New Australian Stories 2 (36 page)

Once, when I asked my mother what was wrong with Suction, she told me he'd got stuck between his mother's legs when he was being born. As the youngest, I was never too sure when Mum was giving me the real story. Bernie confirmed it though, telling me they'd needed a tractor to haul Suction out. I'd seen the farmers do this with calves that refused to budge, their skinny legs sticking out at odd angles, so it seemed logical enough. Bernie told me to make sure I married someone with wide hips; the kid stood a better chance that way. I had a look at Suction's mother's hips the next time she passed our gate. She was a thin, grey-haired woman who looked like life was gnawing away at her from the inside.

I decided Bernie had a point. I remember writing it in my notebook:
Marry someone with big hips.

Then adding
(Suction)
, just as a reminder.

But Suction was far from stupid; I can say that with certainty as I knew him better than anyone. From the time I learned to walk I followed him everywhere. He couldn't talk but he taught me about a world that didn't need words, yet wasn't a world of silence: it was full of the sounds of nature. He would take me down to the riverbank where we would lie under the willows and watch for wildlife. He knew the call of every bird in the district and, although he couldn't form words, he could mimic them. In fact Suction could mimic any sound. That's what saved Costa's sister that night. The cry of something injured really got Suction going. He couldn't stand to see anything hurt.

Bernie said there was nothing much inside Suction's head so that whatever brain he had just sloshed around in a big empty space, accounting for the strange noises he made. But he was wrong. There were no empty spaces in Suction's head. It was full to the brim with kindness. I saw it in the way his big hands gently scooped up Costa's sister. The way he carefully laid her on the table in my father's surgery.

I was too young to fully understand what happened that night. It took me many years to put it together but I'm sure Suction knew. He must have known a lot of secrets in that town. A lot of people must have been grateful Suction could neither talk nor write.

Costa belonged to the only Greek family in the town. Papas, his father, owned the local café. I remember it well. I remember the faded lace curtains and the drone of blowflies as they buzzed in the corners of the shop window. Trapped, they'd eventually die there, their dry bodies littering the sill. Occasionally Papas would give them a dismissive flick of his duster, but it was only ever half-hearted, and there'd be more to replace them the next week.

Every Friday I'd sit perched on one of the stools in the café, Suction beside me, both of us slurping strawberry milkshakes. Papas would roam around, wiping up our drips with a grotty old rag, talking about his village in Greece. He must have been lonely, as he seemed to get a lot off his chest. He didn't seem to care what he told us, probably thinking one was too stupid and the other too young to understand.

The first time I met Costa he'd barged through the shop door, breathless and panting, his shirt ripped and bloodstained, both his eyes swollen.

‘You fight back this time, son?'

‘I told you, Dad. I'm not going to fight. It's not my way.'

‘What's
your
way then? To just stand there? Let them belt the hell outta you? You make it real easy for them, boy!'

Costa hadn't answered, but stood there with his head down, still catching his breath. He was about seventeen, slight for his age.

Papas held up his own fists and pranced back and forth in a mock fight. ‘I'll show you how to do it, son.'

He lifted one of Costa's fists, but his son pulled away.

‘I told you I won't fight!'

‘All right. Up to you. You wanna get bashed everyday, go ahead. Where's the honour in that? Go and get changed before you make me real mad. And tell your sister to come down and clear the tables.'

Papas threw his hands up in despair then leaned over the counter. ‘Something wrong with that boy. Bring him to a new country and what happens? He becomes weak. If he not fight back they make it worse for him. You see.'

Papas was right. Over the next few months I lost count of the number of times Costa received treatment in my father's surgery. The attacks became more and more vicious, more and more frequent.

‘If this doesn't stop you'll have to report it. Bring charges. This can't go on. Something bad's going to come out of it,' I heard my father say as Papas guided Costa, yet again, out of the doctor's rooms.

‘But he refuse to fight back, and if I bring charges then no one come to my café. Business bad already. No one wants to help us in this town. Especially those Italians! They bad news.'

After the war, the Italians had settled in the hills outside the town, taming the land then growing grapes. They'd worked hard and done well but had transported historical gripes with them. Costa, being the only Greek boy in the school, bore the brunt of it.

We were finishing off our milkshakes one day when Costa appeared earlier than usual. His father looked surprised. His son was clean, undamaged.

‘What happened? You outrun them or fight back at last?'

‘Neither.'

‘What then?'

‘The wog boys are going to protect me.'

‘Protect you! In return for what? I thought they were the ones thumping you.'

‘Not always.'

‘Wogs never help Greeks. They're setting you up. They want something. What they want?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Rubbish. You don't get nothin' for nothin'.'

As Costa walked away, Papas tapped the side of his head. ‘That boy weak up here as well if he thinks wogs wanna help a Greek boy. Ever since we come here that boy not listen. He never obey his father no more. In Greece he a good boy. He do as father say.'

‘Maybe he just wants to try it his way.' I circled the straw around the base of the metal milkshake container to collect any stray drops. Suction had already finished his milkshake and was blowing through his straw, sending fine milky spray all over the counter Papas had just wiped.

‘No, he weak all right. Those boys out to get him for sure.'

The night Papas' world fell apart, Suction had taken me down to the river to collect yabbies. We were making our way back through the bush when we heard a ruckus going on. Suction stopped, his head tilted in the direction of the noise. We turned off our torches and crept towards the clearing ahead. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, but there was just enough light to keep us on track until we reached a boulder where we could crouch unseen.

The men were making such a racket I couldn't work out what they were doing.

‘Come on, man …'

‘Yeah, man. She's all yours.'

‘Don't worry about her carryin' on like that …' ‘… the bitches all kick and scream when they want it.'

‘Yeah, just means they want it real bad.'

Even I could tell they'd been drinking. I'd seen the drunks on Friday nights leave the local pub, stumbling down the front steps, shouting out their slurred farewells and reeking of beer.

‘Come on, mate
,
get a move on! If you don't screw her we'll
all
have a go at her!'

Beside me, Suction chomped nervously on his gums. I could feel his muscles tensing. There was one boy much bigger than the rest who seemed to be the leader.

‘Hear that, guys? He wants to know who she is! You don't worry about that, mate. All bitches are the same.'

I could tell Suction was agitated. He was rocking backwards and forwards and making the humming sound he always made when something upset him. I didn't understand what was going on but I knew it felt all wrong. I stood closer to Suction, seeking reassurance from his body warmth.

The voices in the dark were getting louder, more insistent.

‘Get some grog into him. That'll fix him.'

‘Come on, mate. Screw her and we leave you alone in future.'

The men were grouped in a circle blocking our view. Then, without warning, they started cheering and whistling. A few stepped sideways as they hauled a carton of beer closer, opening up a gap that enabled us to see what was going on. In the middle of the circle, kicking and struggling on the ground, was a girl. Her hands were tied and a hood had been firmly secured over her head. Two men were holding her down and on top of her was another man. I felt Suction flinch and start towards them.

‘No, they'll kill us. There's too many.' I pulled him back. ‘I know. Make your siren noise. Make it real loud. They'll think it's the police. I'll flash the torches.'

Suction's imitation of a siren was so convincing he often had people running out into the streets.

When he started, it was so loud it nearly deafened me. I turned on the torches and twirled them above us. Well, you've never seen a group scatter so fast. They ran like scared rabbits. Even the guy with his pants down somehow managed to hobble along and cover some distance before he hauled them up. Boy, did he bolt then. Suction kept the siren going until we were sure the coast was clear then he ran to the girl. He untied her hands and removed the hood, and the tape from her mouth. Gently, he put his large hands under her back and gathered her up. Trotting like one of those show ponies, he carried the trembling bundle all the way to my father's surgery, a couple of blocks away.

We didn't realise it was Costa's sister until Suction laid her on the table. She was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.

I could tell from Dad's expression when he turned to me that it was bad.

‘Go and get Papas as fast as you can!'

At the time I didn't even know what ‘rape' meant. When I crept back into the surgery later and looked it up in one of Dad's medical books, I doubt I still properly understood. I understood what it did to Papas though. Upon seeing his daughter, the colour left him; and when it returned, his face was so red I thought he was going to explode. In a way he did. He started kicking the walls of the surgery, then banging his head against the doorframe until Dad jabbed him with a needle. That quietened him for a while, but when Costa turned up with his mother, Papas started carrying on again, shouting at Costa at the top of his voice.

‘You find the boy who done this to your sister! Hear me!'

‘What d'you mean? The kid said there'd been an accident.' Costa stood there bewildered, trying to make sense of the scene in front of him.

‘That kid too young to understand what happened. But I'm telling you now, son …
rape
ain't no accident!'

Costa lost colour then as well. I thought he was going to faint, but he managed to lurch outside and just made it to the porch before spewing everywhere.

‘See, Costa a good brother. He real upset because he close with his sister.' Papas followed his son outside. When he came back in, Costa was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where's Costa?' my father asked.

‘Told him to find and kill the bastard that did this to his sister. Then chuck him in the river.'

‘Not a wise thing to do, Papas. Leave it to the police.'

‘No. Maybe this time that boy do as I say.'

I never saw Costa again. They found him in the river the next morning, a boat anchor strapped to his waist. Papas stayed in town a few more months, his behaviour becoming more and more peculiar. Then suddenly, overnight, he shut up shop and left. Not even Suction saw him go.

The Chamber

MEG MUNDELL

If she'd quit smoking the week before, like she'd planned, Penny never would have found the gun. That summer a heatwave was crisping the hedges, killing old people and making the birds pant helplessly, beaks agape. Bushfire smoke drifted into the city, tinting the daylight amber and giving the air a sweet, woody scent. Walking home from work that night Penny was pissed off, and she'd flicked her cigarette butt into the bushes without thinking.

As she stamped out the butt, she spotted something nestled in the parched shrubs, a shape glinting under the streetlight. At first she thought it was a toy, some plastic replica lost in a game of cops and robbers. But when she picked it up, the weight of it sent a quick thrill skating through her. She checked the street: empty.

The gun was L-shaped. Its body had a blue-black sheen, a grooved cylinder and a textured handgrip with indents for your fingers. The barrel had tiny writing printed on it. She was careful not to touch the trigger. The metal felt warm — how long had it been there? But it was a hot night, she reasoned; everything was warm.

A childish thought skipped across her mind: finders keepers. Penny put the gun in her shoulder bag and walked away quickly, her blood banging out a loud pattern. Maybe it was a good-luck omen; what had her fortune cookie said this morning?
It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
She smiled: some good luck was way overdue. She rolled another smoke and decided not to head home just yet. Her housemate spent his life inhaling bongs in front of the twenty-four-hour news channel, and she wasn't in the mood for him.