The Crush (4 page)

A crush of commuters squeezed from the silver train and stampeded Bankstown's Old Town Centre Plaza. Their high heels, shoes, boots and runners scurried over the mall's pink tiles cancered with black bubblegum. Flocks of overweight pigeons and fat sparrows gathered around a man eating a doner kebab waddled out of the way of the foot traffic. Off to one side, a mother of three young children paid for two loaves of bread at a Vietnamese bakery while a young woman in blue jeans and a traditional white Muslim head garment met up with her husband and son. Old Lebanese men and women shook hands as they said their goodbyes for the night. A fruit and vegetable seller sold his last bag of lemons before shutting up shop.

Legs aching, Matt shuffled behind the masses across the plaza. He'd never walked so far in his life. But he wasn't complaining. He would have walked to Perth and back if Kelly had asked him to. That name. He could never tire of hearing that name. Or seeing her, either. She was so beautiful. And interesting. And mysterious. And … And …

It didn't matter. She was just wonderful.

Thinking of her again, he had a panic attack. He hadn't said anything dorkish, had he? Aw, yes! He had! That lame joke about having a stepmother and stepsisters. She must have thought he was the king of all geeks. If only he could handle small-talk with girls like he could a football, he'd be right.

The sun was sinking behind the rows of compacted two-storey buildings that made up Bankstown's shopping district. Shadows darkened the doctor's surgery, the cheap junk store, electrical goods retailer and computer game outlet as he turned into Marion Street. Above a fish and chip shop was the small two-bedroom unit where he lived.

The entrance was around the back in Depot Place, a small alleyway above the train lines and a car park.
An auto-garage was several doors up, where mechanics hammered, bashed and drilled from dawn to dusk.

Drawing on the last of his energy, Matt pulled himself up the metal steps to his unit. Halfway up, the fish and chip shop's flyscreen door slapped open and a short bald man in his sixties with a grey beard backed outside carrying a plastic crate of oyster shells. He flipped open an industrial bin and emptied the shells into its dark putrid guts before washing his hands under a tap.

‘Hello, Matthew! How are you?' Mr Nassaris said in his rich Mediterranean accent.

‘Tired.'

‘You been playing football again, eh? Did you win?'

‘Yeah. Just. By two points.'

‘Good on you. Mustn't be long before I see you on the TV now.'

‘I hope so.'

‘How's your mother?'

‘She's holding up.'

‘Any word from the council?'

‘No, they're still deciding what to do.'

‘Typical politicians,' Mr Nassaris spat. ‘The only thing they do fast is give themselves pay increases, eh?'

Matt nodded glumly.

‘Not to worry. Whatever happens, me and my wife will look after you both. We've got a lot of friends here. We'll help your mother find a job.'

‘Thanks, Mr Nassaris.'

‘I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll bring you both up some nice trevally and calamari, eh?'

Matt smiled gratefully as the old Cypriot waved and then returned to his customers. A giant exhaust fan sighed beneath the steps as Matt finished his climb.

‘Matthew? Is that you?'

‘Yeah, mum,' he called back down the short hallway as he dumped his boots and bag.

A metal chair squealed backwards and heavy footsteps creaked across the kitchen floor. Filling the archway, his mum appeared, holding a textbook. ‘How'd you go?' she asked excitedly.

‘We won. Sixteen–fourteen. I scored the winning try.'

‘Congratulations!' His mum engulfed him with a smothering hug and kissed him on the forehead. Although she'd showered since she'd returned home from work, her hair and skin still smelt of tar, dust and petrol fumes. ‘I knew you could do it! You're into the finals now, hey?'

‘Yeah,' he answered. ‘We play Punchbowl Boys next week.'

‘They'll be hard to beat.'

‘But we're just as good.'

His mother proudly patted him on the back then asked him if he wanted a drink of cold water. He did. One whole lake please, bartender.

‘Any news?' he ventured.

She paused then opened the fridge and grabbed the plastic jug. ‘Not yet. They're talking about retrenching up to fifteen workers now.'

‘Fifteen! But it was only seven last week!'

‘I know. But some bean-counter believes we're costing the council too much money. I'd like to see him get out of his air-conditioned office and fix potholes all day.'

The water jug shook angrily in her hand and a wave splashed onto her fingers. Wiping them dry, she poured him a drink, which he drank greedily. Sitting on a kitchen stool, Matt watched her write
eggs
and
sausages
on the shopping list stuck to the fridge with a banana magnet. It served as a reminder for him too. He reached into his wallet and pulled out forty bucks he'd withdrawn from an auto-teller on the way home. ‘I've got some more money for you—'

‘Matthew, you know you don't have to—'

‘Here. It's from the past three weeks' pamphlets. It's not much but—'

‘No, you keep it. It's yours. Buy yourself something for once.'

‘Take it. You need it more than I do. Pay off a bill or put it towards the groceries. You know we need it.'

‘We don't need that much.'

‘Then you use it to buy yourself something. It's been ages since you've spoiled yourself.'

He ended any further arguing by stuffing the notes into her jeans pocket. She smiled sadly then gently placed her hand under his left ear. ‘It's not always going to be like this. I promise.'

Matt nodded.

‘Not that you've got anything to worry about. You'll be earning millions when you get picked to play first grade.'

That cheered him up again. He was going to tell her about the talent scouts but chewed on the words. No point in getting her hopes up. He'd wait until things were more concrete.

Matt started pulling off his socks and shoes. ‘I'm off to have a bath. I kind of smell.'

‘You don't have to tell me that,' his mum answered, returning to her textbooks. ‘Don't take too
long. We're meeting your grandmother at eight.'

‘Good,' he answered, making his way to the bathroom.

‘Oh, there's some mail on your bed too. It looks like a birthday card.'

‘Who from?'

‘Don't know. There's no name on the back. One of your friends, I guess.'

Strange. None of his friends knew about his birthday. He liked it that way. Maybe it was from one of his old mates from Penrith, Fairfield or Campbelltown. But they usually called. Who then?

The mystery would have to wait. His body was searing with pain and cramps, and he desperately wanted to plunge into that bath.

Massaging water flooded over his body as he submerged into the tub. Heat, dirt, grass and soreness ebbed from his skin and joints as he slowly sank into the floating bliss with a sigh. Sleepy, he closed his eyes and started dreaming …

Dreaming …

Dreaming of kissing a girl with long dark hair …

‘Matthew? Are you awake?'

Startled, he sat bolt upright in a great rush of water. His eyes whirled around the room, confused. Where was he? This wasn't his bedroom.

The memories resurfaced and he relaxed. He must have nodded off while taking a bath. How long had he been asleep? At least an hour. Maybe two. The bathroom was black with night. The water had been like a liquid lullaby.

‘Matthew?'

‘Yeah?' he called back, wiping wet hands over his eyes.

‘It's seven o'clock, mate. You better finish up. It's getting late. The bus is due in thirty minutes.'

‘Okay. Sorry. I fell asleep. Just give me a sec.'

Dunking himself under the water one more time, he washed the rest of the day off him then stood up and turned on the lights.

After scrubbing his scalp dry, he stared at the mirror as he towelled himself off. He had eyes the colour of fudge, thick eyebrows, funny-looking ears, full lips, a flat footballer's nose and short dark brown hair with several golden tints. He had a thick neck and hardening chest, which were dotted with a small constellation of moles that his mum used to trace with her rough fingers when he was younger. Around them dangled a crucifix on a silver chain that represented his Christian faith. He was no altar boy, but he tried living an honest life. His arms and legs were starting to take an athletic shape, even though
he hated how his ribs poked out at twisted angles. And a caterpillar of hair squirmed up from his bellybutton.

He leaned closer to the mirror. He'd always wondered who he'd inherited his ears from. Or his brown hair for that matter. They didn't look anything like his mum's …

‘How was school?' he asked, stepping back into the living room with the towel wrapped around his waist.

‘Starting to get hectic,' she answered, hovering over a biology book this time; a sole desk lamp lighting up the whole table in the dark kitchen. She looked great—dolled up in a blue dress, red lipstick and a touch of foundation. The image was far removed from the canvas council coveralls and orange vest she normally wore. He just hoped a single guy would think the same about her one day soon.

‘The teachers want us to start studying three hours each night between now and the exams. A lot of this stuff ain't easy, y'know.'

‘Tell me about it.' Reaching his bedroom door, Matt stopped and grinned cheekily. ‘By the way, you better not fail maths this time or you're grounded for a month, you hear?'

‘Keep talking like that, mate, and I won't be the only one.'

Matt laughed and closed his door behind him.

His mum was studying Year 12 part-time at TAFE. Now that her job was under threat, she wanted to go on to university and study nursing. She'd only ever made it as far as Year 9, the same grade Matt was in. Falling pregnant at fourteen had forced her to drop out of school.

Fourteen. Man that was young. Imagine carting around a baby on board while all the other girls were sweating over their first kiss. At that age—a whole day ago!—he'd been more interested in footy, cars, keeping fit, computer games and water bomb fights. Then that puberty thing started. What a trip. He couldn't stop thinking about babes. Lots of babes. Babes who wanted his body. He thought he was a mental case. His science teacher didn't help. She said that one per cent of men's hormones was female and vice versa. He was scared for weeks that those stray hormones would group together, demand equal opportunity and he'd grow wider hips or develop a fetish for high heels. Bizarre, huh?

Scratching his chest, Matt walked inside his bedroom. Overlooking Marion Street, the room
had a single bed with wrinkled black sheets, a second-hand wooden desk and a small chest of drawers where his favourite trophies perched. The walls were covered with footy posters of the Bulldogs and signed jerseys from each school and weekend club he'd played with, including the ‘nappy grade' Under 6 sides. At the window, he could sit and watch the traffic below or read one of the dozens of league magazines he'd borrowed from his mates. Dirty shirts, boxer shorts and socks cowered in one corner, while his school textbooks and novels lay unread in a pile nearby. The room was pokey, but it was his space.

He picked up a yellow flier from his desk. It advertised the Grand Slam concert for that Friday. Mulling over it for a second, he eventually screwed it up and tossed it next to his dirty clothes.

Pulling on a pair of red boxers, blue jeans and a marsh-coloured shirt with racing stripes, he noticed the envelope with the birthday card his mother had been talking about. There was a typed address on the front but no return to sender on the flip side. He opened it and removed a card with a picture of a teenager lazing over motorbike handlebars. In gold letters, the front read:
For a cool guy on his 15th birthday
. As he checked inside, a hundred dollar
note fell from the middle and fluttered onto the orange carpet.

Stunned, Matt gawked at it like it was a scorpion. A hundred bucks! No way!

He reached down and touched it. Yep. It was genuine. And best of all, it was his.

No. There had to be a mistake. No one he knew was rich enough to give him a hundred bucks. He double-checked the name and address. Yes, they were his. He read the message written in loopy blue ink inside the card.

 

Dearest Matthew,

As always I'm thinking of you on this special day. I've never forgotten you and I promise I never will. You're very important to me. I couldn't think of what to buy you, so I thought $100 might help. All the best for your 15th birthday. I'll see you shortly. Love always.

 

Strange. There was no name. Love always who? His mum? Nah. She said she'd give him his present at dinner, plus she couldn't spare that kind of cash. Nan maybe? It had to be. He didn't have any other living relatives. Maybe it was a secret admirer. Some good-looking sort who had fallen madly in love with him and wanted to do the wild thing every day and night.
He snorted. Yeah, and she was lying in his bed at that moment wearing only a smile.

Nah, the card must have been from Nan.

 

Plates of hot steaming noodles, Peking duck, beef in black bean sauce, fried rice, honey king prawns and sweet and sour pork were slid onto round tables by a flurry of waiters zipping in and out of the restaurant's kitchen. Businessmen in cheap suits forked down mouthfuls of food as they laughed at a raunchy joke about one of their colleagues. Three early-comers commented about the flowers, painted fans and golden dragons along the walls as they waited for the rest of their group. Lobsters crammed into a small aquarium floated dully about, watching as a large man ripped apart their last comrade. In a corner, a teenage boy scooped a dribble of fried ice-cream from his giggling girlfriend's chin and ate it under red and gold paper lanterns.