He stands at the stove
keeping a close eye on the eggs.
The toast pops
and I place two slices on each plate.
Dad heaps eggs beside the toast
and pours us both tall glasses of juice.
‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ he says.
I scoop the runny mixture onto a fork
and take a huge bite, chewing slowly.
‘I stayed out,’ I answer.
Dad raises an eyebrow.
‘You and Manx causing trouble again?’
I think of Manx, taking a swig of beer
and offering the bottle to Rachel.
I don’t want to lie to Dad,
but what can I say?
He adds extra salt and pepper to his eggs.
‘I stayed at a friend’s place,’ I say.
Please don’t ask me.
Please don’t ask me.
Dad looks at me for a long time.
I pretend to be very interested in the eggs,
and my hand reaches for the pepper grinder
before I remember that I don’t like pepper.
‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ he says.
He leans across and refills my glass
before taking another mouthful of eggs.
We eat slowly
occasionally looking at each other and smiling.
I’m grateful for the silence.
Too many of them
In the early afternoon,
I walk down to the lake
to find Manx
casting a line in our usual place.
‘Hey, lover boy!’ says Manx.
I blush.
‘Have you caught any?’ I ask,
to change the subject.
‘Only weed –
the type you can’t smoke,’ Manx answers.
We sit together watching the line
go slack in the breeze.
‘Rachel told me
you talked her out of leaving school,’ Manx says.
‘It didn’t seem fair,’ I reply.
‘There’s too many of them
and not enough of us.’
‘Did you hear the news?’ Manx asks.
He points across the water
to Patrick’s house at Tipping Point.
Two men stand on a scaffold
and blast a window
smeared in graffiti
with high-pressure hoses.
I look sideways at Manx.
‘Someone really doesn’t like Mr Lloyd-Davis.’
I try not to laugh.
‘How much do you reckon they charge?’ Manx asks,
looking at me before adding,
‘Double time on the weekend?’
‘You thinking of asking for a cut?’ I ask.
Manx whistles and slowly winds in the line
before standing and casting once again
far into the lake.
The one that got away
An hour later,
we watch a police car pull up
outside Manx’s house.
Two cops walk to the front door
and knock.
Manx’s dad is at work all weekend.
Suddenly, the fishing line bends
under pressure of a large catch.
‘Perfect timing,’ Manx says,
and stands to reel it in.
The cops hop back in the car
and drive slowly down Lake Road.
Manx gives the fish a little more line
as the car reappears above us.
Manx’s hands tense on the rod.
He reels a little more.
and the line stretches to its limit.
Snap!
The fish is gone.
The cops walk down to the lake.
The eldest one takes off his cap
and asks, ‘Which one of you is Manx?’
Manx smiles and says,
‘The handsome one, officer.’
He hands me the rod.
‘Catch a mullet for me, Jonah.’
I watch as Manx leads the officers
away from the lake
back to the car
where the two men stand
on either side of my friend.
Manx shrugs in answer to their questions
before they open the rear door
and he climbs inside.
The cop car drives away.
I quickly ring Manx’s dad
to tell him the news.
He listens,
his breath heavy on the end of the line.
I offer to mind the service station for him,
but he answers,
‘Let the bastards walk to the servo in Balarang Bay
if they run out of petrol.’
A reward
Manx doesn’t turn up to school
on Monday
that Manx was seen
‘doing the deed’.
Angelo says the police
have a witness,
and looks across to Patrick
sitting quietly against the wall.
‘Manx is toast,’ Angelo says.
‘Bullshit,’ I reply,
and everyone looks at me.
‘Well, you’d know pussy-boy,
you’re always so far up Manx’s—’
He doesn’t finish the sentence
because Mr Drake steps between us
and marches everyone off to class.
All the way there
Angelo grins
as if he’s solved the crime by himself
and is waiting for his reward.
Not even close
After school,
I walk into the real estate office where the assistant
sits behind a desk scattered with papers.
I ask to see Mr Lloyd-Davis.
She tells me he’s in a meeting
and she isn’t happy when I sit on the plush lounge.
‘I’ll wait for as long as it takes,’ I say.
She rings him and, within a minute,
he comes storming out.
Although my legs are shaking,
I walk into his office
and wait for him to follow.
I close the door as he sits behind his desk.
My throat is dry
and I realise I’m clenching my fists –
as if that’ll be any help.
‘Your friend is gone this time,’ he says.
I pull the money out of my pocket
and place it in a neat stack on his desk.
I went to the bank and withdrew ten dollar bills
to make it look like more than it is.
I don’t tell him it’s only
two hundred and forty dollars:
all of my savings.
He looks at it and laughs.
‘Not even close,’ he says.
‘I … I can get more,’ I stutter.
‘That kid should be locked away,’ he says.
In the corner of the room
is a table lined with bottles of scotch and gin.
A few bottles have black labels
and some are in their own fancy carton;
enough alcohol to pay for months
of window cleaning.
I’m wasting my time.
I pick up my money.
Mr Lloyd-Davis smirks.
‘You’re a lot like your son,’ I say.
I leave the door open
on my way out.
Restitution
The next morning,
I hop on my bike
and ride past Manx’s house
on the way to school.
He sees me and runs around the back
to get his own bike.
We set off at a slow pace
to Tipping Point.
‘You know the way through the swamp,
even in the dark,’ I say.
It’s my idea of a joke,
but Manx doesn’t respond.
We pedal past the newly scrubbed windows
of Patrick’s house
and take the dirt track through
the national park.
On the crest of a hill,
Manx pulls up and stares out to sea.
‘The cops have given me a week,’ he says.
‘Either I own up to the damage,
they charge me,
recommend a fine
and something called restitution,
or it goes to court and I take my chances.’
A fishing boat fights the swell,
so small and insignificant in the vast blue.
‘I’ve got some money, Manx,’ I say.
He fiddles with the grip on his handlebars.
‘Dad and me could pay for the damage,’ he says.
‘But we’ve decided to take our chances
rather than give them anything.’
I wonder if they’d put Manx in jail.
Surely not for graffiti.
‘It’s only money, Manx,’ I say.
He spits between his teeth.
‘No, Jonah.
That’s how they think.’
He hops back on his bike
and plunges downhill.
No matter how hard I pedal
I can’t catch him
until we enter the school gates.
We park our bikes in the racks
and don’t bother locking them.
Secrets
In the afternoon,
I ride my bike
to visit Mum at her sister’s.
She’s sitting on the front verandah
still in her SeaPak uniform.
Parked in the driveway is the Magna.
I drop my bike on the footpath,
leap the fence
and hug her for a long time.
She leads me to sit on the step.
‘The car’s fixed.
I’ve packed it and I’m waiting for Trish
to thank her and say goodbye.’
She smiles.
‘I bought a lamb roast for tonight,’ she says.
She holds my hand;
on her fingernails,
a few faint red scratches of polish remain.
‘I heard about Manx,’ she says.
She clears her throat.
‘When your father and I were young,
he got into trouble
with a bloke from the city
who loaned him money for his first truck.’
Mum sighs.
‘It wasn’t very pleasant,
but I remember something
your grandpa said.’
She looks at me and attempts a smile.
‘Everyone has a secret
they don’t want the world to know.’
I think about Patrick and his dad.
Mum interrupts my thoughts.
‘Rich people have more secrets than most.’
Blush
The following day,
Ella and I sit together at recess
under the paperbark tree
overlooking the oval.
We’re shielded by heavy branches
from a fine mist of rain.
The oval is bare
save for two boys from year seven
picking up rubbish:
Ms Wilson’s idea of creative detention.
‘Patrick saw him,’ Ella says.
‘He was walking home late.’
I look at the boys on the oval,
each of them taking turns
to pick up scraps of paper.
I can almost hear them sigh.
‘Patrick was too gutless
to step into the light,’ she adds.
Ella holds my hand.
‘No matter what,’ I say,
‘the rich always win.’
I feel her hand tense in mine.
‘It’s Patrick’s word against his,’ I add.
Ella shakes her head.
‘Wasn’t Rachel with Manx?’ she asks.
I remember them sharing a beer on Friday night.
‘Did they leave the party together?’ I ask.
Ella smiles.
‘I don’t know, Jonah.
I was a little busy …’
I blush with the memory.
Crime of the century
I walk to the library
where Rachel is sitting outside.
‘I’ve solved the crime of the century,’ I say.
Rachel pats me on the back.
‘Well done.
Let’s hope the cops aren’t as smart as you,’ she says.
I lean forward and whisper,
‘The thing I don’t understand
is why Patrick told the cops
it was Manx,’ I say,
‘and only Manx.’
Rachel bites her lip.
‘Because Patrick’s smart enough to know
Manx would never involve,’
she sighs, ‘the other person.’
I can’t help but smile.
‘The other person could tell the cops
she was with Manx,
miles away from the scene of the crime,’ I say.
Rachel shakes her head.
‘I suggested that
but Manx wouldn’t agree.’
She looks across the schoolyard and says,
‘It’s not just about Patrick.
It’s his dad, too.’
The bell rings.
Rachel stands.
‘Manx told me to trust him.’
She tries to smile.
‘And I do.’
The sun comes out
All day at school
the boys crowd around Patrick,
like seagulls arguing over an oily chip.
At one point,
Angelo puts his arm around Patrick’s shoulder
as though they’re back in kindergarten.
He leads Patrick away from the canteen,
down to the back fence,
near the janitor’s shed.
I watch from a distance.
Angelo keeps looking around
as if checking for teachers.
They disappear behind the shed
and, a few minutes later,
a faint wisp of smoke
marks the spot.
I can’t see them
but I bet they’re talking
about Friday night
and what Patrick saw
while he hid in the dark.
A few minutes later they return.
On the stairs,
Angelo bustles past me
his eyes bloodshot,
his voice slurred.
He calls me ‘Loser’
before following Patrick to English.
I look down at Patrick’s shoes –
black and shiny
expensive leather –
while the rest of us wear canvas.
I turn away from the classrooms
and walk deliberately
down to the janitor’s shed.
The bell sounds
for the start of class
as the sun finally comes out.
Sweet and simple
Behind the shed
are scuff marks in the dirt,
except for one small section
near the fence,
which is smoothed over.
Too easy.
I dig down and
find a metal case with a green lid
and inside a stash of pot and papers.
Suddenly, a crow calls from the gum tree.
I look up quickly,
but there’s no-one around.
I jump over the fence
and make my way down to the bay
past the old man
wheeling a shopping trolley,
&n
bsp; the shop assistants
drinking coffee under the cafe umbrellas
and a young mother holding the hand of her child
who sees a dog and points,
squealing with laughter.
All the while,
I keep my hand in my pocket
touching the case,
its smooth metal surface cool.
I cross at the lights
and walk along the foreshore,
until there’s only sand, pelicans and me.
A lone sailing boat rocks on the tide,
the halyard banging against the mast
as a seagull lands on the boom.
I take off my shoes and socks,
roll up my pants
and walk into the shallows.
The water laps against my knees
as I take the case out of my pocket
and hold it flat in my palm.
I so much want to throw it
as far as my anger travels
to make Patrick pay.
But then a thought arrives
so sweet and simple,
I can’t help but smile.
The gull wheels in flight
and hovers overhead
expecting food.
My plan
In the afternoon,
I take my bike from the shed
and pedal faster than usual
through the swamp track
and around to Tipping Point.
The sun reddens the cliffs
as a southerly arrives on cue.
At Tipping Point,
I cruise down Patrick’s street
and pray that the BMW
isn’t parked in the carport.
I’m in luck.
I rest the bike
against the newly painted picket fence
and tentatively walk up the front stairs
whispering to myself,
‘Please don’t be home,
please don’t be home,
please don’t be home.’
My knock is loud and assertive,
the opposite of how I feel.
The sound echoes down the street.
Next door a dog barks.
I knock again
and the dog threatens to wake the dead.
I walk downstairs,
open the double gate to their driveway
and wheel my bike down the concrete path
just enough so I can still see the length of the street.
I wait, my fingers drumming on the bike seat.
The dog next door
gets bored with my presence.
I wait ten minutes.
I wait twenty minutes.
I wait thirty minutes.
I look at my watch
as often as I look down the street,
until I hear the BMW turn the corner.
I take a deep breath
and ride
nonchalantly out of the driveway.
Patrick and his mum
look surprised