After (17 page)

Then Woosher stood behind the glass wall
with Nic, laughing and pointing.

Something flickered against my ear. I turned—the snake’s head morphed into Nic’s face. It struck.

I screamed and sat up.

My body was covered in sweat. My doona and sheets were twisted and strewn across the floor. I lay back, hands over my heart, and tried to slow my breathing.

Nan sat at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of tea and reading the paper. ‘Morning,’ she said when I walked through the door. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Okay, I guess.’ I rubbed my chest—the shadow of the dream, the snake, clung to me. I put some bread into the toaster.

‘By the look of you, I’m glad I insisted you have the morning off school.’

I smoothed my hair, still damp after my shower. ‘I’m okay.’

Nan nodded and turned the page.

I spread strawberry jam on my toast and poured a juice. I looked back at the toast and my stomach turned. The jam looked like clotted blood. I dumped it in the chooks’ bucket under the sink. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’

‘In his office doing paperwork.’

I took my juice down the hall. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I might explode.

‘Hi,’ I said, standing in the doorway.

Grandpa looked up from the computer screen.

‘Just in time. I’m done here and was about to do the rounds. Want to come?’

I shrugged. ‘May as well.’

After Nic pushed him through the change room doors, CJ regained his balance and strolled to the wooden bench where he’d left his bag. Around him his team mates unlaced their boots and talked about the grand final.

Grand final. Instead of excited, CJ felt empty. He knew somewhere under that emptiness, he was angry.

CJ unzipped his bag. Something heavy slammed into his back, knocking him forward. His knees crashed into the bench.

‘Caught you off guard then. That’s why I’m striker and you’re not,’ said Nic, hanging off CJ’s shoulders.

CJ shrugged Nic off and spun around.

Nic balanced on one leg, laughing. CJ pushed him, in the chest, hard.

In slow motion, Nic lurched backwards. His feet slipped out from under him. His arms flailed in the air. The look on his face more one of surprise than fear.

There was a thud and crack when Nic’s head hit the corner of the sink. Nic landed on the floor, like a rag doll, seeming to bounce before he lay on his back, arms out wide.

A hush fell over the change room.

‘Nic?’ said CJ.

Blood trickled from under Nic’s head towards the steel drain in the middle of the change room floor.

‘Shit,’ whispered Michael, walking out a toilet cubicle.

Anton and Ganger walked through the door.

Ganger froze, staring at Nic.

Anton ran to his son. ‘Nic, you right, mate?’ He shook Nic’s shoulders. Nic’s head flopped.

Ganger stabbed numbers into his mobile phone. ‘Roll him on his side, Anton, into the coma position.’

CJ could feel the press of his teammates surrounding him, watching.

Anton did as Ganger said.

That’s when CJ saw the split in Nic’s head, so large he could see white—bone—and something else, soft and bloody, through Nic’s dark hair.

Anton looked up at CJ. ‘Did you do this?’

‘Sorry,’ whispered CJ.

Ganger felt Nic’s neck for a pulse and checked his chest. ‘A pulse, I think, but he’s not breathing,’ he said into the phone. ‘Okay. Right.’

Ganger passed the phone to the player closest to him—Michael. ‘Talk to the guy until the ambulance gets here.’

Michael nodded, his face white. He slowly lifted the phone to his ear.

Ganger rolled Nic onto his back and arched Nic’s neck, the way Burbridge had taught CJ in PE.

Anton rocked back and forth, holding Nic’s hand. ‘Come on, buddy. Come on.’

CJ felt the air move. He knew his team mates had moved away from him.

A wailing siren drew closer and died. Two men in dark blue uniforms rushed into the change rooms. One ambulance guy took over from Ganger. The other ran outside, returning with a trolley.

CJ slumped back onto the wooden bench, but couldn’t look away from the horror scene in front of him.

Grandpa flipped down the sunshade. The ute keys fell into his hand. ‘Still heading to Cairns?’ he asked, turning off the gravel when he reached the barking dogs.

‘Maybe.

‘Or maybe you could hang around for a bit longer.’

‘Maybe.’

Grandpa drove towards a gate under a stand of cypress trees. The ewes and lambs dotted the paddock. I scanned them for any ewes sitting down. I knew now that if they were down they were either giving birth or in trouble.

‘Callum, about Woosher...’ said Grandpa, stopping the ute at the gate.

‘I’ll get the gate.’

‘Before you do, I need to—’

‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. Him.’ I slammed the door behind me. I unhooked the chain and pushed. The gate was wedged hard against the gatepost and wouldn’t budge. I held the wooden post with my left hand and with my right shoulder, shoved the gate with all my strength. A second later, pain exploded in my thumb and shot up my arm. The gate had sprung back and pinned my left hand against the wooden post.

I screamed.

Grandpa leapt from the car and ran over. He leant against the gate to free my hand.

I sucked in air and walked in circles, hand tucked under my armpit.

‘Show me,’ said Grandpa.

‘It hurts.’ Tears sprung to my eyes.

‘Where?’ asked Grandpa, his voice gentle.

‘Everywhere. My thumb. My hand. My head. My chest. Everywhere hurts.’ My knees buckled. ‘I can’t handle it any more.’

It was like something or someone had taken over my body. I was kneeling in the mud, sobbing. Howling. My shoulders were heaving. Tears flowed down my face. Snot and spit mingled on my chin. Somewhere in all that noise and pain, I felt the spring around my body, tighter still, ready to snap.

I sensed Grandpa sitting beside me, felt his hand on my back. I cried harder. All I could see was pain. Not the pain in my thumb, but pain for Beetle, for Mum, for Woosher, but most of all, pain for Nic.

The wails turned into words, a chant. ‘It’s my fault.’

Grandpa’s voice floated through the pain. ‘What’s your fault, mate?’

The creature I’d kept packed deep inside swelled, pushing up into my throat. ‘Promise you won’t hate me,’ I sobbed.

‘I won’t hate you, Callum.’

‘Promise. Promise.’

‘I promise.’

‘I—’ I dropped my head to my knees. ‘I can’t.’

Grandpa moved closer. I could feel his leg against mine. ‘You can, Callum. You have to.’

‘I did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Killed Nic.’

The coils around my body burst. The beast hissed and rushed from me in a sob as I wailed in the mud and puddles. I waited for Grandpa to recoil in horror. Instead he rubbed my back, like Mum used to when I was sick. And that made me cry even more. I cried until I wasn’t even sure what I was crying for. The tears stopped after the longest time, but the sobs kept coming in shuddering waves.

‘We were mucking around, after soccer,’ I said between sobs. ‘You know, wrestling. Pushing. Shoving. Just mucking around.’ I wiped my face on my sleeve. ‘The change room floor was wet. Slippery. But I didn’t see the water until after. I shoved Nic, here.’ I touched Grandpa’s chest. ‘He lost his balance and...’

It was like looking at photos—frozen snapshots of time. Nic laughing. Both of us stumbling, jostling. The bench slamming into my knees. A rush of heat. A hard push. Too hard. Nic falling, his mouth open and arms out wide.

‘He smashed his head on the sink. The noise. The crack—’ A bitter taste filled my mouth. I crawled forward and vomited onto the grass. On all fours, I tried to catch my breath.

Grandpa handed me a hankie. ‘He died in hospital.’

‘Yeah.’ I wiped my mouth and sat back on my bum. ‘They worked on him in the rooms, got his heart going, then took him to the hospital. They wouldn’t let me see him...’ Then I realised what Grandpa had said. He died in hospital. I sat up. ‘You know.’

Grandpa nodded. ‘I’ve known since before you arrived.’

‘Mum told you? She promised she wouldn’t say anything...’

Grandpa stretched his long legs out in front of him and leant back on his hands. ‘Your mother kept her word. Ted told me.’

‘Ted. The policeman?’

Grandpa nodded. ‘Ted’s a good friend. He heard the story from a friend of his, a cop who works in your suburb. Ted recognised the name, did a little research to make sure it was you—Maeve’s son—and asked me over for a drink.’

I stared at my knees.

‘So all of Winter Creek knows then?’

‘Not at all. How would they? It didn’t make the news or papers here, at least your name didn’t, and Ted wouldn’t have told anyone else, I’d lay Marrook on that.’

‘Does Mum know you know?’

‘I couldn’t tell her. I was afraid of pushing her—you—away.’ He brushed his palms on his pants. ‘But when she called ... well, I wanted to help.’

‘What about Nan?’

‘She knows now. I told her after she found Maeve’s things in the shed.’

‘That explains it.’

‘What?’ asked Grandpa.

I shrugged. ‘She’s been different lately. Nicer.’

Grandpa nodded. ‘She’s not all bad, Callum.’

I twisted to look into his face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew before now?’

Grandpa raised his eyebrows and breathed out. ‘I tried, many times, but you weren’t ready.’

For the first time, I could feel the throbbing in my thumb. I checked the damage. The fleshy pad beneath the joint had opened. My wrist and sleeve were caked in blood.

‘That’ll need stitches,’ said Grandpa.

‘Nic’s head opened like that—after I ... murdered him.’

‘You didn’t murder him,’ said Grandpa.

‘What would you call it then?’

Instead of angry, I felt exhausted. ‘I pushed him didn’t I?’

‘Did you want to kill him?’

‘No. I flicked dirt from around the wound. ‘We were just mucking around. Like we always did. But I was angry. Ganger always favoured Nic—because of his dad. It was my turn to be striker. We always took it in turns. I’d worked so hard...’ Tears started to flow again. I swiped them away with my sleeve. ‘I’m sorry ... I haven’t talked about it before.’

‘About how Nic died?’

I shook my head.

‘Callum, you need to forgive yourself.’

‘You don’t understand. I’m a murderer.’

Grandpa sat forward. ‘Men wrestle and shove and push, Callum, it’s what we do. Most of the time it ends in nothing worse than bruises. What happened to you and Nic was an accident. You have to stop blaming yourself.’

‘Everyone else blames me—my friends, people at school. Nic’s family thinks I’m a monster. One time this bloke I’d never met before bailed Mum up in the supermarket. And after the thing with Woosher and Benny, well, I’m just like him.’

‘Woosher?’

I nodded.

Grandpa shook his head. ‘Callum, Brett Wishart was a time bomb. He believed the world owed him because he was a fantastic footballer. He had the shock of his life when he arrived at Essendon. There were better players there for starters, and he had to train. He couldn’t cope with the expectations.’ Grandpa pulled at a thread on his work trousers. ‘He started causing trouble. They had to kick him out. And when he came back here, he was out of control.’

‘Yeah but—’

‘Callum. I knew him and I know you. You’re nothing like him. When he crashed into Benny’s car, he was drunk, on drugs and speeding.’

I shrugged. ‘But...’

Grandpa leant forward. ‘Woosher wasn’t worth your bootstrap, Callum. If you’re like anyone, you’re like Maeve. You’re pigheaded like her. And gentle. Though you’re not quite as untidy.’

‘She’s a disgrace.’

‘Yep.’

‘Seriously, messy.’

‘The tissues!’

I screwed up my nose. ‘They’re everywhere. The car, kitchen, bathroom—’

‘Used to find them in the chook yard.’ Grandpa wrapped his arm around my shoulders again and squeezed. ‘Callum, your mum has raised a champion. I meant what I said. I’m very proud of you. I’m proud of her.’

I buried my face in his shoulder and breathed in the smell of wool, eucalyptus and soap. ‘Thanks.’

Grandpa patted my back and I straightened up.

We sat in silence for a bit, Grandpa staring at the ground, me watching a lamb, kneeling on its front knees drinking from its mother. The lamb’s tail wiggled.

‘Callum, I was thinking...’ Grandpa brushed dirt from his trousers. ‘It’s probably time you ... at least that we...’

‘Yeah I know,’ I said. ‘I probably should talk to Mum about Nic.’

Grandpa nodded. ‘I thought I’d ask her to visit us, here at Marrook.’

I sucked in air. ‘Good luck getting Nan to agree to that.’

‘Leave your grandmother to me,’ said Grandpa as he got to his feet. ‘You work on your mother.’

‘Sure.’ I held my bloody hand to my chest and stood, too.

‘I think we better have a doctor look at that thumb, Call ... umm ... CJ,’ said Grandpa, frowning.

‘Weird isn’t it?’

‘What’s weird?’ he asked.

‘Before I came here, I hated being called Callum, but now, after ... well, I like Callum better than CJ.’

Grandpa patted my shoulder. ‘Callum it is then.’