The Ice-cream Man (10 page)

10

Aaron had given the problem of the ice-cream man a lot of consideration, but had failed to come up with a plan. Hopefully he wouldn’t need one once Marty called the police and told them what was going on. They’d have to do something. Creeps who messed with kids were in the news all the time. Almost weekly a kid somewhere went missing. Aaron’s stomach lurched. What if the ice-cream man were responsible for some of those disappearances? Most kids wouldn’t think twice about accepting a ride from an ice-cream man.

He scanned the canteen area. He’d got to school late that morning, and since he didn’t share any of Thursday’s classes with either Rick or Marty, he hadn’t had a chance to catch up with them. He got to his feet and shouldered his backpack.

‘Hey, Aaron.’

Aaron looked around and spotted Rick running towards him across the undercover area.

‘That slave-driver Baldwin wouldn’t let us out till we’d finished our assignments. Can you believe that? School’s nearly over for the friggin’ year and he’s handing out assignments,’ Rick said, falling into step with Aaron.

‘What happened to your lip? Someone smack you in the gob?’

‘Tell ya all about that in a minute.’

They made their way around to the far side of the art block and collapsed in the meagre shade of a bottlebrush tree.

Aaron fished in his pack for his water bottle.

‘Where’s Marty?’

Rick lay on his back, staring at the overcast sky.

‘He rang me last night, said his old lady was making him stay home again today. Friggin’ hot, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Those clouds are trapping the heat in like a blanket.’ Aaron tipped his head back and squirted his face with water. He stood the bottle in the dirt and reached for a packet of M&Ms. ‘So, what else did Marty say? Did he ring the police?’

Rick sat up and took the handful of chocolate Aaron offered. ‘Yeah. Said it was a waste of time. The cop reckoned they couldn’t do nothing, less Marty gave names.’

‘That sucks.’

‘Yeah.’ Rick tipped the M&Ms into his mouth.

‘So what are we going to do now?’

Rick swallowed and gave Aaron a chocolatey grin.

‘I kinda done something already.’

‘What?’ Aaron’s stomach rolled. Did he really want to know?

Rick held out his hand for more chocolate and

Aaron obliged. ‘Don’t go telling me how stupid I am

’cause I already know, okay?’

Crunching M&Ms, Aaron nodded.

‘Well, I got a can of paint and messed up the ice- cream van.’

Aaron gasped, almost inhaling his chocolate. ‘You what?’

‘That’s not the best bit. The freak caught me.’

‘Oh geez!’ Aaron licked his lips. His mouth was suddenly drier than the ground they were sitting on.

‘All right, you’d better tell me everything from the beginning,’ he said in a flat voice.

By the time Rick had finished relaying the events of the previous evening, lunch was over.

‘Why don’t you come back to my place after school?’ Aaron said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about that weirdo. He’ll have something planned for you, I just know it.’

‘Yeah, I reckon so, too. The last thing he said to me was that when it was time to pay the piper, I’d know.’ Rick stood up and wiped his grimy hands on his shirt, leaving two grey streaks behind. ‘I’ve got some things to do after school, but how about I come over later? I can show you a couple more judo moves if ya want.’

Aaron plucked the seat of his shorts out of his butt-crack. ‘That’d be great. I’ve been practising what you showed me the other day. You can tell me if I’ve got it right.’

Talking about judo reminded Aaron of Steve. The chocolate soured in his stomach. He had no intention of getting in his step-brother’s way until he felt sure he could defend himself. Standing up to Steve and risking life and limb had seemed perfectly reasonable when Aaron thought he was dying of heat exhaustion in the garden shed. But since he’d got out, much of the primal anger he’d managed to dredge up from the depths of his being had fizzled. Of course he still planned to put a stop to Steve’s bullying; he just hoped he wouldn’t need to any time soon.

Despite the problems weighing on his mind, Aaron was in a good mood as he rode home from school that afternoon. He no longer had to face his troubles alone. He had friends and that was liberating.

The day was still sullen; if there was any rain in those clouds it had obviously decided to stay where it was. Aaron turned into Fifth Avenue, barely missing a silver hatchback, and free-wheeled down the left-hand lane until he drew level with the shop. He dismounted and leaned the bike against a post. There was no way he was going near the shed until he’d sussed out where his step-brother was.

He parted the plastic streamers and entered the shop. ‘Hi, Mum.’

His mother, busy stocking shelves, turned around.

‘Hello, love. Good day?’

‘Was all right.’

‘Before you go upstairs, would you mind getting another carton of paper towels from the storeroom?’

‘Sure.’ He headed for the back of the shop, stopping for a moment on his way through to run his hands across the icy freezer tops and smear the cool wetness on his cheeks. He half expected Steve to be waiting to ambush him, but there was no sign of him.

Aaron dropped the carton on the floor beside his mother. ‘Steve home yet?’ he asked, even though he could now hear the thump, thump, thump of his step-brother’s music pounding through the ceiling.

His mother ran a knife along the taped top of the carton and opened it. ‘Stay out of his way, Aaron. I don’t want you making trouble.’

Aaron’s jaw went slack. ‘Me make trouble?’

She straightened up, supporting her lower back with one hand. Pain registered briefly in her pale eyes. ‘Steve told me what happened the other day with that new friend of yours picking a fight with him. I know you boys don’t get along, but getting someone else to fight your battles like that is a bit unfair, don’t you think?’

‘But, Mum, Steve –’

His mother raised a hand. ‘That’s enough. I don’t need to hear the whole story again. Just make an effort with your brother, that’s all I ask.’

‘For the last time he’s not my brother,’ Aaron snapped. He grabbed his backpack and thundered down the aisle. Why couldn’t his mother and Roger see what a Nazi Steve was? Roger was useless, said boys needed a bit of rough and tumble to make them men. And even though Aaron’s mother saw his bruises, she always found a way to excuse Steve: Steve’s having a difficult time right now; Steve’s exams are coming up; Steve’s having a bad hair day! Aaron stomped up the back stairs and into the house. Maybe if he let Steve put him in the hospital his mother and Roger would finally see the truth.

Metallica boomed through the walls of Steve’s bedroom like a giant’s heartbeat. Aaron dropped his pack and approached the door. If he were the one playing his CDs full blast, his mother would be screaming at him to turn it down. But not Steve. Oh no, Steve could make all the noise he wanted. Aaron gripped the knob and thrust the door wide. The music was a solid wall of sound that Aaron could feel all the way to his feet. It was a wonder his step- brother wasn’t deaf.

Steve, who was slouching on the bed, engrossed in a dog-eared music magazine, wasn’t aware of Aaron standing in the doorway. For a good minute Aaron simply stared at him, wondering what to do next and breathing so fast he was in danger of hyperventilating. He felt like a gunslinger at high noon in one of those old westerns, arms at his sides ready to grab his six-shooters at a moment’s notice. He would have laughed if his facial muscles weren’t frozen solid. If only he could remember what Rick had shown him the other night, something about angling his body and head in the direction of the throw. Or was that the opposite direction?

In the aching silence between songs, Steve finally realised he wasn’t alone and looked up from the magazine. When he saw Aaron, his mouth sagged open. It only took him a heartbeat to assess the situation, and with the first crashing drum roll of the next song, he flung the magazine aside and launched himself from the bed. ‘You’re gonna pay for coming in here, little bro,’ he bellowed.

Part of Aaron’s mind watched Steve leap at him with curious awe. This must be what it was like to be attacked by a grizzly bear. The rest of his mind screamed at him to get out of there.

Steve’s fingers dug into Aaron’s fleshy bicep. The stab of pain was all Aaron needed to pull himself together. His chest filled with fire. It flowed upwards, filling his throat, his head. His eyes locked on to Steve’s and his step-brother’s expression of triumph wilted. Aaron smiled, the first real smile he’d ever given Steve, and grabbed his arms.

De Ashi Harai
, Rick’s voice whispered in Aaron’s

mind. It means, Advancing Foot Sweep.

In one fluid movement, Aaron stepped forward and swept his right leg across and behind Steve’s, sending his step-brother crashing to the floor. Before Steve could register what had happened, Aaron fell on him, pinning him down with a choke hold.

‘Got nothing to say for once, Stevo?’ Aaron yelled to be heard over the music. He resisted the urge to giggle. He’d never felt so high, so alive.

Steve stared up at him, surprise clear in his eyes. He pounded Aaron’s ribs with his fists, but due to his compromised breathing, the punches were weak.

‘This is where it ends. Got it?’

Steve’s eyes darted left and right looking for a means of escape – or perhaps a weapon. There were none.

Steve tried to buck Aaron off, but Aaron used his full weight and pressed his hand into his step-brother’s windpipe until he gagged. ‘I’m serious, Steve, it ends
NOW
.’

Steve must have seen the fire inside Aaron, must have felt the heat of it searing his skin, because his eyes grew so large it was a wonder they stayed in their sockets. ‘Argh,’ he said.

‘I can’t hear you!’ Aaron yelled in his face. Steve’s skin was turning a mottled grey. Reluctantly he let up on the pressure.

‘Yes, yes, we’re done.’ Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed a few times and he rubbed the red welt that was already blooming on his throat.

‘I’m going to get off you now, but I’m warning you, Steve, if you ever touch me again, I’m going to kill you.’ Aaron got off his step-brother’s chest and staggered to his feet.

Steve grunted and started coughing.

Before the trembling in his limbs could take hold, Aaron left, slamming the door behind him.

Rick wished he’d gone straight round to Aaron’s after school. The only reason he’d told him he couldn’t go over till later was so he wouldn’t be home when the ice-cream man came. If Rick showed up too early, Aaron’s olds would be sure to start asking questions like: Don’t you have to be getting home for dinner, Rick? And: Why don’t I just give your mother a call and let her know where you are? If Aaron’s parents heard Rick’s mother raving on in her drunken drawl, they wouldn’t want Rick within a mile of their shop ever again.

He sat under the front stairs with his head resting on his knees. He was so tired, mentally as well as physically. The nightmares had been with him all week, relentlessly wearing him down until his stomach knotted painfully every time night closed in. Last night he was sure he’d heard the ice-cream man outside his house again as he’d clawed his way out of another dream – the same dream; always the same dream. And even if the freak hadn’t been there it made no difference, he was waiting behind Rick’s eyelids every night with that big gap-toothed grin, waiting to reach out and reel him in.

Rick’s mother was still bashing around upstairs. The second he’d walked in the door she’d started. How could he destroy his father’s planes? How could he do that to his memory? He reckoned his mother would blame him for his father’s death if she could.

It took a long time for the sun to finish painting the clouds the colour of dried blood and finally set. By then Rick’s arms and legs were a mass of mosquito bites. His mother had ceased screaming at the empty rooms some time ago, so he figured it was safe to go inside and get something to eat before heading over to Aaron’s. There should still be bread in the freezer and a couple of cheese slices left from his trip to the supermarket. He crawled out from under the stairs and got stiffly to his feet. His stomach growled.

Rick made his way upstairs, keeping his footfalls light. He half expected to see his mother flaked out on the couch as he passed the lounge, but the room was empty. That meant she was probably drinking on the back veranda, which was where she usually went when she wanted to avoid him.

He turned into the kitchen and stopped. He had a sudden uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It was too quiet. He backed out of the kitchen and turned towards the back veranda. ‘Mum? Mum? Where are ya?’

The walls rang with his words. Rick crossed the groaning floorboards to the veranda. It was empty. He spun around, heart thudding, and sprinted into the hall. The door to his father’s model room stood open. He peered in. His mother had been hard at work trying to resurrect the broken planes. A bottle of glue lay on its side on the work table amid scraps of grey and white plastic. Some of the planes, those he supposed his drunken mother would call fixed, were lined up along the table edge like a squad of deformed birds.