The Never Boys (17 page)

‘I love this girl,' he finished. ‘I'll lose her if she finds out.'

A pause. A breath. A glance to a crucified God.

‘Everything's forgivable,' she said. ‘The Good Lord taught us that. Unfortunately, not everyone forgives.'

Changing gears also shifted Dean in his seat. He was surprised to find that he'd been asleep. The endless scrub blurring past his window had thinned and would soon be replaced by orchards, cherry trees, pelicans and roadside fruit sellers of the Riverland. It was the first time he'd nodded off since Sydney. Exhaustion no doubt. He'd forced himself to stay awake all night and morning so as not to miss a rest stop. Each time he'd dialled Michelle's number only to speak to her answering machine. He didn't know what he wanted to hear. Maybe a joke. A laugh. “I miss you.” Listening to a recorded voice was worse than not hearing one at all.

The bus eased into a checkpoint for fruit fly. It hovered for long moments then stuttered forward as the inspectors cleared the cars and caravans in front. Unimpressed, he rolled over and tried sleeping again. Truro was two hours away. He needed the rest.

The whisper started at the front seats then worked its way towards the middle. When the old man in front of him repeated, ‘The police?' Dean sat upright, checked his window then reached for his bag. That's when he saw the two police officers walking up the steps.

‘Nice holiday?' Constable Tom asked.

For the next two hours, Dean sat with his hands clamped behind his back, indifferent to the countryside, the smell of sandalwood or the cops' questions. Upset but stonewalling, all he could think about was Michelle.

‘Relax,' Constable Tom soothed, closing the interview room door behind him. Dean had already waited another hour in the dry air; plenty of time to change his mood.

‘What are you arresting me for?'

‘You haven't been arrested. We're just having a chat.'

‘About what?'

A flier skated across the tabletop. He caught it. Several missing persons tiled the page.

‘That's you, isn't it?'

‘Which one?'

Constable Tom smiled. ‘The boy in the top left-hand corner.'

‘It's a pretty bad photo.'

‘You didn't exactly pose for it, now, did you?'

‘You think that's me?' he half-laughed. ‘You've got to be kidding.'

‘Sure, you've had a haircut and added a couple of earrings, but you didn't think that would fool anyone, did you?'

‘Hate to spoil your detective work, but that ain't me.'

‘Take another look. All us boys here reckon the resemblance is spot-on. But then again, I wouldn't want to be this bloke either. Both parents: dead. His brother: killed. A twin, no less. Do you have a brother, Dave?'

‘
Dean
. And no I don't.'

‘Pity. Apparently he was one of Australia's best surfing juniors. His death made headlines and magazines across the country. You surf — don't you,
Dean
?'

‘C'mon. If you've got proof that I'm — I'm whoever this bloke is, then arrest me. If you don't, let me go.'

The cop leaned back in his chair, his pen pinched between his fingertips. ‘There's the door. You can leave whenever you want.'

‘About time,' he huffed and stood up.

‘But' — (just as his hand touched the door handle) — ‘if you
do
leave, I'll turn this into a full investigation.'

‘So what?'

‘Detectives, lawyers, judges, social workers — I can make this a whole lot worse for you.'

‘And if I'm really who I say I am?'

‘Then I won't bother you again.'

Dean glanced down at the handle. Every instinct was telling him to bolt. Run! Inside this secret little room it was just him and the law. The last came armed with rules and tricks he didn't know.

He chose the door.

‘Oh, I forgot,' Constable Tom added. ‘There's also the matter of you driving a stolen vehicle.'

‘What stolen vehicle?'

‘A red 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible.'

‘I didn't steal that. It belongs to Old Clive Clancy.'

‘And he's dead. So what right do you have to drive it?'

‘The General —'

‘— doesn't own it. And neither do you.'

The constable smiled as Dean's grip slackened on the handle.

‘Aren't I supposed to have a lawyer present or something?'

‘Do you need one?'

He flinched. Recovered. ‘Okay,' he said, sitting down again. ‘Go on. Ask your questions.'

The constable pressed RECORD, stated the time and date then turned over the first page of his notepad. ‘Let's start with an easy one. Your full name?'

‘Dean John Mason.'

‘Date of birth?'

(Flashes of memory. The carpeted quiet of a Births, Deaths and Marriages registry. A mobile phone bill, a no-questions-asked credit card and a bank balance.)

‘July twenty-second.'

‘Year?'

He answered again.

‘That makes you — eighteen?'

‘Nineteen-and-a-half.'

‘Have you ever lived in Perth, Western Australia?'

‘No.'

‘Where do you live then?'

‘The Kaesler property, care of the Sturt Highway, Truro.'

‘But you're from Brisbane originally?'

Again, that same question. ‘Correct.'

‘Whereabouts in Brisbane?'

(Flipping through the White Pages.)

‘Plume Street, Redcliffe.'

‘That's near Sunnybank, isn't it?'

(A street directory.)

‘No, Scarborough and Margate.'

‘How about your parents?'

‘What about them?'

‘What are their names?'

(Walking through thousands of shelves of the State Library. Scrolling down names in an electoral roll. Double-checking the birth certificate.)

‘John Zachary Mason and Rachel Elisabeth Mason. Elisabeth with an “s”.'

‘And they also live at Plume Street, Redcliffe?'

(First stop. Tired eyes in front of a computer screen. Days clicking through the internet. Matching faces. Boring on-line diaries. Paydirt. Everything falling into place.)

‘They used to. Not anymore.'

‘Where do they live now?'

(“— finally bought a place in Leeds. It's fairly cramped compared to back home but it's close to uni and Mum's work. Meanwhile, I met this absolute stunner of a German girl named Klara this morning while having yum cha —”)

‘England. They've been there about ten months.'

‘Any reason why?'

‘Usual mid-life crisis. Change of life stuff.'

‘Do you have a contact number?'

‘No. I lost it when my wallet was stolen.'

Constable Tom stopped writing. ‘How convenient. They'd be panicking by now, wouldn't they?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They haven't heard from you for four months.'

‘I send them an e-mail every now and then, telling them I'm fine.'

‘And what's that address?'

He wrote that down too.

‘Brothers or sisters?'

(An on-line photo album. Mum, Dad, one awkward son. No repeated mention of close relatives of any kind.)

‘I'm an only child.'

‘What school did you go to?'

‘Redcliffe State High.'

‘What colour was your uniform?'

(The school's homepage. Principal's message and name.)

‘Blue.'

‘You have an answer for everything, don't you?'

‘And you've got a question for everything, don't you?'

Dean afforded himself a moment of cockiness. Detective Wannabe was struggling. He had nothing.

‘What do you know about Clive Clancy?'

‘He's dead.'

‘You'd never met him before arriving in Truro?'

‘Never.'

‘You're not related to him.'

‘Nup.'

‘Do you know any of his relatives?'

‘No.'

‘Why were you in Sydney?'

‘For a quick holiday.'

‘Have you had contact with a law firm in Nuriootpa?'

‘Waitaminute. I know what this is about —'

‘Are you aware that Mr Clancy left an unclaimed will?'

‘You think I'm trying to rip off the old bloke, don't you?'

‘Well, are you?'

Stunned, Dean gaped at him. ‘No I'm not! And I can't believe you just asked me that.'

The cop put down his pen and smiled wryly. ‘It's my job to find the truth — not sweet-talk you.'

‘Then you should stop trying to make it up.'

‘That's rich coming from you.'

‘Whatever.' He pushed himself out of his seat again. ‘So we're finished?'

‘Not at all. Now tell me, did you own a driver's licence up in Brisbane?'

‘Sorry?'

‘A driver's licence. Have you ever applied or owned one?'

He stiffened. Sat back down. ‘Yeah. But I lost it, remember?'

‘From the wallet that you didn't report stolen?'

No answer.

‘What kind was it?'

‘Brown leather.'

‘No, your licence.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Was it a car, truck or motorcycle permit?'

‘Car.'

‘Auto or manual?'

His right leg started to jackhammer. ‘Both. I can drive both.'

‘You an organ donor?'

‘I can't remember.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I can't remember what I put on the licence form. I agree with it, but I mightn't have ticked the box last time.'

‘Do you have any medical conditions?'

‘Like what?'

‘Asthma?'

‘No.'

‘Corrective eye surgery?'

‘No.'

‘Short-sightedness?'

‘No. Why would I?'

‘That's what I'm asking you.'

He watched the cop scrawl:
Phone Queensland road authority
. He blanched. ‘Look, can I ring my friends to tell them to come and pick me up?'

‘That's probably not a good idea at the moment.'

‘Why? You said I'm not under arrest.'

The cop put away the notepad then stood up. ‘Because they probably don't want to speak to you.'

‘Hey?'

‘It was one of your friends who tipped us off about you. They're also keen to find out if you really are Dean Ron Mason.'

He got up. ‘Who? Who tipped you off? And for the last time it's
Dean John Mason
.'

The cop smiled again. ‘Surely for someone as prepared as you, you'd know that information's confidential.'

He reached forward to recover the missing persons flier, but Dean grabbed it. ‘It was Hayden, wasn't it?'

The cop tugged the flier away. ‘Sit down. I'll be back with you shortly.'

‘Not until —'

‘Sit down.'

Constable Tom opened the door to the sounds of the police station.

‘Are you going to turn this off?' Dean demanded.

The cop walked back to the recording equipment, but only rested his finger on the STOP button. ‘Oh, one last question: what type of house did you live in in Brisbane?'

‘Type?'

‘You know. Was it white? Red-brick? Blue weatherboard?'

Dean stared at him, no smart answers this time. ‘White. Our house was white.'

 

The air. It was too thin. He was choking. He needed to get out of there before he suffocated.

He slumped at the interview table, the fight all but drained from him. He'd been inside that same room waiting, pacing, fearing for — thirty? forty? ninety? — maybe hours. His feelings were split. He was worried about Michelle just as much as his freedom.

When Constable Tom did return, he himself looked frantic. He held a hat in one hand and a
fluorescent vest in the other. An officer in the background shouted details about a multiple road accident. ‘You're clear to leave.'

‘No more questions?'

‘Not today. But I strongly suggest you don't go anywhere for the next week. I'll be speaking to you again.'

Dean grinned. ‘Look forward to it.'

The taxi braked outside der Schokoladenhersteller. No, Michelle wasn't working. She'd called in sick. Dean headed for her house and pounded on the front door instead.

‘What do you want?'

Zara? ‘Where's Michelle?'

‘She's not talking to you.'

‘Is she inside?'

‘No.'

‘Let me in.'

‘No!'

‘Michelle?' he yelled over her shoulder. ‘Michelle!'

‘She's not here, okay! Leave, Dean — or whatever your name is.'

The door crunched shut. He shook the handle, but it held firm. The rear one too. Through the living room blinds he saw Zara thumbing her mobile phone. He recognised those digits. Run! The police!

He jumped into the taxi. Go! Go! Go!

But the ride was quick. He stopped the driver on the other side of town and chucked a twenty dollar note over the front seat. There was one more house call.

Hayden!

Dean leapt from behind. Bread, cereal and fruit scattered across the lawn as the two boys crashed amid the shopping bags. He got in the first punch, the second and the third. With the fourth, Hayden retaliated. He elbowed Dean in the ribs, then twisted round. They wrestled and rolled until Hayden got his feet between both of them and pushed. Knocked back, the younger boy lunged again, but Hayden was primed. He felled Dean with a cracking punch and the fight was won.

‘Are you crazy! What was that for?'

Sluggishly, ‘You know why!'

Hayden breathed heavily. ‘So Tommy finally found you, eh?'

‘You've destroyed my life!'

Dean rushed him a third time, but the tackle was clumsy. Hayden tripped, turned and saddled him, steeling an arm against his Adam's apple. ‘Finished? Well, are you?!'

Dean's face turned purple. ‘How'd you know?'

‘So it's true?'

‘How'd you know?!' he spat.

‘By accident. The police arrested the guy who's been robbing the district.'

‘So?'

‘I had to drive to Port Augusta to claim my stuff. While I was at the station, guess who's face I spotted on the wall?'

‘So you dobbed me in?'

‘No, but I wanted to.'

‘Liar!'

Dean blinked suddenly. Then again. His forehead felt wet and he looked up to see dripping blood. Hayden's eyebrow ring had been ripped from its skin. ‘You're bleeding.'

‘What?'

‘You're bleeding!'

Hayden let him go, then kneeled a safe distance away to daub the wound. Dean rasped heavily as he lay on the grass, his jaw, head and neck throbbing.

‘Why'd you do it?'

‘I told you, it wasn't me. If I wanted you busted, I could've got you with that skipping school story of yours. But I'm not like that.'

‘Who then?'

Hayden glanced at the empty street. ‘You don't want to know.'

‘Who?!'

‘Zara okay!'

Dean went numb. ‘Zara?'

He lay there for a moment longer, confused, before sitting up. Hayden gave a pained laugh. It wasn't at Dean's expense but seemingly at his own. ‘After I got back from Port Augusta, I kept your secret to myself. But after a few days I needed to tell someone. So I headed over to Zara's. She turned feral when I showed her that missing persons flier. She called Tom before I could stop her.'

‘Why didn't you come to me first?'

‘Why should we? You could be a murderer for all we know.'

‘A murderer, hey? Is that what you think of me?'

‘Well, why are you really on the run?'

Dean snorted. ‘Does it matter anymore?'

Unanswered, Hayden stiffened. His mobile lay abandoned by the Falcon.

‘It was you who put those notes under my door, wasn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘To warn you.'

‘Warn me about what?'

‘That you'd been found out. That maybe you
should leave. I felt I owed you that much. For old time's sake.'

‘For old time's sake? Gee
mate
, thanks for caring.'

Hayden pressed his palm to his eyebrow repeatedly, disturbed it kept coming away bloody. Dean watched him, waiting for a real answer. But he cracked the riddle himself. ‘Waitaminute. This is about Zara, isn't it?'

Hayden kept pressing. ‘No.'

‘Isn't it?!'

‘Yes!'

Dean laughed emptily. ‘You sold me out because you were jealous?'

‘What was I supposed to do? She was
my
girl — not yours.'

‘You have no idea, do you?'

‘About what?'

‘About Zara and me.'

‘No. Well, until —'

‘Until?'

‘Yesterday. I only found out about you and Michelle yesterday. If I'd known earlier —'

‘If you'd known earlier —
what
?'

‘None of this would have happened, all right!'

‘You thought I still liked Zara? After all this time?'

‘No one knew about you and Michelle. Not even
Zara. You'd kept it a secret.'

‘For a good reason. It was
our
relationship. Our first. We wanted to keep it private so there wouldn't be any pressure. Now, thanks to you, that's gone.'

Dean shook his head as a biker thundered past. Hayden added nothing.

‘So this is it, right? I get arrested and you get the girl?'

Hayden tried smiling. Instead, he looked pitiful. ‘You're half right.'

‘I don't get arrested?'

‘No, I don't get the girl.'

Dean scoffed. ‘How do you know that?'

Hayden's nostrils whistled thinly. ‘Because I asked her.'

‘And she said no, right?'

He nodded.

‘Surprise. Surprise. I could've told you that myself.'

Hayden shifted to a sitting position. He rested his elbow on his knee and his hand on his forehead, looking crumpled and defeated. A look of self-loathing aged him. When he spoke again, his voice was tinny and broken, almost as if he was afraid of appearing to be a lesser man. ‘I don't know where I went wrong, Dean. I just don't. Zara and I have been best friends since, well, forever. That should count
for something, right? Not that anything happened when we were younger. You don't have those kinds of feelings as kids. But the older we got, things changed. I changed. Zara changed. She matured into this — this incredible girl who's smart, funny and stunningly gorgeous! You know that yourself.

‘I tried denying it at first. I told myself it was just a stupid crush. Something you try to get over, y'know. But the more I tried, the more I wanted her. It's not like I'm short of offers. There have always been girls in my life. Gorgeous girls. Easy girls. Girls I can't even remember. But Zara — she's something else.

‘But it's not meant to be, hey? I got the “let's-be-friends” brush-off. Do chicks ever realise how hurtful that sounds? How lame? You can never be friends again. Never. The pain's always there. You just burn with shame whenever you see each other next.'

He snorted. Shook his head. ‘You know what the worst thing is? I still love her. Even now, there's a part of me that says she'll eventually change her mind. But that's never going to happen, is it? I'm just — it's — I'm sick of feeling like this. Everyone tells you how wonderful it is to be in love but no one tells you how to fall out of it.'

Hayden's voice cracked. But if he was expecting sympathy, there was none. Dean felt nothing for the
shearer and only answered begrudgingly what he himself had learnt. ‘Can I give you some advice?'

Hayden shrugged. ‘Sure.'

‘Stop wasting your time. Zara loves nobody — not even herself.'

And with that, he stood. No more sob stories.

‘You better go,' Hayden said, still seated.

‘Don't worry, I am.'

‘No, I mean leave the Barossa. You can't hide here. It's too small. People talk.'

‘You can't even trust your friends, eh?' Dean smirked.

‘Wait!'

He didn't.

‘Don't you want my help?'

‘Too late for that.'