Trust Me Too

by Paul Collins

  I was panting, wrecked, my heart about to give out. Rory rolled flat on his back, his arms scraped and bleeding.

  I turned to him. ‘You need to practise your technique.’

  Rory belly-laughed and said nothing. We didn’t jump that day.

  The Jump

  A few months later, we met one Saturday morning and did it. I know I should have built it up a bit more, but after years of thinking about it, planning it and backing out, it just felt right. For both of us. Without even speaking, we knew we’d do it. We climbed to the top in silence, swapped one brief look and nod ded. We took a small run up (yes, Rory was right) and jumped. It was like riding bikes midair, legs circling and arms flailing. Rory let loose a scream. Then we were in the water. Bubbled beneath the surface, torpedoing down.

  When we emerged, we didn’t say much, just gulped deep breaths and laughed at the sky and the rock platform that was far above us.

  We celebrated with a hamburger atjules’ Cafe. In between mouthfuls, we talked about the jump from every angle, talking loudly over each other while basking in how great we were. We were midway through congratulating each other, when this girl walked in from the kitchen. She was tying an apron around her waist and had a name badge that read,

  ‘Mia’.

  ‘You two look pretty happy with yourselves.’

  ‘And you are looking at two of the bravest men in town.’

  ‘Aren’t I lucky? First day on the job and I meet the town heroes.’

  ‘Any time you need rescuing, we’re your men.’

  I snatched a look at Rory who was staring at his plate. He wasn’t good with girls. Tended to clam up. I’d asked him why in the past and he said he never had anything to say to them. I used to be the same, but lately I was finding I did. I could even make them laugh, and with Mia, I was starting to enjoy mysel£

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’

  ‘We just moved here. Mum knows Jules and she’s letting me do a few shifts to see how I go.’

  ‘Why’d you move to Hopetoun?’

  ‘Same as everyone, the wide open spaces,’ she said with a crooked smile. ‘And all the heroes.’

  She wasn’t laughing at us. It was like she knew the joke between us and wanted in. I’m not sure why I did it, I’d never done anything even vaguely like it before and if I’d thought about it for even half a second, I would have silently yelled at myself for being a jerk and reconsidered. But it was too late.

  ‘Would you like to go to the movies this Friday?’ Three things happened almost instantly. I can remember them as if I was still sitting at that table, beetroot-stained hamburger fingers, ready to yell at myself for being such a dreamy idiot.

  1. She said yes.

  2. Rory’s head jerked up like I’d confessed to being a serial killer.

  3. Rory’s dad walked in, slamming open the door, swaying and screaming his name like he was calling for a dog who’d jumped the back fence again.

  Rory flinched as if he’d been hit. His shoulders hunched and he mumbled that he’d see me soon.

  Rory

  Rory wasn’t at school the next day. Or the next. I texted him, but he never answered. Finally, he wrote to meet him at the rock.

  ‘What happened?’

  Rory shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘To your eye? What happened to your eye?’

  ‘I said ... nothing.’

  ‘Looks like something to me.’

  ‘It won’t be forever. Just for now until I figure a way out.’

  I was quiet. I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.

  ‘Wanna try another jump?’ He made a feeble attempt at his usual winning grin.

  ‘Sure.’ Looking at his eye, I didn’t know what I wanted.

  We stood near the edge. All the confidence from our first jump had been drained from him. Rory stood staring at the river below, shaking, as if he was eight years old again and the jump seemed almost impossible.

  ‘Maybe another time, eh?’ I asked.

  He looked over the edge, his feet planted.

  ‘Come on.’ I slung my hand over his shoulder and drew him away.

  Mia

  After the movie on Friday, Mia and I had coffee. I’d been nervous all day about seeing her, worrying I’d have nothing to say, that that first day was a fluke, but the second I saw her, I felt calm and almost couldn’t shut up.

  ‘So what is there to do around this town?’

  ‘Sightsee, eat at Jules’ Cafe and watch out for all the heroes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s Mays Rock.’

  ‘A rock?’

  ‘Not just any old rock. It’s sheer on one side all the way down to the river. It’s a bit of a rite of passage to jump from it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay, what?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  I scrambled. ‘It’s pretty high and ...’

  ‘Too terrifying for a girl?’

  ‘N0, 1.t,S J.USt ... ‘

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  Standing on the Edge

  We were looking down.

  ‘How high is it?’ Mia asked.

  ‘About fifteen metres.’

  ‘Looks higher.’

  ‘When we were kids it seemed like a hundred.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  A twig snapped behind us.

  ‘Rory?’ It was good to see him. ‘Mia’s going to

  J0 Ump.’

  There were times when Rory would get a look in his eye, like he was sliding away from you and if you couldn’t grab him, he’d be hard to reach for the rest of the day. Maybe even longer.

  He shifted on his feet. ‘I can’t stay.’

  He mumbled something else that I didn’t hear and walked back into the bush.

  A Visitor

  Mia jumped. Just like that. As if it wasn’t something that had taken us half our childhoods to conquer. We stayed late and I walked her home.

  When I got back to my place, Rory was sitting slumped against the side of the house.

  ‘Can I stay here tonight?’

  There was a red welt on his arm.

  ‘Sure. Mum’s cooking lasagne.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m here?’ He gave me a half smile. ‘I could smell it all the way from my place.’

  Dinner

  Mia and her mum invited me over for dinner. Her mum was just as nice, like an older version of Mia and her dad welcomed me in like I’d known them for years.

  My phone beeped. It was Rory.

  Watcha doin? dinner with M have fun

  The Next Day

  My phone woke me early next morning.

  ‘Wanna go to Mays?’

  It was Rory.

  ‘I’m taking Mia to the markets.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a slight crack in his voice, a nerv ousness, like something wasn’t right.

  ‘How about this afternoon at four o’clock?’

  He said nothing. I could hear his breathing, which seemed laboured and heavy.

  I wanted to block it out. ‘We’ll do another jump and go for a burger afterwards. My shout.’

  There was silence. A loud, ear-battering quiet that shouted at me, measured me up, looked me in the eye accusingly. It waited for me to do something but I did nothing. I just let it stumble between Rory and me, teetering and swaying like some careless, selfish drunk.

  ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘See you then.’

  Missing

  He was missing for days. He’d taken nothing from his room. His dad sat in the pub crying about how proud he was of his boy and h
ow he wouldn’t be happy until he came back. The cops searched the bush surrounding the town. Counsellors came to school, not sure what to counsel about. Some of them, you could tell, brought in from the city, thought it was just another runaway, especially after meeting his dad.

  It was on the fourth day they found Rory. He was caught in tree roots at a bend of the river fifteen kilometres downstream.

  The speculation was what drove me inside my bedroom, curled under the covers, not wanting to come out.

  ‘He must have tripped and fell,’ some said.

  ‘No, he meant it. Must have.’

  ‘Someone pushed him.’

  In all the talk, no one guessed the real reason.

  Me

  I left six months later.

  Dad thought a change would do me good, that I was too young to face a side of life that even adults struggle to deal with. I hadn’t left our house except to go to school, and even then I was barely there.

  An old relative in Europe had died, some great aunt I never knew. Left enough money for an exclusive boy’s college. I shrugged when Dad suggested it.

  Mia stood on the front lawn, her face shiny with tears. I knew I’d miss her, but right then, I felt nothing. I didn’t deserve to. I hugged her, told her I would write and waved from the car, all the things I thought I should have done. After a few months of not answering her emails, they stopped.

  At school we have our own lake, boats, archery range, elite training gym. I fence, play water polo, ride horses, anything to leave me exhausted at night, so I don’t dream and I can’t hear the words in my head.

  What Really Happened

  He didn’t fall, he wasn’t pushed and he didn’t jump. I did it.

  I was late meeting him at Mays. Mia and I got caught up, talking. He wasn’t there when I arrived. I texted him. I waited until it got dark. I called but only got his voicemail.

  I let go when I told Rory I wouldn’t. I said it like a promise, but it wasn’t worth anything and now he’s gone. Rory never asked me for much, all he asked was don’t let go and I couldn’t even do that.

  ‘Can you keep the noise down a bit, please?’ Morry - my dad. Sometimes he drives me bonkers. He’s the other side of forty and he thinks he’s a rock star. Right now he’s in the lounge with the amp cranked right up, playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Cass - my mum - she’s just as bad. I can hear her dancing around. She’s singing too. I’m trying to practise, next week I’ve got a concert. How can I concentrate with that racket in the next room?

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Morry replies, ‘we got a bit carried away.’

  I can hear them giggling. They’re middle-aged and they carry on like little kids.

  You wouldn’t know it, but Morry used to be fa mous. For about a week. He was in a band called Crimson Viper. They had a couple of singles in the charts. They were even on Countdown. Molly Meldrum said they were going to be the next big thing. They weren’t. Morry reckons it was bad karma, whatever that means. Their manager ripped them off, their drummer OD’d. The same sad old story.

  That’s when Dad met Mum. She was a groupie.

  Well, she used to go to all their gigs anyway. Morry says she was always right up the front, next to the stage, throwing things at him.

  ‘What things?’ I asked.

  ‘Roses,’ said Mum.

  ‘Knickers,’ said Morry.

  Mum was always trying to sneak backstage after the show. When she finally did, Morry fell in love with her and they’ve been together ever since.

  Marry’s never given up trying to be famous again. He’s been in hundreds of bands. I’m not exaggerat ing, literally hundreds. They always start the same - all the members are really enthusiastic and practise a lot, usually at our place. Then they start playing gigs in scungy pubs way out in the sticks. There’ll be about eight people watching. (My mum is always one of them.) They become more popular. Morry rings up all his old contacts - managers, DJs, produc ers, people from record companies. But just when they’re ready to go into the studio, or play a really big gig, something happens. Something catastrophic. The bass player is offered a fortune to play in Slim Dusty’s band, or the drummer OD’s. Then the band busts up. Mter a while it starts all over again.

  Morry still thinks he can make the big time. So does Cass. In her eyes he’s never stopped being a guitar hero. I reckon he’s got Buckley’s. I’d never say that to him, I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, but you’ve got to be realistic.

  For a start there’s his hair. Or lack thereof Over forty bald blokes just don’t become rock stars. Sure, singers like Elton John and Phil Collins haven’t got much up top, but they went bald after they’d made it big, not before.

  Another problem is Morry’s musical tastes. Actually musical taste would be more correct, because really he only likes one band - Led Zeppelin, or Led Zep as they’re known in this house. Led Zep hasn’t made a record in twenty years. So what? They were the best. They invented heavy rock. Everything since has been second-rate. That’s what Morry reckons anyway.

  Everywhere you look in our house you see Led Zep. You can’t even sit on the toilet by yourself Led Zep is there, too, peering down. One corner of the lounge room is dedicated to the memory of John Bonham, Led Zep’s drummer. He OD’d of course. There’s an enormous poster of John, and under neath, a cross made from two drumsticks. When he died Morry was inconsolable. He moped around for weeks and weeks. He made a tape of all the Led Zep drum solos, and played it over and over. It drove us all bonkers.

  Then there’s my name - Robert (after Robert Plant, singer), James (after Jimmy Page, lead guitar), John (afterJohn Bonham, drummer), Paul (after Paul Jones, bass player). I’m not joking, it’s there on my birth certificate - RobertJamesJohn Paul Morrison. I suppose I’m lucky Morry’s not a football fanatic.

  Jimmy Page played a Les Paul. So Morry plays one. Jimmy Page played a Telecaster. So Morry pulls his out all the time. Jimmy Page played a twin necked Gibson. So Morry went out and got one of those, too. When Morry sings, he almost sounds like Robert Plant. He’s got the same stage mannerisms, too. If they ever make a movie about Led Zep, then Morry should audition. He’d have to wear a wig of course. Morry writes his own songs. They sound just like Led Zep songs, though.

  ‘What Led Zep album’s that off?’ I’ll ask when I hear him playing something vaguely familiar.

  ‘Oh that’s an original, one of mine,’ he’ll reply. Yeah, sure thing, Morry.

  Sometimes we’ll go and visit Marry’s mates. In the old days they used to play in bands with him. They live in big houses in places like Potts Point and Vaucluse. They’re all bald, too, but at least they wear Italian suits and drive BMWs. As we drive home I ask Morry why he can’t do what they do - write jingles for television ads and do stuff with computers.

  ‘Sold out,’ he’ll say. ‘They’ve all sold out. At least

  I’ve got my integrity. I haven’t prostituted my talent to the corporate world.’

  ‘Good on ya, Morry,’ Cass will say.

  In the meantime our beat-up old Kombi can hardly make it up the hill, we eat lentils at least five times a week, and the only way I’ll ever get to the Conservatorium is by winning a scholarship.

  I was playing guitar before I could walk. We’ve got the photos at home - me in nappies holding a baby Telecaster. When other kids were revving around the playground I was learning the chords to ‘Stairway to Heaven’. By the time I was seven I was in Morry’s band. I’d come on at the end and jam on the last couple of songs. The audience used to go wild. It’s not as if he made me play. It wasn’t like that at all. But there were always guitars lying around. People were either listening to music, talking about music or making music. It was natural that I should want to do it, too. I thought other kids were mad, kicking footballs or catching waves when they could be play ing rock. Loud rock.
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  There’s another thing about playing a guitar. It’s to do with girls. They’d never been that interested in me. Not until we formed a band at school and played at a couple of socials. Then suddenly I was Brad Pitt. It was amazing. Girls would whisper when I walked past, there’d be all sorts of notes left on my desk, and Mandy McCarthy, the spunkiest girl in the school, asked me to go out with her. She dropped the captain of the football team to go out with me.

  Not so long ago things were looking good as far as Morry was concerned. The latest band was tight. Morry was on vocals, I was lead guitar. The bass player hated Country music, the drummer was a Christian - he didn’t even drink, so no chance of him

  OD’ing. Morry had been on the phone non-stop for a week. To be honest, I think people were a bit fed up with him, all those producers and record-company types. They liked him, everybody liked Morry, but they probably thought like I did - the hair (or lack thereof), the Led Zep thing - this bloke wasn’t going to make it big again. But somehow he managed to con them. We had studio time booked. We were going to cut a single. This was it. Morry had used up his favours a long time ago and if we blew this, there’d be no next time.

  Then it all changed.Just like that. It wasn’t the bass player. It wasn’t the drummer. It was me - Robert Jamesjohn Paul Morrison.

  I was home by myself, playing around with the radio, trying to find something I liked. Usually I only bothered with the pre-programmed stations, the rock stations. But that day, for some reason, I started hitting the search button, seeing what it came up with. The radio locked into a strong signal. It was a classical station, I knew that, though all I knew about classical was that Morry hated it more than anything else, even more than rap, and that the kids who did it at school were all dorks.

  I was just about to hit search again, but I stopped. I don’t know why, but I did. I stopped, I sat down and I closed my eyes. The music didn’t really sound like anything at first but after a while I started to hear things in it.

  Bang! The door slammed, Morry and Cass were back.

  ‘Wake up, Robby,’ said Morry, changing the station, ‘that nonsense would send anybody to sleep.’ I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t really awake, either. I was somewhere else.