The Never Boys (19 page)

‘And the pain,' he added.

An ibis stalked along the river bank as they stood, realising they weren't friends anymore. Time was up. He fished out his car keys.

She grabbed his wrist. ‘No. Listen to me. This is wrong.'

‘And your point is?'

‘This is always going to happen. If the cops found you once, they'll find you again.'

‘Then I'll have to be more careful.'

He got into the Bluebird and started the ignition.

She reached through the window and yanked the keys out.

‘What'd you do that for?'

‘Come back to the Barossa with us. Let Mum sort this out. You've still got a chance to get your old life back.'

‘Why would I want it anymore?'

‘To stop you shutting out your family; to help you deal with your grief.'

‘Give them back.'

‘No.'

‘I said give me my keys!'

She stepped away from the car. He chased her, then wrestled them away. They squared off, angry that a few stubborn feelings had survived.

‘Go on. Take them. Run away,' she said, pushing back her hair. ‘See how many more people you can hurt!'

He marched back to the Bluebird.

‘You're a fraud, you know that?'

‘You can talk!' he sniped back.

‘Me?'

‘Your globe; your dreams; your dresses; your posters; your friends; your make-up — they're all fake. You accuse me of being a fraud. But you live in a pretend world every day.'

The insult hit hard. She stood there in the Falcon's headlights stunned and drained. When he sidled up beside her in the Bluebird, her voice had lost its anger. It was deflated and beyond caring. ‘Turn yourself in. If not for yourself, then for Michelle.'

He looked at the photograph on his dashboard. His girlfriend smiled back at him. ‘Tell her I love her,' he said and turned the picture face down. ‘If she believes only one thing about me, make sure it's that.'

Foot paused on the brake, he waited until the Falcon left first for the highway. He didn't want his former friends learning which route he was taking. One last glance forced him to sit upright, though. A streetlight caught the passengers' silhouettes as the car motored away. There were three — Hayden's. Zara's. And Michelle's.

All night his mind raced as fast as his car along the Princes Highway. The more he tried outgunning it, the faster it got. Finally, near the border town of Mount Gambier, he pulled over beside a plantation of pine trees. The Bluebird rocked with each splintery blast of the lumber trucks as he just sat. Alone. Reaching for the ignition three times but shying away.

Hoping it would help, he opened the boot. He went back to his seat with a pen and pad of paper, using his lap as a desk. He wanted to put his thoughts down. To explain to Michelle why he was in Mount Gambier at midnight, already four hundred kilometres further out of her life. But he only managed to scrawl seven words —
Please don't be angry with me but …
— when he furiously scribbled over them. They sounded familiar. Just like the idea of hiding behind a letter.

None of this should have ever happened. After his confession to Sister Ruth, he'd been so determined to avoid making Clive's mistake. But self-preservation had spurred him on. So why did he feel so trapped when he was so free?

The Bluebird's engine started, its headlights glowed and the wheels slowly rolled away from the kerb. White roadside markers flashed by. There. He was travelling again. And already he felt better.

One hand on the wheel, he started searching for radio stations to stop himself thinking. Nothing. Nothing but static. And the old man's spectre sitting beside him, settling in for the ride.

The Bluebird braked. It rested on the road as the boy hammered the horn, sides and roof, screaming and cursing until the tone of his own anger scared him. When a truck approached, albeit slowly in the opposite lane, the boy shook his head and chucked a u-turn. He knew what he had to do. It was going to be a long journey — one that should never have begun.

A red dawn stretched towards the boy as he knocked on the flyscreen of a single-storey brown brick house in Truro. A Staffordshire terrier in the backyard woke first, followed by its owner. When the door opened, an unshaven and far from
intimidating man in a white singlet and Marvin the Martian boxer shorts paused as he double-checked who had called upon him. The astonishment almost frightened the boy, who, for a moment, feared the man would reach for his gun. But Constable Tom scratched his stubble, threw the lock and said, ‘I hope you brought some coffee.'

Waves rolled and sizzled under the sixteen-year-old boy's feet as he sat on a rocky jutting, cushioned by a folded towel and nursing a silent guitar. Longingly, he stared at the surfers duck-diving and jockeying in the sea with the empty hope that he'd match a face with his own. Behind him and planted in the sand like a giant sundial, stood a battered surfboard; a sticker peeling near its nose. Several times he'd tried flattening the moniker back on its surface, re-reading the same word that it trumpeted. Stinger. His brother Lucas's nickname.

Slowly, he straightened up and went back to his playing. This time it was a mellow tune; the warm notes wavering like the salty haze over Trigg Beach. Just as he was crooning the Indian Ocean, it was seducing him. Later, he promised himself. Later.

It'd been two months since he'd come back to the west coast. True, his world was bigger now but this
was where he felt the most at ease. Every afternoon he was here: surfing, swimming, playing or just sitting despite being relocated to the other side of Perth. Already the last of the March heat was fading from the waves and an Easter chill was setting in. There wouldn't be too many good days left.

He had melted to his knees when he saw that unstoppable, flat, green-blue horizon once again. Beyond it lay the edge of Australia and so many castaway dreams he'd made as a kid. He could still remember how as nine-year-olds he and Lucas had raced towards it, paddling hard on their boards until their small arms ripped with pain. Thankfully, they'd only given up after their mum's concerned calls had hooked them back — although not before some more jostling about who would wimp out first.

He smirked. Funny. The ocean always seemed to bring him home.

His song grew livelier with the memories. He only stopped when he slipped on a note. Twice.

‘It's E, D sharp
then
C sharp, I think you'll find.'

He twisted round to see a dark-haired girl filming him, dressed in boardies and a white singlet top. No. Surely it was a mirage.

‘Here, let me show you.'

She lowered the camera, dropped her towel beside
his then played the song again perfectly. As it rose and dipped, so did his anxiety. He tried listening, but was drawn to the smooth curve of her neck, the rhythm of her chest and the freckles peppered across her nose. He'd forgotten how enthralled he felt by their closeness; the nervous, pulsing joy. With the final strum, she gave him back his guitar with an accidental touch of their hands. A forbidden thrill jolted through him, and, encouraged, he dared to kiss her.

But she shied away.

‘You play pretty good,' he said with a hurt tone.

‘I had a good teacher,' she answered, shifting slightly sideways. ‘I just wish I knew his name.'

‘Andrew,' he replied. ‘Andrew Geddes.'

‘Nice to meet you. I'm Michelle.'

Amid the saltiness, he could smell oranges and chocolate. Flavours now seemingly bland.

‘Do you come here often?' she asked.

‘All the time.'

‘To play?'

‘To remember,' he said, turning the smooth rosewood in his hands.

He picked a few notes but they sounded hollow. Instead, he put aside the guitar that his father had made him. The ocean filled the quiet.

‘Hayden says hi,' she offered.

A little smile of recognition. ‘Does he? How's he going?'

‘Great — we think. None of us has really seen him since orientation week. He met a girl from the Clare Valley and they've been cosy ever since.'

‘Lucky guy.'

‘Clive's will also came through.'

‘Yeah? Did Bea —?'

‘No, no one did. The money's being donated to charity instead.'

‘Any in particular?'

‘Would you believe one for returned servicemen and women?'

He gave a bemused grin. How ironic. ‘They could do with an extra couple of grand.'

‘And the rest.'

‘There was more?'

‘Four hundred thousand more.'

He rocked back. ‘You're kidding?'

‘Nope. It seems he didn't lose most of his Papua New Guinea gold after all.'

Finally, he snorted. Maybe now the old man could rest.

‘And Zara?' he asked. He was reluctant to learn the answer. It was so easy to condemn her, but all she'd done was force him to admit the truth.

‘Same old Zar. She got suspended last Friday for stealing the school bus.'

‘The school bus?'

‘Get this. Some of the boys locked the driver in the toilets just after final period. Everyone on the bus was about to riot before Zar decided she'd waited long enough. She jumped in the driver's seat and would have made it out of the car park if she didn't sideswipe the principal's van!'

He fell about laughing. Same old Zar, all right.

‘The General would've loved that,' he said.

‘She's already filled out the foster care papers.'

He paled. She realised what she'd said and looked away.

‘How is the old girl?' he covered.

‘Good. She said to tell you that you're a two-faced, stupid and idiotic boy who needs a good belting for what you've done. But she wants a postcard within the next month — or else.' Then she dropped five-dollars-ninety into his hand. ‘And she asked me to give you this.'

‘What's that for?'

‘That's your change.'

‘My change?'

‘From my plane ticket. The General paid for it. Well, you did.'

‘Me?'

‘Michelangelo's forwarded your last pay cheque to her. She cashed it in to pay for my flight and motel.'

He rolled his eyes. ‘Typical.'

A couple of grommets screamed as they tumbled under a break. Andrew and she watched them for a while, feeling the spray against their faces and the sharp prickling of the rock.

‘It's Thursday. Shouldn't you be at school?' he asked, desperate to shrug off the silence.

‘Shouldn't you?' she replied.

They half-smiled then turned away. ‘I'm taking a short holiday.'

‘How short?'

‘Two days.'

‘With your parents?'

She leaned back. ‘Not exactly. They'll probably be over here tomorrow.'

‘The same day you leave? I don't get it.'

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘They don't exactly know I'm here.'

‘You — ran away?'

‘Contagious, isn't it? But I'll ring them tonight and tell them where I am.'

‘They'll kill you!'

She shrugged. ‘Too late now.'

‘But why?'

Another glance. ‘Guess.'

His pulse rose again. However, that look could mean anything. He stewed on the right words but chose a safer option. ‘How'd you find me?'

‘Your foster parents. They seem like nice people.'

He nodded. ‘They are. I get on better with the dog but we're working things through. They've agreed to care for me until the court case is over. After that — who knows?'

‘What are you charged with?'

‘Fraud. The cops dropped the auto theft. At least that might keep me out of prison.'

‘What's going to happen?'

‘I don't know. Legal Aid thinks I'll get community service but I'm not so sure. I've fooled a lot of people, Shell.'

He dropped his gaze and stared at the sea between his feet. It churned like his stomach.

‘Dean —'

‘Michelle —'

They paused. ‘You first.'

‘— sorry,
Andrew
,' she grimaced. ‘Let's go for a walk.'

Triggs was empty except for a few hardcore sun-bathers, surfers and truants. He left his guitar and
towel by Lucas's surfboard and continued down the shore with her. As they walked quietly, he wanted to hold her hand and smooth his thumb over it as he once did. Even now, he longed for the smallest of graces.

‘Shell, be honest with me,' he said finally. ‘Are we a chance?'

She stopped and surveyed the horizon. His horizon. She stood there, arms crossed as her thoughts rode the waves. The longer she took, the more fearful he became.

‘I don't know.'

He sighed thinly as he felt tears threaten. He kept it together, though. Broken, he was still a man.

‘So you hate me?'

She closed her eyes. ‘I don't hate you. I just need time.'

The pain was too much and he was the first to leave. He shoved his towel, lotion and cap inside his backpack, grabbed his guitar case then reached for his brother's surfboard. He paused. Looked at the peeling sticker. Saw the name. No, it wasn't a giant sundial. It was a tombstone.

Running towards the surf, he carried the board in both hands and the autumn heat on his bare back. He crashed flat on the first wave then paddled hard into the open sea. The Big Blue swelled under and
over, keen to stop him but he was equally determined to break through. The final curling monster loomed but he plunged straight through its middle then resurfaced, feeling the water stream down his spine. He was free.

Arms tiring, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then bobbed on the great emptiness. He ironed his hand across that peeling sticker one more time, thinking of Lucas, his mum and his dad. How he'd dishonoured them not only by rejecting his name, but also by letting their stories die as well. But no more. He slipped off the surfboard backwards, feeling it shoot between his legs. When he resurfaced, he watched it float towards the horizon where he prayed his brother still rode.

Sapped, he crawled through the last few waves and heaved saltwater from his lungs. He heard feet splashing towards him then felt two hands hook under his arms to lift him up. He collapsed against Michelle's chest and smelt oranges. The sweetest of scents. ‘Please forgive me, Shell.'

He held on, using her strength as his, until he felt a kiss. A light one at first against his hair, then another on his cheek, his ear and finally his lips. Squaring himself, he almost spoiled the moment. ‘But I thought —'

‘I'm here, aren't I?'

They stood embraced, he kissing her hair and rejoicing at its freshness. Mandarin and cardamom. Sugar and spice. Love and loss. Hurt and clemency. One existed and so must the other.

‘What happens now?' he dared.

She pushed back his fringe and smoothed the water beaded on his face. She grimaced, still afraid of who he really was but also, admittedly, in love. ‘We start again.'

He sighed with the relief only an absolved man could feel. He squeezed her hand, then held it like a saint's.

‘In the meantime,' she added, ‘I say we go for a swim, catch a bus into the city then let you do what all guilty boyfriends must do.'

‘And what's that?'

‘Buy me dinner at the most expensive restaurant before —'

‘Before?' he grinned.

‘— the police raid the place, arrest you and drag me back to my parents.'

He laughed. Great bellyfuls of happiness. They'd need more of it if their relationship was to heal.

Kissing Michelle again, Andrew rested his forehead against hers, smiled and turned to the sea.
On the western winds, he heard the first few notes of inspiration.

‘I've got a better idea,' he said.

‘Which is?'

‘Ever been to Spain?'