Murderer's Thumb (21 page)

Adam sized up his opposition, a thin guy with a goatee beard and exceptionally long arms and legs. Adam thought of a daddy-long-legs spider.

The umpire held up the ball and blew the whistle.

The next moment Adam was racing in at the bounce and jumping skyward, tangling his limbs with Daddy-Long-Legs, but not getting a fist to the ball. Adam's bulk and momentum pushed Daddy-Long-Legs sideways. The spider's body curled up as he hit the ground, but then he straightened and sprang to his feet, charging after the ball, and leaving Adam to lumber behind. Lightweight but indestructible, Adam thought.

Daddy-Long-Legs didn't go in as hard at the next bounce. The man was a connoisseur of the bounce. He expertly judged the ball's flight and pace, while all Adam could do was thunder in and occasionally connect with a wild biff.

Late in the quarter, Adam crunched against his opponent and managed to get a fist on the ball. The pair of them fell, with Adam pinning Daddy-Long-Legs' shoulders hard against the parched soil. The spider twisted free, leaving Adam sprawling on the ground. His elbow stung, his throat burnt. He was just getting to his feet when he heard the runner's voice yelling at him. ‘Stats, come off, interchange!'

The runner, a towel draped around his neck, was charging towards him with a drink bottle. ‘Only five minutes left. You won't miss much,' he said, pushing the drink bottle into Adam's face.

Adam followed him to the boundary, jogging with his head down. He didn't want to see the glares from the coaches' box. He knew he'd played like a dog, been outwitted, outrun. He couldn't even blame his vision. It was substandard fitness and judgement.

‘Hey Stats!' someone called out just before he reached the box.

Adam looked up and saw Mongrel leaning against the fence with the policeman, Barry Timothy. ‘What happened, Popeye? Not enough spinach?' Mongrel jeered.

Barry laughed, rocking back on his heels.

Adam scowled. No one teased him about his eye. What was Mongrel trying to prove?

‘Sit down, big fella,' Birdie said to him. ‘Keep warm. We'll put you on half-way through the next term.'

Adam sat watching the dying minutes of the quarter, avoiding eye contact with everyone on the bench. Mongrel's words still pissed him off. He was such a smart-arsed prick.

At two-thirty Adam and Snake were each enjoying a pie and a can of soft drink on the boundary line. Adam's head was tight, but so far it wasn't throbbing. That was the sensation he loathed, because it always meant a major attack of double vision, one his brain couldn't override. As it was, he'd managed to survive the game with only a minor lapse of focus in the last quarter. But it was enough for him to feel ashamed of his performance.

The seconds' match had been lacklustre. Most of the players weren't fit, and the thirty-degree day slowed everyone down, except for Daddy-Long-Legs who'd had a different opponent marking him each quarter.

Adam was glad to be sent to the back-line where Birdie said he was solid in defence. The remark made Adam laugh. Did Birdie mean reliable, capable and strong, or just thick and impenetrable?

Snake had done well: he'd kicked a fluke of a goal and somehow, through his bumbling efforts, contributed to two others. But he couldn't hide his disappointment at losing the game. ‘Should've been more competitive,' he sighed.

‘It's only a practice match,' Adam said.

‘We were so close at three-quarter time, only fourteen points the difference.' He was a hopeless optimist when it came to the scoreboard.

Adam nudged his friend, ‘Look out, here comes the cowboy.'

Loody walked up to them, carrying his bag. His copper-coloured hair was wet from the showers. Water dripped down his neck.

Snake pretended he hadn't seen him. ‘Tell me more about that letter you found,' he said loudly to Adam.

‘Well it says that the diary is hidden in a shack on old Byrd's place,' Adam said.

Loody seemed about to comment, then checked himself.

Adam caught his eye. ‘You're off early.'

‘Someone's gotta milk.' He gave Adam a quizzical look. ‘You had a mixed game, Stats.'

Adam snorted. Was Loody making a polite comment or a nasty remark? ‘It's my eye. Too much aerial stuff and I get double vision. Same if I'm stressed or tired.'

‘Probably why you can't shoot straight,' Loody said. ‘Either that or your eyes are filled with tears, crying over a lost cause.'

Adam gave him a sour look. ‘Can't all be heroes,' he said.

Loody touched his hat in that cowboy wave he'd perfected. ‘Well I'll see you guys round. Tell us who wins.' He loped off towards his ute, boots crunching in the gravel.

‘Sure,' Adam said, then he muttered to Snake, ‘He heard you loud and clear. I think the whole grandstand got the message.'

Snake laughed.

‘Hey, Snake, you played well today,' came Toot's voice from behind them. She came forward to stand beside Adam, who felt himself blush. Hopefully she'd think it was sunburn.

Snake raved on about his miraculous goal kicking but Toot looked as if she wasn't really listening. She was staring straight ahead and her lips seemed to be quivering. She was close enough for Adam to inhale her scent again. More perfume than grease this time. He wished she'd say something to him. He wished he could think of something to say to her, but everything that ran through his mind sounded corny.

‘Didn't know you'd be here,' he said finally.

She flicked her eyes up at him.

‘I told you she liked football,' Snake said.

‘You going to the barbecue tonight?' she asked.

‘S'pose. Nothing else to do round here,' Adam said. ‘You two going?'

‘Can't stay long,' Snake said. ‘We've got to study for our first aid certificate. Test's tomorrow at the fire brigade. Dad'll kill us if we fail.'

‘You're in the fire brigade?' Adam asked incredulously.

‘Junior brigade. Toot's with the seniors.'

Adam gave her an odd look.

‘What's wrong with that?' she said. Her eyes challenged him.

‘Just…er…nothing.' Adam said. Was she still shitty over what happened last night? Adam couldn't be sure.

They watched the match for a few minutes in silence. Birdie bent to scoop up the ball and was mown down by a Selwyn tackle. The crowd jeered. ‘Play on!' the umpire screeched. Matt pounced on the ball and hand-passed it out of the pack to Mongrel. Mongrel was on the move but he wasn't fast enough for the Selwyn defender who brought him down. ‘Ball!' the crowd booed. The whistle blew and the umpire awarded the free kick to Selwyn.

Mongrel pushed his attacker off with a well executed elbow to the jaw. The man jerked his head away, then retaliated by shoving Mongrel backwards. Mongrel threw a fist. Suddenly there were countless players rushing to the scene, pushing, swearing, shouting. Men buffeted against one another, chests pumped out, the sinews in their necks straining. They pulled and clenched each other's jumpers in their fists, shoved their hands in each other's faces and held one another back with beefy arms. The umpires stepped in. Eventually the mob dispersed. The free kick was taken. Mongrel stalked off, but Adam couldn't help thinking that Mongrel felt pleased with himself.

‘Fine display of good sportsmanship,' Adam said sarcastically. ‘Man's an animal,' Toot said staring ahead. She sighed. ‘Got to go. I'll catch you later.'

Adam watched her vanish into the crowd of Falcon Ridge-Redvale supporters. ‘What's wrong with her?' he asked Snake.

Snake gave him a strange look. ‘How would I know.'

Adam was just getting dressed when the phone rang. ‘Can you get that, Mum?' he shouted. She wouldn't. He knew she wouldn't. She was in the kitchen with the bloody thing, but she wouldn't pick it up, not unless he forced her. He dashed out of the bedroom and answered the phone. He expected to hear Snake's voice but there was silence. Then an exhaled breath, barely audible. Then a click.

Adam hung up the phone slowly, tightness rising in his chest. He looked across at his mother.

Her eyes were wide, unblinking. She clawed at her thighs. ‘It's started, hasn't it?'

Adam shrugged. ‘Wrong number,' he said, but his voice wavered. The call was so like Kazek. So calculated, so precisely meant to scare.

‘Adam, what if it's him?' Her voice was small, pleading. ‘Probably isn't,' he snapped. ‘It could have been anyone, Mum.' He hated her like this, so weak and irrational. ‘I told you we should have got a phone with caller ID.'

‘If he finds us here…'

‘Then
this time
you get an intervention order.'

‘But they'll refuse, like last time…they don't care…don't believe me. They think I'm an idiot,' she shrieked, flinging her hands up to her face. Her whole body shook.

‘Mum, we can't keep running!'

She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes filled with tears.

Adam took a deep breath. He wanted to pick her up and shake her, bring back his old mum, the confldent one, the one who used to laugh and sing and answer the phone. But she was gone, buried under years of intimidation and he didn't know how to reach her.

TWENTY-THREE

Adam was happy to be out of the house, away from his mum's paranoia. She'd begged him not to leave. That's when he lost it, told her to get a grip on things. He handed her Barry Timothy's phone number and told her to call. He knew she wouldn't.

Now, here he was at the football club surrounded by the smell of barbecued meat and cold beers. Hardly anyone had arrived yet and Matt had abandoned him, gone into the kitchens and got talking to a couple of old ladies who were organising salads.

Adam swigged his can of soft drink, the liquid so icy it stung on the way down. On the clubroom walls were framed photographs of ancient teams: guys in extra-long white shorts, arms folded, hands pushing out their biceps.

A couple of blokes from the seniors walked in, said a few words and congratulated him on his first game. A solid game they said. But Adam knew they were lying. He felt isolated because of his novelty value: the new kid with the big hands. It was hard work having to introduce yourself over and over and not reveal too much. It was easier just to chill out with friends like Brock or Snake. Adam sighed. The Christmas holidays back in Deakin Hills were becoming a distant memory. What was happening to him? Was the country seeping into his bones so fast that he'd started to forget the city? It was Lina's diary that caused it. Either that or Toot and her icy stares.

Where was Snake anyway? He walked to a side door and pushed it open. The smell of frying sausages flooded his nostrils. He was in a kind of bricked outdoor corridor, ladies and gents toilets to the left and an exit at the end where the barbecue fumes were coming from. He headed for the exit and heard voices, unmistakably Mongrel and Loody. Adam stood silently in the corridor listening.

‘We need more height in the seniors. Pity your mate Stats wasn't a better player. We could do with him in the back line,' Mongrel said.

‘Ah…I found out something funny about him today, about his eye. Apparently he starts seeing double when he gets tired. That's why he played like a girl at the end of the game,' Loody snorted.

‘So? Plenty of girls play better than you.'

Loody laughed. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘Any other news?'

‘Cops interviewed me yesterday.'

‘And?' Mongrel said.

‘They asked about the party. Told them the same old stuff, 'bout how we left early, went back to your joint. They'll probably want to catch up with you.'

‘They didn't ask anything else?'

‘No, but I think I fucked up. I said I left just after you, at about ten-twenty. But I think I said half-past originally. What time was it?'

‘You deadshit!' Mongrel growled. ‘I told you…half-past is what we tell the coppers. Do you want another tooth knocked out?'

‘Keep a lid on it, Matt's coming,' Loody said.

Adam took it as a cue for him to emerge also. He walked out of the corridor and saw Mongrel turning sausages and chops with a set of tongs on a large gas-fired twin plate. Loody was standing beside him, drinking. Matt strolled over, arms swinging, a dopey expression on his face.

‘Got you cooking cows from work have they?' Matt said.

‘Funny bastard,' Mongrel said deadpan.

‘Where'd you spring from, Stats? Hiding in the dunnies?' Loody said.

‘Just having a look around.'

‘Typical, Mr Inspector,' Loody said.

‘How'd you pull up, Stats? Bit sore?' Mongrel asked.

‘All right. Just sunburnt: forgot to put cream on my neck. I'll have a few stiff muscles tomorrow I reckon,' Adam said.

‘That bastard you were on in the ruck needs his head pulverised,' Mongrel said to him.

‘Too good for me,' Adam said.

‘Should 'ave given him one when the ump wasn't looking,' Loody commented.

‘Nah. I'll pass on that.'

‘Gutless, are you?' Mongrel quipped. He continued turning the chops and sausages, giving Adam a contemptuous look.

Heat rose in Adam's chest. He took a deep breath. ‘Guess I don't need to prove anything,' he said.

‘What's that supposed to mean?' Mongrel straightened and tried to eyeball him.

Adam knew the effect it would have: one eye on Mongrel, the other on the toilet block. Mongrel would either back off or start throwing insults.

‘Heard there's a pair of plovers over in the park at the end of the road, Mongrel,' Matt said.

Mongrel swelled with barely contained frustration. ‘Is that right, mate?' he said icily. He turned back to the barbecue plate.

Adam wanted to double over laughing, but kept a straight face. Good old Matt, the peacemaker.

‘Here, make yourself useful and take some meat in,' Mongrel said to Matt. He tossed a few chops and sausages on a plate. ‘There ya are. Now fuck off.'