‘Roger, Foxtrot Tango One. We have visual on the target.
Confirm. We have visual.’
‘Roger that, Delta. Proceed down Main Street on a one-zero-three.’
It didn’t really matter that we were just following a doctor and a drug counsellor, probably on their way to a drug rehabilitation meeting or something. I still got an adrenaline rush.
Kiffo caught up with the car quickly and then dropped back a little, keeping a few car lengths between us and them. Traffic was still light and we had no trouble keeping them in view. The only problem was that there were so few cars on the road that I felt we must be really conspicuous. I had to tell myself that innocent people wouldn’t ever think that someone might be following them, that a motorbike in the rear-view mirror would scarcely cause anyone to panic. Still felt strange, though.
After about five minutes it was clear that the route we were following was taking us out of the city. I could only hope that they weren’t going interstate. I had visions of us following them through the outback for days.
Further along, we hit heavier traffic and it was easier to stay hidden behind cars. Kiffo said something to me over his shoulder but the wind swept the words away. I tapped him on the back and yelled ‘What?’ into the side of his helmet. He turned his head more acutely.
‘I think they might have spotted us,’ he yelled. ‘Look how he’s slowed down.’
It was true. Before, we had been going at about eighty, but now the car had slowed to just over sixty. Of course, it probably had something to do with the increased traffic, though most other cars were still going at speeds in excess of ours. Perhaps they were just enjoying the view. We were edging closer and closer to the rear of the car now and I could make out, through the tinted windows, the bulky silhouette of the Pitbull. She might have been looking behind her. I couldn’t be sure. Even now, I’m not sure.
What happened next wasn’t in doubt, though. The car suddenly jumped forward as if something had been injected into its exhaust. It went from about sixty to one hundred in a matter of seconds. One moment we were tootling along a couple of car lengths behind, the next moment the car was dwindling to a speck in the distance. Kiffo twisted his wrist and the bike surged forward. Once again, I felt that familiar force trying to push me off the back of the bike. I glanced at the speedometer and was alarmed to see the dial creep over the one hundred mark and continue to rise. We were flashing past other vehicles now, but the black car wasn’t getting any closer. We seemed to have stopped it increasing its distance from us, but we weren’t making much of an inroad in decreasing the gap. I wanted to yell into Kiffo’s ear, tell him to stop, that it wasn’t worth getting ourselves killed for something so stupid as catching up, but I doubted if he would have heard me. Even if he had, I knew that he wouldn’t stop. It’s that old macho crap, I guess.
We were on a long straight section of the highway, but pretty soon the road started to curve. Kiffo barely slowed down as we approached the bend. He threw himself first to one side and then the other. I gritted my teeth and hung on grimly, keeping my body moulded to his as we cornered. The rushing bitumen seemed millimetres from my trailing knee and I had visions of us both being scraped across the road. But we were getting closer to the car. There could be no doubt that the bends were favouring us. Then we hit another straight that led up to a roundabout. I could see the brake lights of the cars in the distance as they slowed. The Ferret’s car barely braked at all, just a flicker of lights as it swept round the roundabout and continued straight on. Kiffo took the inside lane, swerving onto the bicycle path on the inside of the short queue of cars. We both glanced to the right, saw that the way was clear and Kiffo accelerated into the roundabout.
It was then that I noticed the white car on our left. It was coming up to the junction to join the roundabout and I knew, I don’t know how, that it wasn’t going to stop. There was something about it that screamed danger. I could almost follow the driver’s movements as he or she came up to the give-way sign. Look to the right. Everything clear. No sign of any traffic. Not even a large red motorbike accelerating rapidly round the inside lane. Just looking for cars. If it’s not a car, can’t see it. Foot on the accelerator. Pull out.
Kiffo reacted quickly, but there was nothing he could do. He tried to swerve around the front of the car, but in those few, long seconds I knew that we were going to hit. I could see the face of the driver then. It was a woman and her eyes were widening in horror. I could hear her thoughts. Where did that come from? That wasn’t there a moment ago. Her mouth was turned down, so that she looked irritated. I could see her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel and her arms bunch as she slammed her foot on the brake. The car nearly stood on end. I was aware of the screech of brakes, a smell of burning rubber and then a jolt and a crunch of metal.
NOVEMBER: Primary school, Year 6.
You sit in a corner of the school yard. Your head is slumped on your knees and you sob so much that it feels like your body is tearing itself apart. In your head are images. You see yourself sitting on the stairs, late at night, hands over your ears. Shouting comes from a room beneath you. Something smashes. There is a whole sea of pain and you sit on the seawall, letting the waves wash over you. A door opens and slams. Your father, drunk with anger, crashes past you and into his bedroom. Your mother stands at the foot of the stairs, looking at you. Her face is twisted as if something dark is forcing itself through. Her eyes are red, marinaded in misery.
It is the last time you see your father.
You feel a hand on your knee. You lift your head and it is the red-haired boy.
‘Are you okay?’ he says, gently.
You put your head onto his shoulder.
Chapter 22
Picking up the pieces
I was told later that I cleared the bonnet of the car by about two metres and then slid along the grass for another twenty before coming to rest. I have no recollection of it. All I can remember is the sense of falling, a swirl of sky and grass and the not unpleasant thought that I was going to die. It’s strange. When I was on the bike, I was so tense that you could have stuck a pin in me and it wouldn’t have broken the skin. Once I was off it, in the air, I felt relaxed. Liquid, almost. Maybe that’s what saved me. When I got to my feet, and that was almost instantly according to witnesses, I wasn’t aware of any pain. I felt fine. It was only later that I found that my legs and arms had friction burns, but even they weren’t bad and disappeared after a few days. My jeans and top were never going to be the same, though. I reckon they took the main force. If we’d been going much faster, if Kiffo hadn’t braked so violently, then they couldn’t have absorbed the impact. I doubt if there would have been too much flesh left on my right side if we’d been going an extra ten k.
But all of those thoughts came later. I was running to find Kiffo. He lay at the side of the road about fifteen metres away. It was bizarre that, on impact, we had shot off in entirely different directions. I guess a scientist, armed with rates of trajectory, angles of impact and all that, would probably have explained it logically. I didn’t care. The only thing I could focus on was Kiffo’s small, inert shape. Other cars had stopped by now and people were converging on him. I saw someone talking into a mobile phone. I pushed past the gathering knot and flung myself down at his side. A sudden terror came over me then as I reached out a hand towards him. He was lying with his face away from me and I was scared about what I’d see when I turned him over. My fingers were brushing his jacket when he gave a big shudder and turned to face me. I looked into his eyes and they seemed clear. There was no sign of blood.
‘Bugger me,’ said Kiffo. ‘Bloody women drivers!’
I was so relieved that I almost burst into tears. I could feel them prickling up behind my eyes. Instead I burst out laughing.
‘It’s all very well for you to laugh,’ said Kiffo indignantly, ‘but that bloody woman nearly killed us!’ He sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, shit, the bike!’
I think the conv
entional wisdom when dealing with accident victims is to keep them quiet, preferably motionless, until medical help arrives. Conventional wisdom, however, didn’t have to deal with Kiffo. He was up on his feet and shoving his way through the crowd of onlookers before I could do anything at all. I followed.
He looked around and spotted the wreck of the bike about thirty metres away. As he ran towards it, I noticed that he was limping a bit and that one leg of his leather trousers was torn. There was a patch of what might have been blood on his left thigh. I caught up with him as he fell to his knees in front of the bike.
‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘Look at it!’
I looked at it. Now, as you know, I am by no means an expert in the field of motor mechanics, but I could see instantly that it was not in what you’d call showroom condition. There were a few clues that I followed here. Firstly, the engine was at an angle that I suspected was a far cry from the original engineer’s intentions. When Kiffo touched it, something fell off with a dull thunk. It might have been the carburettor, it might have been the gearbox. Like I said, I’m not an expert. Secondly, as far as the bodywork was concerned, it was still red. But it was also in about a thousand pieces, scattered over at least thirty square metres. One wheel was bent almost at right angles to itself. Interestingly, the only thing that seemed to be undamaged was the headlamp. It was still rolling gently at the side of the road. I thought about pointing it out to Kiffo, but then reconsidered. I guessed it wouldn’t exactly lift his spirits.
We sat on the side of the road until the ambulance and the police arrived. Kiffo seemed to be in shock, either from the accident or the certain knowledge that he owed some friend of his a considerable sum of money. I kept my arm around him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just stared at the bike and groaned. I took the opportunity to look at his leg. There was a ragged tear in the leg of his leather pants, surrounded by blood. I was relieved to see that there didn’t appear to be any fresh flow, but I couldn’t tell how badly he was injured. Considering what had happened, it was a miracle that we had got off so lightly.
A couple of people came up and asked if we were all right and I assured them we were fine. I was surprised at how calm I felt and how my voice didn’t even tremble. Even the thought that I was going to be in trouble with the police didn’t faze me too much. Before the accident, I would have been in panic at the prospect. Now, it seemed an irrelevance somehow. Being alive – that was the important thing. Everything else was secondary.
I noticed, briefly, the woman who had been driving the white car. She was leaning over by the side of the road, throwing up. A couple of people were attending to her. I remember thinking how strange it was that she should be physically sick when Kiffo and I were basically okay. After all, she had been protected by her car. We had nothing. Of course, I knew somewhere at the back of my mind that the shock was only delayed, that it would kick in later. But just then, sitting on the grass with my arm around Kiffo, it all seemed tranquil. Right, somehow.
What happened next remains sort of blurry. I remember the flashing lights and being helped into an ambulance with Kiffo and the woman from the car. There were police around, but they didn’t bother us much. They were more concerned with the wreckage and the line of cars that had formed on all sides of the roundabout. I supposed that they would be coming to see us at the hospital later, once they had sorted out this mess. It didn’t seem important. I remember very little about the actual journey to the hospital. I think the woman was crying. Kiffo was just silent, lost in his thoughts about the bike.
We were taken to the emergency department at the hospital and checked over. I remember that there were X-rays and a number of examinations by a series of doctors. One, a rather gorgeous guy who looked about twenty, smiled at me and said, ‘You look in pretty good shape to me.’ I blushed. I still don’t know whether he was making a medical judgement or flirting.
After a while, I was taken to a waiting area and found myself sitting next to the driver of the car. She was really sweet. I didn’t have to say anything about it being her fault. Not that I would. Blame seemed irrelevant. But she was still crying and apologising, saying that she hadn’t seen us at all, that she could have killed us, that she had a granddaughter a little older than me and when she thought of what might have happened, she doubted if she would ever forgive herself. I found myself in the strange situation of comforting her, telling her that an accident can happen to anyone, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, even though I knew it was hers. I felt sorry for her.
Sometime later, a nurse came and took her away and I was left alone. Then a doctor told me that the police were waiting to interview me and that my mother had been notified. He said they still wanted to run a few tests, so the police would have to wait. I wouldn’t swear to it, but he seemed pleased at keeping the police waiting. Finally, Kiffo was brought out in a wheelchair, which worried me until the nurse explained that there was nothing major wrong, just a gash that had been stitched. The wheelchair was to help take the weight off for a while. I smiled at Kiffo.
‘Wassup, Kiffo?’ I said.
‘Wassup, Calma?’ he replied.
I was relieved that he was in a pretty good emotional state. Maybe the hours of tests and X-rays and stitches had given him time to reach my perspective, that nothing else really mattered other than the fact that we were alive.
‘So what happens now?’ he asked.
‘I dunno. I guess we’ll get interviewed by the police and at some stage they’ll let us go home . . .’
‘No. I mean about the Pitbull.’
‘What are you on about, Kiffo?’
He leaned urgently towards me and lowered his voice, even though we were completely alone.
‘You don’t really think that was an accident, do you?’
I felt like smacking him around the face then. Instead, I resorted to my old favourite – sarcasm.
‘No, of course not, Kiffo. Just because it was clearly an accident, and about fifty people could testify to it being an accident, doesn’t mean I’m not suspicious. It’s all a conspiracy organised by the Pitbull!’
Kiffo nodded.
‘I’m glad you think so. I thought you might have been fooled.’
I felt like screaming. Instead I rolled my eyes as Kiffo continued.
‘It’s obvious that they spotted us. That’s why the Ferret slowed down and then took off at that speed. I reckon that he had a phone with him and rang his accomplice, the woman in the white car. Her orders were to take us out. We were too close to them, Calma. We were a threat that needed eliminating.’ Maybe I should have humoured him. It was clear that nothing was going to deflect Kiffo from his theory, certainly not facts or reality. But I couldn’t let it go.
‘Kiffo, listen,’ I said. ‘It was an accident, pure and simple. Get that through your head. I talked to the woman in the car. She’s got white hair, a touch of arthritis and a grandchild about our age. She was so upset that she was vomiting and crying at the same time. She’s not a geriatric hit woman, for God’s sake! It’s over, Kiffo. Finished.’
It was his turn to roll his eyes now.
‘Don’t take that attitude with me, Kiffo! It’s not my fault that you have a problem facing up to the real world, that you’re lost in your own little fantasy. Well, I’ve had enough of it.’
But Kiffo was still rolling his eyes. I could see nothing but the whites. And he was twitching, like an electric current was going through him. I heard a scream and I suppose it must have been mine. Then there was a whole bunch of people in white and a lot of shouting and yelling. Someone dragged me to my feet and bustled me out of the room. The last I saw of Kiffo was a glimpse of red hair beneath a tide of white uniforms.
Chapter 23
Not to praise him
I stopped off at the Adult shop on my way to the funeral.
Everyone else went by car or by bus. I walked.
It was a blazing hot day. Even at nine in the morning the heat was solid. The sky was cloudless,
and bitumen sparkled in black pools. Within five minutes, I was bathed in sweat. I could feel droplets gathering under my tank top and running down my stomach and sides. I could feel a damp stain growing in the waistband of my shorts.
Mum had offered to drive me but I just felt like walking. I don’t think it was one of those grand emotional gestures or anything. Who can tell? I suppose that any other form of transport would have cut out the visit to the Adult shop, but I swear that I had nothing specific planned, despite any evidence to the contrary. Let’s be honest. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I felt sick and dizzy even before the sun worked on me. Everything had the blurry edges of a dream.
I can’t remember any details of the walk, except for the constant fist of heat. But I did some thinking. I remember thinking that they had got it right in films. Funerals should be in driving rain. There should be a huddled knot of mourners around an open grave. Women should hug small, grim-faced children to them. A priest should crumble earth over the grave and there should be a mysterious stranger standing off to one side. Kiffo’s funeral was to take place in the airconditioning of the Methodist Church. We were to sit in rows on comfortable chairs. There would be a public address system.
I had been told in great detail what would happen. We had rehearsed it at school, like a play. And I suppose that’s what it was, a dramatic performance in which we all had our roles. Even the stage had been carefully managed. Kiffo wasn’t religious. But the school had arranged everything, including the booking of the Church. Yes, everyone had gone to great lengths to make sure that it all went off well, that the show was flawless. I guess I let them down.
I remember thinking about my own body as I was walking. Sweat was dripping into my eyes and making them sting. Whatever I looked at was tinged with a milky sheen. The sun made my arms and legs tingle. I could feel chemical reactions going off, like little bombs, all along my skin. Cause and effect. Like Kiffo’s death. Someone – I can’t remember who – told me that Kiffo had died from an embolism. A little clot of blood, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail, had formed when he had been hit by the car. Or when he hit the ground. It had stayed there for a while and then, released into his bloodstream, travelled like a missile to the brain. Boom! Gone. It was a freak occurrence. Any kind of trauma could manufacture this little bullet and set it speeding towards its target. Nothing anyone could do.
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull Page 16
