your parents won't let you leave. Even if they did, who'd give you a job? What would you do? You're hopeless – same as me.'

  He walks on as if I'm not there. I make sure he knows I am.

  'TROY!'

  'What?'

  'Listen to me. Today was a stunt. Delaine wanted to get our attention. He was letting us know who was boss, that's all. Now everyone will stay in line and he'll be just another teacher. You'll see. You've just got to hang in there.'

  He stops walking. For a few seconds he considers it. His future hovers in the breeze. Stay with the devils you know, or go looking for new ones.

  'Hey, I need you here, Troy.' I flick on the crooked smile that tells him an insult is heading his way. 'Right now I'm only the second most stupid kid in the school – if you go I'll be Number One. You can't do that to me. I don't want your title.'

  I think I've hauled him back, only to hear, 'Sorry, Neil. I've made up my mind. You'll be fine. All right?'

  'No, it's not all right!'

  He wanders off the footpath and stands behind a parked car, looking at me.

  'Well... it'll have to be. I'll see you around.'

  'What? When will I see yer?'

  Troy smiles, just faintly. Then he takes a couple of steps backwards onto the road, still half looking at me.

  I shrug. 'See yer Monday – you better be there.' I turn and walk away. Then I hear a heavy dull thwack. I look back and see what looks like a big box or a bundle of something, hurtling along the centre of the road, scraping over the bitumen for fifty yards until it stops.

  I don't understand what's happening. I think to myself, it can't be human, whatever it is. It lies in the centre of the road. Doesn't make a sound. Doesn't move.

  Cars pull up. People are running from all directions. Then someone is yelling, 'It's Bosley! It's Bosley! He got hit by a car!'

  I make it onto the road. Hiding behind faces in a pack. A space opens up and I see the thing that everyone is staring at. It has to be him. Troy. But the more I stare, the less certain I am. It doesn't look like anything.

  24

  I'm usually home by four-thirty at the latest. It's after six now and I'm only just walking into my street. I don't remember how I got here or where the time went. I've been wandering, trying to work things out. Stuff has been spinning around in my head non-stop. I know there was an accident and someone was killed. A big part of me says it has to be Troy. But I still don't know for absolute sure. It happened so fast. He was talking to me and then there was a crash and he was gone and then I saw this bloodied torn lump. I got out of there as quick as I could. I should have stayed and looked around for him. Should have asked someone. When I get home there might be a phone message from him. There has to be. It doesn't seem possible that he could be dead.

  Mum's waiting near the front gate. She runs up to me with her arms out wide.

  'Neil. Thank God.'

  That's all she says. Hangs on to me like she's dragged me back from the grave. Dad isn't far behind. Kevin's there too.

  'We been out lookin' for yer.' Dad's eyes are steady on me, but it's sadness in them, not anger. 'Never mind,' he tells me, taking a step closer to tap my shoulder. 'Long as you're all right. That's the only thing that matters.'

  Kevin and I have always been at war. I've lost count of all the punches I have to pay him back for. Now all that disappears. He stacks a whole lot of feeling into just a squeeze of my arm and a nod. I wish he wasn't being nice to me. It tells me something's very wrong. And Mum underlines it all by crying.

  We go inside the house, into the lounge room. I'm sitting in Dad's armchair, which is the one thing he gets stroppy about. Get your own chair. This one's reserved. Today it's different. He's told me to sit here. Now he's standing in front of me with his arms folded. Mum and Kevin are silent. They're waiting for Dad to say something but he's having trouble getting started.

  I know it can be only one thing. I don't listen when he says it. Don't want to hear. Don't want to believe. I close my eyes tight and concentrate on Troy's face. When he was alive.

  25

  That night our house is like a library asleep. No TV for the first time that I can remember. No radio. The phone rings once. It smashes the quiet like a sledgehammer.

  When we eat the only conversation comes from Kevin. 'That was Rose before on the phone. Told her I might go over and see her later on. Just catch up. Listen to records. I bought her this new Bob Dylan ...'

  He chews on a piece of meat and waits for some reaction. Dad looks briefly at Mum as if he's passing the baton, letting her decide what to say.

  'It would be nice if we could all stay together tonight, Kev.' She reaches across the table and pats his hand. 'I think Rose will understand.'

  Kevin nods. 'No dramas, Mum. You're right. I'll give her a call. She'll be sweet. I'll see her tomorrow anyway.'

  * * *

  The lights are on in just about every room. Mum had it the same way when Gran died. Probably some cave-woman instinct: light a big fire and huddle around it when there are wild beasts nearby. I reckon death is a wild beast... I hate it.

  Dad suggests we sit at the kitchen table and say a silent prayer for Troy. He usually lets Mum lead the way in the prayer department. Not tonight. We take our places and bow our heads. I try to pray, but I can't do it. You have to concentrate to pray and my mind's a roller-coaster out of control. Reliving what happened – that's the ride I'm on – around and around.

  Mum clenches her rosary beads in front of her heart and mouths an endless line of Hail Mary's. Dad lowers his head devoutly but spoils the look by yawning. Most nights he falls asleep in front of the TV. His snowy hair is thin and fading. There's a round spot in the centre that is bald. Dad was forty-one when I was born. He's always been old to me. One prayer that comes easily to me is this: Please God, let Mum and Dad live another twenty years. I say that sometimes, not every day because most of the time I think they're never going to die. But I say it tonight. In twenty years I'll be thirty-six. At that age death won't be able to touch me. I'll be able to handle anything that comes along. Right now it's not so easy.

  Kevin closes his eyes but I don't think he's doing any praying.

  'I've outgrown God.' That's what he told me a year ago when he stopped going to Mass. 'The same's gunna happen to you, Neil. You wait and see.'

  I laughed then. Called him a wanker and ran for my life. Didn't give it a lot of thought till now. You grow up a Catholic and you wear it like an old familiar coat. Don't even notice you're putting it on half the time. Some people, like Mum and Dad – especially Mum – they're mad-dog believers. Nothing sways their faith. They live for God. Not my style. I've always been a slacker about religion. I drift along. Do my own thing. But when I'm in trouble it's: 'Hey, God, remember me?' So when it comes to the crunch I suppose I do believe. God watches over us. He loves us. That's what I've been taught since Day One.

  But now Troy is dead. I'll never see him again.

  I can't stop wondering why God would let it happen.

  Later, when Mum and Dad have gone to bed, Kevin calls me into our room. Most times I'd think it was a trap to rumble me. I know that's not the reason now. He puts on his Bob Dylan record. It's turned down so low we can hardly hear it, but I don't care. Sitting on the floor with Kevin, watching the record wobble around, it helps the night go.

  26

  Dad takes me to the police station the next day.

  'Nothing to worry about, Neil,' he says. 'The police have to do their job. It's only natural they want to talk to you, since you were with Troy when it happened. It won't take long.'

  We wait at the front desk until the cop handling Troy's case ambles out.

  He guides us down a narrow passageway into a poky office bursting with paper and photos and files and brow
n-stained coffee mugs, and now, us. He nods towards two chairs and shuts the door.

  Grimacing, he pulls off his tie and stuffs it in a drawer.

  'Now tell me ... Neil... what happened.'

  I give him the few details I know. It isn't much but he writes it down. All the while I stare behind him at the Wanted posters on the wall. I think some part of me is searching for a picture of Delaine.

  'Neil?'

  Dad's looking at me.

  'Yep?'

  'Constable Adams asked you a question.'

  'Sorry.'

  'That's all right, matey.' He hits the smile button. It lasts a second, no more. 'I was wondering about Troy. You knew him well, I take it.'

  Dad answers. 'They were really close.'

  'It's tough when that happens.' The cop notices some dandruff on his shirt and brushes it away. It crosses my mind that Troy isn't very important to him at all. 'So, Neil, how was your mate yesterday? Anything strange going on with him? What was his mood like?'

  I panic and try not to show it. That probably means I show it twice as much. I wasn't expecting this kind of question.

  'Normal.' I shrug. 'Same as always.'

  I feel Dad's arm around my shoulder, holding me together.

  'Neil's doing it hard, Officer.'

  'You see, the thing is,' he flips the top of the pen up and down, 'the driver – a lady, it was – she says this young fella, Troy, he just lobs onto the road in front of her. Like, he's not walking across the road, he's not running. None of that. There are no skid marks, so she hasn't put her brakes on. It backs up what she says. One second the road is clear, nothing but daylight, the next – bang.'

  My mouth is dry. I feel my hands begin to sweat.

  'She wasn't speeding. Hadn't had a drink. Perfect driving record. So that's why I was asking about young Troy's mood.'

  He pauses, and then looks directly at me.

  'You are really the only one who might be able to give us some answers. Can you think of anything at all that might be able to help us? Did he say anything unusual?'