Datsunland

by Stephen Orr

  The bus, when did I catch the bus? he wondered. Yesterday afternoon? The day before? And when did I argue with Dad?

  His father? Still waiting for him, he supposed. Back home on the other side of the city. So far, and with the buses finished for the day.

  Fuck!

  A moment later he was kneeling in a garden of pine chips, vomiting, spitting brandy-flavoured chunks from his mouth. He looked up at a ‘Mr Exterminator’ sign, a pair of angry Rottweilers in a car yard, and cursed his teacher. He saw a taxi, crossed to the middle of the road and hailed it. It stopped and a small Indian man wound down the window. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Lindisfarne.’

  ‘You were going the wrong way.’

  He got in, and the driver planted his foot and completed a U-turn. ‘You have money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see, please?’

  He took out his wallet, opened it and displayed a fifty-dollar note.

  ‘Thank you. You have been drinking?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘If need be, tell me before your sickness.’ The driver indicated and turned right down a road Charlie remembered. ‘Otherwise there is a sixty-dollar fee.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen? You look too young to be out by yourself.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Is she nice?’

  His eyes were on the meter. ‘That goes fast.’

  ‘Don’t worry, fifty will cover it.’

  Greg Fraser, the band’s bass player, stood waiting for William at the door of the pub. ‘Come on, everyone’s waiting.’

  William walked past him, through the maze that led into the beer garden. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

  ‘But we’ve got another set.’

  ‘The kid’s pissed off … that fuckin’ bitch.’ He climbed onto the stage, packed his three guitars into their cases, wound up his cords and approached the microphone. ‘That’s it.’

  No one seemed concerned. The crowd had dwindled to a dozen or so. Someone called out, ‘What about a refund?’ But most people hadn’t paid anyway.

  ‘It’s your bedtime,’ William replied, and the voice mumbled something about them being shit anyway.

  ‘What are you fucking good at then?’

  A bald, beefy man stood up.

  Greg pulled William aside. ‘In the middle of a gig? Do you know how hard it was to organise this?’

  ‘Do you think this lot will notice?’

  ‘It’s not the fucking point.’

  He drove around the dozen or so blocks that made up Brompton and Bowden, accelerating, braking, looking down alleys and side streets, narrowly avoiding parked cars and knocking over a wheelie bin. He suspected he might have hit a cat, but didn’t care. Just after midnight he emerged onto the main road and tried to decide what to do next. Only a few cars, mainly taxis. He drove towards the city, crossing the Parklands. A small fire, a few homeless people. Uni students headed for the next pub, a prostitute, perhaps, more taxis. He turned towards home, shutting off the radio so he could think.

  The stillest part of the night. A rescue helicopter appeared from over the hills, flying low towards the city. Damien followed its path. Some cocky’s son, smashed up in a ute, he guessed. He was pacing the brick path that wound through his front garden. This is where it had all started, and where it would finish, he hoped. He tripped on a paver and stamped it down with his foot. A branch had grown across the path, and he snapped it off.

  He’d spent hours driving around Lindisfarne. Nothing. He’d walked through the school, checked the pool, the hay shed—anywhere Charlie might be hiding. He’d been stopped by a security guard and explained the situation, but was asked to leave anyway.

  Nicole and Dave pulled up in an old Laser. Nicole got out, slammed the door and said, ‘Nothing?’

  ‘He won’t be far.’

  ‘It’s not the point.’ She came around to him. ‘He’d know this would upset you.’

  ‘He’s a kid, they don’t think.’

  Dave jumped the fence and stumbled onto the front lawn. ‘We walked all the way along Fourth Creek.’

  ‘We gotta call the police,’ Nicole said.

  ‘No, then we’ve got Social Services coming in to interview us.’

  They sat on a bench on the front porch. Mostly quiet, but after a while Dave said, ‘I did this.’

  Nicole turned to him. ‘What?’

  ‘Ran away. The whole day. Most of the time I was up a tree in the backyard.’

  Damien leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t remember. But I was always planning to run off. Had it all worked out. You know—No one gives a shit if I’m dead or alive.’ He sat back and studied the stars. ‘Don’t worry, he’s too smart to go far.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Damien said.

  ‘It is not,’ Nicole replied.

  ‘A bloody detention. Cos he argued with this teacher who was trying to tell them some bullshit. Charlie was setting him straight. Can you imagine it?’

  Dave grinned, watching how the stars turned from white to red to blue. ‘I can just hear him. Excuse me, sir, but is that right?’

  ‘What was he saying? Identical twins come from different eggs. Any idiot knows that’s wrong.’

  Nicole nudged Dave.

  ‘What? I knew that.’ He noticed a meteorite burning up. ‘Even the teachers at my crap school woulda known that.’

  ‘So he argued with him,’ Damien said.

  ‘But he shouldn’t have argued with you,’ Nicole said.

  ‘It was me.’

  ‘He’s smart, but he can also be a little prick.’

  ‘I told him he’d have to give the guitar back.’

  Dave sat forward. ‘I bet that got his hackles up.’

  Nicole looked at him. ‘You don’t even know what a hackle is.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the red thing on a chook.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Silence. Crunching gravel. They all looked up. Charlie stood at the gate. No slouch, no expression, no torn clothing or cough or undone button.

  ‘Welcome home,’ Nicole said. ‘Come in, I’ll fetch your slippers.’

  Charlie took a few steps forward. ‘Dad …’

  ‘You alright, son?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Damien walked through the garden, opened his arms and reclaimed his son. ‘Jesus … you had me worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He held him close. Smelled the smoke and alcohol on his clothes, but didn’t care. He took a few moments to feel his son’s breathing, his warmth. Felt thankful that time had reset, again, the way it had begun. That Charlie was six again, and upset because of what someone had said; nine, left out; eleven, twelve, wanting to be with him, ask him questions, come to the car yard and sit in the Datsun that was left there for old time’s sake, and the cats. That no matter how much his son grew, or learned, or was tempted, he always returned.

  ‘I’ve been an idiot,’ Charlie said.

  ‘No, I have,’ Damien said. He stood back and looked at him. ‘You’re not hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where you been?’

  He didn’t answer, and in the gap, Nicole came forward. ‘Well, where?’

  ‘Walking.’

  ‘Bullshit. You smell like beer.’

  ‘I’ve been walking.’

  She was studying his face, searching his clothes for clues. ‘We’ve been looking all night.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That was bloody nasty, Charlie. Didn’t you think about Dad?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re lucky we didn’t call the cops. Fuck, Charles, you’re so selfish.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Glaring at her. ‘I didn’t think. I was angry.’

  �
�We used a tank of fucking petrol looking for you.’

  ‘Stop!’

  Silence. Damien held his son’s shoulder and said, ‘It’s all over now, eh, son?’

  Charlie looked at him, desperately.

  Damien turned to Nicole. ‘That’s enough.’

  But she was still staring at her brother, her face set hard.

  ‘Go on, hop to bed,’ Damien said, and Charlie went inside. To his room, where he sat in the dark and watched his dad farewell his sister and Dave. He followed his progress back into the yard—as he stopped to pick a spent flower from a rosebush. He could hear him coming inside, carefully closing the flyscreen door. Could hear his keys rattling on a ring on his belt. The sound reminded him of the collection he kept on a chain at work. There were hundreds, labelled with little stickers with licence numbers. And every evening at five he’d go out into the lot and hand-lock each car. Watching his father drag himself from car to car always made him feel sad. He would watch him search the chain and then try two or three keys before he found the right one, working them in difficult locks, using his knee to force doors shut.

  Sun-bleached, fender-dented cars; waiting for some kid or single mother to buy them out of desperation. Each car full of a hundred stories that hadn’t quite vacuumed out—conception and trips to the emergency department, drive-throughs and drive-ins, baby vomit on the carpet and cigarette-burnt vinyl.

  He could hear his father coming down the hall, his weight settling on the floorboards. Then he was in the doorway, whispering, ‘How about we both have a day off tomorrow?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Something we never do. Go see a picture, eh?’

  ‘You and me?’

  Then his dad said, ‘It doesn’t matter, son. Nothing matters.’

  ‘I know.’

  And he was gone.

  Charlie pushed the clutter from his bed and lay down. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could see the shadows the moon made across his wall. He noticed his new guitar on its stand, gleaming.

  He lay awake counting the half-hours. Listened to his dad snoring and the old clock in the hallway that lost three minutes a day. Sometime in the coldest part of the night he opened his window and sat staring out at the shapes of trees and cars, porches and an old fridge in the neighbour’s drive. He could smell orange blossom and it took him back.

  He was sitting in the garden with his mum and he said, ‘What’s that smell?’ She pointed to the mandarin tree.

  That’s all he could remember—a fragment. He didn’t know what she’d said or what they’d done next. If it was a Saturday or Sunday, or even if it had really happened.

  He took a book from his desk drawer. DH Lawrence. Not that he’d ever read it, but Carol had written her name inside the front cover. He studied the scrawl—the loops, the clumsily joined letters, the heavily dotted i—and felt even more alone. A tabby walked onto the lawn and looked up at him. He opened the book and found a small newspaper clipping.

  Price, Carol. Passed away peacefully on May 21. Dearly loved and devoted wife of Damien, loved mother of Nicole and Charlie. We are so grateful we were able to tell you how much you meant to us …

  He closed the book and said a prayer to his mum. He told her he’d had a bad night, but that things would be okay. He said, in thoughts more than words, that there was no one, really, he could trust, and learn to love, and she told him (he sensed, somehow) that he was wrong.

  He put the book away and returned to bed.

  For the next hour he thought about the mess (he guessed) he’d created. He decided there was only one way to sort things out. He got up and walked from his room. Moving slowly into the hallway, he placed his feet where he’d learnt the floorboards wouldn’t creak. Then he stood in his dad’s doorway. There were no sounds, but his presence woke him.

  ‘That you, Chuck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sick?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Charlie tried to say it, but couldn’t. Instead he whispered, ‘Just getting some water.’

  William had also made it home to bed. He was lying with his hands behind his head, thinking. It wasn’t my fault as such … I guess … although … He thought about the boy and how, in a way, he was just playing with the idea of being grown up. Putting aside one thing to try another. Although some things weren’t as plastic, flexible, forgiving. Choking hazards. That was made clear on the bag. Or skateboards—a fast-track to a greenstick fracture. But there were other things; that came too soon, too suddenly.

  He put on his thongs, went out the back door, up the driveway and along the street. Walked for a full hour—along the banks of the river, up paths winding into the hills of Morialta, along old quarry truck roads—finally emerging on the edge of a high cliff overlooking the city. He walked towards the edge, but stopped well short. Looked down at the quarry below, the adjacent suburbs, nearby roads and shops. Estimated his height—fifty, sixty metres. Picked up a rock and threw it over the edge.

  It fell quietly, slowly.

  He looked out towards the distant sea. It was dark, and you could only tell it was there by the presence of distant freighters.

  Then, back down the hill to Lindisfarne. A few minutes later he was standing outside Charlie’s house. As he watched the boy’s window, he wondered whether he shouldn’t knock, go in.

  Inside, Charlie was almost asleep. He opened his eyes when he heard the start and stop slap of thongs. Sitting up, he looked out and saw the dark figure, but it passed quickly.

  It was a spot they’d returned to a thousand times: a stretch of asphalt behind Kmart. Cracked and full of potholes. No one bothered parking there. The Trimboli fruit truck always sat under a nearby fig tree, but that didn’t bother them.

  Charlie and Simon, his oldest friend, had set up their own BMX track, consisting of a series of jumps. Firstly, a shopping trolley laid on its side, with a piece of old particle board propped up as a ramp. This allowed them to fly a metre or more in the air before coming down on a couple of flattened cardboard boxes. Secondly, a garden bed they’d turned into a jump. This feature dated back to when they still fit on their bikes. Now they were far too big to ride them safely, but that didn’t matter. In fact, it was just the point—knees sticking out over handlebars, feet too big for pedals, bums too big for seats.

  Finally, there was a collection of fruit crates supporting more flattened boxes. These formed a series of cardboard valleys and hills that often collapsed under their weight.

  Vince Trimboli didn’t seem to mind their mess. They’d move it aside, and he’d come in and out with his truck. Sometimes, when other kids mucked it up he’d tell them to piss off. He’d give Charlie green bananas to give to his dad, but he’d always chuck them in the cardboard crusher behind Coles.

  Charlie went around the course three times. Simon timed him. ‘Fifty-four seconds,’ he said, when Charlie skidded back beside him.

  ‘Fifty-four? I counted forty-five.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘One-grandmother, two-grandmother …’

  Simon didn’t care. ‘Fifty-four, not a winning time, Chuck. You’re losing your edge.’ He handed over his watch, sat on his bike and said, ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘Go!’

  Simon was off, over the trolley, through the garden and up and down the cardboard valleys. He went back a second time, and a third, pulling up a few inches from Charlie’s thonged feet.

  ‘Fifty-eight,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Bullshit nothing.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Okay, you still haven’t beaten forty-eight.’

  ‘Forty-eight my arse.’

  ‘You sayin’ I’m cheatin’, Chucky?’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘G’day, Charlie,’ a voice called.

  Pete Ordon stood watching them. He was dressed in long shorts and black socks. He smiled at Simon, although he d
idn’t know him. ‘Nice little set-up you’ve got here.’

  Charlie didn’t know what to say. ‘We can get around three times in under a minute,’ he managed, thinking he was looking and sounding too childish.

  ‘Very impressive. Haven’t broken any bones yet?’

  ‘No … although I did chip a tooth when I was twelve.’ He opened his mouth to show him but realised he was too far away to see.

  Pete noticed a glow in his face. The real Charlie Price—in tattered shorts and a T-shirt, with a grease or oil stain. For a moment, he felt like he was seeing him through William’s eyes. ‘I’m after a hose reel,’ he said, thinking several thoughts at once, and then realising.

  Neither of the boys replied.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.’

  He walked on, almost tripping in a pothole. Simon looked at Charlie. ‘Cleo’s Most Eligible Bachelor.’

  Charlie punched him on the arm. ‘Ssh.’ Then called, ‘Mr Ordon?’

  Pete stopped and turned back. Charlie rode his bike over and pulled up in front of him. ‘I was wondering, there’s another guitar teacher, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, but he mainly teaches seniors. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Do you think he’d take on a Year Nine?’

  Pete shook his head. ‘We only change teachers if there’s a very good reason.’

  Charlie turned to go. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Do you have a reason?’

  ‘No.’

  Pete studied the boy’s face. ‘You don’t like the way Mr Dutton teaches?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  ‘You don’t get along?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look like you get along, when I see you working together.’

  Charlie struggled with the words. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now there’d be questions, suspicions—more stuff he couldn’t put back in the bottle. ‘We do get along. I’ve learnt a lot.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I just thought it’d be good to try someone different.’