Number 8 (25 page)

Like what?

“Oh, drugs, maybe, guns, Scrabble.” I can feel the fog rising again. I don't like the look of that woman all broken up on the wall. I look away. But the laugh bubble is trapped in my throat. It's getting hard to breathe again. “I bet they shoot people in here, that's why it's soundproof. Or maybe this is where Rocky plays Scrabble.” I'm not thinking anymore, just dreaming aloud. “They should have Scrabble in the casino. Rocky would be a winner. Why wouldn't they have Scrabble?” I can hear my voice ending on a screech. It's almost a high C. I sound like an ostrich. I start to laugh at the idea of an ostrich and Rocky playing Scrabble and I have such an urge to strut around the room like those bizarre birds. I remember Jackson telling me that the male
ostriches (or was it emus?) sit on the eggs for weeks until they're hatched. The males are very protective, he said.

Badman is staring at me. Then he comes over and puts his hands on my shoulders. He grips me hard. He doesn't shake me, just goes on standing still and holding me.

“I'm really sorry that I got you into this, Ez. You gotta calm down now. You're a really good person. I'm just an—”

“Ostrich?”

“Yeah. Always got my head in the sand. But we gotta get out of here—”

I sing a couple of lines from a song, something about getting out, finding a better life … I belt it out really loud, as if I know what I'm doing.

“That's The Animals isn't it?”

“I don't know. I heard it at Jackson's place.”

“My dad used to play that. He played that fifty times a day before he left.”

I watch him go and sit down. He puts his head in his hands. The need to laugh dies. Somehow Badman sitting there thinking about his dad seems much more sad and real than this weird cellar where we're going to die.

He looks up. “Are you okay? It's all my fault, isn't it? When they shoot me and make me into cold cuts I'll go straight to hell.”

“It's okay, Bruce,” I say softly.

“No, it isn't. And now I haven't even got the guts or wits to get you out of here.” He looks surprised that he said that. He looks around as if someone else did.

“Yeah well, it was a pretty crappy thing to do, the possum house and all. Sometimes you act really, really stupid. People think you're stupid but I think you just don't think things through. You act on your feelings all the time. I guess
you didn't know we'd get killed for it. You know, you were pretty brave back there in the garden.”

“What? When I said all that stupid stuff about being Jackson? Yeah, that was so helpful.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“No. When you went for Rocky. You did that head butt, straight for the guts. Anybody else, they would have keeled over. You're not light you know. Harry Houdini died from a punch like that. And he was one of the fittest guys ever in the world. I read this book about him. A college student took him unawares and punched him—just for a joke. Busted his intestine I think, or his appendix. Something like that. But Rocky's got a stomach like one of these walls here. I guess he's always flexing, even when he's asleep.”

“Yeah well, it didn't do us any good. Just got him mad.” Badman takes his hands out of his pockets and cracks his knuckles.

“Hey, something fell out.”

Badman bends down and searches the floor. He picks up a string of small firecrackers. His face is red when he stands up. He's looking at the firecrackers in his hand. “My mom, maybe she's right. She's always saying I'm just like my dad—good at making messes, bad at cleaning them up.”

“Have you still got your lighter? The world famous windproof whatever?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.” I'm staring at the firecrackers, wondering what damage they could do. If one firecracker can blow up a mailbox, what about a whole bunch of them? Or was that a different kind of firecracker?

He takes out the lighter and flicks it open, then strikes it against his leg. He does this a couple of times but there's no
flame. He grunts with frustration. “It's a
Zippo
—it's supposed to light like that. The Americans used them during the war.” He tries another time, striking it with his finger, then throws it down on the table. “Must be outta lighter fluid.”

“Figures.”

Badman stuffs the firecrackers and the lighter back in his pocket. “What, did you think we could blow our way out of here? Through concrete? These firecrackers might be loud, but they're not strong. Just make a big noise. Like me.”

“I wasn't thinking straight, I guess.”

We look gloomily for a while at the cushioned walls.

“They probably just said that cold cuts thing to scare us, I think. Don't you?” Badman looks at me hopefully. He suddenly reminds me of Daniel, and I feel so old. “Rocky wouldn't go through with it, would he? I mean, they're criminals but who'd kill kids?”

“I don't know. But I'm sure when Jackson knows we're missing, he'll put two and two together.”

“Yeah. Then he'll go and do something useless like find the square root or something.”

“Two doesn't have a square root.”

“Oh. Well, anyway.”

“The thing is, Jackson or anyone won't know till morning—”

“And then it might be too late. And the police, will they believe some weirdo kid? And what about the others, they might say we've eloped.”

“Ha!”

Silence. Doesn't feel like there's enough air. When Jackson first told me about Tony he was so sure they'd left the casino behind forever. They'd moved fast, right across the city, to the suburbs. Jackson thought Homeland was secure,
like heaven, like some place baddies could never reach. Badman is starting to pace again. He's grinding his teeth, you can see his jaw moving. I don't think I can deal with his freak-out. It's strange how we seem to take turns in freaking out. But for the first time I get the feeling Badman might be someone you could rely on. That he has a good heart. I'm glad I'm here with him and not on my own.

“Funny how everything that used to annoy you before looks so good now,” I say into the silence. “I mean, I've been thinking if I could just have my life back, I'd appreciate everything.”

“That's because you've got it all good. A mom and dad that are always there—”

“Yeah, too much! They don't let me do anything I want. Sometimes I don't think they hear what I say at all. You know, we used to have this dog, Rex. It had selective hearing, Dad always said. Rex only heard the words “walk,” “dinner,” “good dog.” Everything else it ignored. Rex was a bit like my parents. If it's not about math or banking, they don't hear it.”

“But you just said how much you'd appreciate them if you had them back.”

“Yeah. Well, just thinking about it makes me mad again. I wouldn't even
be
here if they'd let me go to the pub.”

“Ooh, the pub!” He mimics in this silly high voice. “Sausages and mash, it's enough to make you wet your pants with excitement.” He goes red suddenly and looks down at his damp leg.

“Valerie was
singing
there. You know that. You gave Jackson a hard time about it all day.”

“And you ran around like a stupid groupie. Oh, Valerie
this
and Valerie
that
,” Badman mocks.

“You sound just like my mother.” I sing a couple of bars of Patti Smith when she's complaining about her parents.

“Hey, that's from ‘Doves Cry.'”

“Yeah, you like Patti Smith?”

He shrugs. “She's okay, for a woman.”

“Oh, man, what a Neanderthal you are!”

“My dad really likes her. He saw her in concert in the seventies. Said she was amazing.”

“Did he teach you how to play it?”

“He tried. But I didn't want to. I wish now I had. There are a lot of things I wish I'd done when he was here.”

“Ssh.” There's a loud creak of the floorboards above. It's right overhead. Are they coming to get us? Then we hear more footsteps. They sound as if they're moving away.

“I know what you mean,” I say when it's quiet again. “I had a really bad argument with my mom, just before all this happened. I keep thinking, those things I said, maybe they'll be my last words to her.”

“Yeah. You think a lot about the last things a person says. The words sort of hang in the air like ghosts. Every morning, I sit down to breakfast with my mom and dad's last argument. Mom said he'd better grow up or he'll never be any good to anyone. She said he talks like a rock song. He just got up and went to get his bag then. And as he was walking out the door, he recited this whole song by Black Sabbath at her, as if it was Shakespeare or something. It was about freedom and love and death and all.” He grins for a moment. “So I suppose he got her back, you know, with the rock song. But he still left, anyway.”

I'm sitting there with my mouth open. This is the most personal stuff I've ever heard straight from Bruce Bradman's mouth. “Will your dad be coming back?”

Badman shrugs. “Said for Christmas. Said if the tour goes well, he'll bring me back a new guitar. But I told him I don't care about that.”

“Really?” I can't help looking surprised.

“Well, see, I already got his old one. He says it's falling apart, but there's nothing wrong with it, I think. And I figure if he doesn't get paid too well and he can't afford some fancy guitar, what if he felt so bad about it, he doesn't come back at all? Mom's always going on about how he doesn't make enough money to provide for us. That he's selfish and all. But he's a musician. That's how life is.”

I think of Dad and his line about tragic musicians. I can hear his voice in my head,
Your mother and I just want you to be secure, have a good life, safe
. I think of the way he kisses the top of my head and gets my ear. It's like an explosion in your eardrum. Daniel and I are always telling him.

“But me, I just want him back. And even though Mom gets so mad, she wants him back, too, I know it. She's a lot happier when he's around. The slightest sound at night, she runs into my room. ‘Just wanted to see if you're all right,' she says. But she's shaking. It's started giving me the shivers, too. Can you imagine what she'll do when she finds me gone as well?”

We sit for a while in silence. It's eerie. Every now and then we hear footsteps overhead, the floorboards creaking. Especially the trapdoor. What are they doing up there? What are they planning? I don't want to think about that. Talking is better. About anything.

“Why do you like Jackson?” asks Badman suddenly.

I jump.

“What's that got to do with anything?”

Badman shrugs. “I dunno. Just wondered. Seems such a
nerd to me with his number crap. How could anyone be that interested in numbers? Or his friend, either.”

“Why are you so horrible to them?”

Badman spreads his fingers out on the table.

“You know Jackson lost his dad when he was two.”

“Yeah, well, he's over it now isn't he? Seems pretty friggin' confident to me.”

“You think you're the only one with feelings? Everyone else has it easy? How do you think Asim copes with everything that's happened to him? You have your guitar. Jackson and Asim, they have their number … thing.”

Badman looks at me. “Jackson knows a lot of stuff. Is that why you like him?”

“He's interesting, sure. If you got to know him, you might find that out.”

Badman grins. “He told the science teacher that fruit bats' poop is worth megabucks. Is that the kind of stuff you need to know?”

We laugh. It feels good.

Badman starts drumming the table again. I recognize the rhythm quick as blinking.

“That's ‘Smoke on the Water,' isn't it?”

“Yeah. See if you can get this…”

“‘Thunderstruck,' AC/DC.”

He drums some more.

“‘TNT.'”

“You're amazing!”

“I heard you singing it under your breath.”

“You're a real rocker then, huh?”

“Yeah, I'd like to be.”

“So why do you sing that crap with Lilly?”

I shrug. “I guess because she wants me to.”

“You're stronger than that!”

I shake my head.

“Well well, you really get to know a person when you're trapped in a cellar with them.”

I smile.

“You know what, if we ever get out of here, we should do a number together.”

“Yeah? Would you? Even though I'm a
woman
?”

He goes red. “Yeah, it'd be all right.”

“Why don't we write a song then? We could write it about being in here. We could do it for the end-of-year concert.” I figure we have to believe we're going to get out of here, otherwise there'll be no chance of it happening at all.

“We was sittin' in the cellar,” raps Badman, “waiting for the end … When she said be my fella—”

I hold up my hands. “Just the music though, okay? We're just friends, all right?”

Badman sighs. “Yeah, okay. Rock is dead, long live rock!”

“That doesn't make sense. Who said that?”

“The Who.”

“Who?”

“The band called ‘The Who.' Pete Townsend.”

We start laughing, I don't know why. Badman is really shaking and I'm wondering if he's caught my unreal fog thing when suddenly I look up and see the trapdoor opening. We didn't hear a sound. The first thing we know is that Rocky is lumbering down the stairs like a grizzly bear.

“Glad to see you're making the most of your last night here,” he says. But he doesn't smile. He goes over to the filing cabinet behind us. We swivel around to see. He pulls out
a drawer and inside, perfectly laid out on a white cloth like a dentist's instruments are all kinds of guns. He stands surveying them like a kid in a candy store.