by Bill Condon
With fifteen minutes in the game still to go, the loyal Gunners’ fans start packing up and searching for their car keys. I understand how they feel. It’s forgivable to drive slowly past the scene of a disaster, but after nearly two hours and a picnic lunch you really should leave.
‘Oopsy.’
Clash of heads in a tackle. Big Foot and Bull. It looked like an accident but that doesn’t matter. I’ve seen this sort of thing before and I know where it’s going.
Big Foot pushes Bull, who shoves back just as hard.
I can’t look.
Have to look.
Please don’t hurt him, Bull.
They spar around for a few seconds and then Big Foot starts throwing punches. Bull blocks one with his mouth but isn’t fazed. He raises his fists and crouches low, dancing about and looking dangerous. It’s like a warning: ‘This is what I’ve got. I was a boxer. I can take you anytime. Don’t mess with me.’
Big Foot punches him again. Another mouth block. Suddenly it swings from boxing to wrestling as Bull goes for the body slam, sending him sprawling backwards. Now both of them are rolling on the ground and trying to kill each other.
Their teammates pull them apart just as the ref marches up. He points to the sidelines and shouts, ‘Off! Both of you! Off!’
They slouch from the field together. Bull’s buddies give him a cheer and a ‘Good on you’ and he responds with a cheesy grin. No one boos or hurls abuse at Big Foot – either because we’re a friendly bunch or he’s simply too damn big to mess with. Just the same, he keeps his head down all the way; looks to be taking it bad. The Blues’ support team waits for him as he goes through the gate. He pushes past them, refusing to talk or listen. His mouth is bloodied and that look on his face is familiar. He’s stolen it from me: it’s my furious, ‘I hate the world’ look. But it’s a lot worse than mine ever was.
My eyes follow him as he runs up the hill, pulls open the door of the team bus, climbs in and slumps into a window seat. For a moment he looks at me. Or did I imagine it? Then he ducks his head down and he’s gone.
Of course, my loyalty is to Bull, but a quick glance tells me he’s in good hands. He’s got a few minor cuts and scrapes, that’s all. Reggie is on one side of him and on the other is Zoe. He’s being fussed over and he’s lapping it up. Doesn’t need me.
Kayla says something – Where you going? What are you doing? – one of those. I’m not even sure if I answer. All my attention turns to Big Foot.
I follow the path he took up the hill, and knock on the door of the bus.
Nothing.
‘Just tell me you’re okay. That’s all I want to know.’
Nothing.
‘Then I’ll have to smash a window – because you might be hurt, you might be bleeding to death. If you don’t talk to me I have no way of knowing. So stay right there while I go find a brick . . .’
I back my judgement and don’t go anywhere. In only a couple of seconds the door swings open and I step up and go inside.
Big Foot slumps behind the driver’s seat, head buried in his hands.
‘Thanks for letting me in.’
‘Sawright.’
‘I’ve got a bad temper, too.’
He sighs. It’s like he’s saying: ‘When is she going to leave me alone?’ When I’m good and ready – that’s when.
‘Sometimes I just lose it’ – I’m thinking of The Great Sunflower Attack – ‘but usually I’m able to control myself because I’ve developed an anger management technique. You want to hear about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, what it is, see, is I drop books on people I’m angry with.’
‘Look, Tiffany–’
The more I hear him say my name, the more I like it.
‘I don’t feel like talking right now. Maybe some other time.’
‘Sure, sure. I get it. That’s exactly how I am when I’m angry. Bull comes to talk to me – he’s the one you punched, by the way. He’s like my uncle, big brother – take your pick – it’s complicated. He’s also a cop. Of all the guys out there, you pick the cop to punch. Good one. Anyway, Bull comes into my room and I go mental and throw stuff at him and tell him to rack off – only I don’t say rack. But, you know, I really like it that he makes the effort. That’s why I thought I’d come over and see you. Didn’t want you to be angry all on your own.’
He looks up at me. At last.
‘You’re a weird chick, aren’t you?’ That’s what he says to me.
‘Good observation.’ That’s what I answer.
A glad, happy look breaks out on his face. I mean, really breaks out, as if it’s been held captive by the forces of doom and gloom and now it’s on his face and stretching out and smiling at me.
‘So you drop books on people?’
‘Yep.’
‘And that’s a good thing?’
‘Aw yeahh. Not real books because I would never damage a book. No way. What I do is – say I’m you. Right?’
‘You’re me.’
‘Okay. I’m playing footy. Having a fine time. And then this gorilla headbutts me. I realise later it was an accident, but at the time I’m not in a fit state to realise anything, because all I can think of is killing the fool. You with me so far?’
‘I might even be ahead of you.’
‘Good. Now here’s where our approach differs. Instead of punching out like a maniac, as you did, I would have closed my eyes and used my imagination to build a plane.’
He looks doubtful. Can’t imagine why.
‘Trust me. This works. I do it all the time and I can’t even use a screwdriver. I build the plane – it takes a second – jump in and take off. Then I swoop low over the head of my victim and wave at him from the cockpit. That alone feels amazing. He starts running and I can see the fear on his face, but there’s nowhere to hide. Now here comes the really good part. I open the bomb doors. One thousand copies of War and Peace land on him –
‘Five hundred and sixty thousand words in each book.
‘Hard back covers.
‘Large print edition.
‘The pen is mightier than the sword!’
He mulls it over for a second, before telling me what he thinks.
‘Yeah,’ he says, nodding, ‘you are full-on weird.’ But he says it with a smile.
It seems like a perfect time to leave – while I’m winning.
When I get back to Kayla she’s full of questions for me. I give her answers trimmed to the bone.
‘Just thought I’d make sure he was all right.
‘He hardly said anything.
‘I said a lot of rubbish.
‘And no, I don’t expect to ever see him again.’
That night I type the day’s adventures into my journal. For the first time I don’t call him Big Foot. He’s Davey.
On sunday they have an eight-dollar dinner special at the Royal. Kayla and I never miss it. I go for the shepherd’s pie with chips and she has the lasagna with chips. If you eat at the Royal, you’d better like chips.
We find an empty table in a corner, but before long it’s noisy. Meat raffle’s on. Charlie Dent is in charge. He’s quite a poet. Especially when he works with colours.
‘Twenty-nine blue – could that be you?’
‘Thirty-three green – has anyone seen – thirty-three green?’
And he’s known far and wide for this one:
‘Fifty-six pink – rinky-dink-dink!’
It’s so bad it’s funny. But Kayla isn’t laughing tonight. She isn’t all that bothered about food either. Not long into the meal she abandons her knife and fork to graze on the chips, seeking out the slightly burnt crispy ones. But she soon tires of that.
‘Can we get outta here, Tiff?�
��
That’s fine with me. We both know a quieter place. It’s a fair trek but it’s on our way home and there’s a short cut. In fifteen minutes we’re standing at the entrance to our own private hide-out: Gungee Creek Cemetery.
I lead the way. There’s one floodlight near the street but the further in among the graves we go, the more the darkness buries us.
Hot nights bring out snakes so I warn Kayla to be careful.
Immediately she shrieks, ‘Tiff! Tiff! Behind you!’
It’s a feeble old joke and only an idiot would fall for it.
She cackles when I jump.
As we usually do, we prop ourselves up against the headstones of Monnie and Grogan Nash. Being buried together means they have a double-sized slab of concrete in front of them, which is perfect for us to sit on. We don’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that they feel like old friends and I know they’d want us to be comfy. They’ve both been dead for over a hundred years, but we still say hello to them. However, we don’t ask how they are. That would be tactless.
From out of her backpack Kayla produces a Coke bottle. The drink’s all gone and now it’s half-filled with a clear liquid.
‘Vodka. Nicked it from Inky. If she misses it, which I doubt, she won’t mind.’ She dives back into her bag. ‘Got a couple of paper cups in here, too, somewhere, ah, here we go.’
We’ve been coming here for years; had a few beers on burning hot days, but we’ve never drunk vodka before.
‘So what’s the deal?’ I ask.
‘You start at the paper tomorrow. That’s special.’
‘Only work experience.’
‘But you might get a cadetship – that’s what you said – right?’
‘A long shot.’
‘You’ll get it.’
She brushes her cup against mine. ‘Cheers! But don’t scull it – that is deadly stuff.’
I take a sip, and grimace. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘Give it a chance to grow on you.’
‘I’ve got enough things growing on me already, thanks.’
‘Drink.’
I have another gulp and roll it around my mouth. It still burns my lips, my tongue.
‘Better?’
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to drinking diesel, but I don’t want to spoil her fun.
‘Getting there.’
She doesn’t see me tip it out.
A yawn is followed by a stretch, and then, as if she’s in her own bed instead of on top of a gravestone, Kayla lies on her side, hands cupped under her cheek to make a pillow.
‘This wouldn’t be such a bad place to end up.’ A sliver of moon shines enough light for me to see that her eyes are closed; it’s almost like she’s talking in her sleep. ‘You’d be right at home here, Tiff. Nice and peaceful, like the library. Throw a few books in with you and you’d be happy.’
‘The dead can’t read.’
‘You don’t know that for sure. They could have reading clubs, right here in Gungee Cemetery. Now there’s something for you to look forward to.’
‘Go to sleep, Kayla. I’ll wake you up if anyone wants to read you a story.’
She’s quiet for a couple of minutes but awake, and restless . . .
‘Knock, Knock,’ she says. ‘Anyone home?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been thinking about things lately . . .’
A slight tension grips at me; I don’t quite know why, except that Kayla sounds very serious. I’m not used to that.
‘What kind of things?’
‘Well . . . do you think I’ll ever get a job?’
‘Of course, you idiot, I know you will.’
‘I’ve got the same genes as Inky and she’s never had one.’
‘But she’s got kids. That’s her job.’
‘Yeah, great. Thanks for reminding me.’ She sits up now, perched on the edge of the grave. ‘It’ll probably be mine too. I’m getting just like her. I drink and I smoke–’
‘Thought you quit.’
‘That was last week.’
‘Oh.’
‘And in about five years from now I’ll have two or three little snots and they’ll make up some crappy nickname for me, like Inky, and I’ll still be here in Gungee.’
‘How much of that vodka have you had?’
‘Not enough.’
‘Well you’re mad. You don’t have to stay here. You can leave anytime you want.’
‘I’ve got no cash, no car, and my mum is pregnant and she needs me – she always needs me. You tell me how I’m–’
‘Stop. Just stop, Kayla. Things will change. Life is going to work out fine.’
‘How can you say that? You don’t know what’s gunna happen.’
‘Sure I do. I’ll become rich and famous and I won’t forget you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. I’ll hire you as my maid.’
‘That’s right – make a joke of it. You think everything’s a joke, Tiff, but it’s not.’
‘Huh? I was only trying to lighten things up.’
‘Yeah, I know – and I gotta tell ya, it is so annoying when you do that. I don’t need you to lighten up what I say – I need you to understand!’
‘Okay, okay. I understand!’
‘No! You don’t!’
‘Fine! Whatever you say, Kayla.’
The silence batters us. It builds to a crescendo. She breaks first.
‘Damn you, Tiff. Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Me? What did I do?’
‘You’ve made me feel guilty for being so mean . . . I’m sorry.’
‘You were just being honest.’
‘No I wasn’t. I was being jealous.’
‘No way! Of me?’
‘Yes, you. Your job . . . and now I feel awful, because I know you’d never be jealous of me.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘Oh, I’m sure all right. You never get jealous.’
‘Wrong, Kayla. Dead wrong. I just never show it.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No. I’m dead serious. Everyone likes you, Kayla. You fit in anywhere you go. You can eat anything you like and not put on weight – which isn’t fair, but you can’t help it – and you’re pretty and generous and–’
‘Are you trying to make me throw up?’
‘All I’ve got is a smart mouth.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘And like you say, that gets very annoying. I don’t know why you have anything to do with me.’
‘Good point. I don’t know either. Why should I bother with someone who says such absolute garbage?’
‘It’s true about you not putting on any weight . . .’
‘Okay. From now on I’m stocking up on chocolates and ice-creams. Watch this space. Skinny me is gone!’
‘I don’t want you to do that. You can be skinny. No one’s perfect.’
‘Hey.’ Her pinky finger nudges mine. ‘I love your smart mouth. I don’t want you to change anything.’
I lean back against the cold stone and gaze around me. In among the dead there must be girls who were once like me and Kayla. They probably lived this very scene before us; asked the same questions about friendship, about life; wondered if it was all worthwhile. I think it is. Hope it is.
On saturday, while he had the Gunners for company, Reggie forgot about being sick and old. I took a ton of photos of him at the barbecue after the game: in his short shorts with his toothpick legs; tackling a giant beer like an ambitious sparrow; telling anyone who would listen what they did wrong and how he would have done it so much better. No one got upset with him. Reggie’s a legend, that’s what the
y all said. I don’t think he wanted that day to ever end.
But now it’s Monday. He’s dressed up in his brown suit coat and pants and shiny black shoes. Wearing his natty felt hat, too – the one with the yellow feather stuck in the brim. He wants that with him when he’s cremated.
All this for his appointment to see Anna.
‘She’s only a doctor,’ Bull reminds him. ‘Not the bloody Queen.’
‘Come from the old school, I do,’ Reggie says, ‘where we had respect. A man doesn’t want to look like a no-hoper.’
I ask him where his tie is, just for a stir, because I know what the answer will be.
‘Don’t believe in ’em,’ he says. ‘You can get in all kinds of strife with ties. Oh yes. My very word.’
I’ve heard his killer-tie stories many times.
It just doesn’t make any sense puttin’ a noose around your own neck. You put it on too tight and you half choke to death; too loose and its liable to fly up and get caught in a train door. And then there’s–
But today I don’t ask him to explain the dangers. I’d like to have a laugh – just to myself – but I’ve got somewhere I have to be.
The bus to Menindah takes an hour. I’ve left myself plenty of time to make it to the Eagle by nine.
Bull has other ideas.
‘I have to call in at the courthouse there this morning,’ he says. ‘You might as well keep me company on the drive.’
‘Forget it. I’m not going with you in the cop car.’
‘Won’t kill yer.’ He checks out the mirror as he goes past. Looks disappointed at what he finds there. ‘You ready?’
‘Everyone will think I’m under arrest.’
‘Especially when I put the cuffs on yer.’
‘You’re an idiot, Bull.’
‘So I’ve been told, but who cares what anyone thinks? Don’t worry about it. You can get the bus for the rest of the week.’
‘But–’
‘No buts. It’s a done deal. We can drop off Reggie as we go through town.’
Reggie bristles at this. ‘Nah. I’ll be right. Got me walkin’ shoes on.’
