Declan hits his brakes and the rear tyre of his bike cuts a fanning groove in the path; Syd pulls up behind him saying, ‘What?’
They are within sight of the cavernous mouth of the drain, and dumped among the weeds on the bank is a bicycle. ‘That’s Garrick’s bike,’ says Declan.
At once Syd’s happiness deflates. ‘Let’s keep going, Deco.’
But his brother skims his bike closer to where Garrick’s bike lies, leans over his handlebars to get a better view down the bank to the pipe. ‘Garrick?’ he calls. ‘Are you in there?’
There is no immediate answer; then a stone whizzes out from the mouth of the tunnel and lands with a brown splash in the water. The Kileys look back to the drain. ‘Garrick?’ says Declan.
The bulky boy’s voice comes from the pipe’s shadows like the voice of a dragon from a cave. ‘Wadda you want?’
‘. . . Nothing. We saw your bike.’
There’s a pause in which Syd squints against the sun and sky, wishing he could sprout wings and flap away. On the opposite bank a paper bag, blown up like a balloon, is bopping and gusting its leisurely way across the land. ‘Who’s with you?’ Garrick demands, and Syd sighs.
‘It’s just me and Syd —’
‘Not that Jenson homo?’
‘No, just me and Syd.’
Immediately Garrick materialises at the mouth of the drain – he must have been closer than Syd realised. For all his talk, he is scared to go deep into the tunnel. Having ascertained that the bike is safe and that Garrick Greene is not only alive but also in a foul mood, Syd sees no reason why he and Declan should not resume their carefree cruise; but Declan has kicked down the stand of his bike and is stepping from rock to reliable rock down the embankment to the water, and Syd has no choice but to follow. One day, he vows silently, he will make Garrick pay.
Inside the pipe the air is cool as it always is, with the same decomposing smell, like the air inside a haunted house. Garrick has retreated to slouch against the pipe’s wall, the worn toes of his runners taking his weight. He looks squeezed into his striped t-shirt. His face has been chipped from granite. ‘What are you doing?’ Declan asks, and Garrick says, ‘What does it look like?’
It looks like a lot of things, so Declan doesn’t say anything. The boys linger beneath the cresting concrete, waiting for something to change. Then, ‘Look,’ says Garrick, and takes from his pocket the cap of a softdrink bottle. In its shallow basin are microscopic letters: You have won a portable radio! Declan quirks an eyebrow. ‘Where’d you get that?’
‘Sister got it. Said I could have it.’
Syd doesn’t ask if the sister in question is the one with the baby or the one who ran away or the one whose underwear Garrick steals: frankly, he’s not interested. And he knows that if he had such a bottlecap Garrick would deride it, saying they give away a thousand radios and how they’re the kind which nobody wants and that there’s always a catch with such prizes so he’ll probably find when he goes to collect it that he’s actually won a sun visor or a free game at a bowling alley, all this poison hucked out because nothing good’s allowed to happen to anyone . . . so Syd’s startled when Garrick sends the bottlecap soaring through the air, out the pipe and into the water where it bobs frantically for an instant before being swallowed from sight. ‘Shit,’ says Garrick.
Declan looks away from the place where the cap disappeared; Syd can see him struggling to work out what’s going on. Garrick is not typically a complex man. ‘Could have given it to me,’ Declan says carefully.
Garrick sneers. ‘What would you do with a portable radio? Listen to cricket in the shed like some codger?’
‘Maybe.’ Declan doesn’t point out that Garrick himself likes cricket. ‘I would have tied it to the handlebars.’
Garrick thinks about this – the notion of having a radio attached to one’s bike, of being able to play music or follow sport while also riding around – and Syd sees, with some relish, that he’s kicking himself. ‘Too late now,’ he says. ‘Should have said before.’
And then he does, in fact, kick something – he spins and boots the concrete wall even as the slope of the pipe sends him sliding into the slime. It’s a hard kick, and must hurt, for he’s wearing just old canvas runners, but he doesn’t wince: if he’ll never be anything else, Garrick is undeniably tough. He prides himself on being a boy of steel – yet here he is, kicking the wall. And Syd feels a pinprick of disquiet.
The slime is a staining substance, and it smudges Garrick’s white shoes. He lifts a foot out of the gunk and shakes it. ‘Ah, shit,’ he says. ‘Shit!’
To Syd’s vast relief, Declan finally sees sense. ‘We better go,’ he says.
‘Yeah, piss off!’
‘. . . You can come with us, if you want. Look for taddies or something.’
‘No, piss off, cockwipes! Get lost! Go play your baby games by yourselves.’
Declan regards him. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Come on, Syd.’
The brothers pick their way up the embankment, Syd fighting the urge not to run, but they’re not at the top when Garrick reappears at the pipe’s mouth. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘We gotta do something about that perv.’
Declan pauses and straightens, looking back. Syd stops behind him, trapped on the narrow climbing route on both sides of which the weeds grow chest-high, studded with barbs and insects. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know.’ Garrick gazes at them leadenly. ‘You know who I mean. Avery said you were all laughing about it. What’s so funny about a perv, Deco? Like pervs, do you?’
Syd feels an almost frenzied desire not to become embroiled in what can only be a miserable conversation: but Declan, standing with the weeds shushing round him, asks, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing funny, that’s for sure.’ But instead of telling them anything, Garrick’s mouth warps and his hefty hands wag. ‘I’m not yelling it out for the whole world to hear.’
‘Let’s go,’ Syd whispers, so softly it is scarcely more than a thought, and Declan only glances at him; Syd follows him unhappily back down the slope to the drain. Garrick has edged into the shadows, but the brothers stop at the entrance of the pipe so the sun stays on their shoulders and they could run if they had to, through the water and up the far bank, into the obscurity of the scrub.
But now they are here again, Garrick’s suddenly offhand. He kicks the pipe, tosses his fringe, hawks up a gob of spit. He peers down the tunnel as if he’s heard his name called. Without looking at them he says, ‘He wasn’t naked,’ and adds swiftly, ‘Neither was I. He didn’t make me touch his toggle —’
Syd, to whom the idea of touching someone else’s toggle is completely new and even more completely horrifying, makes a rodent’s noise, and Garrick wheels, glaring. ‘Tell him to wait with the bikes, Deco!’
‘No, Syd should know.’ Declan darts a frown at his brother. ‘Keep quiet. So what happened?’
Garrick grunts, and settles awkwardly against the pipe, his knee a battering-ram in front of him. He seems to chew on his words before letting them out. ‘Me and Avery were there having a swim last night. You know why he put that pool in, don’t you? He was sitting on the deck, the way he does. Making his stupid comments. Anyway, it was getting late, dinnertime, so Avery said we had to go. We had our towels hanging on a tree, not up on the deck. So we get out of the pool and get dressed fast, just pulling on our clothes over our bathers. And he’s watching like he does, he comes down as if he’s got something to do in the garden, he comes down and he’s standing there, pretending he’s looking at something in the grass. And then, as we go past, he goes, What an untidy pair you are – you know the homo way he speaks – take pride in your appearance, boys. And he doesn’t get Avery because that slippery bastard jumped out of the way: but he grabs me and, really quick, he tucks my shirt into my jeans. He sticks his fingers down the back of my jeans, stuffing my shirt in.’ Garrick’s voice has become wobbly and heated, and when he looks at his friends there is craziness in
his eyes. ‘He cops a feel of my arse, Declan!’
Declan, hands on head, says, ‘Yeah. That’s shit.’
‘Yeah it’s shit!’ Garrick’s voice slams down the tunnel. ‘Touching my arse!’
‘Where was Colt?’
‘How would I know? He was there, and then he wasn’t there. I don’t know where he went. He should have been there. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there —’
‘It’s not Colt’s fault —’
‘Nah?’ Garrick gulps, eyes bulging. ‘It’s his dad, isn’t it? Not my dad or your dad: his dad.’
Declan’s hands drop. ‘What happened then?’
‘What? I went home —’
‘Did you say anything to him?’
‘No! What was I gonna say? Enjoy that, perv ? But he was lucky that when I went home my brothers weren’t there. When I tell them, they’re gonna stuff his bloody hands down his throat!’
‘Don’t tell them,’ says Declan.
Both Garrick and Syd look at him, surprised. ‘What?’ says Garrick. ‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’ Declan pauses, wincing. ‘Because it’s not that bad, is it? It’s not. But if your brothers stuff his hands down his throat, it will be bad.’
Garrick stares, incredulous. Then, ‘Not that bad!’ he bellows, and his voice, in the pipe, is ear-splitting. ‘He touched my arse, Declan! My arse !’
Declan nods and nods. ‘Yeah, I heard you. But what’s the point of making a big deal about it? You can’t do anything. You can’t prove it.’
Garrick squeals, ‘Bloody hell! You reckon I should forget it? Let him touch my arse and forget it ? What’s wrong with you? You like that sort of stuff, do you? You reckon it’s OK?’
‘No —’
‘You do! You like it! You’re a bloody perv too! You’re as disgusting as he is!’
Declan’s lip curls, and his blue eyes go flinty. The sunshine haloes his edges as he stands cool and still and dignified. ‘All right,’ he says calmly, ‘tell your brothers. Tell them how you let a man touch your prick. You know what he’s like, you knew he was gonna do it, and you stood there and let him. See what they say about that.’
Garrick stares black murder. ‘You shithead. That’s not how it was, and you know it. I should kill you for saying that.’
‘It’s not me saying it,’ Declan replies. ‘It’s what everyone else will say.’
Garrick’s nostrils flare as he absorbs this, he swallows what sounds like a brick. ‘He didn’t touch my prick,’ he says finally. ‘He touched my arse, I told you.’
‘And did it set your arse on fire?’ Syd is speaking before he knows words are coming out: Declan and Garrick turn to him in astonishment as he plunges delinquently on. ‘Don’t be a crybaby, Garrick. We don’t like that man either, but being a crybaby and a dobber is worse. If you make a big fuss we’ll never get to swim in the pool or ride the BMX or play with the slot cars or anything ever again, get it?’
Garrick stares, his eyes jumping over Syd’s face. Death-coldly he says, ‘The only reason I’m not punching your head in right now, you shit, is because I’ve got more important things to think about, get it? I don’t care about toys. I’m not a baby.’
Syd quavers, but he does not budge. Never in his life has he been as bold as he wants to be: never, until this minute. He says, ‘My dad was kicking my mum’s car the other night. He was yelling, swearing, calling us names. He comes home drunk and he punches the walls, he slams doors, he’s smashed all Mum’s favourite things. My sisters cry because they’re frightened, they hide under their beds. One time he pulled my mum’s hair, and he pulled out such a chunk that her head was bleeding. He gives her Chinese burns, and he spits on her. When we hear his car come home, we feel sick, wondering what’s going to happen – if he’s going to fall asleep telling some story, or if he’s gonna kick the cupboards in, or throw a glass at Mum, or hold his fist in Declan’s face and tell him to get to bed. But no one cares about any of that, do they? No one says he should have his hands stuffed down his throat.’
He stops as cleanly as if he’s run into a ditch. Declan has long looked away. They know that Garrick’s father is a hard man, and that the boy will understand – will know the sound of a door swinging with force into a wall. ‘It’s not the same,’ says Garrick, but weakly, and Syd barks like a fox, ‘It’s worse, isn’t it? But I don’t see your tough brothers doing anything about it.’
‘Leave my brothers out of this —’
‘I will if you will.’
Garrick snorts, smiles darkly. He scrapes the sole of his runner down the pipe, making a coarse crumbling sound. In the quiet that follows they hear water dripping deep inside the drain. Garrick wipes his nose and looks at the brothers. ‘You must both be homos,’ he says. ‘Your dad and that man – it’s not the same.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Declan agrees, ‘but it’s just – life, isn’t it? So just live with it. Just stay out of his way —’
‘Oh, I’m going to! He’s not getting his hands on me again —’
‘Well, good.’
‘— but this shit has to be paid for, Declan. I don’t care what you say. He can’t just get away with it – that’s not right. It’s just not right!’
Declan nods slowly. ‘What about Colt?’
‘What about him? What about him? It’s his bloody dad. He should have been there – if he’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened!’
The boys size each other up: none of them will budge, and it is pointless to argue further. ‘What are you going to do?’ Declan asks, and Garrick snaps, ‘I dunno. Something.’ Silence follows, and the situation settles snowily around them, cold and bright-white. Garrick picks up a pebble, examines it, and pings it with accuracy at Syd. It hits the boy’s elbow and zings away. ‘Call me a crybaby again,’ he says, ‘and I will break your arm. Got it?’
Syd, clutching his arm, doesn’t answer. ‘Got it ?’ says Garrick.
‘Yeah,’ says Syd.
Declan steps to the brink of the pipe and stands gazing over the water with his hands in his pockets and the morning sunshine lacquering his cheeks. The paper bag which is like a balloon has rolled and bumped its way a fair distance downstream. ‘I’ve got money,’ Garrick says eventually. ‘Let’s go to the milkbar.’
Colt sits astride his racer, watching Avery teach Bastian to ride a skateboard. Both boys are light-footed, but Avery, the street cat, places his feet exactly where they’re needed, while Bastian – his poor brother who’d have been better off being born a girl or maybe a canary, something pretty and safe in a cage – is as awkward as a baby giraffe. Colt watches him trundle along the road, pips of bitumen almost shaking him from the board, each tentative paddle of his toes against the ground eliciting a nervy grimace. Avery says, ‘Don’t stand in the middle of the board, Bas!’ and Bastian, as is his way, shouts, ‘I know, I know how to do it!’ and moves his foot from the centre to the very end of the board: and the skateboard’s nose lifts like a sniffing dog’s snout and swings violently toward its master’s ankle. The boy jumps clear, hands flailing, and the board starts to escape downhill. Bastian looks back helplessly: ‘Go and get it!’ Colt urges, and the child gallops away. Colt’s gaze follows him, and he wonders where on earth his brother will go.
Avery perches on the gutter, the red-and-white board across his thighs. Its chunky wheels are flecked with small dents from the road. Colt props his wrists on the racer’s handlebars. ‘I thought you didn’t have a skateboard.’
‘I don’t.’
‘So how did you learn to ride?’
Avery shrugs. ‘Sometimes you just know what to do, I guess.’
Colt thinks of how he used to run, his body knowing how to do it without wondering how it knew, his coach often telling him that he had great natural style, relaxed but controlled, that he ran the way a javelin flew, with no energy wasted. Lately he’s begun to yearn for that feeling again – not just the fast feel of the track under his toes, but the certa
inty that, lining up against a rival, he will win. In general he hates to see others fail or be hurt, yet on the track he had known a kind of mercilessness. He’d had no friends, no brother, nothing to which he was obliged. He looks away from that past – he’ll never run a track again, never crouch, with beatless heart, before the gun, never look into the stands to see his father there, knuckly hands between his knees – but maybe he can run these hilly streets alone. He feels that solitude will suit him. He looks down at Avery, at the knee which is patched with a scab like a swatch of buffalo leather. The wound must be itching as it heals, because occasionally Avery rubs it with a palm. He is wearing a t-shirt that has a long split in the seam, and Colt has the peculiar thought that he could give everything he owns to Avery Price – toys, clothes, books, bed, pool, the racers and the BMX, the footballs and the tennis racquets, the school uniform and the school and the excellent report cards and the home-cooked meals, the ribbons and the trophies, the mother and father and brother – and take off running. Unburdened, he would achieve a speed that would first blur him and then stretch him into fine wire-lines of colour which would spool out into invisibility.
Bastian hasn’t returned, and Colt lifts his head. His brother is halfway down the street, in the middle of the road, the skateboard cradled to his chest, staring down the hill to where Declan, Syd and Garrick have appeared on their bikes. They are moving up the road slowly, the older boys slightly ahead of the younger one. They have seen Colt and Avery and Bastian, had seen them before being seen. In the gutter Avery straightens, and Colt adjusts his hold on the handlebars. He tells himself there’s nothing particular to fear – nothing he doesn’t know already, nothing changed from how it was five minutes or even five seconds ago – yet his blood has started to surge. He would call Bastian to him but some instinct tells him that not only would this be summoning his brother to a place of greater danger, but that the child’s slightest movement will set the approaching boys running like wolves. So the three of them remain where they are – Avery in the gutter, Colt astride his bike, Bastian marooned in the sunny centre of the road – as their friends cruise uphill, and it’s only when they are near enough for Colt to read the fraying stickers on the frame of Garrick’s bike that they stop, Syd hanging back, lurking in shadows that aren’t there. Garrick’s face shows nothing, he doesn’t even look at Colt. He frowns at Avery and says, ‘Get up. Grab your bike.’
Golden Boys Page 15
