by J. C. Burke
It’s very clear what I have to do. Miro says be patient. He says we’ll know when it’s time. Tomorrow after we make salami, I’ll tell Miro it’s time. I’ll say to him that I want to go to the police and tell them what I saw.
MUM’S VACUUMING, WHICH IS VERY unusual. I pull the doona over my head, wondering if she’s expecting visitors, and if she is who on earth would they be. Pat, her hairdresser, is the only alien I’ve spied in the living room these last two years.
When Archie lived here they had the odd visitor. Mum’s sister Yvonne from Adelaide, a few of Archie’s hunting mates and I remember Mr Curlewis out in the garage having a beer and talking guns some afternoons.
The sucking sound of the vacuum is coming up the hall. It’s nearly 11 am, that’s five hours sleep, so I slide out from under the doona and sit on the edge of the bed giving Sara’s tummy a scratch. ‘Hey boy, how’re you feeling?’ I ask him. ‘You were a bit slow getting out of the car last night, weren’t you? Were you scared of the storm? It was a big wind, wasn’t it? I might leave you at home today. You can guard the house while the visitors are here and I’ll go make salami. You can eat my serving.’
I stand in the hallway watching Mum move in and out of her bedroom doorway as she vacuums her way back into the hall.
‘You can do my room now,’ I say. ‘I’m up.’
But she doesn’t hear so I shout it. ‘Mum! I’m up now. You can do my room.’
‘I’m not doin’ ya room,’ she calls back.
‘Oh? Okay.’
I step over the vacuum on my way to the kitchen. ‘Any bread?’
She doesn’t answer. I pull the cord out of the socket and the house goes quiet. ‘Is there any bread?’ I ask.
‘Why’d ya do that?’
‘Because you can’t hear me,’ I say. ‘Are you having people over or something?’
Mum’s wearing the smiling teddy jumper, so there’s my answer. ‘Turn it back on, Damon,’ she barks. ‘And go and have a shower and put on some of them clean clothes.’
‘Why? Who’s coming over?’ I ask, plugging the cord back in. Then when I’m standing tall again, I give my underarms a good sniff. ‘I don’t smell.’
‘Just have a shower. Please.’
‘I’m having breakfast first,’ I tell her. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Didn’t ya have dinner?’
I’m searching through the kitchen cupboards trying to find something to eat. There’s coffee, sugar, flour, a can of beetroot and a jar with three peanuts left in it.
‘I said, didn’t ya ate dinner?’ Mum’s in the doorway, swinging the vacuum cord around like she’s a stripper. ‘Where’d ya go last night?’
‘There’s never anything to eat in this house,’ I growl. ‘I just went out last night. You were in a mood, remember? Didn’t even have an appetite.’
‘Ya always just doin’ somethink, aren’t ya? But it’s never somethink ya can tell me.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Have ya talked to Moe lately?’
‘I saw him yesterday in the mini-mart. Why?’
‘Just askin’.’
‘Okay, Mum,’ I say. I step in front of her, folding my arms and trying to catch her eye. But she’s still mad. She’s staring down at the kitchen floor, swinging the vacuum cord around like she wants to lasso me and tie me up.
I open the fridge then slam it closed. ‘Looks like your appetite returned. I see the pizza’s been demolished.’
‘No, it hasn’t,’ she tells me. ‘It’s in the garbage. I told ya I can’t eat.’
‘Right.’ I take a deep breath, loud enough for her to hear. ‘I can see you’re not over it yet. So I’m going out to get myself a decent feed. Hopefully you’ll be in a better mood when I get back.’
‘No, ya not! Ya not goin’ nowhere!’ Mum barks, dropping the vacuum cord and thundering down the hall towards the front door.
‘What! What is your problem?’
Mum is standing in the doorway, blocking my way.
‘Mum, move.’
‘I said ya not goin’ nowhere.’
‘Mum, I’m leaving the dog here and going down to the shops to get something to eat because we never have any fucking food here.’ I am trying to keep my voice calm. Usually I’d push her out of the way. It’s like a reflex: no thought goes into it. But now I can’t because I don’t understand why she’s standing there. ‘Mum, please move.’
‘No.’
‘Mum! Move.’
‘No. You’re not goin’ out there.’
‘Mum, just bloody move!’ My arms grab hers; it’s hard to get a grip on the sleeves of her teddy jumper and she’s wrestling back, giving me everything she’s got. ‘Mum, what the hell are you doing? Have you gone mad? Just move, woman! Moooove!’
I hold her shoulders firm and with one almighty push I shove her out of the way. She falls against the glass cabinet and her ornaments topple like skittles on the alleyway.
The path up to Miro’s is a bog trap. I’m careful not to steer through the middle of the track, which is sinking with mud. Rivulets of rain are etched into the ground. They weave through the grass like snakes slithering down to the highway.
Up here the storm’s whipped through in a hurry. It’s like driving through a country the day after the world finished. The washing machine is on its side and strips of old tyres look like black ribbons hanging from the branches of trees.
The pyramid of bottles has washed away as if a steam-roller has driven through the middle of it. A few of them have landed on the track and are floating in the mud.
I stop the car and get out. Carefully I edge my way around the puddle, trying to find a good spot so I can kick the bottles out of the way and still keep my shoe relatively dry. My mobile starts to ring but my arms are stretched out helping me to balance so I ignore it. I swing out my leg and, using the edge of my foot, sweep the bottles, one by one, out of the water and off the path.
I look over to the water tank, half-expecting Miro to be sitting there chuckling as he watches me. But the land is empty. Everything has gone. An oblong of yellow grass marks where Miro’s caravan was. Some sheets of tin lean against the pepper tree but the kitchen’s gone too.
Suddenly, my hands are out in front of me, flailing like I’m in the dark, like I’ve suddenly lost my way. I stumble towards what used to be Miro’s house, calling his name. ‘Mmmmmmm–’ Way above the trees bouncing towards the sky, I hear my voice. ‘–iiiiiirrrro.’ But there’s no answer. The land is silent. He’s left.
‘Miro!’ I roar. ‘Miro!’ I’m wading through mud. There must be a trace of him somewhere but there’s been too much rain and any tyre marks have washed away.
‘Mirrrrr-o! Miii-ro?’
I’m back on dry land, pulling the mobile out of my pocket, but I have no number for him. Miro doesn’t have a phone. ‘Who would ring me,’ he said. I see there’s a missed call from home. Perhaps Miro is there. He must be waiting to take me wherever we’re going. He wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t do that.
My mobile rings again. ‘Home,’ flashes on the screen.
‘Mum?’ I am walking in circles around the water tank, dizzy, losing my footing like a drunk. ‘Mum?’ I yell.
‘Damon, ya need to get home. Now …’
‘Is, is Miro …’ I’m leaning against the pepper tree, the bark still soft from all the rain. ‘Is he at –’
Mum’s talking over me. ‘It’s the dog, the dog’s sick.’
‘Hey …?’
Call ended.
Within a minute I’m back on the highway. The windscreen wipers smudge the splatters of mud until the glass is crystal clear. I’m telling myself to breathe. I’m telling myself to count. When I get to twenty my mind will be empty and there’ll be space to think. Space, so that my thoughts can find order.
But a horrible knowledge dangles in the pit of my guts as though it’s hanging from a sinker. Miro has gone. Miro has packed up and left because of what he told me las
t night.
My hand slams the steering wheel and I feel a shot of pain through my palm. How could he leave me? I have told him everything and now he has too, so doesn’t that bind us together in some way? Aren’t we a team? Wasn’t the plan that we’d both go to the police and tell them what I saw? Miro said he’d stand by me because with Miro I count.
It seems like hours before I see the Strathven sign. Or was it just a minute ago that I stood at the edge of a puddle, skimming the bottles away with my foot? Nothing’s clear. Everything’s hazy like I’m looking at the world through a long tube of frosted glass.
I hit the brake as a line of children trail across the road. Smiling as they pass the car, as if I’m a wonderful exhibit in the zoo. They’re so tiny and I can’t remember when I was ever that small. I can’t remember what life was like then. I can’t remember if I was happy.
Slowly I drive through the main street, past the Clancy Hotel and the mini-mart, checking right then left for a ute and a caravan. Perhaps he’s stopped for provisions. Maybe someone’s told him that Sara’s sick and he’s gone to fetch the vet, the Czech woman he likes so much.
My hands guide the wheel around the final corner and my neck cranes, my face leaning towards the windscreen to see if his caravan and ute are parked outside the house. It’s like I’m almost choking, my throat’s so stuffed with hope. So full that it’s hard to swallow. But there’s no ute, no caravan. Instead I find two police cars, one pulled up at the kerb, the other in our driveway.
THE FRONT DOOR’S OPEN. JUST inside, Sara sits quietly like he’s been waiting for me to get home. When he sees me he rises to all fours and wags his tail. He doesn’t look sick.
Down the hall, a policeman is standing outside my room.
‘Mum?’ I call. ‘Where’s my mother?’ I ask, pushing past him. ‘What’s going on?’
Three more policemen are in my bedroom. My mother sits facing my wardrobe doors, which are wide open. A pair of bolt cutters lie on the desk.
‘Mum!’
She doesn’t move.
‘Can someone tell me what the fuck’s going on?’
A cop places his hand on my shoulder like he’s a mate burdened with bad news to deliver. But he says, ‘Damon John Styles, you are under arrest for the possession of a prohibited firearm. You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so.’ Mum begins to cry. ‘But whatever you say or do may be used in evidence.’ Her head’s on the desk, her sobs muffled in the wood. ‘Do you understand? I will say it again, do you understand?’
‘Mum? What the fuck is going on?’ I am taking in the room, sucking in every tiny detail. The black gym bag is being carried out by a guy wearing blue plastic gloves. My computer’s gone, the drawers are open and empty. Another cop in blue gloves is packing away my games in a box and then I notice that the one standing in the doorway is filming it all. ‘Did you do this? Did you call the cops? Mum! Why? Why the fuck would you call the cops?’
The policeman launches into the speech again. ‘Damon John Styles, you are under arrest for the possession …’
I talk over him, yell over him. I want to grab the back of Mum’s teddy jumper and haul her off the chair so that she’ll look at me, talk to me and explain what the hell she’s done. ‘Hey? Hey! Mum, Mum you’ve got this wrong,’ I begin. ‘I was planning to go to the station today. That – that gun isn’t mine. It’s not mine! You’ve got it wrong. Can someone please listen to me?’
But he’s still talking. ‘… Senior Constable Ashley Peels of Strathven Police Station.’ Then he yells in my face. ‘Do you understand!’
‘I’m not fucking answering anything!’ I yell back. ‘Because I haven’t done anything. You’ve got it all wrong.’
The cop turns to the digicam and says quietly, like I’m an animal on a nature program he’s narrating, ‘For the record the prisoner has been cautioned twice but refuses to answer.’
A policewoman enters the room. She crouches next to the chair and starts to speak to Mum. ‘Come with me, Mrs Styles. Your sister’s flight’s been delayed a couple of hours. She’s still in Sydney.’
‘What?’ I spit. ‘Aunty Yvonne is … what’s been going on? What’s this all about?’ I take a step towards Mum. Ashley Peels’s palm slams down onto my shoulder.
‘Get your hands off me!’ I yell. ‘Mum? Talk to me.’
The policewoman is helping her to stand up. ‘I can’t deal with this on me own and I ain’t got no one to help ’cept me sister,’ she says. The old girl’s holding onto the lady cop’s elbow like she’s a cripple. We’re barely an arm’s length from each other. But Peels’s grip on me is tight. Mum may as well be standing on the other side of the earth.
Her eyes are red and swollen. Her head seems to shake as she breathes out in a tight whistle. ‘Why don’t I see me name on one of ya lists?’ she asks me. ‘I thought I’d be number one.’
‘Mum. No. Nooo. You’ve got it wrong.’
‘Nah,’ she sighs. ‘This time I done somethink about it instead of just lettin’ the town talk. I don’t reckon they woulda dealt with ya so good. That’s why I didn’t want ya goin’ out. It’s better this way. Ya safer with the police. Ya gotta be. Least that’s what I’m tellin’ meself. That’s how I can keep livin’.’
The policewoman steps aside because they can’t both fit through the doorway. Mum stops. My fingers curl as I wait for what she’s about to say. ‘I wished ya’d had a shower, son. Put on them clothes I washed for ya.’ She hobbles away, arm in arm with the policewoman. My fingers have knotted themselves into fists.
Peels tell me to stand with my feet apart. He begins to pat me down as if I’m a full-blown criminal. ‘Damon Styles,’ he says, ‘I’m escorting you to the Strathven Police Station where you will be interviewed and incarcerated overnight. You can cooperate and come quietly or you will have to be –’
‘Yeah, okay,’ I mutter.
The policewoman is at the doorway again. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word please, sir?’
There’s whispering, nodding and pointing of fingers. Then the lady walks away.
‘Mr Styles,’ begins Senior Constable Ashley Peels, back in his official voice. ‘Is there a back exit to the property?’
‘No.’
‘Apparently a small crowd has gathered outside the front of the house.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just a handful of people but for your safety, I think it’s better if you’re cuffed.’
‘There are people outside the house?’ I say. ‘Why? Who?’
‘Hold up your right hand please, Mr Styles.’ One cuff is closed around my right wrist, the other half’s attached to Peels. ‘Let’s go.’
We leave my bedroom and it’s as if it was a soundproofed haven cut off from the rest of the world. With each step, the grumblings grow louder until I am hiding behind the front door and the things they shout at me feel like bricks hurtling through the window.
‘Show ya face, psycho!’
‘Not so tough now.’
‘Damoink oink oink oink!’
‘I can’t do this,’ I say, taking a step back. But Peels serves me a firm knuckle in the back and nudges me out the door. When the crowd spots me they erupt into hysteria like I’m a big-time celebrity. For years I endured this at school, telling myself they were idiots who didn’t share a brain between them. But this feels so different; I might as well be hearing it for the first time.
The door of the police car is open and waiting. On either side of the gate, acting as a barrier between them and me, stand the other two cops that were in my room. It wouldn’t take too much to push your way through. Not if you really wanted to.
It must be past three o’clock because school’s out. It’s a group of Year 9 Strathven High students snorting the ‘Damoink oink oink’ chant. They’re huddled together, their bags on their backs, their pink, sweaty faces craning to get a better look at me trotting down the pathway trying to keep up with the strides of Ashley Peels, who s
eems to have forgotten that I’m attached to him. Or maybe he hasn’t.
I keep my eyes focused on the concrete. It’s better not to see the faces. But I recognise a voice and look up. It’s Bridie. Her mouth’s wide open as if she’s mid-yawn. Her lips stretch and form the words ‘pussy chicken’. Parker’s arms are around her like even now she needs protection from me.
He’s yelling, ‘Didn’t I tell you we were watching you!’
Ashley Peels’s hand is weighing down on my head. ‘Get in,’ he’s saying, pushing me into the car. The two front doors slam.
‘Okay, fellas,’ he instructs and we’re driving away, weaving a path through a crowd that’s not quite finished with me.
There’s no conversation in the police car. No enquiry as to whether I’m okay, not too shaken, still have all ten fingers and toes. For a second I wonder if they’re about to tell me it’s a big hoax.
‘I don’t know what my mother’s got into her head,’ I begin now that I’ve found my voice again. If I get the whole story out, tell them what’s really happened, then maybe they’ll do a U-turn and drop me home in time for M*A*S*H at five o’clock. ‘I promise you have got this so wrong. So wrong. The reason …’
‘Leave it for the station,’ Peels butts in. ‘You’re wasting your breath now.’
Peels turns and looks out the window like it’s a Sunday drive he’s enjoying and my conversation is ruining the ambience.
There’s no joy likely to happen in here. I’m wedged between Peels and the cop who was filming. The handcuffs are still on. I find that keeping my eyes on the curved metal helps the realisation of what’s happening flow a little easier. I am under arrest, I say to myself. I am under arrest. Can you believe it? I am under arrest. But when I explain the situation they will apologise and let me go.
So why the crowd outside the house? I shut my eyes but it doesn’t stop the answer creeping up my spine. Even in the dark I see Andrew Parker and Curtis Marshall, the afternoon at the petrol station; I hear what Parker said to me. ‘There’s a rumour going around that you’re planning to come back to school and get us.’ I took no notice because his next words caught my attention. ‘Ask Curtis,’ Parker’d said. ‘Ask him. He reckons you’re going to kill us.’
