You Belong Here Page 8

  Alex greeted the dank with a shake of his head. Her room stank of musk and stale cigarettes. She would leave a teddy on his chair each session, which he promptly tossed aside, because he was in year eleven, not grade two, and what did she think, he was going to give it a cuddle?

  It was ten minutes in before she started to make any sense. He asked why he even had to be there, and Mrs Oliver said his parents were worried. Which was hilarious, a goddamned hoot, as his dad was on extended sabbatical, and his mum on 101 things to do with ham steaks, so it wasn’t as if they were knocking it out of the park.

  She asked Alex if his mum was looking after him and he said, ‘Define “looking after”.’ She asked him to talk to a chair. He said, ‘No way,’ because only loonies talk to chairs.

  Mrs Oliver leaned forwards. ‘Why are you here, Alex?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Are you angry?’

  He stared. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you sad?’

  He hadn’t wanted to feel sad. It wasn’t like one day he thought, I want to be sad, like hopelessly miserable, and then with practice and the necessary level of sacrifice, he would be able to try for sad at the Olympics in Atlanta.

  ‘You got any video games?’ said Alex.

  ‘No,’ she said, resting her finger on her jawbone. ‘Why did you hit your friend?’

  ‘Walker doesn’t mind. He knows he fucked up.’

  ‘Language, Alex. What did he do?’

  He stayed around. He taught me how to bowl an off break. He walked home with me after someone stole my bike. He told me things could be worse, when really they were way past fucked.

  Alex tried to speak but saw Walker’s face: his eyes scrunched up, a string of saliva from the top of his mouth to the edge of his bottom lip.

  ‘He didn’t have to bowl it so fast,’ said Alex.

  ‘Is that why you hit him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you talked to your father lately?’

  ‘I think his number’s changed.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘It’s cold. Can we turn on the heater?’

  ‘What makes you think the number’s changed?’ she said.

  ‘The old one’s disconnected,’ said Alex.

  ‘You miss your dad?’

  How could he miss his dad when he wasn’t there, just a ghost, a tightness that he felt in his stomach? And most nights were quiet, and all he really wanted was his bedroom door to open. For his father to be back. Maybe then he could see if he missed him.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Alex, pushing a fingernail into his thumb.

  *

  Alex weighed up the world as he knew it. Held the blade, testing the weight of the handle. Defined his terms, gauging sharp and blunt, as though they were absolutes.

  If he pushed the knife in deep, it would break the skin, and he’d get a cut, a huge gash, and Dad would have to come back. He’d take him on a drive. Dad would close his eyes as they took the turns, and Alex would yell at him to watch where he’s going, laughing as they went.

  Emily walked into his room. Saw Alex with the knife, the point at his wrist. He said, ‘Don’t tell Mum, you’ll make her cry,’ and he knew he was safe because when Dad had left he gave Emily a letter; Alex had seen them from the hallway.

  It wasn’t as though he loved the knife, more the way it pinched the skin, kept him present, safe, and centred. Call it sharp, serrated; to him it felt dull when compared to his nights, his fears, and the face that stared back at him from the mirror.

  The following Saturday, Alex saw Walker playing Street Fighter II at the Fourth Avenue deli. God knew he could do with the practice. Walker’s knee was strapped up, and he had had a haircut, bowl style. He looks like a total nob, thought Alex.

  ‘Hey Ringo.’

  ‘Shut up, Mum made me,’ said Walker.

  ‘And you just went along with it?’ said Alex. ‘I thought you were a man.’

  ‘You ever tried to talk to her?’

  ‘Once or twice.’ He waited, weighed up the mental image. ‘You’re right, she’s a nightmare. Still, that haircut is a shocker.’

  Playing Walker at Street Fighter II was way too easy. Alex’s Zangief with his index fingers raised, while, beside him, Walker’s E. Honda was unconscious, sumo skirt ridden up and red jocks showing.

  Alex took his dollar, spun it fast down the slot, 1-player start, and on to the player select screen. Walker’s Ryu on repeat, hadouken . . . hadouken. Alex’s Guile moved into position. Reverse spin-kick. Spinning bare-knuckle. Knee Bazooka.

  ‘Guess what?’ said Walker.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We sold the house.’

  Walker moved Ryu into an uppercut, but Guile sonic boomed his arse something chronic. The spinning white circle hit Ryu hard in the chest and he fell to the ground. Guile ran a comb through his hair, stared out through the screen triumphantly.

  ‘Pathetic,’ said Alex.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Walker. ‘Guile’s hard.’

  ‘Oh, now you’re blaming the game?’ Alex pushed the coin refund, but nothing came. ‘What the hell is wrong with your mum?’

  ‘She says we’ll get to be a family.’

  ‘Walker,’ said Alex, ‘what happened?’

  ‘Slater . . .’

  ‘Well, you’re acting like a psycho. Someone beat you up? You kill a guy?’

  Walker exhaled slowly. ‘A man . . . a friend of the family. He’s dead, he had a heart attack.’

  Feelings coming up. Thought he knew what Walker meant, but hoped he was wrong. ‘What happened?’ said Alex.

  ‘I was five,’ said Walker. He closed his eyes, scrunched them tight. Breathed in, out, in. ‘It’s not like you know what’s going on. You’re scared, and it’s not much, just this dumb, weird thing he’s done, and then you go and you cry, you try not to think about it.’

  Alex paused. ‘Are you serious?’

  Alex waited, and it seemed Walker was about to break, but then something clicked into place and his face went blank.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ said Walker.

  ‘But you said——’

  ‘It’s a joke. Thought it would be funny. I got you good, hey?’

  ‘So it never happened?’

  ‘No, I made it up. Really, it’s cool, I just get angry sometimes.’

  ‘I would lose my shit,’ said Alex. ‘I mean, if that happened. I would kill the guy.’ Walker paused. ‘Or maybe you’d run, get home as quick as you could. Sit down by the shed, freaking out. Wish your Mum or your Dad would come. Only in the end, they wouldn’t come. So you’d stop, no point just sitting, waiting for someone that’s never going to come, and in time you’d just be scared of everything. I mean, if that had happened. Which it didn’t.’

  They headed outside, Walker limping, and Alex walking alongside him, slowly, so as not to leave his friend behind. Alex lifted his bike up from the front verge, kicked the tyre to test that it was tightly screwed on and fully inflated.

  ‘You want a dink back to yours?’ said Alex.

  ‘Mum’s coming to pick me up.’

  ‘There anything we can do?’

  ‘Nah, it’s all good,’ said Walker. He limped over to the bin and propped himself up with one hand. ‘I’m all right, really.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your leg.’

  ‘It’s cool. Didn’t even hurt. I think Adelaide’s going to be fine.’ Walker paused. ‘Not really though, hey?’

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Oy,’ said Walker, ‘you start crying on me, I’ll kick your arse. Shake.’

  They shook hands, palms switched to grip, hold and release.

  ‘It’s going to be good,’ said Alex. ‘We just——’

  ‘Mum’s here.’ A white Datsun 180b pulled up, white vinyl roof and blinds on the rear-view, as though it was a cottage or a run-down granny flat.

  Walker’s mum leane
d over, pushed open the passenger door.

  ‘Get in,’ she said.

  Walker slid in, wincing as he jammed his leg under the dashboard. He closed the door, rolled the window down halfway.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Walker,’ said Alex. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Been better,’ she said, and really, she could have been talking about a plant or the US dollar. Her eyes drifted to Walker’s leg, and then she shifted emotional gear, good as new. ‘See you, Alex,’ and drove off as if she’d properly ended the conversation.

  ‘See you tomorrow!’ Alex shouted, but their car was already climbing the hill.

  Alex rode Coode Street, up the hill on Fourth, footpath dodge into kerb jump, over Beaufort with a double-honk from a dented Corolla, faster, faster, and a back-wheel skid near the edge of Inglewood Oval.

  He pulled up grass, felt his ribs through his shirt, searched for gaps until the sun went down and the midges swirled around the park lights.

  Walker said you could waste your life watching things, but it had always stopped Alex from thinking about other stuff.

  In his dream, Emily is on a boat in the middle of the ocean. He’s shooting bombs at her. If he hits, then the boat will sink and he’ll get bonus points.

  In his dream, his father comes, and stays, and it’s not like things are as they were, but they’re much less like what they are.

  He stayed out late. The houses lit up like signal boards, on and off, and he wondered which home was the happiest.

  He got home near nine, shoes left at the door. His mother was on the couch, a half-empty glass of wine on the table. She grabbed him tight, hugged him till his back started to crack.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it,’ she said, a little more manic.

  He fell into his dad’s old chair.

  ‘Walker, he’s——’ She started to cry.

  ‘You okay? What’s happened?’ he said, and she hugged him, hard.

  She shook her head, her cheeks gone soft, soaked from the tears.

  ‘It’ll be okay, Mum. Promise.’

  She patted his back and they let go of each other. She took a sip of her wine, swallowed. ‘Walker, he——’

  ‘Is it his hair? I saw it, he looks ridiculous.’

  ‘No, it’s . . . give me a sec.’ She seemed as though she was about to speak, but then didn’t. Cried again, big, stupid sobs, and he wanted to shake her till things started to make sense.

  ‘Mum. What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The estate agent found him. Saw the light. He was out back, chair kicked out and on its side. His mum, she’s terrible, a real mess. I’m so sorry, baby.’

  He barely heard her. Wished she’d shut the fuck up.

  ‘Love? Are you okay?’

  In his dream, he’s in his father’s arms. His dad has taken time off work. He squeezes his son’s shoulder, says, I’m not going back until you feel better. And I love you mate, it’s going to be all right.

  Just dreams, wants. Stupid wishes that he has from time to time. And it’s not like he never sees his dad, never hears him on the phone, but they never said that the way he filled the room, put a full stop at the end of another shitty day, would be an occasional trickle, enough to wet his mouth, but not to quench his thirst.

  Jen held on to her son. His vision blurred. He heard a noise, almost a yelp. He breathed, and breathed again, only deeper this time, and was quiet.

  ‘Can I see him?’ said Alex.

  She pulled back. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Walker. I want to see him.’

  ‘He’s dead, love.’

  ‘I know he’s dead, Mum. I’m not retarded.’ She welled up again, and he thought, Christ, can’t she keep it together? Started to shake in her right hand, as though he had been shocked. He felt guilty, angry, fuck, fuck——

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No, really, I——’

  ‘I’ll find your Dad,’ she said. ‘He’ll come home if you need him.’

  ‘If I need him? Like as a father, you mean?’

  ‘It might help. A day or two.’

  ‘An hour should do it.’

  ‘Alex, I——’

  ‘He’s not coming back, Mum. Why can’t you get that?’

  She called out to her son, but he was already on his way out back, pulling so hard on the sliding door that it bucked when it reached the edge of the track. He hopped on his bike barefoot, pushed his feet into the pedals, sped along the side drive and down the hill.

  Saw his mother crying, Emily’s fingers scaling the piano keys, and Walker’s face, laughter lines around his mouth, his hair in clumps around the barber’s chair. He wanted his bike to buckle, to feel the road against him. He wanted to lie there like a speed bump, wheels cracking bones and his body past broken.

  They used to run this town. They used to ride the streets. Now, just chalking circles, rims flat on the road, thinking, Ride, Alex, push down hard, until the pedals break the skin.

  1996-1999

  Half-Life

  Emily turned nineteen in 1996, although it didn’t make a difference to the way she lived, or the things that threatened to consume her when she lay awake in bed. Her headphones in and music playing, never knowing who to listen to, or for how long, in search of slumber.

  She had discovered PJ Harvey at an arts party on Zebina Street, the boards of the veranda split in parts, and rotted or missing in others. Rid of Me slid into the stereo. PJ starting quietly, slowly, a lone guitar, subtle shifts, and that voice, raw, aching like a fresh bruise. This beautiful, abrasive blast of an album, damn near peeling paint from the walls.

  ‘Legs’ with that slow, rhythmic pulse. Her voice, groaning, and the drums, fat as fuck, sounding as if they were being thumped inside the speakers.

  By the time it hit ‘Man-Size,’ you could feel dicks shrinking, that whole ‘she’s crazy’ look from boys who’d never looked a girl in the eye. Noisy, sure, chaotic, and creepy as hell, but true and pure, and someone, somewhere was going to listen.

  That someone was not Alex. He’d left home as though his family were a weekend break or holiday destination. While it was nice to lose the thick reverb, the quiet menace of Aenima that often emanated from his room, the house now felt empty. His space cleared out, instead filled up with bags and boxes.

  That someone was not her father either, who wrote to her, and she to him. While she loved his words, the way they’d smudge from his ink-stained hand, pressed onto the page as it slid from left to right, she felt distance daily, and even more intensely when she sent another letter and was waiting for his response.

  She wrote, she rang, she hurt, she healed, and all the while her father was a voice in her head, a dream she’d forgotten to note.

  Jay was seeing a girl called Nicky. They spent nights listening to Live in his room, sheets pushed to the bottom of the bed and curtains open. Nights, still warm, his light still on, their voices muffled from behind his bedroom door until ten, eleven o’clock.

  Emily would think of Alex, a dense, tight knot in her stomach. He hadn’t been the same since Walker’s death. Angry, combative, as though her very presence was a punch to the head. Get a beer, two, into him, a drink or so before he got blotto, and he was almost back, a smile surfacing from underneath all that weight.

  Through all of it, she felt buoyed by Jay’s everlasting exuberance. His stupid grin as though he was stoned 24/7. Playing air drums to ‘Selling the Drama,’ as he made his way through the house.

  Emily came back late one night, after Dom had come quickly and her not at all, to find Jay and Nicky at the kitchen table.

  ‘You okay?’ said Emily.

  Jay looked over at Nicky. ‘Tell her,’ he said.

  Nicky shook her head.

  ‘What? What’s going on?’ said Emily.

  But they didn’t speak.

/>   ‘Is anyone going to talk?’ said Emily.

  They kept staring, silent, and it was clear that this, the whole fucking thing, was a mess. That they were young, just kids, and Emily would again have to be the grown-up.

  Nicky stopped coming around. They lost Jay not long after. Days spent out back, staring at the sky as though the clouds had morphed into monsters.

  ‘She doesn’t want me to come to the clinic,’ he said more than once, as if, in saying it, he might somehow change her mind.

  No tears from Jay, but clues that added up, from channel-surfing, early morning, through to the Hi-Lo milk left in the fridge, empty enough to be thrown out, which he never did.

  There were medications at work that might have worked for Jay, only Emily was never sure if it was his mind that was out of sync, as opposed to his reality.

  He never forgot anything, or at least that’s what he said, and she wondered if that was strictly true. Whether he remembered everything, or whether he was predisposed to feeling fear, anxiety, forever seeing sharks in the water when really they were dolphins.

  Now, just the one memory, splinter sharp, a moment of misjudgement between a boy and his girl, unable to be changed or reframed. You could call her, you could knock on her door, but you couldn’t go back, not now that the damage had been done.

  She sat with Jay most mornings, brought him fruit toast, cashews, ginger tea. Searched the library for books or films that might better chart his condition.

  She stayed out late the next night. Hung with Dom. Fooled around a bit. She asked, ‘Do you love me?’ He said, ‘Love is not something that you just give away.’

  When she got home, her mother said, ‘Have you noticed something strange about your brother lately?’

  And she thought, Have you noticed anything at all lately?

  *

  The doctor prescribed Effexor. ‘A Band-Aid,’ he said, nodding at the right times as questions came from Jay and Emily, who sat in the doctor’s room, their mother at work, their father thousands of miles away.

  Emily asked if this was related to life circumstances rather than a chemical deficiency.