The Never Boys (8 page)

‘— Nothing. Nothing at all.'

‘Then stay. Sydney can wait. The job's lousy but a couple of grand goes a long way. Earn some extra money for that shack of yours.' Seeing his reluctance, she added, ‘Besides, I'd like you to stay.'

Later that evening, as the last few partygoers kicked on, he tapped the window of the study where the General sat checking her e-mails and the weather patterns. He had a new bag hitched over his shoulder and an uneasy look.

‘So what's it going to be?' she asked, spotting the backpack.

‘I'll stay, if that's okay with you?'

‘Sure. Good. I'll ring the Wallaces and tell them.' Then, still curious, ‘What's with the bag, though?'

‘I'm crashing at Balesy's place tonight. I'm off surfing tomorrow and he's offered to drive me into the city.'

Dean hated mad dog days at the beach. They were the worst to surf — the sea was foamy, crazy and dangerous. The only upside was that they cleared the waves quicker than a squall. He wasn't alone in his assessment. A steady caravan of four-wheel drives and rattling station wagons looped the Waitpinga car park before leaving to search further along the coast. That left the water to the grommets competing in a junior club championship.

To his right: ‘Excuse me.'

He turned to see a ten-year-old girl and her younger, podgy brother in tow. They were both dripping and carrying surfboards. The boy had scrounged up a pen and a piece of paper, which he held nervously as they both stared, fascinated by the scar below Dean's armpit.

‘Ask him,' the boy said.

‘I am, I am, all right,' the girl growled back. She
stepped forward, grabbed the pen and paper off him and thrust it at Dean.

‘Your name's Lucas, right?' she asked.

‘Nah, not me.'

‘You sure? You look exactly like him.'

‘Sorry. Wrong guy.'

He got to his feet, zipped up his wetsuit and rushed into the surf. Behind him, the boy said, ‘Told you, stupid!' to which the girl answered with a smack. ‘Shut up!'

He didn't ride for long. He drank more foam than surfed. Changing back into his boardies and T-shirt, he dropped his gear near the judges' tent, then followed a walking trail along the Waitpinga cliff tops to a sea eagle nest an old longboarder had told him about. When he returned with the more favourable winds, he was surprised to see a stampede of people arriving at the beach. This was no normal crowd, though. As he changed back into his wetsuit, he watched some of the newcomers arrange a pathway of flowers while others helped carry a spare board into the surf. He crossed himself. God have mercy. Another paddle-out.

Respectfully, he sat on the shore as he watched the surfers ring the empty surfboard. He absently reached down and traced the scar across his ribs — a reminder
from a spooked stingray that had nearly cost him his own life — and thought of the past. He remembered a hand — panicky and strong — reaching through the deep waters that afternoon to grab him and haul him to the surface. He remembered the ambulance, the hospital, his parents being pushed away by the nurses and the small square of vanilla ice cream when he woke up. Little did he know then that a few months later he'd be burying the same guy who'd saved him.

Hurt laughter snapped him back to the present, free of church walls and aware that the stink of flowers had sent him drifting. One funeral that year was bad enough, let alone two.

‘Amen,' he said, hearing the closing prayer before diving into the surf.

He camped at the beach again that night. The ranger came by and hassled him, but he just moved further down the shore. As he squatted by rock pools to shell a crab, he heard music raging from the official campsite back along the main road. A couple of university students had hooked up with a dozen German, Danish and Canadian backpackers. ‘You sure?' one had asked him, half-drunk and propped against a brunette. ‘There's plenty of beer. And' — (behind his hand) — ‘plenty of hot chicks. Three-to-one, if you know what I mean.'

‘Maybe later,' Dean answered.

‘Suit yourself,' the drunk bruffed. ‘I tried. More girls for me.' Then, as an afterthought, he swivelled around to add, ‘Watch yourself out here tonight, little man. This place attracts thieves.'

It was a beautiful evening and one wasted alone. Cool breezes skimmed off the ocean and swayed the dune grasses under a half-moon. Among them, he lay, one hand pillowing his head, the other tracing his chest. The rhythm of the sea was only broken by the party's music and the occasional howl of overexcited men. He was tempted to join them, but he wanted to be alone to dream. He had another girl on his mind that night and one he definitely liked.

Zara.

He wished desperately that she could be with him right then. Both of them embraced. Fingers drawing on warm skin. Blonde hair on his shoulders. Spearmint. Butterfly kisses. Heat —

He'd only been asleep for a short time when torchlight jabbed into his face. He thought it was the ranger again until two hands grabbed him and hauled him up. Instantly, he smelt beer.

‘What have you done with it?!'

‘Wh —?'

‘Where are my credit cards, you thief!'

The drunk shook Dean hard and threw him to the side. He landed on his shoulder and felt it jar. Two voices — male and female — yelled further down the beach. Reinforcements! He quickly got to his feet as the drunk lunged but tripped.

‘No you don't! Get back here!'

But he fled into the scrub.

The ute rocked side-to-side as it accelerated from the Wallace property along a grooved orange road. Purple fields of Salvation Jane and one-family towns slipped behind in a tumbling cloud of brown grasshoppers as it headed for Truro. Chugging up a hill, a cattle truck grew in the reflection of the General's silver sunglasses and forced her to change gears. The engine whined with the extra work, but she tamed it with a kick of speed. Dean sagged against the passenger door, exhausted but grateful for the ride home. With every bump, Zara's left knee knocked his right.

‘See you later?' he asked.

‘Once she's finished her chores,' the General answered for her, choking the hand brake outside the homestead.

But he wasn't going to wait. He rushed up to his quarters, collected Old Clive's guitar and ran to the
stables. It was a simple building — designed to hold only two horses at a time — with a feeding area and stretched trough outside. A ladder climbed up to a hayloft and cracked saddles hung from the walls. The air smelt of stale straw, worked leather, dry manure and bloated sacks of grain. Perfect. He opened the doors, returned to the feeding area then sat, legs dangling into the empty creek. Resting the guitar on his lap, he warmed up with a set of scales and waited for an audience.

Maybe it was the smell of hay or the location, but the initial tapping of his fingers on the sounding board reminded him of clomping horses. Great big white Andalusians with their arrogant beauty and chess-piece necks. Once again, he melded into his music and forgot his surroundings. But a heavy shove to the back almost knocked him into the creek.

‘Jiffy!'

A tangle of exposed tree roots saved him from the two-metre slide. Braced on top of them, he placed the guitar behind him then accepted a hand-up.

‘I'm so sorry,' a girl apologised, standing beside a sorrel horse. ‘He's never done that before.'

‘Must be a heavy metal fan,' he said, swiping his seat and back.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yeah. I think so.'

‘How about your guitar?'

He flipped it over. He'd heard the indignant
thummm
too. ‘Just a bit of dirt. Nothing serious.'

‘That's a relief. I feel so bad. I never meant for him to get that close. He's always been curious —'

‘Really, it's not a drama. You gave me a fright, that's all.'

He got his first full look at the girl. He knew her. The teenage filmmaker from the barbecue.

‘It's Michelle, right?'

‘And you're Dean?'

He nodded, then faced his attacker. ‘Not big on my music, eh — Jiffy?' He reached out to pat him. He didn't know why. Maybe to make peace. It was such a big animal; one he'd always been frightened of. The horse sensed his fear, stepped back and lowered its head with another bruff. Gingerly, he stroked the sinewy neck, smiled quickly and moved away. ‘Strange name.'

She half-grinned. ‘We bought him when I was eight. Every time I'd go riding, I'd tell Mum and Dad that I'd be back
on
a jiffy, instead of —'

‘— in a jiffy.'

‘The name stuck, didn't it, old fella?'

‘He's yours?'

She nodded.

‘I thought he must have been Zara's.'

‘No, all the horses are mine. We've got an agistment agreement with the Kaeslers.'

‘Agistment?'

‘It's like renting. We don't own our farm any more, but we need a place for them to stay. Zara feeds them when I can't get over here myself.'

‘You haven't seen her, have you?'

‘Zara? She's inside with our parents. They're having a meeting.'

‘Anything important?'

‘Contracts, sale prices — boring stuff.'

‘Oh.'

They both stood there, wondering what to say. ‘Well, I probably should join them,' she said. ‘I'll give the old boy here a quick feed then go.'

She wheeled the horse round and led him to the stables. He went back to his playing. Still no Zara. But he could wait. Sitting again, he chose a solea. Its loneliness drifted on the afternoon light. But when the song finished, he discovered he still had an eavesdropper. Michelle stood by the troughs, busying herself once she knew she'd been spotted.

‘Made any more films?' he said.

The question sounded forced, he realised, but she
warmed to the interest.

‘Not yet. I've just finished editing the one from the barbecue.'

‘Any good?'

She shrugged. ‘It won't win an Oscar.'

‘You cut out the bit where we were singing, didn't you?'

‘No, that was one of the best bits.'

‘Only if you turn down the volume.'

‘It's not that bad.' She grinned. ‘I'll have to show it to you the next time we have a movie night.'

‘We?'

‘Zara and I. We get together, stuff our faces and watch all the home movies we've made.'

‘Zara as well?'

‘Especially Zara. You can't keep her away from the camera. You should see this ninja one where we've deliberately put a bad dub over it. It just cracks everyone up.'

A film night? That sounded cool.

‘So how do you know Zara?' he said.

‘We go to school together. She's my best friend.'

‘Known her long?'

‘Around here, you know everyone your whole life.'

‘So you both met at, like, kindergarten?'

‘No, we used to race PeeWees.'

‘As in the bird?'

She laughed. ‘No, PeeWees as in the mini-bikes. We used to compete in the under-nines motocross together. The organisers stopped holding mixed races because of us. We kept beating all the boys.'

‘That explains the way she rides.'

‘She loves it. She still enters a few meets around the district. Except she signs under Hayden's name and hides her hair under her helmet.'

‘So how does she go?'

‘A few fourths and a second. They disqualify her every time though.'

‘Because she's a girl?'

‘That, and because she lied about her name.'

He snorted. Amazing. Then he went on playing.

After pouring out the feed, she rubbed Jiffy on the flank then approached Dean. He waited until she stood beside him to look up.

‘So do you only play —'

‘Flamenco.'

‘— flamenco — or can you play rock as well?'

‘All the time. If I've heard it, I can play it.'

‘Like what?'

It was an easy question, but a hard one to answer. Everyone had different tastes. It took a few moments, but he picked the perfect song for her: the Beatles'
classic “Michelle”.

The choice was a winner. With a musician's eye — pretending to focus on the frets while secretly watching — he could tell she was completely rapt. He half-smiled. No doubt it was the same satisfaction his old man felt when he played to him.

The last note faded into her clapping.

‘Excuse my lousy French,' he apologised, self-conscious that he was no longer hidden by the music. ‘I don't think Lennon and McCartney wrote
Sunday morning toys beyond the sun
.'

‘Only if you play it backwards.'

‘Do you speak French?'

She squatted. ‘No. The song — it's one of my favourites. When I was younger, Dad used to sing it to me after he tucked me into bed. I haven't heard it for ages. Thank you.' She bit her bottom lip. ‘Do you know anything else?'

‘I'd be a terrible guitarist if I didn't.'

‘Do you mind —?'

‘Name it.'

She did. He played it. Again, she was rapt.

Before long, Jiffy had finished his feed but Michelle had taken a seat among the pepper trees, listening to her requests. Everything she chose, he could play. Her tastes ranged from the modern charts
to alternative to obscure one-hit wonders to classics. Like him, she was eclectic. A true music lover.

She was younger than both Zara and him — fourteen, possibly fifteen. Swirled by short brown hair, she had fudge-coloured eyes, small breasts, taut legs and a dusting of freckles fading across her nose. Over a natural body shape, she wore blue shorts and a white and red T-shirt with
Sesame Street
's Elmo printed in the middle. Encircling her right wrist were dozens of bracelets, leather straps, beads and cowries — all homemade. An anklet rested above her left foot, which was also decorated with shells.

‘Are you with a band?'

‘Nah,' he said. ‘I'm not that talented.'

‘Are you kidding? I've never heard a guitar played like that before.'

‘Is that good or bad?'

‘You know what I mean,' she said.

He glanced down while absently fiddling with the strings. Compliments always embarrassed him.

‘I wish I could play like that.'

‘You're a guitarist?'

‘I tried once. Lost interest. My tutor was too serious, anyway.'

‘You always need a good teacher.'

‘Where did you learn? School?'

‘No, the only thing I learnt there was to hide.'

‘Hide?'

‘Yeah. You weren't welcome if you were different. Every morning, recess and lunch you'd find me practising in the music room. I didn't have many friends.'

‘I don't believe that.'

He shrugged. ‘It's true. The place was full of jocks. Footy made you a man. Music was for poofs.'

‘That's stupid.'

‘That's school for you. Nothing makes sense.'

He put aside the guitar and leant back on both palms. A memory of the vice-captain slamming him against the toilet wall came to mind. Music sheets flushing. Begging him not to break the guitar.

‘Well, you seem to be popular here,' she offered. ‘Hayden's a big fan of yours and Zara talks about you all the time.'

‘Yeah? What does she say?'

‘You know. The usual stuff: where you're from, where you've travelled, the trouble you've both got into —'

‘In other words, she never stops talking,' he joked. ‘Anything else?'

‘Only that you live with a ghost.'

He snorted. ‘Old Clive?'

‘I think it's creepy. Zara keeps telling us that you see cups and plates hovering across the room.'

‘You should see how they get washed up!'

‘What's so funny?'

‘Zara! Hey!' he said with a giant smile. ‘We were just talking about you.'

‘Nothing good, I hope.' Gone was the daggy school uniform; in its place a white crop top and brown shorts. And the butterfly was back.

‘So what was going on here, huh?' she sing-songed, flicking her eyes between them.

They both stood up and moved apart. ‘Dean was playing a few songs on his guitar,' Michelle explained.

‘Any requests?' he asked.

‘Maybe later.' Then, turning to Michelle, she added, ‘Your oldies are looking for you. We're all heading into Nuri in a moment to meet the lawyers.'

‘Okay. Let me do this one last chore —'

‘Sounds serious,' he said.

‘No, not really.' Zara shrugged. ‘Just family business.'

‘What time will you be back?'

‘Don't know yet. Probably late. Mum's dragging me to some art show afterwards.'

Michelle came back and said she was ready. Zara led the way.

‘Well, whatever time you get back, come and see me, okay?' he urged.

‘I'll try.'

When they'd left, he settled back with his guitar. This time, the music was more vibrant. Hopeful.