Between Enemy Lines
Chapter One
Robert crested the rise, hurled himself onto the grass beneath the monument and lay gasping up at the encircling palms. After a minute he stood, stretched, dragged off his T-shirt and scrambled up onto the narrow base of the sandstone column.
To the left, trunks of old eucalypts cut jagged lines across house and
tree-sprinkled hills. Ahead,
People were out there somewhere, tens of thousands of them, but none were aware of his existence. No one knew anything about him. The thought triggered a subtle, almost guilty flush of pleasure.
Arranged over a towel on the grass, a woman tried to read while her child ran amok. The young man sprinting up the hill had not escaped her attention and she watched him sidle into view. Longish black hair, determined jaw, large hooked nose and lips that suggested a smile. Sunlight accented the sweaty muscles of chest and abdomen. Runner's legs burst from pale-green shorts. Quick fingers unbuttoned her blouse and eased up the skirt. As if on cue her kid scurried up clutching a leaf. ‘Mummy, look what I've found!’
Adonis glanced down.
She grabbed her chance, threw a friendly wave and sagged back on to her elbows – an enormous trout-fly cast upon the stream. Her reward was a tersely nodded frown.
The fat bitch is flashing her tits... Jeeze! What a turn off! Robert shuffled back round the column, jumped down, spread himself onto his shirt and let the warm winter sun set his mind adrift.
‘You’re crazy to change schools!’ he’d been told by almost everyone. ‘It’s too big a risk to take in your final year. Think of your O P Score. You’re mad!’ Mad, he wasn't. There were so many no-hopers at his old school that his marks would almost certainly have been downgraded, whereas the new school had several Very High Achievers, so final scores were unlikely to be adjusted. He had shrugged, shaken his head and sighed, ‘I have to do what my old man says.’ This would have intrigued his father who had also advised remaining at the old school. Fortunately for Robert, both his parents believed that humans learn best when free to make mistakes, so their son approached life with careful impatience, see-sawing between joyful hope and frustrated despair.
Memories of what he had escaped provoked a satisfied smile. For a start, there had been no spot as peaceful and beautiful as this near their last house. At school he had suffered over-crowded classes and the all-mates-together crap of the rugby team. Captain, because no one else would take on the thankless task, he had bullied and nagged them to third in the secondary schools’ competition, but remained incredulous he had ever become entangled in such a world. He loved the sport, but team-spirit conformity made him nervous. Never again would he be a slave to others’ expectations.
He tried to figure out why he felt so relieved - as though he had escaped something evil. Like when he was a kid running back to the house from the gate at night, fear clawing at the base of his spine. If he could just get back inside and slam the kitchen door before "it" grabbed him, he’d be safe. He had always managed, but it was by no means a certainty. Even his present relief was tempered by a flickering premonition, a menace fluttering at the edge of consciousness.
There was nothing he could put his finger on and say; that’s what I’m running away from, and no single problem had been either over burdensome or even insoluble. If pushed to explain his sense of suffocation he would have been lost for words. What he felt there were no words for. How do you define anxiety? How do you explain the fear that your very existence depends on an impossible-to-learn trick? Trapped between dread of disapproval and an inability to willingly conform, he had been developing into a person he neither liked nor admired.
Jocelyn had been a major source of confusion. Tears and protestations of eternal fidelity accompanied by the solemn offering of her virginity as some sort of sacrifice on the altar of love, had simply been embarrassing. Experiencing no comparable emotion, he doubted her sincerity. Friendship was all he’d ever wanted - she was easy and intelligent to talk with.
A hot blush welled at the memory. Her bedroom, curtains drawn, fumbling with buttons and zips, undressing, and an odd smell. Her excitement - his choking urge to escape only prevented by a reluctance to hurt. Her confusion and anxiety - his excuses… Ignominy! She begged for his new address - he falsely promised to send it. A miserable mess, like the sufferings of the poor bastard in a Sci-fi novel he was reading. The bloke’s mind had accidentally been transferred to someone else's body. There was no way he wanted to end up like that, choking on alien feelings, thoughts and desires. Unlike the book's victim, Robert reckoned that with the change of schools he had a chance to retake control of his life. The reset button had been pressed and there bloody well wasn’t going to be a replay. This time he would be the real Robert - whoever that might be!
Something poked at his thigh. He opened his eyes. The noisy kid peered down, eyes squinting under a frown of curiosity.
‘Are you dead?’ the child inquired as though death were a mild cold.
‘No, my skin’s making vitamin D.’
This was considered for a moment. ‘Is it good for you?’
‘In small doses. Keeps you healthy.’
‘I’ll do it too,’ the young intruder declared with the solemnity of a banker deciding to invest a million dollars, before sprawling beside Robert, casually resting his head on the young man’s outstretched arm.
A fiercely swung shoulder-bag torpedoed Robert from his daydreams. Instantly defensive he leaped to his feet, urged on by a demon howl.
‘Filthy child-molester! Paedophile!’ The woman yelled, grabbing at her son.
At first Robert thought the silly cow had lost her marbles, then realisation dawned. ‘Hang on, I'm not a...’
‘Pervert!’ she spat. ‘And in broad daylight! In a public park!’ Fury became hysteria. ‘How dare you? How dare you?’ Clutching the child roughly by his upper arm, she stumbled back to her towel and thrust her belongings at the holdall. In a desperate effort to explain, Robert grabbed his shirt and followed her. ‘I wasn't doing anything like that… you're making a mistake… your kid...’
‘People like you should be locked away for life!’ Her revulsion was a physical force repelling him. Grabbing shoes and bag in one hand and dragging the frantic child with the other, she faced Robert squarely, lip curled in loathing. Spittle spattered lips, sour breath and bare breasts, paradoxically rendered her more impressive than ridiculous. The child's eyes were wide with confusion and fear. His mother had saved him from something evil! He had been in great danger! The fury and hatred of the mother permeated the son and he let loose with a scream of terror.
‘The police will hear about this!’ the mother shrieked. ‘You'll regret having come here you queer, black bastard!’ Turning on her heel she stalked away, head high, hips swinging with the timeless grandeur of protective mothers everywhere.
Only just able to control an urge to vomit, joy and warmth gone, love of life replaced by an icy dread gnawing at his guts, Robert fled.
Monique perched at the breakfast-bar, savouring the joy of a dream realised.
Winter sunlight flooding through French-windows open to patio and garden, imbued
even the old furniture with mellow life. A slow smile pulled at the corners of
her mouth. ‘Contentment.’ She whispered the word softly, relishing both sound
and idea. The wait had given life meaning. For nineteen years, since her
marriage to Sanjay and immigration to
Compared to most of her acquaintances she had a happy life. Two trips back
to
Robert. The mere thought of him set her aglow. She was glad they had only one child. Over-population, global warming and all the other portents of imminent doom sometimes gave both parents twinges of guilt at having bred at all. Were they to marry now she would not consider bearing a child. She smiled, well aware that most of her acquaintances laughed at such premonitions of disaster. The slamming front door was her signal to pour the coffee. She wished he wouldn’t do that, one day the glass would break.
Having imagined accusing stares and scowls of condemnation on the faces of everyone he passed, Robert greeted his mother with unaccustomed warmth. As she wiped again the already spotless sink-top and equally clean work area, he debated whether to off load his recent experience. He was still deciding when she stood behind him.
A stranger would have no difficulty divining the relationship; their noses had been cut from the same pattern - large and slightly hooked - accentuating Robert's masculinity and saving her from prettiness as a girl. Monique was now what is usually described as handsome. Her voice had the deep, sexy quality of many of her countrywomen, a characteristic sadly lacking in the locals according to her husband, and her mouth had the same friendly turn-up at the corners as her son; suggesting a smile even when none was intended. Monique, however, was slight and small-boned, Robert was solidly put together and honey-dark like his father. The mother ruffled her son’s hair affectionately and pulled his head back against her breast. ‘I am detecting a certain anxiety, mon petit?’
Robert shook himself free. Why she couldn’t stop treating him like a five-year-old was beyond him. As usual he hadn't managed to conceal his feelings. That would have to change too. He was sick of being an open book. The urge to smash everything on to the floor and stomp off to his bedroom was strong. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he’d promised himself he’d never do it in this new house. He’d imagined he’d be leaving behind all the bits of his character he disliked, so it had been an unpleasant shock to realise he carried his old self along with him wherever he went. He ground his teeth, counted to ten and admitted to himself that he would like to recount the horror of the morning to a sympathetic ear.
The reaction was gratifying. Monique listened attentively, nodding and shaking her head at all the appropriate spots in support and agreement. ‘Mais, c‘est affreux,’ she whispered at the completion of his tale of misunderstanding and abuse. ‘The woman must be mad to think such a thing about an honest and clean-living young man. No one in their right mind could think you were anything but good. And even if they did,’ she continued with motherly inconsistency, ‘not to give you a chance to explain; that is unforgivable!’ By now passionately launched, Monique galloped on. ‘It is the fault of those scare-mongering television and newspaper journalists, bringing their whipped up emotionalism into the houses of everyone; exaggerating, embroidering, prophesying doom - just to sell more copies. Never satisfied until they have ruined someone's life. They make people think there is a pervert around every corner and child molestation is endemic in the entire male population!’ She stopped abruptly, suddenly self-conscious, then refilled her son’s cup and offered more of the sticky chocolate cake - her specialty, his partiality.
Robert hadn’t thought it necessary to recount the sick feeling in his belly, the almost irresistible urge to vomit, or the unpleasant tingling at the base of his spine. Nor had he mentioned the naked breasts and his reaction to them. For the moment these things were secret. Never before had he felt so exposed, so vulnerable. He had of course done wrong in the past - many times. He’d been caught out, even wrongly accused of things, but there had always been an opportunity to explain. Never before had he faced hysterical, irrational fear mixed with loathing.
Despite his mother’s support he continued to feel sick, impotent and unsettled. If someone could behave like that without evidence, without thinking things through, without getting the facts straight - as though she was working, not with her brain but by reflex - then perhaps there were others who were the same! What if there had been a policeman nearby? He could have reacted in the same way! Maybe she had already called the cops and given them his description! He'd never dare go up the hill again. He tried to convince himself he was being ridiculous, but gnawing apprehension remained.
The time he’d been caught in the rip off Caloundra had been the greatest fear he'd ever known. But a chat with a lifeguard that morning had planted the solution in his brain. ‘Don't fight the rip! If you fight it, you’ll drown. Let yourself go, even a long way out if that’s where the water’s going, then swim along parallel to the beach until the waves are breaking closer to shore, that's where there's no under-tow. Remember, the sea always tosses rubbish up on to the beach eventually.’ The bloke had even drawn a diagram in the sand showing how under-currents were created. It was logical and comprehensible. Rational! The woman's behaviour wasn't, and Robert found he couldn’t cope. Far earlier than was good for him, he had discovered the only thing humans have real cause to fear - other humans.
Monique empathised with her son's distress. She too had experienced irrational fear and loathing from strangers. During the first years of marriage she had suffered from her mother-in-law’s jealousy, and from those who considered her strongly accented speech and foreign ways to be fair game for their frustrations. Speech lessons and a determined effort to conceal her differences finally made life enjoyable, but that only lasted until the Mururoa bomb-tests. Even now, though all that unpleasantness was in the past, there remained an ever present, nagging fear that such irrational and violent prejudice could erupt again at any time.
Sometimes she longed for the relaxation of being with her compatriots, even
for a few hours. But of course they would have changed and she would feel as
foreign in
His father’s response to the tale of woe during lunch, was not quite as sympathetic. No grunts of empathy, no understanding nods and shakes of the head, merely a slight furrowing of brow accompanied by a slowly dawning smile of incredulity - not at the actions of the woman, but at the reaction of his son. Sanjay finished his mouthful, placed his knife and fork on the plate, wiped his mouth carefully with a serviette and regarded his son with a perplexed frown. ‘I have obviously missed something,’ he said calmly, ‘because I can't understand your problem. As I see it, you were foolish and a woman told you off. Hysterically, irrationally perhaps, loudly and publicly even, but surely that’s the end of the matter? You have often enough been given a piece of someone’s mind, I can recall ripping shit out of you myself on the odd occasion. What's really bothering you?’
‘But, Dad! Can’t you see? I did nothing wrong, but she wouldn't listen! I tried to tell her I wasn't any of the things she said I was, that it was all a misunderstanding, but she went on like crazy, shouting, dragging the kid like a puppet. Demented!’
‘I wonder,’ said Sanjay quietly, ‘what conclusions you would jump to if you arrived home to find your mother and a strange man lying on the back lawn in the sun, her head resting on his arm.’
Robert’s jaw gaped foolishly. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Jeeze I feel stupid. I didn't think of that.’
Monique looked from husband to son, aware of the inaccuracy of the analogy. Robert had not gone to the boy's home; the boy had gone to Robert. Still, it served to lift his air of martyrdom. He could usually be relied on to see other points of view. It wasn't always a virtue of course and could lead to indecision, but better than dogmatic assertiveness. No doubt he would soon see the flaw in the argument, but for now she was content to follow her husband.
Sanjay Karim was a self-proclaimed freethinker. He wanted his son to know about, and be able to use, all the tools available to survive alone against the world - should that ever be necessary. Disturbed by increasingly frequent calls for homogeneity, censorship and persecution of minorities, he found it disturbingly easy to envisage an Australian future where survival was no longer considered a right, but a privilege.
‘I wish I had a dollar for every time I hadn't thought clearly and felt stupid afterwards, I'd be a hell of a lot richer than I am now,’ he laughed, taking the sting out of Robert's embarrassment. ‘What intrigues me, though, is why you let the boy lie beside you in the first place? It's hardly typical of young men your age. What do you think someone from your football team would have done if a child had pushed their toe into them and asked if they were dead?’
‘They'd have given the kid a shove and said, "Piss off, fuckwit", and then if the mother had looked anything better than a slag they'd have gone over to try and chat her up.’ He looked forlorn. ‘I'm not much good at being like everyone else.’
‘Thank goodness for that!’ soothed Monique. ‘We love you exactly as you are. I'd hate it if you were like those monstrosities on your football team. I could hardly bear to go and watch your games. And as for their parents!’ She permitted herself a melodramatic shudder, then smiled at her husband. ‘I can't tell you how relieved and happy I am to be out of that dreadful place. So far, today's events excepted, this area and this house are my idea of perfection.’
Sanjay grinned, blew her a kiss, and returned to the matter in hand. ‘Like your mother, the last thing I want is for you to feel obliged to be the same as other people. I sometimes suspect, though, that if they felt free of censure, most of the conformists we enjoy rubbishing would be just as different from each other as we are from them. A genetic compulsion to fit in with the pack forces them to sacrifice individuality for acceptance. I imagine this is reinforced at home. You, poor boy, have a pair of misfits for parents.’ His smile was smug. ‘Because of our backgrounds and way of looking at things, we want you to be what you want. But, and it’s a very big but, you have to use camouflage if you expect to survive unscathed.’
‘I've been doing that, Dad, but I didn't like what it got me into. I ended up being what everyone else thought I should be. I'm bloody glad I’m not going back to the old school. I want to start afresh.’ He blushed and looked away.
‘Don't feel embarrassed about wanting to change yourself. Most people would like to. Few have the opportunity, and even fewer are able to. There's a play by J.M.Barrie, Dear Brutus, in which the characters get a second chance at their lives. Of course they all stuff it up and make the same mistakes again. It's both funny and sad. But that's life, I suppose; funny and sad.’
They sat, wrapped in a comfortable silence.
‘I understand what you are saying,’ Robert said finally, ‘but it's hard to strike the balance.’
‘The secret is to figure out what you value, and on those things never compromise. In all other respects be as much like other people as you’re able. Everyone can accept some differences in others, in fact most people like a bit of eccentricity. It's when these differences dominate; when they are shoved at them like accusations that they become frightened and abusive. You may be sick of playing team sports, but keep it to yourself. The worst thing you could do is rave about how they destroy individuality. If you practice selective disguise and a live and let live attitude, you'll probably make more friends than if you become a clone of the mob.’ The telephone interrupted this deeply felt but potentially endless monologue. Sanjay answered.
‘Hello?... Who?... Yes, I'm sure he will. No... Yes, six-thirty exactly. Fine, Jeff. Cheers.’ Unlike his face to face conversations, Sanjay’s telephone manner was telegraphic. ‘That was Jeff, reminding us to be there at six-thirty, and asking a favour from you, Robert. He has a nephew staying overnight and doesn't want him to feel left out, so hoped you'd entertain him for the evening.’
Robert's first impulse was to refuse. The last thing he wanted was to have to be polite. He felt he deserved a long and miserable brood on the injustices of the world.
‘Their food's always good. Celebrate the last day of the holidays?’
Robert caught the challenge. ‘No worries, Dad, but I'll bet he's a drip.’
‘Excellent!’ Sanjay checked his watch. ‘I’m going to check some papers then spend the afternoon in the garden. Be certain you are both out of the bathroom and my way by six o'clock. And, Robert, make sure you have everything you could possibly need for school tomorrow: first impressions are the lasting ones.’
Robert went to his room and Monique tidied away before setting out what seemed to be the entire contents of her wardrobe to prepare for the evening ahead.
In his study, the unused third bedroom, Sanjay sorted through notes. A part-time University lectureship in Political Studies, apart from providing a respectable job description in his passport and a bit of extra cash, also guaranteed a captive audience. He loved it when students laughed at his jokes, argued a point, became angry at his demolition of theories, or themselves proffered alternatives to popular thought. Most ended up apprehensive at the inefficiency and self-serving inadequacy of politicians; their own country’s multitude of governments squabbling over fewer than twenty million people’s money; and all the other examples of irrational waste. ‘Politics is the physical expression of a philosophy!’ he would intone. ‘Bad philosophy - bad politics!’ His demand that they think about the underlying values demonstrated by political decisions, led even those with the least aptitude to understand that every action, no matter how slight, can be considered political. They soon realised that democracy and informed, rational debate are incompatible with majority government and the confrontation of party politics. All were left wondering why consensus is a dirty word.
Sanjay sat back and contemplated his reflection.
Why his parents had married remained a mystery to him. He imagined two self-willed young people at odds with their families, cultures and religions, emigrating, and then marrying to spite their parents. As a family they had been isolated. The few visitors to their dull suburban house soon felt ill at ease, and seldom returned. A ban on all things Indian or Scottish, the single-minded pursuit of the Australian dream, and relentless urging to "do well", were his dominant childhood memories.
After his father’s early death, maternal visits to her only child became less tolerable as Monique’s self assurance grew. They now paid fares and all expenses for a visit once a year, as long as his mother only stayed a week. That way everyone kept their sanity. She had only just gone home, so they were free for another year.
Chapter Two
Monique, sheathed in midnight-blue, the only adornment a dozen fine gold chains at her throat, was glad Robert wasn’t to be left alone. His mood-swings had become a worry. Both parents hoped it was simply adolescence; something he would grow out of.
After rejecting everything in his wardrobe as frivolous, Robert’s black mood prompted black trousers, white shirt, black leather bomber jacket and black shoes. He looked strikingly handsome, although one would have had a hard time convincing him of it. Twelve years of schooling had not only taught him that he and his family were not quite normal, but had forged a core of insecurity. He inhabited a world subtly outside the one that restrained his peers, and knew with the certainty of youth that because of his ethnicity, most people would not consider him good looking. This fortunate misapprehension had fostered an air of engaging modesty. With the precocious maturity of a well-loved only child, he considered honesty, reliability, affection and rationality to be the most valuable attributes in a person. All his life, it seemed, he had been seeking a friend like that.
Sanjay, dapper in blue-grey suit, white shirt, conservative tie and black shoes, beamed at his two charges with love and pride. They drove first to the top of Mount Coot-tha to admire the city lights. Excessive punctiliousness, in Sanjay’s opinion, was the hallmark of small minds. Hosts are happiest if they have something for which to forgive their guests, so it would be inconsiderate to arrive less than ten minutes late. The detour was rewarding. City towers floating against a darkly purple sky.
By the time they pulled up at the Skeldrakes’, the other guests had arrived. Clients were occasionally invited to dinner to encourage the finalising of a deal. Jeff Skeldrake, Sanjay’s partner, had returned from India a few weeks previously and half a container-load of silk and ornaments was due to arrive within the next few days. Tonight, samples would be viewed, prices agreed and supply and other details ironed out.
‘Sanjay, Monique, Robert, welcome!’ Jeff, sporting a tan and an enviable head of wavy silver hair, was probably in his sixties. Despite expensive tailoring and built-up shoes, he remained a short and rather bulky figure. An expansive gesture towards the drinks-table enabled a large stone set in gold filigree on his left middle finger, to flash resplendently. As they fiddled with bottles and glasses the Karims were joined by Susie, loyal to the importing business in silk trousers and tunic. The shimmering green garment did a much better job of concealing her luxuriant figure, strikingly similar to her husband's, than did his suit. Jeff took Sanjay and Monique’s elbows and introduced them to the guests while Susie introduced Robert to her nephew.
Tony was fifteen, tall for his age, overweight and sallow. Slightly protuberant eyes stared accusingly at his guest. ‘I don't know why you were invited, they think I'm an imbecile and wouldn’t be able to cope with adults.’
‘I understand. Dad twisted my arm. I can go home if you like?’ Robert's tone was mild.
‘Oh, sorry, no. No, I didn't mean to sound like that. Of course I'm glad you're here, it's just that Jeff makes me feel so bloody inadequate and Susie's no better.’
That's because you are inadequate, thought Robert morosely.
The house was a duplex on the site of one of the large mansions that used to dot the western hills. The decor was designer-tasteful. Delicate prints, paintings on silk and a few expensively framed water-colours decorated the walls, while brass table-lamps bestowed a flattering glow on humans and carved wooden sculptures alike. Expensive Indian rugs littered polished floors, and the furniture was unobtrusively comfortable. The only discordant notes were the curtains. It was difficult to conceive of an environment in which the boldly mauve, pink and orange fabrics would be at ease.
Everyone was ushered into the dining room where the mock antique dining table was set for ten, with white cloth, heavy silver cutlery, candles and flowers. The guests helped themselves from dishes on the sideboard.
‘Susie, this is perfect! Surely you haven't done it all by yourself?’
Susie laughed. ‘I did have a little help from the caterers, Monique. But I set the table.’
Conversation centred on the weather and the economy. It wasn't necessary to think. Sanjay relaxed, leaving Monique to entertain. He still broke out in nervous sweats occasionally at the miraculous chance that had allowed their paths to cross. Every day he thanked fate for providing him with such a perfect mate.
After his parents had nagged him into a degree in Political Science and
Modern Languages he had seemed set for a career in Foreign Affairs. However, he
soon came to the conclusion that not only does democracy degenerate to
demagoguery as soon as the first politician opens his mouth, but the old joke -
How can you tell when a politician is lying? His mouth is open - is
disturbingly true. He took leave, and fled to
All the usual adventures of such a trip befell them, but it wasn’t until they were about to separate that he realised he didn’t want to. The feeling was mutual, so they did the sensible thing and married at the Consulate. After the ceremony he realised he had followed almost exactly in his father’s footsteps; two disaffected people in a foreign land, marrying.
The shock made him determined not to imitate anything else about his
parents’ lives. His marriage would be a love match until death. They had
stayed with his grandmother in
Drifting back to the present, he helped himself to yoghurt, marvelling at the heaps of sugar and cream Jeff and Susie managed to devour. His mental flight had passed unnoticed. Sanjay, Jeff and the clients retired with coffees, liqueurs, briefcases and samples to the lounge, the two young men went upstairs, and Susie and Monique attended to the clearing away.
Tony’s sole interest, apparently, was "The Web". His personal PC, he announced, was connected to the Internet, giving him access to the world. Robert was fairly certain the world consisted of more than electrons bouncing off television screens, but kept his opinion to himself.
‘Do you want to look at magazines?’ Tony offered with a leer. Magazines had to be better than Tony’s conversation. Robert had giggled over photographs of naked women with his mates as a more youthful youth, but since Jocelyn, interest had evaporated. He recalled and suffered again his embarrassment and inadequacy, remembered the woman in the park and began to sweat.
As Tony leafed through the pages he kept pointing out the girls he fancied while regaling Robert with graphic descriptions of what he’d be doing if they were in the room. How Tony could imagine they would ever want him, was beyond Robert's comprehension, so he kept his mouth shut.
‘Fuck, look at this one, Christ, she makes me horny!’
To Robert’s flagging gaze she appeared identical to the preceding airbrushed, silicone-implanted clones, but he mumbled something vaguely appropriate.
‘I'm going to jerk off. You too?’
‘They're only photographs. Does nothing for me.’
Tony was already pulling at his penis. ‘It's OK for you,’ he grunted ‘You're older than me. I'll bet you've had the real thing.’
Robert nodded in despair.
‘Well, I haven't. Dad says I’m too young and I'm hardly going to get some bitch as good looking as this.’ Veins had begun to swell in his neck and forehead when the jerking suddenly stopped and Tony demanded sharply, ‘I hope you're not a fucking queer!’
Robert contented himself with a mimed threat to smack the repellent idiot in the face.
‘No. If you were, seeing me with my dick out you'd be up my arse like a dog. Faggots will root anything, my Dad says. Especially young guys.’ Reassured, he panted on.
Robert wasn't offended; he'd joined in group wanks in dressing rooms. At his last school, some of the year eleven idiots had jerked themselves off in the back row of the chemistry lab to impress their girlfriends. He slipped out, and went downstairs.
Closed lounge doors indicated negotiations were still in train, so he went to the kitchen. Monique was nursing a cup of mint tea, Susie sipped at a balloon of brandy, and the dishwasher spluttered dying gurgles.
‘Tony has exhausted his conversational repertoire I gather,’ Susie sighed. ‘This has been a long four days. Pull up a seat.’
Robert filled a glass with water, having found the meal a little too spicy, dragged up a chair and scowled into the glass.
Susie drew a quick breath. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly.’
Susie was seldom solicitous about anyone except herself. Curious? Certainly. Nosy? Yes indeed. Cautiously Robert observed his mother’s best friend. Her obesity was accentuated in the hard light. Small eyes glittered in their pouches, one could hardly call them sockets, and her chins developed vertical lines when she turned her head. He couldn't understand anyone allowing themselves to get so fat. It didn't bear thinking about the sweat, washing under and between all the folds, the effort of carrying the extra kilos. He tried to imagine lugging fifty tubs of margarine about wherever he went.
Susie was staring at him, smile carnivorous, voice caring. ‘I have just had the most extraordinary sensation. As you turned, colours streamed from your head - purples, oranges and dark blues. Has something bad happened?’
Robert shot his mother an irritated glance. She shook her head .
‘Well, something important has crossed, or is going to cross you! - Shall I lay the cards?’ Susie missed no opportunity to remind everyone of her vaguely Central European heritage and mysterious quantities of Gypsy Blood.
‘If you want,’ muttered Robert ungraciously. The silly fat cow was obviously off her rocker. He might as well humour her, but she'd better not start getting personal. She wasn’t going to top up her gossip files with his secrets.
‘Bring me the black lacquered box from the top left-hand drawer of the sideboard.’ Robert fetched it and placed it beside her. Extracting a silken cloth emblazoned with a five-pointed star, Susie deliberately and calmly placed it in the centre of the table, smoothing out the creases. The cards, she placed with ritualised seriousness around the outside of the cloth, taking care not to touch it. ‘I only use the Major Arcana. An art student painted these for me. Aren’t they sexy?’ she grinned. ‘Nothing like the Medieval ones, thank goodness, they were far too influenced by Christian myths.’ She placed another cloth over everything and, taking Robert’s hands, placed them face down on top, plonking her own clammy little fat ones on top.
‘Obviously,’ she said carefully, ‘it is not possible to foretell the future - that would make a nonsense of free will.. Most of what happens to us is by chance. Twenty years ago, if Sanjay had arrived two days later at the hotel in Rovinj, he would never have met Monique, and you would not have been born. That was a chance encounter.’ She looked at Robert to gauge his reaction, but he was giving nothing away. ‘You’ve as much chance of picking up a card that has something relevant to say about you, as one that doesn’t,’ she explained. ‘What it can indicate is not your future, but steps you can take to balance your life. The Tarot is an ancient guide to enlightenment and harmony.’ She gave a slightly tipsy burp, and winked, erasing the mystical atmosphere. Robert grinned. He couldn’t stay cross with Susie for long.
‘It all sounds so pompous, doesn't it?’ she giggled. ‘Actually I was only looking for an excuse to hold your hands.’ She cackled throatily as he jerked them away.
Monique smiled to herself.
‘Robert,’ said Susie sweetly, gazing into his eyes, ‘don't take life so seriously, you'll never get out of it alive.’ This set off another paroxysm of mirth. ‘Now,’ she continued after several attempts to catch her breath, ‘when I remove the cloth I want you to choose any five cards and place them face up, in any order, one on each point of the star.’
It seemed oddly important which ones he chose.
Susie gave them her full attention. ‘At your head is The Moon. Dogs in moonlight, baying at menacing figures. There is some fear in your mind. Something you don’t understand is troubling you. It’s an unhappy card on its own, so let's see the others. At your left hand is The Hanging Man, perfectly happy to be seeing the world from a new perspective - that’s positive. Perhaps you need to reconsider some of your opinions? Remember, these cards refer only to you. At your right hand is The Devil. Black and white, both sexes in one, Yin and Yang, staring straight at you. Everyone has parts of their character they cannot accept. We must face squarely these devils within, for only by confronting our fears can we conquer them.
‘Now the base, the foundation on which you stand. On the left is The Charioteer. He wears a mask to protect himself from the slings and arrows of the world. There are flames at his head, heart and groin, indicating intellect, passions and desires. He grasps the reins firmly because unless he can force all three aspects of his character to work together in harmony, then his chariot of life will veer from side to side and may over-turn. Your other support is Strength. A slim woman easily controlling a powerful centaur, grasping his hair firmly. It means, make your brain control your body. Brute strength is of no use.’ She paused. ‘So, there you are; fearing something; requiring a new perspective on old problems; having to face the devil within and needing to control yourself.’ She looked up with an almost malicious smile.
‘That's not as silly as I thought it was going to be,’ Robert said thoughtfully. ‘It's sensible at least, even if fairly obvious.’
‘Do you want to know what's likely to happen if you follow the directions?’
‘Can't do any harm.’
‘Don't you believe it.’
Robert selected his second set of cards.
Susie took a deep breath in an attempt to quieten her heart. She had doted on Robert since his birth. A desire to somehow force him inside her own body, to possess him utterly, had precipitated violent urges to squeeze, fondle, lick, kiss and eat the gurgling, happy infant. Having no children herself, she rationalised this fixation as repressed maternal instincts. As Robert grew older, both he and Monique began to resent her intrusive, at times almost abusive, attentions and she had forced herself to stop seeing him, arranging to visit only when Robert was at school or when there was no chance of their being alone.
Eventually, Susie had conquered the urge to possess every atom of this young
creature - until tonight. His unexpected entrance - gold chain at smooth brown
throat, the contours of his chest visible beneath the thin shirt - had caused
flames to spurt, not from Robert’s head, but inside her own, and a quote from
goodness knows where flitted at the edge of thought. The Love-God uses the
shapes and colours of young men, adorning them with all the reflected
splendours of Beauty, so that the sight of them will truly set us on fire with
pain and hope.
Old desires had been re-kindled. It was at least twenty years since she had felt anything like this, but she had not forgotten. The cards had been a ploy to keep Robert in the room as long as possible. She hadn’t been joking when she said she wanted to touch his hand. She wanted to... She shook her head in an effort to dislodge the unwelcome thoughts. In her heart she was still the attractive eighteen-year-old, swept off her feet by Jeff.
Risking another glance at the slim, handsome young man on the other side of the table, she suddenly understood something else, something which lifted the burden and drew forth a sad smile. Even if she could become her eighteen-year-old self again, she could never possess Robert in the way she dreamed. As the realisation became conscious thought, everything became bearable and, with a sigh of regret for the things that never happen, she returned her attention to the cards.
‘You sure know how to pick ’em,’ she mumbled. ‘This time at your head we have Judgement. Someone looking at their own reflection in the mirror. Remember, these cards only refer to you. The judgement of others is irrelevant. You must judge yourself. If you are contented with the way you are managing your life, then you will be in balance. If not...’ She drew an expensively ringed finger across her throat. ‘At your left hand sits Death. Not physical death, but the death of ideas. It supports the hanging man in the previous layout. Note the flowers springing from the split-open back of the skull? They indicate that if you are prepared to kill off desires, thoughts and actions that are wrong for you, then a new life will spring forth. On your right hand is The Sun. Apollo standing in a blaze of light. It’s the best card in the pack and indicates everything will turn up roses - if your base is strong. So let’s look.’
Robert gazed at the two remaining cards. The left one showed a ruined tower split in two by a flash of lightning, with two figures thrown back in shock. The other presented an even more grotesque scene - two naked people in chains, overlooked by a living, weeping barred window set in a blood-red wasteland.
‘The Tower suggests you will experience enlightenment, or revelation, which usually arrives as a blinding flash of understanding. Your other support is the last card in the pack, The World.’ She stopped talking, picked up the card and rubbed it as though trying to erase the image before continuing. ‘Not a pretty scene, not a happy card, but it contains an essential truth. No matter what you do, what balance and harmony you may achieve in your own life, you still have to live in the world of men. There, it is never in peace and harmony. It is always hard, cruel, and indifferent. Accept that, and you will not know despair. Fight it, and you will live in chains.’ Susie looked down thoughtfully at the cards before gathering them together and placing them carefully in their box.
Robert turned to his mother and was surprised to see tears.
‘Oh, Susie, you have said it so cleverly. It is so true. Look at me, all emotional and weepy. How silly.’ Monique blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It's made me think about my life, how wonderful it has all been. It’s so easy to get tied up with petty irritations and forget about what makes life worthwhile. Thanks, Susie.’
‘Yeah… thanks, Susie…. That was spot on you know? I’m really amazed, it’s helped a lot… you know to… sort out ideas and… things.’ Robert grew silent.
Susie smiled gently, demon exorcised. She patted him on the hands. This time he did not withdraw. ‘It has nothing to do with the cards, Robert. It’s what’s inside your head and heart, that counts.’
Jeff poked his head around the door, raised his thumb to indicate a successful conclusion, and whispered, ‘They’re going.’
Good-byes were said, appreciation offered, and soon the Karims too were on
their way home; Sanjay’s head filled with the evening’s business, Monique’s
with her dreams, and Robert’s with thoughts he wished would go away. He had yet
to face the devil within.
Chapter Three
Robert’s new school retained little of past splendours. The two-storied brick edifice with its high, mock-Tudor gables and tiled roof, stood bleakly in a sea of asphalt. Road widening and the encroachment of suburbs had reduced the once graceful front lawns and shady trees to a narrow strip of suffering grevilleas skulking behind a wire-mesh fence. Where three hundred students had once been educated in semi countryside, seven hundred pupils now crammed the relocatable classrooms, thronged corridors, shouted, swore, fought, played, strutted, flirted and studied, amongst graffiti, rubbish bins, discarded soft-drink cans and abandoned food wrappings.
In the high-ceilinged entrance lobby a chipped plaster copy of a fig-leafed discus thrower strained on a plinth before a cheap and much faded reproduction of a cubist still-life. Elaborately framed but poorly executed portraits of past headmasters lined the other wall. The smell was of polish, disinfectant and bodies. Across a wide corridor, double doors led to the quadrangle in which hundreds of students were milling, waiting to start the third term. The noise was the noise of schools everywhere. Through an archway to the right, Robert found the front office. A prettyish young woman greeted him pleasantly. He introduced himself.
‘Mr Pinot, (she pronounced it pie not) looks after new students. He’ll have your details. Go down the stairs at the end of the corridor and his office is directly in front of you.’ She indicated the direction he should take. ‘Oh, by the way, pupils are not allowed in the front entrance, they have to go round the back. The main entrance is only for staff and visitors.’ Switching off the winning smile she retreated to her keyboard.
Following the secretary’s directions through chipped, sour-cream painted corridors, Robert eventually discovered, as promised, a door labelled Guidance. It was ajar. He knocked firmly, having been told by his father that a timid knock denotes an uncertain man.
‘Come in! Welcome to the dungeon. You must be the new chap, no one else would knock.’ The voice was educated, yet somehow lazy.
The low-ceilinged room was carpeted in scuffed beige with half a dozen once-comfortable chairs arranged in a circle around a low table. A few dead flowers left over from the previous term sagged in a dry vase. Four garish paintings disfigured the walls, and a photograph of a rowing team was prominently displayed behind the paper-strewn desk. The voice belonged to an old man. At least to Robert he seemed old, with a face as grey as his sparse hair. Thick-lensed glasses lent his somewhat fishy, chinless head an added watery dimension. He was neatly dressed in worn tweed suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. Brown shoes gleamed. Warren Pinot was sixty-five and due to retire at the end of the year.
Although a relatively broad-minded man of wide interests and culture, his early years in the classroom had been dogged by severe control problems, caused mainly by an essential dullness combined with lack of imagination that rendered him incapable of arousing interest. His promotion to guidance counsellor had solved one problem by creating another. Unworldliness is not particularly useful when dealing with the problems of adolescence.
‘Come over to the desk and we'll get the paper work out of the way. I’m Mr Pinot, and you, I imagine, are...’ he checked the paper in front of him, ‘Robert Karim?’
Robert nodded.
‘Your file has arrived from your last school. They were sorry to lose you. I hope you will do as well here.’ He turned to his computer terminal and, after several false starts and a couple of muttered imprecations, induced the printer to give birth to Robert’s timetable. ‘The entire school is on line now. All relevant details are entered into these things twice a day. Attendance, results, behaviour, assignments. At the touch of a button, well, several buttons, I can have an up-to-the-minute profile of any of the school’s seven hundred and twenty-six students,’ he announced proudly as though he had invented the thing himself.
‘And a brave new world to you,’ muttered Robert.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s an amazing world, Mr Pinot.’
‘Quite so. Quite so.’
The distorted chimes of a glockenspiel burst from a wall-mounted loudspeaker.
‘Oh, good. We have missed Assembly,’ whispered Mr Pinot in the conspiratorial tone of a naughty schoolboy. ‘At the beginning of a new term, assembly always takes the whole first period, so we have forty minutes to clarify any problems - such as why you are not wearing a uniform.’
Robert blinked. ‘Wha...? I mean, I beg your pardon, Sir. I didn’t think I’d have to wear one, the seniors didn’t at the old school.’
‘Well they do here, and even though you will have only two terms with us, we can’t make exceptions, can we?’
Robert decided not to question this assumption. ‘I don’t think my parents will be able to afford it, Sir.’
‘They won’t have to. We keep a supply of second-hand uniforms of all sizes. You pay a small deposit, which is refunded if the uniform is returned in good order. Now, slip off your mufti while I go and find something suitable. It is too small in there for both of us, so wait here.’ At Robert’s look of incomprehension he laughed. ‘Mufti - non-uniform clothing! Take everything off and place it in this plastic bag.’
Robert looked at the open door.
‘Don’t worry, no one will come in, but you can close it if you want.’ He bustled through to his storeroom.
Robert closed and locked the door to the corridor, removed his clothes, and jammed them into the bag, wondering whether the order would have been the same if Mr Pinot had known he wasn’t wearing underclothes. At least there was a decent electric heater. He wandered around, enjoying the titillation of nudity in a strange place. On the desk was a photograph of Mr Pinot and his wife, with a young man and woman in black robes. He picked it up.
‘Those are my two children at their graduation,’ he was informed by the re-emerging guidance counsellor. ‘Goodness, I didn’t realise... I mean.... Ah.... Yes... Golly, ha, ha.... You modern young men are more easygoing about... ah... things than we oldies. Yes indeed.’
Robert turned to face him, hands behind his buttocks. Warren Pinot wasn’t sure what to do. He coughed, looked away, coughed again and, visibly gathering his forces, smiled manfully. A multitude of thoughts raced. He glanced at the door. Thank goodness it was locked. Could this be a set-up? There had been an appalling case recently when a teacher had suicided after an accusation of sexual harassment. His heart thumped and sweat sprang from his brow. A careful look at Robert’s face was reassuring; it appeared empty of guile. Tension evaporated as realisation dawned… the boy wanted to be looked at. As fear drained, the guidance counsellor found himself amused by the situation and, curious as to who would falter first, permitted himself a leisurely inspection.
Robert’s face remained modestly untroubled as the elderly man’s eyes traced a slow path down the neck, across shoulders and chest to linger briefly on dark nipples. After a flickering glance back to the face, he followed a line of hair from the flat navel to where it broadened into a dense triangle, framing manhood. He’ll have to keep up the exercise to avoid an early gut, thought Mr Pinot waspishly, observing Robert’s well-muscled abdomen and thighs. Finding it impossible to extract pleasure from perfection, he had earlier noted the lad’s slightly crossed front teeth and the small mole above his lip, with satisfaction.
‘You are going to break a few hearts, if you haven’t done so already,’ he said mildly, carefully eliminating any suggestion of censure from his voice.
Robert fidgeted slightly and began to sweat.
Sensing victory in the young man’s budding discomfort, Mr Pinot again let his eyes wander.
Robert was beginning to worry. He had judged Mr Pinot correctly, but this was going on too long. It was essential he didn’t get an erection, that would spoil everything. He was seeking approval, not ridicule.
After the previous day’s confidence-undermining event on the hill, he desperately needed reaffirmation of his worth. It was easy to be praised for being a good student or sportsman, but to make someone accept you simply for yourself, unadorned by achievements – that was another thing altogether! This behaviour had been part of his life ever since he could remember. Susceptible adults could easily be charmed into complicity. Many places provided opportunities to play his game. A few weeks previously he’d torn a muscle. If the physiotherapist had been surprised to find her young patient naked in front of her desk, she hid it convincingly. ‘Oh, well done. That makes my work easy. And what a wonderful body,’ had been her only comment.
Robert was aware of what he was doing and, knowing it could be dangerous, had thought long and hard about his reasons. Just about everyone was shocked when confronted by nudity, especially male nudity. If he could manipulate someone into not only accepting his nakedness as natural but approving of him in that state, that was success. However, there mustn’t be any hint of conscious sexuality! He had to maintain an aura of innocence. He was starting to panic. Sweat seeped from armpits and blood began surging to his loins. Covering his genitals would be fatal. He risked a glance at Mr Pinot. Surely he wasn’t getting aroused? That was never part of the scheme! The unwelcome thought calmed him. These exhibitions were for Robert’s benefit alone - the witness merely a passive tool.
‘You look very fit.’ Mr Pinot conceded defeat.
‘I am,’ Robert agreed cheerfully. ‘Takes plenty of exercise though.’
‘Mmm. Well put these on. We don’t stock underpants!’ he added with a hint of reproof, handing over a pair of brown long trousers, a cream shirt, beige pullover and brown blazer emblazoned with the school’s crest and motto. He had even found a pair of brown socks.
Robert dressed quickly. Everything fitted perfectly except for the trousers, which were a bit tight. Mr Pinot went to find another but they were even smaller. Robert promised that tomorrow he would wear black shoes - and underpants.
‘Sit down.’ The guidance counsellor, at ease with both himself and his guest, indicated the ring of chairs. ‘I’ll take you to your first class and introduce you to the teacher as soon as assembly’s finished. We’ve another twenty minutes. Tell me, how do you like this part of the city?’
Mr Pinot had one excellent quality; he could listen. Robert found himself prattling on about what he had been doing over the previous two weeks, and was describing the unpleasant incident in the park on the hill, when he stopped short, biting his lip.
‘Carry on, dear boy, you speak so fluently it is a joy to listen.’
It was too late to stop and Robert found he didn’t really want to, so he
told everything, leaving no detail out. As is often the case he found it easier
to talk to a stranger than to his own parents. But as the thought surfaced,
iced water trickled into his guts. Shit! Pinot’s not a stranger. He’s
a bloody teacher!
Mr Pinot’s face gave nothing away. He sat still for so long that Robert wondered if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Eventually he pursed his lips and, taking a deep, impressive breath, pronounced his verdict. ‘You have been delivered from error by your innocence,’ he intoned gravely. ‘That woman was clearly bent on entrapping a man. Your reaction to her… display, was that of someone with a pure heart. Her subsequent irrational assault on you and the insults you endured have been excellently explained to us by the Bard. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. You scorned her invitation, she vented her anger.’ Mr Pinot sat back, nodding his head in self-congratulation.
Robert scorned the reference to hell and a pure heart, but appreciated the positive slant. As soon as he’d seen the guidance counsellor he’d known. Funny how he could pick them. He looked earnestly into Mr Pinot’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Sir. I’m glad I talked with you. I was worried I’d done something to provoke her.’ He sounded so sincere and his relief so heartfelt that Mr Pinot couldn’t resist a smile of pride. He seldom offered advice – having too many problems of his own – but when he did it was pleasant to find approval. Robert, on the other hand, realised he had found, if not an ally, Mr Pinot’s type usually followed winners, at least someone who didn’t wish him ill. As good a beginning as he could hope for.
By lunchtime on the second day, Robert had met his teachers and seen all the students in the options he was taking. For the first five minutes after lunch, everyone went to their home room to listen to notices, pick up newsletters, and pay sports and other school fees. The din was deafening. Positive first-impressions were dimming to disillusion. So far, he’d met no one he wanted to know better. Of course the stupid uniform didn’t help. Instead of presenting a unified image it looked as though they had all rummaged around in a grab bag of old clothes and only a lucky few had succeeded in snatching something that fitted or suited. His father had laughed like a drain at breakfast that morning. ‘They’ll make a conformist of you yet,’ he’d snorted.
Wanting to forget all about it now that he had told someone the details, Robert had decided not to tell his parents about Mr Pinot’s interpretation of the events on the hill. He wondered idly if he should become a Catholic. Confession seemed to suit him. With a sigh of relief he realised that his worries about a new school were unfounded and it should be plain sailing from then on. He vowed to keep his head down, be his own man and work his butt off with no distractions.
Robert’s sporting reputation had preceded him, and the unconcealed relief on the faces of the football team, identical in all but names to those he’d left behind, when told he was too busy to play, was rewarding. He had always considered himself at least a fringe-dweller of the "intellectual" brigade, but the weedy individuals huddled into a sunless corner of the common room were almost caricatures of the type; humourless egg-heads interested only in their own opinions.
A pimpled group of bible-bashers had been given equally short shift. There was more work to be caught up on than anticipated, so he wouldn’t have time for friends anyway for a while. The only person he liked so far was his Art History teacher. In his forties, Mr Rands was bald, witty, quick thinking, and treated his students as equals; a real plus in a teacher.
Miss Henderson hushed the mob, called the roll, dished out forms on Vocational Guidance, answered a few questions and then gazed around vaguely through bottle-lensed glasses. ‘Robert Karim? I have a message for you from the sports master. You are required to select a compulsory extracurricular sports activity. Go to the gymnasium now, and don’t be late for next period.’
‘I’m not doing sport, Miss.’
The teacher’s raised eyebrows started a snigger that continued as she drawled, ‘Don’t argue with me, young man. Unburden your woes onto Mr Vaselly.’
It sounded too stupid to be true. Robert was starting to lose his cool. First the bloody uniform and now compulsory activities. What was this place, a kindergarten or a high school? He wasn’t in the mood for any more crap. He’d dig in his heels with this Vaselly.
The sports master was in his early twenties, about the same height as Robert but leaner and more visibly muscled. Dark blond hair shorn to a short bristle, deep-set blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, small square chin, strong shoulders and the lean legs of a long-distance-runner, made him appear altogether tougher, stronger and harder than the student. After a conversation with Mr Vaselly one was left with the impression of intensity and health. Robert grudgingly admired the man’s obvious fitness, but admiration turned to contempt when the rigid line of the teacher’s mouth snapped, ‘What do you want?’
‘Apparently, I have to take an activity.’ Robert deliberately avoided the ‘Sir’, and hoped he looked as uncompromising as his opponent.
‘That’s right, take this list, choose one, and let me know.’ The teacher thrust a bit of paper at Robert and turned away in dismissal.
‘But I don’t need to do sport. I’m fit enough. My other school covered slightly different topics in some subjects so I have to catch up.’
Mr Vaselly swung back as though slapped. ‘Tough luck! This school has a rule that all students must do some physical activity. At your level, you’re expected to use your lunch-breaks or before and after school. A minimum of one hour per week!’
Robert scanned the list. ‘There’s nothing I want to do.’
The PE teacher had seen the new student crossing the playground and wondered what he was like. These sporty-looking kids were usually either up themselves or riddled with insecurities. This one was already getting stroppy. Classroom control had cost him sweat and tears and he wasn’t about to let a smart-arsed newcomer tell him what to do. ‘Bring me your choice after school tomorrow.’ He slammed back into his office.
Not wanting to be late for Maths, Robert raced off.
Between periods he studied the list in despair. There was nothing he wanted
to spend five minutes on, let alone sixty. Team sports - never again.
Gymnastics? Too tall. Golf?. Ten-pin bowling? What sort of a place was this?
Tramping? Badminton? Table-tennis? This is the point beyond which I will not
be pushed, he thought, congratulating himself on an elegant turn of phrase,
and here I make my stand!
Last period was timetabled for study/research, and Mr Vaselly was rostered as minder. They don’t even trust us to study alone, Robert despaired. It’s a bloody borstal. Uniforms, compulsory activities, no trust. He was beginning to regret his decision to change schools. As soon as the teacher entered, a chill settled on the room. Like a caricature Nazi - cold, Aryan, arrogant - he gave no sign of recognition to any one, let alone Robert. At first he stood, hands on hips, in front of the blackboard as though daring anyone to disturb the peace. After fifteen minutes he wandered around, ending up at the back of the room in the aisle beside Robert’s chair, leaning against the wall and writing notes on a clipboard.
Robert looked to where Vaselly’s legs prevented exit and, slumping back, found himself wondering what sort of bloke the sports master really was. I’ll find a way of getting around his pathetic, prison camp mentality, he thought with irritation. And if he doesn’t move soon I’ll shove my compass into his thigh! He leaned forward to get on with his work and let his leg sag sideways till it touched Vaselly’s knee. That’ll make the bastard move. There was no reaction. Refusing to give in, Robert left his leg there till the end of the period. The sole result, a dismal ache in the groin from holding his leg in one position too long. Round one to Vaselly.
After school, he trailed his tormentor to a gymnastics group where the atmosphere was about as pleasant as a police-station. Silent rows of kids ready to perform, rewarded by a brief snap of reproof, praise or instruction. No chatter - less fun.
At home, both Monique and Sanjay thought he was making a fuss about nothing.
‘It is necessary that you meet socially with some other students, chérie. It would be foolish to become a recluse. The activity will give you an opportunity to meet students from other classes and make new friends. It is unhealthy to reject others.’
His father took the same line. ‘People are going to think there’s something wrong with you if you avoid them. It’s never a good idea to draw unwanted attention to yourself.’
‘I’ll spend intervals in the common room and meet other students there.’ Robert was not convinced by parental argument; they hadn’t met Mr Vaselly! Somehow the man had issued a challenge and Robert felt honour-bound to pick up the gauntlet. Not that he understood his motives any better than the outbursts of anger that occasionally ripped through his brain; he was simply determined to make up his own mind about whether he’d do an activity.
‘Please yourself, son, you probably know best.’
Robert doubted that, but intended to do it anyway. He racked his brains for a solution. Tomorrow he’d keep an eye on Mr Perfect Vaselly, and find a chink in his armour.
Tailing his prey was easier than anticipated. Between periods he twice had time to follow Vaselly for a few minutes. At interval and again at lunchtime he tracked him from the gymnasium to the staff-room. I could get had-up for stalking, he reflected humourlessly. Other teachers greeted the PE teacher in a friendly enough fashion, so they certainly didn’t dislike him. As for the students, the boys either ignored him or got smartly out of his way as though nervous. Several girls made flagrant attempts to gain his attention. Two tried to brush his thigh, unsuccessfully, and there were a couple of muted wolf-whistles. Vaselly appeared totally unmoved. Basilisk-like, he walked with the articulated grace of one of Asimov’s robots. Perhaps he wasn’t human after all, and there was nothing to discover?
After school, Robert went to the Library to check reference books for an assignment. While waiting for the librarian, he flicked through a copy of the previous year’s School Magazine. Staring at him from page three, was a photo of Vaselly, followed by a short piece welcoming him as the newest member of staff. Robert scanned this briefly, then re-read a line. Represented his university in Wrestling.
An idea trickled. Robert remained completely still until it was fully formed and stored, then completed book issuing, thanked the librarian and smiled at the school motto emblazoned in gold on a wooden shield above the door: Per Angusta - Ad Augusta. Through hardship to glory! Huh! He’d soon see how classical the school was.
‘What have you decided?’ Mr Vaselly’s mood hadn’t improved.
‘Wrestling.’
‘We don’t do it.’ Flat and final.
‘Well we ought to. This school is supposedly based on classical traditions and wrestling is one of the Graeco-Roman sports. Besides, you’re a wrestler.’
‘Modern! Wrestling’s changed over the last two thousand years. Come on, you’re wasting time!’
‘But, Sir, I’ve always wanted to learn wrestling.’ A lie, and in a cajoling whine to boot. Nauseating, but all’s fair in love and war, Robert rationalised. ‘Do you think I’m not good enough to be taught by you?’ His tone making it obvious that what he really meant was, do you think you are too good to teach me?
‘Don’t get smart with me!’
‘Afraid I’ll beat you?’ This set blood pounding. He couldn’t believe what he was saying. All his school life he’d been the perfect pupil – quiet, polite, thoughtful, on time with everything, never putting a foot wrong. Now here he was getting into a slanging match with a teacher.
Mr Vaselly stood calmly, legs apart, arms folded, eyes a calculating squint. Unable to hold the stare, Robert lowered his gaze and, in growing apprehension, wondered why Vaselly hadn’t responded to the insult.
‘I’m far too busy.’ The teacher’s relaxed, almost smiling response felt like a slap in the face.
Furious at the loss of face, Robert turned to go. Not defeated, just pausing to re-group. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead. As he reached the door, the PE teacher’s almost whispered gibe hung in the air.
‘If everyone wanted things as badly as you, nothing would ever get done.’
Stung, Robert turned. ‘You think I give up easily?’
‘You said it. Now hurry up and make your choice, I haven’t got all day!’
Something hardened in Robert’s chest. ‘Mr Vaselly,’ he said as evenly as he could manage, ‘tomorrow at interval I will put my case to the headmaster.’ He stalked out, already doubting the wisdom of his campaign. He would have been even more troubled had he seen Vaselly’s smile.
For the first ten minutes of interval, the headmaster made himself available to his charges. Many years previously someone had described Mr Nikelseer as interestingly ugly. Morosely cadaverous now seemed a more appropriate epithet. His academic gown, without which he felt undressed, drooped gauntly from sharp shoulders, and a bookish stoop made him seem shorter than he was. Brought up to believe in the value of traditional Christian morality, he had endeavoured, through self-discipline, self-denial, prayer and example, to inculcate in his pupils and staff a devotion to Christian virtue and love.
Standing at the top of the steps to the quadrangle, he gazed at the energetic students relishing their brief freedom from classroom repression. Searching for selflessness, he discovered selfishness. Instead of faith, he found questioning minds. Seeking purity, he saw lust. Sifting for spirituality, he uncovered ravenous appetites for gewgaws. His failure to convince his flock that the road to happiness lay via the unquestioning acceptance of God’s love and commandments, had left an aching void. Over the years, charity had become impatience, acceptance had become intolerance, and the whip of harsh warnings had replaced the desire to lead his pupils along the path of righteousness. Each evening he begged God to forgive his despair.
‘Excuse me, Sir. I have a request.’
Mr Nikelseer’s encouraging nods as he tilted his good ear to Robert’s carefully prepared and indisputably logical argument in favour of classical traditions and wrestling as a school sport, led the youth to imagine he had won a convert. He would have been sadly disillusioned were he a mind reader. The headmaster was saved the effort of concocting a response by the arrival of the sports master himself.
‘Ah! Here is Mr Vaselly. What does he think of the idea?’
Mr Nikelseer was informed that it was out of the question. Mr Vaselly’s timetable was too tight to give private lessons. Robert countered by offering to be available at any time.
The headmaster raised a finger to stem the flow and turned to his supplicant. ‘I’m sorry, young man. What did you say your name was?’
‘Robert Karim.’
‘Ah, yes… Karim. We mustn’t expect too much of Mr Vaselly, he is new to the school. So, whilst it is an interesting idea, I’m afraid you will have to forgo wrestling.’ He displayed pale bony hands in a gesture of defeat.
Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He almost felt sorry for Mr Vaselly. He ventured a quick glance. There was no reaction. Not the slightest indication that the PE teacher had registered anything amiss. Indeed, he smiled slightly at the headmaster and said equably, ‘Mr Nikelseer, if you think it’s a good idea for Karim to learn wrestling, then of course I will try to fit it in as a trial for this term. Is that satisfactory?’
His bluff called, the headmaster’s face slammed shut. ‘I expect a progress report in five weeks time!’ He bustled off.
‘You’ll probably regret this,’ snapped the PE teacher. ‘Be in the weights room immediately after school.’
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’ Robert grinned at the retreating back. Round two to me, he thought, wondering why it seemed a hollow victory.
Chapter Four
Uneasy rather than excited at the prospect of wrestling with the peculiar PE teacher, Robert told no one about it. The weightlifting room was under the Gymnasium. Basketballs thumped overhead with stunning irregularity, punctuated by raucous cheers, whistles, and the bangs and scuffles of feet. Frosted-glass windows stood wide to reveal football fields and the back boundary, where school met suburbia. The room was neatly organised and smelled of sweat. A pile of rubber mats occupied one corner. Bars, weights and stands were arranged along the wall facing the windows.
Mr Vaselly and the other PE teacher appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. They were laughing. Robert hardly recognised him; he looked younger, relaxed. Noticing Robert, he deleted the smile, frowned, excused himself from his colleague, closed the door and ran down the stairs.
‘On time, good!’ he grunted.
Silently, they dragged mats together to make a padded floor area, removed shoes and socks and faced each other. Vaselly’s expression was wary, perhaps slightly curious, certainly uncompromising. ‘We won’t do anything energetic, your clothes are unsuitable. Next time I’ll bring practice suits so we can work out properly. Bring your gym shoes.’
Everything was strictly professional. Mr Vaselly demonstrated the square stance, emphasised the constant need for balance, described first moves, recounted a little of the modern history of the sport and discussed centre of gravity - how it could be raised and lowered to advantage, as well as the pitfalls of misjudging it. Robert was taught not to waste energy on gripping, but to use his hand like a hook, and pull. He was shown the drop-step stance and how to use parts of his body as a fulcrum before posting or pulling. It was a serious game, this wrestling.
After what seemed like five minutes, Mr Vaselly stood back and rubbed at his bristly hair. ‘You’re getting the hang of it, but that’s enough for today.’
Robert was astonished to realise they’d been wrestling for nearly an hour, and disappointed he’d have to wait another week.
‘Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty.’
‘But - I thought it was only an hour a week?’
‘I warned you you’d regret it! How far do you think we’d get in the five weeks the headmaster has given us if we only practised once a week? No, it’s every day for an hour. Don’t be late! Close the windows. No need to put away the mats, we’ll be the first ones here.’ He took the stairs three at a time and disappeared.
‘So he thinks it’ll be too much for me does he? Huh! It certainly won’t be me who’s the first to cry stop,’ Robert muttered as he replaced his shoes and socks, closed the windows and pulled the door shut.
After hearing an edited version of his battle of wills with the sports teacher, Robert’s parents were determined he should be on time, behave correctly, and persevere. He arrived at the already open gym on the dot of half past seven. It had been a cloudless night with a touch of frost - even a hard jog to school hadn’t raised a sweat. A wrestling suit was waiting for him in the centre of the mats, so he put it on, opened the window, and turned slowly in the already warm sunlight.
Mr Vaselly was still a mystery. Indecipherable. Thus, instead of his usual self-assurance, Robert felt exposed, even vulnerable in the skin-tight, several-sizes-too-small garment. Vaselly appeared confident, relaxed, trim and hard.
‘Wouldn’t shorts be as good as these bathers?’
‘The proper suit gives maximum freedom, there’s no waist band to grab, and they can’t be pulled down.’
‘I feel… naked.’
‘Mmm. You’re more heavily built than me. Let’s close the windows and lock the door.’
‘I reckon!’
Mr Vaselly was an excellent teacher; perfectly happy to explain again and again without making his pupil feel stupid. The aim might be simple, but the process was infinitely subtle. Robert could see that brute strength was not going to be the answer - he had already tried that, ending up on his back. There seemed to be as much psychology involved as agility, strength and staying power. His instructor had an uncanny knack of anticipating every move. The practice suit did help. Apart from the extra freedom of movement, he could sometimes feel slight changes in the muscle tension of waist, chest or whatever part he was holding, and try to predict his opponent’s next move. He couldn’t hide his delight when he accidentally unbalanced Mr Vaselly with a reversed body hold. He wished he could remember how he’d done it. An hour disappeared.
‘Same time tomorrow. Put the gear away,’ and he was gone.
Robert carefully folded his suit, dressed himself, set the room in order, opened the windows and was just in time for assembly; curiously pleased with his morning.
At the third session they greeted each other with guarded smiles before getting down to the serious problems of balance, stance, holds, posts and centre of gravity. Robert hoped Mr Vaselly was also enjoying the sessions, but he gave nothing away.
Tearing out of the gym one morning, late for assembly, he was hailed by Graham Arnessen, one of the kids from his Chemistry class. ‘Yo, Robert, don’t tell me you’re a fitness freak?’
‘Freak’s the word, boyo,’ smiled Robert, deciding to keep the wrestling under wraps. ‘I twisted the dread Vaselly’s arm till he let me work on a fitness circuit instead of one of the listed activities.’
Graham did an exaggerated double take. ‘Vaselly let you what? This is groundbreaking! You get the most dreaded man on the staff to let you do what you want! All hail!’ He knelt in an extravagant salaam. ‘I’ll order a medal.’
‘Stupid prick. He’s not that bad. Not that we talk to each other. I just do my thing.’
‘Rather you than me, mate. Still it can’t be worse than what I picked - patter-tennis for God’s sake! Once a week we go to the tennis courts and play this fuckwit game. At least we used to, but hardly anyone bothers to turn up any more. We all thought Ma. Henderson was having you on when she said you’d have to take a compulsory activity. No one checks on it. They’re probably trying to impress the new boy.’ He laughed and they got to their seats just as the teachers began their daily procession up the aisle and onto the stage.
Robert had revised his initial reactions. About ten of his fellow year twelve students met in a sunny corner of the cavernous, senior students’ common room during intervals and lunchtimes, where they mucked about and discussed things of general interest. He was pleased they’d accepted him. The only one who didn’t seem to fit in was a runt called Lance Osbairne. He imagined the others felt sorry for him.
By the end of lunchtime, everyone knew about Robert’s victory and had commiserated on his having to share space with Vaselly, or at least the boys did. Marcia and Helen were curious to know what the PE teacher was really like, but Robert was, quite honestly this time, unable to tell them. He had set out to find a chink in the enemy’s armour, but knew as little now as he had at the start. Give it time, he thought, then frowned as he realised that his reasons for wanting to know Vaselly better, had changed.
With brain and conversation on autopilot, Robert didn’t realise, until Aaron thumped him on the shoulder, thrust a bit of paper into his hand and said, ‘That’ll be extra-shagabodacious, Rob me boy! Phone number’s there in case you come adrift,’ that he’d accepted an invitation to a party. Blood drained, fingers froze. What the hell to do? The last thing he wanted was to go to a bloody party! Shit! Shit! Shit! He’d have to think of an excuse. A shadow made him look up.
‘I’m glad you’re going, Robert. Aaron’s parties can get a bit frantic.’
What the hell’s her name? He smiled vaguely at the thin, wide-eyed girl who asked lots of questions in class. Oh yeah, Maria. No, Marcia. What’s she on about? She hardly knows me. I could be a frigging rapist. ‘Why’re you going then?’ he asked lazily.
‘I heard you say you were going.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘How’d you guess?’ Marcia gave a tinkling laugh, tossed her curly black hair and joined a gaggle of girls at the jukebox. Cold sweat trickled underarm. What’s the matter with me? Why don’t I want to go to the party? Because you’re a fuckwit. Get out and have a good time like everyone else! But you don’t want to be like everyone else - they’re two dimensional yobbos only interested in sex... The unsettling interior monologue continued until class, where his ability to focus on the job in hand let him shut out unwelcome questions and thoughts.
Saturday arrived and, as there hadn’t been time to develop a contagious illness, Robert jogged the two kilometres through chill drizzle to a rambling wooden house in a neglected allotment on a busy road. Traffic noise would have prevented a knock being heard even if the air hadn’t been pulsating with a Rock beat loud enough to anaesthetise. He followed the numbing blare to a medium-sized room lit by a couple of red bulbs and a strobe. Someone sprawled across a lounger, three girls jiggled in the corner by the stereo, and several boys were drinking at an ornate bar, its mirrored surfaces reflecting and multiplying the erratically flashing lights. One of the girls detached themselves from the group and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised Marcia.
‘Robert,’ she yelled, twining her arms around his neck. ‘You’ve come! The others reckoned you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.’ She stared into his frown and giggled nervously. ‘Graham and Barbara are over there,’ indicating vaguely. ‘Let’s dance.’ She slid her arms down and clutched at his waist, apparently unwilling to risk separation. Aaron’s large fist punched his shoulder. ‘Good to see ya, Rob. Come and tank up before Marcia gets you by the balls.’
Robert was slightly shocked, but Marcia laughed and trailed them to the bar where Robert swapped his half-dozen cans for an opened stubby. Marcia dragged him to the middle of the room. Deafened, irritated by smoke and strobe, they jiggled aimlessly. He wondered when it would be OK to leave. On the other side of the room a ragged voice was screaming along with the music. Marcia was a good mover and for a while he enjoyed the dancing, until with a sudden flush of embarrassment realised they were the only couple on the floor. The others were scattered around the room kissing, groping, smoking, drinking. He steered Marcia across to Graham and Barbara, but it was too noisy to talk.
Placing his untouched stubby under a chair, he went for an urgent pee. A bundle of clothes whimpered in the passage. The toilet stank - someone had missed the pan. An open bedroom doorway emitted grunts from the dark. He wished he was somewhere else. Before he could re-enter the main room, Aaron grabbed his arm, pulled him into a bedroom, and closed the door. The noise level sank to a roar.
‘Fuck, it’s hot,’ Aaron muttered, dragging off his shirt and taking a small bottle out of the drawer in the bedside table. With a grin of complicity he draped his arm round Robert’s neck. ‘These are for you, Rob baby.’ He whispered into his ear, thrusting two white tablets into Robert’s hand.
‘What are they?’
‘Happy pills.’
‘No thanks.’
‘They’re harmless.’
‘I don’t want them.
Aaron’s friendly leer dissolved. ‘You’re a nerd, Karim.’ Pocketing his treasure, he slammed out.
Robert stood still. Twinges of disappointment and relief flittered through his chest. He’s right. I am a nerd, he thought, forcing himself to return to the smoke and noise. Aaron was leaning on the bar running his fingers through his girlfriend’s hair while she stroked his chest. He looked over her head at Robert and winked. Relieved, Robert winked back, joined the others, retrieved his can and pretended to sip. Six months previously he’d got drunk. Drunk enough to lose control, but not awareness. Instead of feeling more at ease his sense of alienation had intensified and, convinced he was surrounded by hostility, he’d panicked and vowed never to do it again.
Graham yelled in his ear, ‘Not your scene?’ Robert shook his head. Graham grinned and nodded towards the door. Robert went out and stood in the porch, deafened this time by a torrential downpour. He took several deep breaths. At least the air was clean. Panic retreated. A few minutes later Graham joined him and they stood side by side watching the rain.
Robert nodded back towards the lounge. ‘Who’re all those piss-heads?’
‘No idea.’
‘Gross.’
‘Extra. How’d you get here?’
‘Jogged.’
‘Wanna lift home, Fitman?’
‘You beaut.’
They raced for the car.
‘Get in the back, Barbara’s draining her brain.’
Graham turned in his seat, stared at Robert, grunted a laugh and said, ‘I knew I was right about you.’
‘Right about what?’
‘The others reckoned you’d chicken out. Rumour has it you’re a bit of a…’
‘A bit of a what?’
‘You know. Not one for the girls? A ladies’ man, but not a man for the ladies?’
Robert’s mouth refused to function. Blood had drained to his feet. How could anyone think that! ‘Are you telling me the others reckon I’m a queer?’
He must have looked and sounded more aggressive than he felt because Graham backed off immediately. ‘Hey, hey. Cool it, Rob. I told them you weren’t a faggoty limp-wrist. You stick to yourself a bit at school and people were wondering – that’s all. No worries. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t have an AIDS arsehole on the back seat.’
Robert confined himself to an aggressive growl.
‘Mind you, I wouldn’t mind seeing Marcia’s face if she discovered her date was a poofter.’ Graham laughed wildly. Drinks and tabs were starting to show.
Robert’s heart sank. He’d been set up. Too late to pretend he had a sudden urge to jog home through the rain. Blankness settled on his brain as two figures raced across. Barbara scrambled in beside Graham, Marcia clambered in the back, threw her arms around Robert’s neck and kissed him wetly on the lips before subsiding into a fit of giggles. Her breath smelled of alcohol.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ laughed Barbara. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet. That was a madhouse.’
‘Don’t his parent’s mind?’
‘No idea. They always clear out. I’ve never met them.’
Robert gave directions to his house.
Graham leered back over the seat. ‘Yeah sure, mate.
He parked in front of the closed gates to a park. Before the engine was turned off, Barbara had unbuttoned Graham’s shirt and was licking at his nipples. Marcia tried to follow suit but Robert pushed her hand away.
‘I need some fresh air. Let’s go for a walk.’
‘Sounds romantic,’ smirked Graham, leaning back against the window while Barbara fiddled with his jeans.
Marcia giggled.
The rain had stopped, so they squeezed through the gap between fence and gate and wandered into mist and dripping trees, arms around each other’s waists.
‘Do you fancy me, Robert?’
‘You’re intelligent and good to talk to.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ Her voice was slightly slurred.
‘You ask good questions in class.’
‘Clever of you to notice, but that’s still not what I asked.’
‘You’re slim and slightly drunk.’
‘Robert!’
‘What?’
‘Kiss me!’
Robert complied. Marcia wanted more. They found a bench. He took off his jacket and they sat on it. It began to rain heavily. They raced back to the car and scrambled in, soaking wet. Graham and Barbara didn’t look up - his fingers were scrabbling in her hair while she sucked him off.
Marcia laughed softly, slipped out of her blouse and placed Robert’s hand on her breast. He felt her nipples harden. They tongue-kissed. She undid his zip and awkwardly took out his penis, scratching it on the zip. He winced and slid his hand under her panties and inserted a finger. She grunted and jiggled her buttocks to make it easier. In the front seat Graham muttered, ‘Stop. I don’t want to come yet.’ They rearranged themselves and this time it was Barbara’s turn to groan.
Marcia bent over and sucked tentatively at Robert’s still flaccid penis. He had the feeling it was her first time. He wanted to scream, smash his fist into her head, rip her off him and run as fast as he could from this nightmare. He hated the feel of her cunt, the hot wetness, the smell, her slimy fat tongue pushing into his mouth, the soggy sucking on his cock, her demands for kisses. He was also acutely embarrassed by his lack of an erection. But most of all he was bored. Bored, bored, bored! This had to be the most incredibly dull, asinine way to spend an evening that could be devised. And it seemed as if they’d been doing it for hours!
‘Robert?’
He looked down, frowning.
Marcia slid up beside him, licked at his ear and whispered, ‘I’ll do anything you want.’
The invitation was clear, but there was nothing he wanted her to do.
‘Did you like what I was doing?’
‘I’d like it a bloody sight more if we had a bit of privacy!’ Robert couldn’t keep the snappiness out of his voice. ‘How can I get a hard on listening to those two slurping in the front seat.’
Marcia giggled, fears allayed, her attraction to this paragon of sensitivity redoubled. That’s what I like about you, Robert. You’re so classy.’
They snuggled together, his hand on her breast, hers on his belly, swapping the occasional soggy kiss for what seemed an eternity in damp, semi-Platonic complicity until, with great snorts and exclamations of release, Graham achieved orgasm, adjusted himself, and drove them home.
Marcia got out first, leaning through the window to deposit a kiss full of promise and saliva. ‘Next time we’ll be alone,’ she whispered, an expectant smile dowsing him in nebulous alarm for the future.
The evening had seemed endless, so Robert was surprised to find both parents still up.
‘Had a good time?’
‘No.’ His face was tight with anger. He wanted to forget, not relive the embarrassment.
‘Why not?’
‘Too noisy. Too much drinking. Nothing to do.’
‘Did you meet any girls?’
‘Yep.’
‘Nice?’
‘To talk to, but… Oh hell. I give up. I just don’t understand people!’ Angry at the world and himself, Robert snapped goodnight and shut himself in his room. He was in bed with the light out when Sanjay came in.
‘You still awake?’
‘I wasn’t.’
His father sat in the darkness on the end of the bed, unsure how to start, but determined to be a good parent. He was a soft hearted man, distressed by unhappiness in those around him, so would be unable to sleep until he had tried to understand at least one of the problems which for so many months had been plaguing his previously cheerful and carefree son. He was also a clever man and, little by little, although the sordid details remained locked in Robert’s head, the underlying cause of the anger came to light.
‘What’s the matter with me, Dad?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you like kissing and feeling up girls for hours?’
‘Never had the chance. You know your grandmother.’
Despite himself, Robert smiled. ‘Would you have liked to?’
‘Probably.’
‘Why don’t I?’
‘Haven’t found the right girl?’
‘That’s stupid! Marcia’s intelligent and good-looking. Other guys don’t seem to care who they do it with.’ He turned his face into the pillow, sighed and mumbled. ‘Maybe I’m just sexless.’
‘Now you’re stupid. The girls obviously find you sexy. There could be other reasons.’
‘Like what?’
‘There are any number of reasons for temporary impotence.’
‘How do you know it’s temporary?’
‘Isn’t it?’
Robert blushed in the dark. ‘Yeah.’ He assumed his father had wanked when he was young, but it was impossible to imagine.
‘It doesn’t matter what the reasons are. In time all will be resolved. And never forget that we love you no matter what.’ He stood up. ‘At least your studies won’t be distracted by girls.’
‘I’m distracted by my own inadequacy.’
Silence. For once Sanjay had no answer.
‘Thanks, Dad. I know you mean well… but I’ll sort things out for myself. I just don’t know how to face Marcia on Monday.’
‘You owe her nothing! She hasn’t the right to either your affections or your body. The kindest thing is to let her think she’s not your type. Problems will only arise if you apologise. That’s always taken as a sign of weakness and starts a tide of rumour. People will usually accept your estimation of yourself, so if you want to avoid being the subject of gossip, appear self-satisfied.’
Sanjay and Monique talked until the early hours. They thought they knew the nature of the problem, but decided their son had to work it out for himself. They could only give love and support. The path to self-knowledge is a solitary one. If short cuts are taken, the traveller might arrive before he is ready.
Monique fell asleep, leaving Sanjay to examine his values. What did he really feel? If Robert was same-sex-oriented, did he mind? He tried to feel upset, angry, disappointed, repelled – anything – but couldn’t. His only emotion when thinking about Robert was a warm fuzzy love. Did it mean he didn’t care? Why couldn’t he feel let down? Disgusted? Ashamed? That was a good one. Ashamed before whom? The opinions of others seldom meant anything to Sanjay. He had always felt more an observer of life than a participant. Most of the things that motivated others left Sanjay untouched.
Blessed with a low sex-drive compounded by a sense of social inferiority, he had been twenty before being overtaken by the urge to take out girls. Even then, a goodnight peck had satisfied him, if not his partner. When propositioned by men he had felt neither threatened nor offended. Indeed, his polite apologies at having to refuse usually brought forth a laugh and had once resulted in a friendship, which still endured.
Monique was the first woman who had really aroused him. With her he had experienced no insecurities, no worries about inadequacy, no performance expectations to render him impotent. In fact his newfound sexual passion had almost overwhelmed him. To this day she was the only woman with whom he desired to have sex. He sighed and relaxed. He honestly did not give a stuff what sexual orientation his son might have. It had nothing to do with his worth and made not the slightest difference to Sanjay’s love for him. Sleep invaded his being and put a smile on his face.
Chapter Five
Things turned out much as Sanjay had predicted. Robert and Marcia took pleasure in picking each other’s brains and arguing in the common room, and the party was forgotten. Each morning he was impatient to get to his wrestling practice, and hoped his instructor felt the same. Robert knew as little about Mr Vaselly after four weeks as he had at the beginning. They discussed tactics, fought hard, and gave no quarter. After a hard bout they would lie on the mats panting with the pleasure of exertion, comfortable with each other’s silence.
One morning, after an intricate hold, twist and flick, Robert flipped his opponent onto his back. Losing his own balance he crashed, ending up splayed against the wall.
‘That’s not in the book. I’ll bet you can’t do it again.’
Robert looked across, startled by a luminous grin. He blushed, began to stutter something, gave up and looked away in confusion.
‘Only a few days till the headmaster’s inspection. Don’t expect any praise. I’m pretty sure he only agreed to it to spite me.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Wish I was.’
‘But you’re a great teacher!’
‘Try telling him that.’
‘I will. And he’d better be impressed. But I don’t care if he is or not, I’m enjoying it so much. Thanks.’
‘No need to thank me. I enjoy it too. Hell, look at the time! We’ll be late for assembly. Leave the mats for later.’
They only just made it. It was Friday, the day Mr Nikelseer gave a Bible reading and a prayer before the deputy headmaster read out the notices. Robert tried to listen to the readings and think about them, but they were usually obscure and seemed to have little bearing, as far as he could discern, on school life. No one else showed the slightest interest. It was an opportunity to relax before class. Today’s reading was no exception.
‘Henceforth is laid up for me a
crown of righteousness
Which the Lord, the righteous
judge,
shall give me at that day.
And not to me only, but to all who
love his appearing.
There was a scuffle during interval as Robert was crossing the quad. A boy of about fourteen or fifteen was writhing on the asphalt making futile attempts to defend himself from the indolent kicks and slaps of two louts who were holding him down. Lance was trying to remove his belt. Three girls dominated the gaggle of observers egging them on.
‘Get the fucking poof’s trousers down!’
‘Faggots shouldn’t be allowed to wear trousers!’
‘Give him a skirt!’ chorused the three harpies to hoots of derisive sniggers and chants of ‘poofter, poofter, cock-sucking poofter.’ There was no teacher in sight. Without stopping to think, Robert elbowed forward and tapped Lance on the shoulder. ‘Leave the kid alone, Lance. You’re hardly glorious examples of manhood if it takes three blokes to torment one guy.’
‘What are ya? Fucking black queer-lover?’ Lance snarled. ‘Piss off or we’ll do you over too.’
Robert faced him, expressionless. After five of the longest seconds he could remember, he bent down and pulled the kid off the ground by his shirt front, hauling him to his feet. ‘Scram. And stay away from these slobs in future,’ he grunted, giving the boy a shove which nearly threw him back on the ground. Being taller, several kilos heavier and obviously fitter than the thugs, they weren’t game to touch him. Doing his best to show neither his contempt, nor that his hands had started to shake, Robert picked up his bag, threw it as nonchalantly as he could manage over his shoulder, and ambled off to the common room. What the hell have I done? The kid probably deserved what he was getting and now I’ve made enemies I can bloody well do without. Jeeze I’m a fuckwit! He helped himself unsteadily to a coffee.
Helen looked up from her book. ‘You look very grave,’ she commented leisurely, ‘Someone pinch your lunch money?’
‘Lance doing a bit of bullying.’
‘Lance and his mob are always picking on some unfortunate kid who doesn’t fit in with their idea of the true Aussie male, it makes me sick!’
‘Why isn’t something done about it?’
‘Goodness knows. He gets his kicks by showing off to the dumbos who hang around for the cash he dishes out when they crawl on their bellies and lick his boots.’
‘If they do it again I’ll report him. Bullying’s the pits. I can’t just stand around and see it happen without doing anything!’
‘Then don’t watch. Be like the rest of us and stay away. And as for reporting him! Who to? The only one in trouble will be you, so keep your nose clean.’ She closed her book and fixed Robert with a frown. ‘That’s good advice I’m giving you. This school is not a tolerance zone.’
Sunlight slanted into the classroom through high windows. The school had been built at a time when it was considered an unprofitable distraction for students to see outside. Having come from a school blessed with floor to ceiling windows, Robert appreciated not having idiots sitting outside, or shuffling past making rude noises and giving everyone the fingers.
Mr Rands set up the overhead projector while his students took out texts and notes. Lance paused in the entrance, a scowl rendering him even less attractive than usual. Spotting Robert he strutted across, dumped his bag on top of the opened books, leaned over, dropped a thick gob of yellowish spit onto a page of notes and sneered as though daring Robert to do something. Robert whipped up his hand, dragged Lance’s head down and squashed his nose into his own spittle. Lesson preparation absorbed everyone’s attention.
‘Muck with me again and I’ll crush your face,’ Robert hissed, forcing himself to release the scrawny neck so Lance could take his bag and purple face to a seat on the other side of the room.
Barbara passed him a couple of tissues. ‘Well done!’ she whispered.
Mr Rands broke the silence. ‘Everyone ready?’ He smiled the bland smile of innocence.
They were studying depictions of the human body in Renaissance art. On the screen was a reproduction of The Battle of the Ten Nudes, an engraving showing ten muscled youths viciously attacking each other with knives, swords, axes and a bow and arrow, in front of a curtain of dense foliage as wild and untamed as the young men. It was by the Florentine artist and sculptor Pollaiuolo, reproductions of whose works had strongly influenced the German artist, Dürer. Only five poses had been used, each of which was reversed in order to show both front and back of the figure.
‘Pollaiuolo, of course, is a nickname. Like that of so many Italian artists of the time. His father kept chickens, in Italian pollo, hence the little chicken, Pollaiuolo.’ - Mr Rands was full of such trivia. ‘The secondary purpose of this work was to depict ideal male bodies in action. The search for a formula for ideal human proportions was an obsession with Renaissance artists. Dürer spent most of his life jealously convinced that Italians had discovered this recipe. He filled volumes with calculations and drawings and copies of their works that, thanks to the invention of printing a few years previously, were increasingly available to collectors north of the Alps. The primary purpose of engravings such as this was to make money by pleasing those who enjoyed mildly erotic works.’ He slipped another transparency onto the screen. ‘And like this little bronze sculpture of Hercules wrestling with Antaeus.’
There was doubt in the minds of several students about the suitability of such works for public display. Robert had a vision of what he and Mr Vaselly must look like when wrestling, and let forth an involuntary guffaw. There was something a bit ridiculous about two men hugging, squeezing and twisting themselves into compromising positions. Of course he and Vaselly weren’t nude - although his gear was so tight he almost was.
‘Going to share the joke, Robert?’ asked Mr Rands.
‘Sorry, Sir. I was just thinking about Hercules having to wrestle with Antaeus like that. Now-a-days he’d just get a gun and pot him.’
‘Ah, but Antaeus was immortal as long as he touched the ground. Hercules had to hold his feet off the earth for a long time to destroy his powers. Shooting would have solved nothing. Such stories are not simply the meanderings of primitive pagans, they illustrate universal truths. We might not believe in Hercules and Antaeus today, but we’ve replaced them with equally fantastic myths.’
‘What’s the eternal truth behind this one, Sir?’ asked Charlie Kosich with more than a hint of disbelief.
‘Universal, Charlie, not eternal. Humans, like all life, derive their strength from the earth. Antaeus’ evil character is more or less irrelevant. The point is that if you remove someone from their roots, they wither away. I sometimes wonder if that’s not one of the reasons for the crime, violence, depression and other problems of modern humans. We are too far from the source of life. There are more police per person than ever before in history, with ever increasing technical aids - but there is no lessening of crime. Never have there been so many doctors per capita as in the western world, and never have so many humans been so sick.’
‘What’s so good about dirt?’ A voice from the back.
‘The earth catches, purifies and stores our water. Life depends on it. You know that, it’s basic. Most arable land is now so poisoned that protective gear must be worn by those growing our food; no waterway is safe to drink from, run-off is poisoning the seas. Parks and reserves, instead of providing a buffer, are collapsing from over use. Modern conveniences are nothing but tools, they don’t give us mental strength. We are like Antaeus hoisted off the ground by Hercules - our strength is ebbing.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘That’s given you long faces.’
They were not sure whether to believe him.
‘Mr Rands, you said we have new myths. Like what?’
‘Like… Science will find the answers to all our problems. Doctors will make us healthy…. Democracy ensures good government… You can believe what you see on TV and read in the papers… Death is the worst thing that can happen… Myths are there to calm the fears of people who need to be told their lives are worth something.’
‘What myths do you believe in?’
‘I have no fears.’ Mr Rands’ smile was enigmatic.
‘I think it’s a bloody disgusting sculpture! Two blokes rubbing their groins together like a couple of queers. Makes me sick.’ Typically, Lance ignored the ideas and voiced his prejudices.
‘Lance, we’ve been through this before. What you consider good and bad, right and wrong, is a question of fashion and your background, it is not a universal truth. You know perfectly well there was a fashion at that time for things classical – Greek and Roman. Not everyone was so persuaded, and people didn’t hesitate to express contrary opinions, but it was usually left at that. Certainly not degenerating into playground bashings!’
Unfazed, Lance continued, ‘I reckon all paintings by faggots should be banned! We shouldn’t have to learn about perverts?’
‘Oh shut up, Lance! Give it a rest.’ Barbara Tappendon was one of the few who hadn’t given up on Lance, although he tormented her tirelessly.
‘You’re the only teacher who thinks queers are normal. You should hear what some of the other teachers say about them. Even Dürer was a poof, writing all those sick letters to Pirkheimer.’
‘He also had a wife, Agnes. Things are never simply black and white, Lance. Humans are infinitely complex. Why can’t you accept that and try to make yourself perfect? If we were to ban all things contributed by men who had homosexual experiences, then we’d have many fewer inventions, precious little art, literature, music, and live theatre; and life would be the poorer. I’ll bet most of you don’t know that it was mainly due to a gay British mathematician, Alan Turing, that Hitler was defeated. He invented a computer to decode the "Enigma" machine.’ The teacher turned his quiet gaze on Lance. ‘Turing suicided in his thirties because of harassment by people like you, Lance!’
Mr Rands gazed out the window for a couple of seconds before continuing. ‘Fortunately for the human race, thinking people are happy to accept the exceptional personalities, along with the gifts great minds can bring. Try to remember this: greatness can never inhabit the mind of a conformist. The two are mutually incompatible. Now, back to the Renaissance!’
As usual, Mr Rands had given food for thought and created associations with the works, making them easier to remember. For Robert it was an almost indigestible feast.
Mr Vaselly was sorting through papers when Robert arrived the following morning. He passed across earphones and a Walkman. ‘I’m a bit behind with paper work, so listen to the tape while I catch up.’
Sprawled on the beanbag to the left of the desk, Robert’s first thought was, not my music, but he listened on. A full orchestra was belting out complicated and busy rhythms, harmonies and tunes. He thought he recognised some of them. They went on and on without let up. He couldn’t stop his feet jiggling, a grin of pleasure splitting his face. Vaselly looked at the unselfconscious youth and wondered why intelligent, straightforward people were seldom good physical specimens. Most guys he knew were either clever and wimpish, or physical and slobs. Many had such narrow interests there was nothing to talk about once their topic was exhausted.
Robert seemed different. A pity he was a pupil. Bart Vaselly was in need of a friend. He’d had to work his way through both high school and University and, being a year younger than most of his fellow students, hadn’t learned to socialise. Life seemed too serious to waste on unproductive fun, although what his fellow students called fun, seldom appealed to him. Of course he’d never had any spare cash – not even for the occasional beer. In the last eighteen months he’d met no one he could relate to. The other teachers were either too old, married with kids, or... It was his own fault. He spent so much time on schoolwork, there was none left for socialising. That would have to change. He was becoming a hermit at twenty-two and if he wasn’t careful he’d never make friends. A yelp startled him.
‘Hey, Sir, this is cool! What is it? I feel as though I know it!’
‘Opera overtures by Rossini. Yeah, they are pretty up-beat. I’ve lots more of his stuff if you want to hear it?’
‘You’re on!’
They only managed a short session before it was time for assembly.
‘You’d better wear PE shorts and a T-shirt when Mr Nikelseer inspects; I’ll wear my tracksuit.’
Robert agreed; the headmaster was no Mr Pinot.
‘After that,’ Bart continued, ‘I won’t be able to keep coming to school every morning at seven-thirty. It’s getting too much.’
‘But…! This is the only thing that keeps me sane! Robert was speechless.
‘Me too, but I’ve no time to myself. I’m either asleep or at school.’
‘But… I can’t stop, I’ll turn to flab.’ Robert dragged his thoughts from the fog of frustration. ‘How about this? Instead of wrestling at school, we’ll do it at your place.’
Vaselly stared at him, expressionless.
Robert blushed. ‘Sorry, Sir. I’ve no right to invite myself to your place. But… how about if I help with… with boring things like checking supplies and gear, roll checking – there must be jobs I could do? I can come in during the week, take those jobs off your hands, and you’d have time for wrestling. At my place!’
‘The first time we met you did everything you could to get up my nose. Now you want us to visit each other.’
Robert blushed. ‘Yeah, well… I’m sorry about that. You see I hated school uniforms and having to do a compulsory activity, so I took it out on you. But I’m not really sorry,’ he added with a twinkle, ‘otherwise I’d never have got to know you and… and learned wrestling.’ He blushed again, worrying he’d gone too far.
‘I hardly went out of my way to be pleasant. Lots of kids delight in making teachers’ lives a misery, so I sometimes come over a bit strong. You could have been just another jerk.’
‘It’s sure effective. Most of the kids are shit-scared of you.’
‘And you?’
‘I like you.’ Robert blushed and stared at his feet. He’d never said that to anyone, not even his parents.
Of course, those three words didn’t express his true feelings. Those, he’d concealed under a jumble of thoughts, not daring to examine them closely. Since they’d started wrestling he couldn’t wait to get to school in the mornings. If he caught a glimpse of Mr Vaselly in the playground his heart leaped. He daydreamed about doing all sorts of other things with him, like hiking, camping, listening to music. He wondered how he could have imagined life was interesting before Mr Vaselly, even though this was the first time they’d spoken about any topic except wrestling. He knew nothing about the man, but couldn’t get enough of his company.
Bart Vaselly let loose the sigh of a man who realises that whatever decision he makes will be wrong. ‘I know I’ll live to regret this, but come to my place on Saturday. However! Only with your parents’ permission.’
They had missed assembly and were only just in time for first period. Robert relaxed in his seat and daydreamed. It was Tuesday. Wednesday lunchtime they would sort out some jobs so he could free up Vaselly’s time; Thursday after school was the headmaster’s inspection, and on Saturday they’d wrestle. He felt excited, organised and nervous. Like when he was a kid, so excited he could hardly bear the waiting for a birthday, a trip to the circus, or whatever new thing was on the horizon. He grinned to himself. He’d been grinning a lot lately.
Chapter Six
Wednesday was cold and wet. While dashing across to the gym a sudden squall sent Robert scurrying for the inadequate shelter of a covered-way between two blocks. Just as he was debating whether to wait for the rain to stop, or make a run for it, someone tugged at his arm. ‘Come in out of the wet.’
It was more of a cupboard than a room. Hooks on the walls held brooms, spades and shovels. A line marker, a bundle of sacks, and a tin labelled Poison occupied one corner, and shelves held tins of paint. The centre of the overcrowded space contained two school chairs on either side of a paint-splattered card-table. His rescuer was a kid of about fifteen; slim but not athletic, longish brown hair framing a smooth, dreamy face decorated with a black eye.
‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to thank you,’ he said in a surprisingly deep voice.
‘No need.’
‘But I want to.’
‘It was a pleasure. Why was he bashing you?’
‘Because I’m gay. He reckons all gays should be put down.’
‘Did he give you that shiner?’
‘Yep. Yesterday. Want a coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer he turned to the table, filled two cups from a thermos, and offered one to Robert, who discovered he was very pleased he’d stopped the bullying. The kid wasn’t a weak no-hoper, he had guts.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Murray Corso. And you’re Robert Karim,’ he grinned cheekily.
‘How does Lance know you’re gay?’
Murray gave his shoulders a flick, threw up his chin, fluffed his hair with the backs of his fingers, and with lightly pursed lips sent Robert a seductive, come-hither look.
Robert frowned and looked away.
‘Don’t look so embarrassed – it’s just a joke.’
‘Do you act like that all the time?’
‘I start every day determined to be tough and butch, but as soon as anything upsets me Priscilla takes over. I don’t know why. Most of the kids think it’s funny, but teachers hate me – especially the men.
‘Have you told your parents about the bashings?’
‘Dad said it serves me right. He’s ashamed of me, and Mum doesn’t care as long as she’s got money for the pokies.’
‘But it’s simple! Stop acting like that.’
‘I told you! I try every morning, but… it’s as though there’s someone inside me, waiting for an excuse to pop out.’
‘Yuk!’
‘Everyone has at least two sides to their character. You could act like that.’
‘No way!’
‘You’d prefer to act like Lance?’
‘You’re joking! He disgusts me a thousand times more than you do!’ Robert stopped, frowned, caught the flicker of hurt on Murray’s face, and blurted, ‘I’m sorry. You don’t really disgust me. It’s just that… I’d be frightened someone would bad-mouth me if I was seen with you. I can cope with being called a black bastard - but not queer.’
‘Don’t apologise, you’re like me - you have to act the way you do, because that’s the way you are. Gorgeous!’
Robert squirmed.
‘I’m only teasing. But I understand your reaction – I really do,’ he added in a voice from which lightness and banter had vanished. ‘Because I’ve started to despise myself.’ He looked away.
Robert was horrified. He’d sometimes wished he was different in some way, but never disliked himself. He wanted to put his arm round the kid’s shoulder and say he didn’t mind. But he did mind. He wasn’t strong enough to offer protection. He felt too vulnerable himself. Since the episode on the hill and the disastrous party, a nervous feeling had been building that he had to watch his back. He couldn’t afford to do anything obvious for Murray.
‘Have you been to the guidance counsellor?’
‘Don’t be stupid, you’ve met him.’
‘I’ll report Lance to the headmaster.’
Murray laughed sourly. ‘Save your breath. I understand… I do really. You’ve done more than enough already. Just talking to you has made me feel better.’ He smiled gaily, if with a rather brittle edge. ‘I’m over my bout of self-pity. If you ever feel like another cup of coffee, here’s where you’ll find me.’
‘Here?’
‘The groundsman feels sorry for me so I spend most lunch times and intervals in here. At least I get all my homework and reading done.’ He took Robert’s arm and led him to the door. ‘There are three holes at different angles so I can check if the coast’s clear.’ He looked out. ‘No one about, so scoot. And thanks.’
‘You’re late. Get caught in the rain?’
‘Yeah, had to shelter.’ Robert decided not to mention Murray and his problems. He didn’t want Mr Vaselly to think he was soft on gays and risk losing his friendship. ‘But I’m here now, ready, willing and waiting.’
He was rewarded with one of Bart’s dazzling smiles and found himself gaping stupidly back. How could this man make himself light up like that? Unnerved, he wondered what it meant. How could a smile make him feel so disoriented, so inadequate, so lucky to be on the receiving end? It made no sense.
Robert’ jobs included checking sports gear, keeping the PE noticeboard up to date, laying out equipment for the day and sorting left-behind clothing. He promised to get to school at eight o’clock each morning for his duties. Anything not completed he would do at lunchtime.
Immediately after school he swallowed his nerves and went to the front office to make an appointment to see the headmaster. Mr Nikelseer was standing beside the typist, finger jabbing at a page as he reminded her that she was employed to type accurately. Robert coughed discreetly.
‘What is it?’
‘If you please, Sir, I’d like to make an appointment to see you.
‘What is wrong with interval?’
‘It’s… ah… serious, Sir.’
‘I can spare a few minutes now.’ With one last cluck of irritation he led the way through to his study. It was a sombre, high-ceilinged room, carpeted in dull green with eight huge, leather-padded chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Motioning Robert to stand in front of his elaborately panelled desk, the headmaster sat, placed his elbows on the pristine blotter, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at Robert over gold-rimmed half-glasses. Robert felt naughty and stupid and wished he hadn’t come. Embarrassed by the continuing silence, he started talking; at first in a rush, then more relaxedly as the headmaster’s stillness gave him confidence.
‘It’s about Murray Corso, Sir. He is being mentally and physically assaulted by older boys, and I wondered if there was anything you could do about it?’
‘Assaulted?’
‘They call him names and bash him up.’
‘I know Murray Corso.’ The intonation suggested he would rather he didn’t. ‘I do not wish to sound devoid of compassion, indeed my heart goes out to those who suffer unjustly, but it is simply high spirits. That’s how boys learn what is expected of them. They will never become men by being molly-coddled and nursed through every little scrap.’
‘Today he has a black eye, and is very upset.’
‘Why does it concern you?’
‘I stopped a fight a few days ago, and today I saw him at interval. He hides most intervals and lunchtimes.’
‘Where?’
Robert’s jaw froze. ‘I… I don’t know, Sir.’
The headmaster eyeballed him for several long seconds before continuing quietly. ‘In this school we have duty teachers, a guidance counsellor, and other professional support networks to attend to pupil welfare. And as you are well aware, I am available every morning to discuss with students, anything that concerns them.’
‘But… those things aren’t working, Sir.’
Mr Nikelseer pushed himself to the back of his chair and fixed a bleak eye on the young upstart. His manner throughout the interview was mild. Anyone listening at the door would imagine a pleasant chat between benevolent headmaster and prized senior student. To the recipient of his words, however, they were imbued with menace and vague threat. ‘Are you setting yourself up as judge of the support we offer our pupils?’ Without pausing for a reply he continued, ‘Do you not think I suffer when my students suffer? Do you imagine I am so devoid of God’s love that I will not rescue the lost sheep? How dare you, after only a few weeks, criticise this establishment?’ An imperiously raised hand prevented protest. ‘Enough! Five weeks ago you refused to choose a sporting activity. Today you criticise what you know nothing about. I will overlook your impudence this time, but there had better be no recurrence if you wish to have a successful end to your schooling. Go now!’
Robert went: - tail between his legs for the second time in six weeks.
Mr Nikelseer sat very still, waiting for his heartbeats to slow. He was concerned about bullying, but he was equally concerned about two other things. Over the years he had laboriously constructed a support network, the success of which depended on dutiful teachers. These were in short supply. Many of his younger staff members appeared to resent being given orders, and policies which had worked perfectly for two decades were now openly criticised in staff meetings by youngsters too immature to have learned the value of stability. To them his years of experience counted as nothing. They insisted on being part of the decision-making process, but were reluctant to participate in the day to day implementation. He found himself spending intervals and lunchtimes simply checking on which teachers had not turned up for playground duty, so it wasn’t surprising, and hardly his fault, if the occasional bit of bullying was overlooked.
His other concern in the present situation was God. Not God himself, but his demands. Ian Nikelseer had promised to obey God in all things, and God had made it abundantly clear that the followers of Sodom and Gomorrah were to be wiped from the face of the earth. While he did feel pity for the Corso boy and others like him, he was determined to be an obedient mouthpiece and soldier for Christ, whatever the cost! ‘Karim.’ As the headmaster whispered the name he suffered an involuntary shudder.
After dinner, Monique settled herself in the bedroom sorting out stuff for St. Vincent de Paul, while Robert and Sanjay played chess rather badly in front of the fire. They both felt they ought to be able to play, it being a game requiring intelligence, but it also required forward planning and cunning, and an ability to foresee the consequences of their moves. These were traits the Karim males did not have in abundance, their highly developed intuitive skills not providing an adequate substitute. The average game lasted about ten minutes and the loser of this one had to take out the rubbish. Not wanting to seem too keen, Robert had waited until now to broach his two pressing problems.
‘Dad, Mr Vaselly hasn’t time to teach me wrestling at school any more, but I talked him into giving me lessons at his place on Saturdays. He agreed on condition that you and Mum are happy about it. What do you reckon?’
‘I was under the impression you had only taken up the sport to make a nuisance of yourself.’
‘Yeah. Well now I really like it and Vaselly’s a great guy!’ He hoped he hadn’t put too much emphasis on great. There was no visible reaction from his father, but that didn’t mean anything.
‘Let’s see what your mother has to say. Monique, can you come in here for a minute?’
His mother poked her head out of the bedroom. ‘Can’t you two do anything for yourselves? You want my legs to become short, fetching and carrying like an old mule.’ She drifted in, leaned over the back of Sanjay’s chair and puffed warm breath over his ripening bald spot before kissing it delicately. She enjoyed pretending to be the slave of her two lusty men. If she was, it was her own choice and she would have had it no other way. They explained the situation and her eyes lit up.
‘Excellent! We invite Mr Vaselly for dinner, and if we find him sympathetic, you may go. Isn’t that so, Sanjay?’
He nodded in amused resignation. Cooking was one of Monique's passions, conversation another.
‘That’ll be great, I want you both to meet him. I’m sure you’ll like him, but be nice! You can be a bit intimidating sometimes.’
‘Relax, chérie, we will be the souls of dispassion.’
‘Discretion,’ corrected Sanjay automatically.
Monique, crossing her fingers that Robert’s recent spate of good humour would last, returned to clothes sorting, head already filling with plans for Friday’s meal.
‘There’s another thing I’d like your opinion on, Dad.’
‘And what’s that?’ Sanjay settled back with relief, the game was not going his way.
Robert gave as detailed a description as he could of the Murray Corso saga, including a word for word account of the abortive interview with the headmaster.
Sanjay gazed at his son incredulously. ‘Are you sure you’ve got this right? You haven’t left out some all-important detail?’
‘No, that’s exactly how it went. I felt an utter fool. Was I really impudent? I was only trying to help. I’m sure Murray’s desperate and I couldn’t think what else to do. The guidance counsellor’s useless.’
‘If it makes you feel any better I’m proud of you. There aren’t many people prepared to stick their necks out to help others, especially ones they neither know nor particularly like!’
‘Yeah. OK… I may have given you a bit of a wrong impression there. I actually quite like Murray, it’s just that I’d die of embarrassment if anyone saw us together when he was acting like a girl. I feel a bit rotten about that.’
‘Don’t tell your mother or she’ll invite him to dinner! I’ll give it some thought, but meanwhile, keep out of it. I’ve never believed in human sacrifice and can see no point in you jeopardising your schooling for some kid who makes a fool of himself. I know,’ he added in response to Robert’s look, ‘he can’t help it. But you don’t need problems now with only a few weeks till your Course Skills Test.
‘Sounds sensible.’
Sanjay lost the game and took out the rubbish.
Thursday afternoon arrived warm and sunny. Respectable in loose white shorts, T-shirt and immaculate tennis shoes and socks, Robert faced Vaselly in his grey tracksuit on the mat. The headmaster had impatiently refused the offer of a chair, preferring to remain standing awkwardly at one side of the room, gazing in bored abstraction through the open windows to where a game of soccer was in progress.
His own school days had afforded many opportunities to observe the lucky ones to whom friends and friendships were an easy and natural part of life. Some friendships, he had noticed, are open to all comers, while others are exclusive. Of those, he remained bitterly envious. He glanced at the two young men. What right had they to be so relaxed together? The way they set out the mats, smiled, anticipated each other’s movements as though possessing a secret language, was totally excluding. The confident pleasure they took in each other’s company was an affront to decency.
Schools could not function if pupils and teachers felt free to treat each other as equals. Education and learning were the result of discipline! Not some modern nonsense of friendly osmosis. Discipline required respect. The only thing engendered by familiarity was contempt. Dizziness made him grasp the window frame for support. He took slow breaths to calm the nausea, impatient for deliverance.
Confident they were presenting a model teacher-pupil relationship, the wrestlers demonstrated the stances and holds Robert had learned, stopping occasionally so Mr Vaselly could explain the finer points. After about ten, sweat-filled minutes they stood expectantly before him.
‘Is that it?’ the headmaster asked with the air of someone who has been promised a banquet and served a hamburger. ‘You are obviously pleased with your progress, but I fail to understand why anyone would want to make such a… a display of themselves. Nor,’ he continued, lip curled in distaste, ‘do I think it seemly for a teacher and his pupil to indulge in such close physical contact.’
It suddenly dawned on Robert what the headmaster was getting at. A pulse hammered in his neck and his already sweaty body flushed anew. He risked a glance at his teacher, who was staring out the window; jaws tight, a white line round his lips.
‘May I remind you, Headmaster,’ Mr Vaselly said tersely, ‘that it was you who insisted on wrestling in the first place?’
‘I did no such thing!’ Nikelseer retorted. ‘I said it appeared to be an interesting idea, but you were inexperienced, and we could not expect too much from you!’
Bart started to protest.
The headmaster held up his hand. ‘Enough! It is a totally unsuitable activity and I cannot permit you to continue.’
Even after eighteen months of the man, Bart hadn’t expected such a put down. He felt ashamed, dirty, guilty of nameless sins, and certainly didn’t trust himself to speak.
Robert was better prepared. Not altogether trusting the headmaster’s offer of forgiveness, he had realised that if Nikelseer stopped the wrestling but Robert continued going to the gym every day, questions might be asked. Perhaps the chess was paying dividends.
‘I understand, Sir,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Will you instead approve of my using the gymnasium equipment to increase my fitness?’
This was not quite the crushed response Mr Nikelseer had anticipated, but at least they weren’t going to argue. ‘Fine, fine,’ he snapped, ‘Mr Vaselly will see to that. But no more… wrestling!’ With a final snort of disapproval he hastened up the stairs, anxious to return to a realm in which he felt more at ease.
‘What’s all this balls about understanding and asking to use gym equipment?’ Bart was in danger of letting his fury with the headmaster be transferred to his protégé.
‘Don’t get mad. It’s just that I’ve told anyone who asked that I’ve been doing a fitness course. No one knows about the wrestling. I was sort of expecting this response because of a run-in I had with him yesterday.’
‘What about? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Can’t you see where this leaves me? The man I most despise now thinks I’m some sort of disgusting pervert, while you come out smelling of roses.’
‘Sir! I’m sorry! I didn’t want to worry you with my stupidities - especially as he said he’d forget about it if I didn’t do it again. I only half trusted him and that’s why I was ready with a get-away option. I wouldn’t do anything to put you in the shit. But I reckon he already had it in for you before I came on the scene.’ Robert wanted to grab his wrestling partner by the shoulders and shake understanding into him. He had only been trying to help. It was as bad as trying to protect Murray. Everything he did seemed to go wrong.
‘What was your row with that… person, about?’ The tone was still hurting.
Robert repeated everything, as he had to his father.
‘You bloody idiot! You know what he’s like! Murray even told you to leave it alone! What did you think he was going to say? "Thank you for pointing out that I do nothing about the bullying in my school?" Why not just get a cross and crucify yourself in the quadrangle? You have to stick your neck out don’t you? Making a fuss at the beginning of term, involving me in your crazy scheme, and now inviting yourself to my place for wrestling! Well you can forget about that! If I spend any more time with you I’ll end up deranged!’ He had been shouting, so the silence that followed was deafening. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.
Robert sagged onto the mats; mind a blank. He hadn’t passed on the invitation to the meal, thank goodness. Imagine he’d had that thrown back in his face! Excitement and anticipation evaporated. Dejection weighed on every muscle and bone as he put away the mats, changed back into school uniform and mounted the stairs. At the top he turned and looked back, still not believing what had happened.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Swinging round he was surprised to see Vaselly. A shake of the head stopped him from launching into excuses.
Closing the door, Bart said softly, ‘Sorry about that. I sometimes go off the handle when confronted by pig-ignorance and crass stupidity. I didn’t mean any of what I said. You behaved commendably with that Corso kid, and were right not running to me with every little tale of woe. I respect you for it. It took me ten seconds to realise I was wrong and the rest of the time to pluck up the courage to apologise.’ He gave a shame-faced grin. ‘Am I forgiven?’
Robert laughed with relief. ‘No worries! I was already at a loose end, wondering what to tell Mum. She’s invited you to dinner tomorrow night to tell you they’ll be delighted to let me study wrestling with the master. So, Teach, tomorrow you can give me a lift home after school.’
Bart Vaselly searched Robert’s face for deceit, and found none. He wanted to hug this young man who had so enlivened his increasingly drab life, who seemed incapable of meanness, selfishness and self-importance. But he didn’t dare. He had already come close to losing something precious and he wasn’t going to risk it again. ‘You can’t keep calling me Mr Vaselly and Sir. My name’s Bart.’ His heart missed a beat. First names breeched his barricade. The relationship had shifted. They’d become equals. Doubt seeped into his belly and he began to sweat.
Unaware of the magnitude of the gesture, Robert clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good-one, Bart. See you tomorrow then. Cheers.’ He was up the stairs and away before Bart could change his mind.
Chapter Seven
At assembly on Friday morning the headmaster gazed across the lectern at the assembled pupils while collecting his thoughts. After an inauspicious start, his headmastership of the school had blossomed in the wake of academic and sporting success, and for fifteen years he had filled the staffroom with kindred spirits. But things had changed. Not only had older teachers been replaced by a new, questioning breed who considered both him and his values irrelevant, but a new morality had swept the land. Marriage had been declared redundant along with fathers - a quarter of his students came from single parent homes. Nudity, explicit sexuality and violence ruled television. Members of Parliament were daily exposed as corrupt, abortion was rife, sodomy was legal, and profit-at-any-cost had become the new religion.
In vain had he protested, written hundreds of letters, inveighed against moral decline at meetings, harangued staff and pupils, renounced earthly pleasures and devoted himself to spreading the message of God’s love. Each day the world sank deeper into sin. Each day became more difficult to endure, each day his health crumbled along with falling standards of attainment, behaviour, language and dress.
A few years previously he had started a Bible-studies group in an attempt to stem the tide of decay, but all the pupils except one – a lad for whom he felt a debt of gratitude out of all proportion to his meagre contribution - had deserted him. Crushed by failure, fearful of the future, fighting a hopeless rearguard defence of his values, Mr Nikelseer peered forth.
In the gallery, senior students were shuffling. Someone tittered in the body of the hall. He frowned for silence. Younger staff members shifted uncomfortably in their seats behind him. Mr Rands gazed across in despair, the old man was getting worse. Mr Nikelseer cleared his throat. When he spoke it was with great intensity, but his voice was cool, the tone judgmental, the effect alienating.
‘All my actions are tempered by Christian love. That means I try to guide you along the paths of righteousness. That means I try to prevent you from doing something if it is wrong! It is not love when parents fail to discipline their child and give it everything it asks for. It can never be love to permit a child behave in a way that will doom him to a life of misery and loneliness!
‘Every pupil has the right to the best education this school can offer, without fear. But rights demand responsibility. Each must play their own part well, and leave others to play theirs. Someone came to my office recently, asserting that there is bullying in this school. Naturally, I was shocked. How can we hold up our heads in pride if such rumours are promulgated? I have no tolerance for bullying, coercion, or intimidation of pupils who are striving for goodness.
‘For a school to function properly, students must study and teachers must teach! The two occupations are mutually dependent yet profoundly separate. When the ignorant imagine they can teach the informed – chaos ensues.’
The school shuffled in baffled silence while their headmaster extracted the leather-bound bible from the shelf in the back of the lectern, placed it ceremoniously on top, opened it carefully, removed his spectacles, cleaned them on a white handkerchief, replaced them slowly, cleared his throat, and read:
‘For the time will come
when they will not endure sound
doctrine:
but after their own lusts
shall they heap to themselves
teachers,
having itchy ears.
And they shall turn away their
ears from the truth,
and shall be turned unto fables.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside the Deli on the corner.’ Robert had popped his head into Bart’s office on his way back to class after checking the sports gear. They tried to avoid each other when working in the gym; no point in setting tongues wagging. Lots of kids were always milling around, preparing for fitness tests, practising gymnastics, lifting weights, shooting goals, or simply mucking about.
‘Right. Let’s say four o’clock. If I haven’t finished by then, stuff it. I’m spending too much time on this job.’
It was four o’clock exactly when Bart’s elderly Datsun pulled up. With a surreptitious scan of the streets to confirm no one was watching, Robert slipped quickly into the car. Inside, every removable thing had been stripped, carpets, sun-visors, glove-box lid, rear seats, headlining. As they drove off something rattled ominously in the dash.
Robert sniggered. ‘What a bomb.’
‘One complaint and you walk. Hyacinth’s given me faithful service for three years. In two weeks he’ll be as good as new.’
‘I thought Hyacinth was a woman.’
‘The original was a Spartan prince, Apollo’s lover. Zephyrus, Apollo’s enemy, killed Hyacinth. The flower sprang from his blood.’
Robert scanned Bart's face to see if he was serious or taking the mickey. He was concentrating on driving so Robert took a gamble and responded seriously. ‘That’s sad - and beautiful in a way.’
‘Love stories often are. We’re going to my place first. I’m not going to meet your parents smelling like a possum. I don’t shower at school any more after the rash of tinea that’s done the rounds.’
Robert groaned at the pun.
‘Anyway, you’ll have to find out where I live if you’re coming tomorrow. Two o’clock?’
‘Fine. Is your house as good as your car?’
‘Cheeky sod! I want to take something, Do your parents like wine?’
‘They hardly ever drink it.’ Robert sucked his lip in thought. ‘Tell you what, they’re both crazy about rum truffles from the cake shop near us, but Mum refuses to buy them because she’s afraid of getting fat, and Dad thinks it’s beneath his dignity to go shopping. So that’d be good. I like them too.’
Bart’s third floor apartment was in the front section of two identical three-storeyed blocks, joined by concrete walkways around an open well that gave light to the basement car park. Carefully avoiding the bits of Hyacinth’s interior that were stacked against the walls, Robert edged out of the garage and looked up at the three tiers of iron balustrades above. ‘You’d think this type of place would have lock-up garages.’
‘They probably thought the cars would be safe enough, tucked under here.’
‘Wouldn’t bet my life on it.’
Access to the apartments was via an internal staircase, dark even in daytime. None of the doors were open; all had a wide-angle visitor-viewer set into their solid panelling.
‘Thrill-seeker’s paradise,’ commented Robert. ‘Anyone could be waiting on these stairs to zonk you if they had a mind to. Aren’t there any lights?’
‘Supposed to be, but the switches were recently replaced by heat-sensors and they keep playing up. We all carry torches if it’s dark. Nothing’s happened so far.’ Bart leaped ahead three steps at a time, unlocked the door and performed an exaggerated bow. ‘Welcome to Chez Bart.’
Inside was nothing like the bleak concrete stairwell. A tiny carpeted vestibule gave onto a long, narrow lounge with an enormous sliding window completely filling the end wall. Robert slid it open and stepped out onto the balcony. ‘Grouse view!’ he called over his shoulder, gazing at the panorama of city, river, and hills. The low afternoon sun illuminated the interior right back to the small dining area and kitchenette.
A window above the sink-bench looked onto the common area, accessed through the back door. Robert let himself out and prowled the concrete walkways, decorated with dying pot plants, wheelie bins and communal clotheslines. He peered over the handrail to the garages below. A tickle ran down his spine as Bart stood behind him. ‘Can you get up here from the outside?’
Bart’s breath ruffled the hairs on Robert’s neck as he pointed over his shoulder. ‘The stair-head’s over there, but you have to go right around the back of the block and through a security door. It’s supposed to be kept locked but never is. Only one of the residents owns her place, the rest are all tenants - mainly Uni students. They don’t take much care.’ He turned away. ‘That’s the grand tour, so come inside and make yourself at home while I shower and change. Help yourself to a drink if you can find anything.’
Robert filled a glass of water and turned to survey the living area. The pale green carpet was thick, clean and new, and all the furniture was expensive, modern and functional. He tried all the chairs for comfort, then studied the paintings. Two were popular impressionist prints, the others original oils. One, a semi-abstract arrangement of warm pastel oranges, blues and yellows, reminded him of the sea. The other featured mysterious trees silhouetted against a luminous, red-gold mountain and a bronzing sky. Shapes flitted through the vegetation, suggesting strange animal life. In a gloomy clearing, two naked figures wrestled violently, like Pollaiuolo’s ten nudes.
Hearing the shower splash, he poked his head into the bedroom. A double bed occupied half the room, and tables either side each had their own lamp. Built-in wardrobes with floor to ceiling mirrored doors filled one wall. Opposite the window was a large coloured photograph of two wrestlers locked in combat. Everything was neat. Not even a pair of jocks lying around. He lay on the bed and found he could see himself in the mirror. The shower stopped. He leaped up, peeped into the other bedroom - a minuscule affair used as office and storeroom - and was stretched out on the sofa in the lounge sipping his water as Bart emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. ‘If you want to use the loo, it’s in there,’ he offered as he went past.
The bathroom was tiny, a washroom really, just space for a toilet, washbasin and shower. An extractor fan was running. Robert sniffed the moist air, frowned, picked up the discarded clothes, brought them to his nose and smiled his recognition of the warm, male odour. So that’s how dogs know who’s in the house, he thought, both puzzled and amused by what he’d just done.
Back in the living room he browsed through the CD’s. Mozart, Rossini, Weber, Schubert, Vivaldi. He had a bit to learn about Bart’s musical tastes. He looked up as Bart entered. ‘Hey, you look great! Love your threads. I’ve never seen you in anything except tracksuit and shorts.’
Bart managed to look both pleased and embarrassed as he brushed an imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his white shirt, whose Russian collar was embroidered with a line of blue and gold leaves. Dark blue, full-cut trousers gathered at the waist with a drawstring, made his already slender waist look ready to snap. Dark-blue suede boots completed the ensemble.
‘Jeeze you look young. At school you’ve got two bad-tempered lines above your nose. They’ve gone. You look younger than Grant Fahey in Chemistry. Mum and Dad will never believe you’re a teacher. Why don’t you wear this gear to school?’
Bart flushed, wondering if he should change into something that made him look older. But if he looked too old, Robert’s parents might have doubts. They’d bloody well have doubts anyway. The whole plan was stupid – stupid and dangerous. Teachers should avoid pupils after school. Nikelseer had made that abundantly clear. He couldn’t remember a single teacher who hadn’t spoken to him as though he was a sub-species. What a pathetic failure, resorting to school kids for company! Imagine the other teachers found out! He’d back out before it was too late.
Robert was rattling on. ‘No, it’d be wasted on those clunk-heads. Give your clothes to me when you’re sick of them. I’ll bet you go to nightclubs and discos?’
‘I never have time, I hate going alone, and I’m no good at picking people up, so I haven’t been out anywhere for ages.’
‘Half the girls at school have the hots for you.’
‘I’m not a chicken stealer,’ Bart countered far too loudly. Before Robert could cotton on he continued quickly, ‘Apropos of that, I’m having second thoughts. You don’t want to hang out with an old man like me, and I’m a hundred percent certain your parents won’t want you to either. It’s just too crazy and…’ he shrugged helplessly and fell silent.
Robert’s eyes widened. ‘You’re having me on! You can’t do that, I’ve been looking forward all week. Don’t be stupid! Too bloody old! What’re you on about? You’re only coming to meet the olds so I can wrestle here. We’re not getting married or anything!’ He stared intently at Bart, who looked away. ‘Have I annoyed you? Was it something I said? Dad says I talk too much. The guys in the team used to get pissed off at the way I go on and on. They were always telling me to shut up or they’d strangle me. It must be me. Tell me what it is! Tell me why, Bart. The real reason. Not that you’re too old. Too old for what? I don’t get it!’
‘I’m cautious about gossip. When teachers take students home, tongues wag. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But there’s nothing to gossip about.’
‘Gossip needs neither substance nor truth to destroy its victims.’
‘I see, we live our lives to please others?’
‘No! Camouflaged, we weave a path between enemy lines.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’
‘Your parents?’
‘Wait till you’ve met them before deciding.’
Bart shook his head and stared out the window. High School had been a torment from day one, when the skinny little boy (whose besotted mother kept his blond hair long and curly) had been labelled powder-puff by a small group of older boys. In vain did his classmates tell him to ignore the taunts. Sticks and stones wouldn’t have upset him, it was names that hurt. He’d sweated over his body, cut his hair short and prepared to do battle, but there was nothing to fight. Name-callers tossed their barbs on the air, then strolled on. Sometimes it would die down, but just when he felt he could relax, ‘Powder-Puff’ would echo along the corridor.
Three senior students once got a head-lock on him in the toilets, dragged down his trousers, shoved the fire-hose nozzle up his bum and turned it on before racing out laughing wildly. His self-esteem dwindled to nothing. He didn’t dare tell his parents. It was obviously his fault, but he had no idea how to stop doing whatever it was that sparked the abuse. When the older boys left, louts from other classes took up the taunts. Powder-puff became poof, poofter and faggot.
University had been a relief so profound that for weeks he felt as if he was floating. Only once had the numbing fear returned. During his first year he heard ‘Powder-Puff’ drifting across the grass. His guts sank and froze. He wanted to vomit. If it happened one more time, he promised himself, he’d quit Uni and head interstate. Life wasn’t worth that! It had never happened again, but the dread remained because he still had no idea what it was that set off the teasing in the first place. He faced Robert, voice tight with apprehension. ‘OK, but I doubt if your parents will approve.’
‘In that gear you’re odds on. Is this place yours?’
‘Nothing’s mine except the sound system, CD’s, and the two paintings. The unit belongs to a retired couple living on acreage on the Sunshine Coast. They keep it in case they want to spend a night in town. I usually visit them in the holidays. Not bad, is it?’
‘The sort of place I’d like. Did you pose for the wrestlers in the painting?
Bart nodded, a half-smile on his lips.
‘And that’s you wrestling in the photo in the bedroom?’
‘Made a quick tour did you?’
‘You can watch yourself wank in the mirror from your bed.’
‘Cheeky bugger! What makes you think I wank?’
‘A shot in the dark.’
‘Good one.’
Fifteen minutes later they were entering the Karim kitchen, clutching a gift-wrapped, dozen rum-truffles.
‘Hi, Mum.’
Monique was chopping onions. She wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Mum, Bart - Bart, Mum.’
‘How do you do, Bart.’
‘Hello, Mrs Karim.’
They shook hands and Monique shot a questioning look. ‘You didn’t tell me you were bringing one of your school friends, dear. Not that it matters, there’s plenty. But when is Mr Vaselly arriving?’
Embarrassed smile from Bart, loud hoot from Robert.
‘This is Mr Vaselly.’
‘Oh, I am sorry. How silly of me, you look so young. Please do not take offence. I don’t know why, but I was expecting someone older.’
‘I told her what a terror you are at school.’
‘You look more like classmates than student and teacher. You must call me Monique; it might make me feel younger.’ She flapped her hands. ‘Ouf! I’m flustering. The meal is not ready to be left on its own, so you two amuse yourselves. Take a shower, Robert, you are not smelling beautiful and look a crow scare.’ - Monique was definitely flustered.
‘Come and see what a mess my bedroom’s in. You won’t believe how neat Bart’s place is, Mum, nothing out of place. It’s a beaut unit, just the sort I want.’
‘Not yet I hope.’
‘You never know your luck.’
Robert’s room formed the western leg of a U made by the living area and the rest of the house. It jutted into the garden, collecting afternoon sun. Being behind the garage it was quiet. Presumably designed as guest quarters, it had its own toilet and tiny shower recess, as well as an outside door. It was no messier than the usual eighteen year-old’s bedroom, everything out ready in case. Bart sat on the spare bed and stared out at the garden while Robert showered and dressed.
‘I like the way your mother pronounces your name.’
‘Yeah. It’s a French name too.’
‘Sounds more…I don’t know - gentle and civilised than rob-it.’
‘Shows how names can mislead.’
‘Perhaps. Nice room, excellent house. You’re lucky.’
‘Don’t I know it. We only moved here at the end of last term. You should have seen our last house, real box of a place in a treeless, bleak outer suburb. Deathsville man. This is my style, I love it.’
‘Civilised.’
‘Ultra.’
Bart’s nervousness had returned with a vengeance. The parents would definitely suspect him of ulterior motives. At school, Robert carried things along in his easy, self-confident way. But here! They were obviously well off. Monique was foreign, good-looking and intelligent. He had no experience of this sort of family and was overcome by shyness. He’d probably be turfed out on his ear as soon as the father came home. ‘What does your father do?’
‘Lectures, and imports things from India and sells them. I don’t really know much about it. Guess I ought to.’
They let themselves out the side door.
‘Isn’t it beaut having a garden? Our last one was just pebbles and bark chips. The block was so small there wasn’t room for anything after the house was stuck on it. No privacy. These older places have huge blocks. This is at least twelve hundred square metres.’ Robert knew he was babbling, but couldn’t stop himself. ‘Do you know the names of the plants? I don’t know any.’
At last, a way to shine. Mrs Vaselly buried her anger and sadness in the garden and had passed her love of it on to her son. They would walk around it in the evenings noting how this or that plant was growing, whether it should be pruned, wondering if it needed transplanting. Mostly they would simply admire the colours and textures, enjoying their time together. He was the only one in the family who shared her interest. Suitably impressed by Bart’s ability to identify every tree, shrub and flower by its botanical name, Robert led them to the flagstone terrace fronting the lounge and dining room. French-doors were open, spilling a cosy glow and delicious odour into rapidly cooling air.
‘Come in and close the doors before the humidity gets in. Would you like beer, fruit-juice or tea, Bart?’
‘A fruit-juice would be perfect, thanks.’
They had just settled themselves when Sanjay arrived. Bart leaped nervously to his feet and was introduced. Robert’s father showed no surprise at the visitor’s youth, merely made the usual polite noises before taking himself off to freshen up.
The meal was a masterpiece. Soup, croutons, green salad garnished with Monique’s own dressing, vegetables served separately to guard their delicate flavours, and patties in crumbled cashews with rice and a spicy sauce. A soufflé was followed by cheese, fruit, coffee and a liqueur. After two hours of intelligent food and conversation, Bart was seduced. Sanjay refused to be drawn on the question of age.
‘I remember years ago being told that when policemen start looking like boys, you’re getting old. I suppose it also applies to teachers. I refuse to see anyone as young. As far as I’m concerned, Bart, you and I are the same age.’
Bart wondered what it would’ve been like to have a father who loved him instead of belting him; who was interested in him, wanted to see his school reports, to know what he’d been doing. It had come as a surprise to discover that other kids loved their fathers and wanted to spend time with them. ‘I can’t remember the last time I felt so at ease,’ he said with a smile.
Sanjay nodded. ‘I was thinking the same thing. Most people seem to be trying to prove something, to impress, or have a chip on their shoulder. We are simple people.’
‘Then I must be too.’
‘Of course. We are all simply marvellous and dying to know more about you. Are you from Brisbane? What is your family like? Do you see them often? Have you any brothers and sisters? How is your mother?’ Monique could out-babble her son.
‘Mum! Cut the inquisition!’
‘No it’s fine, Robert. Your parents have a right to know. It is a bit strange that you’re hanging out with someone so much older.’
‘Not at all!’ interrupted Sanjay abruptly. ‘Robert’s a creature of egregious enthusiasms and has always had acquaintances of all ages. It’s healthy! I was the same.’ He took hold of his wife’s hand. ‘Friends, on the other hand, are like hens’ teeth. Too rare to restrict to people your own age. Monique is five years younger than me, was my first real friend, and will probably be my last. Lots of acquaintances and one or two close friends – that’s the ideal. Your age difference might seem a lot now, but in a few years it’ll be nothing. Also, no offence, but despite your serious mien, you seem young… and inexperienced.
‘Serious mien,’ Bart repeated with a wry grin. ‘That’s a polite way of saying dull and boring. But you’re right. I’ve had to fend for myself and I guess that left no time for carefreeness, if there’s such a word.’ He looked up, blushed, and continued. ‘I went to Uni when I was seventeen, took a three year course to become a PE teacher and started teaching last year. I feel as though I’ve never been a teenager. Although I’m four years older than Robert, I feel the same age inside. Stupid isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ defended Monique. ‘I’m still eighteen. I suspect everyone is.’
‘Not me, I’m sixteen,’ put in Sanjay. ‘But how do you mean you had to fend for yourself? Are you an orphan?’
Bart laughed. ‘No, I’ve two sisters and a brother. Seventeen, nineteen and twenty-one, evenly spaced. Dad works in a flourmill, Mum’s a housewife. There’s never been much money and Dad reckoned I should fend for myself when I turned fifteen, so things got tight and it was a bit hard to keep on at school and finish studying. But I got there. Mum loves gardening, my youngest sister’s still at school - year twelve - like Robert. The others have jobs. That’s about it.’
‘So we could be brothers. I knew it.’
‘You’ve done well.’ Sanjay nodded his head in approval, then frowned slightly before continuing carefully. ‘’We are perfectly happy, Bart, for Robert to practice wrestling at your place, although I can’t imagine how you managed to interest him in it. But, are you certain you have the time to waste on him?’ Sanjay not only sounded, but also looked incredulous as he added, ‘Surely a good looking young man like you has something better to do on a Saturday afternoon?’
Bart blushed. He didn’t have anything better to do! What an admission. He began to sweat. This was turning into the inquisition he had dreaded. They were suspicious. How the hell to answer? Resisting the temptation to spout altruistic nonsense about it being a teacher’s duty to foster good students, he lurched into unadorned fact. ‘The truth is, I’ve made no friends in the last eighteen months, and all work and no play’s made Bart a dull boy. It’ll be good to have someone else’s company on a weekend,’ he risked a joke, ‘even if it is just a snotty nosed kid.’
Robert clipped him over the ear and Bart laughed with relief at having admitted his failure.
‘Then that is excellent,’ said Monique, who did not like to be in anyone’s debt. ‘Everyone is happy.’
The conversation became desultory until it was time to go. Robert walked Bart out to the car and leaned in the window. ‘Thanks for coming. See you tomorrow after lunch. My parents really like you, I can tell... And so do I!’ he called over his shoulder as he ran back into the house.
Finding sleep elusive, Monique and Sanjay lay talking in the dark.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Sanni?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘I wondered why he had been so… vivant lately.’
‘A welcome change after the last couple of years.’
‘Yes, but what should we do?’
‘There’s nothing to do.’
‘But he’s in love.’
‘They both are.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Unlikely. He was behaving too naturally.’
‘Then it will probably never happen.’ She sighed her relief.
‘What?’
‘It.’
‘Something always happens. Sometimes it’s good – sometimes bad. Usually a bit of both.’
‘We must dissuade Robert.’ A note of urgency.
‘Why?’
‘It’s just hero-worship and… and it is not natural.’
‘It is for him, Monique.’
‘You mean?’
‘No one chooses their sexual orientation.’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘Not in the least,’ Sanjay replied with slightly less fervour than he would have liked. He was unable to guess what his wife was thinking. She sounded uncharacteristically equivocal so he announced as positively as he could manage, ‘All I know is, I love Robert and only desire his happiness.’
‘So do I!’ Slightly defensive.
‘Life is difficult enough. I do not intend to add to my son’s burden. Does it worry you?’
Monique gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘Au contraire, chérie, I’d be jealous of a daughter-in-law.’
‘But a son-in-law would be acceptable?’
‘If he is beau, fort, intelligent et grand.’
‘Madam! Keep your lusts at bay.’
‘With you beside me? Impossible.’
‘Flatteuse.’
‘So… we approve of the wrestling?’
‘We already have. We should congratulate ourselves.’
‘For what?’
‘Our boy has chosen well.’
‘Even though Bart’s older and… and a teacher?’
‘Robert’s eighteen. He’s no longer a boy, he’s a man! There’s only four and a bit years between them and I wouldn’t mind betting they’re both still virgins.’
Monique was shocked. ‘Mais, c’est impossible, such a handsome young man.’
‘Even so.’
‘Is Robert’s… something to do with us?’
‘Not according to the books. Too late to worry now, anyway.’
‘So… we will always love and support him.’
‘Of course.’
Only half convinced by their own confident assertions, with almost fearful gratitude they tremulously reconfirmed the extraordinary gift of their love for each other before drifting into restless sleep.
Chapter Eight
As soon as lunch was over Robert set off at a cracking pace, arriving at the units forty minutes early. Suddenly shy, he scouted around and discovered the security door to the courtyards. It was ajar, so he slipped through, pulled it shut behind him, bounded up the three flights of stairs and, having by now decided he didn’t care if it was childish to arrive so early, knocked on the kitchen door. An elderly head poked from the opposite entrance, demanding his name, what he wanted, and how he had got there.
‘Hi. I’m Robert. I’m visiting my cousin, Bart, and stupidly locked myself out.’ The words slipped out without conscious thought and Robert wondered if he was becoming an incorrigible liar. His innocent grin failed to soften the old woman’s tersely drawn lips, so he burbled on. ‘My mother says I must be a bit soft in the head, always doing things like that. ‘
Her lips twitched
‘Bart’s lucky to have someone as security conscious as you. Most people don’t care about others.’
The woman left the shelter of her doorway to join the young man at the railing, a canny, crinkling of the eyes indicating she had taken his measure.
‘Isn’t it a great view?’ As usual, Robert’s smile, easy charm and apparently random non-sequiturs did the trick. By the time Bart opened the door to see if there really had been someone knocking, they were friends.
‘Bart, you should look after your cousin better, he got locked out. Why have you never introduced us before?’
Robert leaped in. ‘My family’s only just moved to the area.’ One truthful statement at least. ‘Sorry, Bart. I let the door close and couldn’t get back in.’ He turned with a wink and Bart didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘I hope he hasn’t been a nuisance, Hazel. Robert’s the black sheep of the family.’
No one registered the political incorrectness of the remark.
Inside, the furniture had been shoved to one end, the CD player was emitting the tinkle of a mandolin, and sunlight spread a golden glow.
‘Glad you got on with Hazel, she’s better than a watchdog, but going to get into trouble one day. She’s fearless - accosts anyone suspicious.’ He looked at the clock and smiled. ‘You’re early.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I feel stupid coming more than half an hour before we said, but it seemed silly to just sit around and wait.’
‘I agree.’
‘I ran over, only took fifteen minutes.’
‘Well done. What...’ Bart paused uncertainly before continuing in a rush. ‘What did your parents say about me after I left?’
Robert pulled a long face and shook his head. ‘It was pretty awful actually. They bundled me back into the lounge and demanded to know what the hell I thought I was doing. You know, your being so much older and everything. They said you were only after my body and I wasn’t to see you again. I had to sneak out after lunch or they’d have stopped me.’ He looked up sadly at Bart’s suddenly grey face and startled eyes. ‘Hey! Only kidding! Dad said you couldn’t come back because Mum fancied you and he was jealous. She said you were quite the nicest man she had met in Australia, but you were only interested in me, so Dad was safe. Then he laughed and said that was OK and you’d be welcome back as often as you wanted. Happy?’
‘Is that really what they said? About being only interested in you?’
‘Yep.’
‘And they didn’t mind?’
‘What’s the matter? Disappointed it’s me here and not Mum?’
‘Of course not but - I don’t know.’
‘Who does? Who cares? Let’s get wrestling.’ Robert looked down at empty hands. ‘Blast! I forgot to bring my gear. Got anything?’
‘You’re hopeless. Luckily, I’ve spare shorts in the bedroom.’
‘Tell you what,’ Robert said as though he’d only just thought of it, ‘I’ve been doing a bit of reading about the original Olympics. All sports were done in the nude. Even wrestling! Let’s do that, be classical wrestlers. You can be Hercules and I’ll be Antaeus. We studied a sculpture of them the other day. What do you reckon?’
‘Do you never stop flapping your lips?’
‘The place isn’t laced with hidden video cameras is it? Come on, don’t be an old fuddy duddy. I challenge you! There! If you refuse - I’ve won.’
Bart was still shaking his head doubtfully as they stripped off and faced each other in the centre of the lounge. Robert had seen plenty of his fellow students naked in the changing rooms over the years and never thought much about it. Like everyone, he’d automatically check out the size of their cocks, but as he hadn’t been curious about them as individuals, he wasn’t particularly interested in their bodies. With Bart, however, it was different. He felt a hot, embarrassing arousal of interest and quickly started wrestling. As soon as the bout was under way, concentration erased other thoughts and the moment passed. Bart gave no quarter, and toppled Robert four times in quick succession.
‘You’ve been conning me, haven’t you? Letting me think I’m better than I am,’ Robert gasped in the break after the fourth fall.
‘A bit. I didn’t want you to get discouraged. But you’re very good considering the time you’ve been learning.’
‘You condescending prick! This time you’re for the high jump!’ Robert launched himself at his opponent and using every trick he could think of, all his strength and slight extra weight to advantage, threw Bart onto his back, pinning his arms and immobilising his legs.
‘Do you give in?’
‘Yes. Now get off while I still have air in my lungs.’
It was the only point Robert scored. Bart had decided to be completely honest in his dealings with Robert, and this was a beginning. The final bout ended with Robert on his back, Bart collapsed on top, sweat pouring. Inadequate ventilation, afternoon sun and slick skins made holds impossible.
‘You’ve been an excellent opponent.’ Bart gave a push to lever himself up but was prevented by arms locked round his waist. ‘Hey! Let the old bloke go so he can shower off.’
Robert frowned.
Bart stared into unsmiling eyes, then slowly lowered his head and brushed
Robert’s lips gently with his own. It was the lightest touch, a flicker of a
may-fly’s wing, but enough to electrify his skin, sending ice slivers shafting
to the core. He raised his head. Apprehensive. What the fuck have I done?
Rigid, his mind a blank hull of uncertainty, Robert couldn’t respond. What did Bart expect?
‘Relax’ Bart blustered to hide his panic. ‘It was a joke between mates!’
Robert's arms were still locking them together.
‘But if we lie here much longer we’ll be more than mates.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll be queers!’ Bart snapped harshly, thrusting himself up, dragging Robert to his feet and pushing him towards the bathroom. They avoided looking at each other. ‘Get yourself showered.’
Clean, dry and dressed, Robert sluggishly set the room to rights, mind awash. Suddenly his skin began to tingle, and in a brain-stopping, incandescent burst of awareness, everything fell into place and his life began to make sense! Jocelyn, Marcia, his feeling of not belonging. Like a stage curtain, clouds of confusion parted to reveal a sunlit pathway. He let out a wild yell and whizzed round the room, shoving everything into place before throwing open the curtains and standing wide-legged on the balcony gazing rapturously at the view.
‘Bart kissed me,’ he whispered. ‘Bart fancies me. I fancy him. We’re lovers!’ Unable to stop the grin that threatened to split his face, he mulled over everything that had happened that term. For the first time in his adolescent life he felt normal. Completely and utterly normal! He wasn’t some freakish incompetent without sexual urges who couldn’t love, who was going to end his days wanking alone. His brain flitted again over everything that had happened until, little by little, doubts began to worm their way into newfound certainties.
Doubts. Not about himself, but Bart. He had tricked him. He had badgered and pushed him from the beginning. First to teach him to wrestle, then to visit him at his apartment, inviting him to dinner, then virtually forcing him to wrestle naked and holding him after the last bout. He didn’t know why he’d done that. Last night Bart had tried to tell him he was sick of him. He hadn’t wanted to go on with the wrestling, but Robert had nagged him into it. He was just being polite to a dumb kid and was returning what he saw as some sort of favour, not wanting to hurt him, in the same way as up to now he had let him think he was better than he really was at wrestling. He had to confront Bart. Even if it meant losing his friendship. He looked up as the object of his concern came in from the bedroom, equally thoughtful and just as worried.
‘You’re good at tidying. Noisy, but efficient.’
‘Better than I am at wrestling.’
‘Practice will fix that.’ In the awkward silence, Bart fussily rearranged an ornament and straightened an already well aligned painting. ‘Beer or tea?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘Beer thanks.’ Robert wanted to run – to escape from what he now realised was a terrible mistake, but dejection robbed him of energy. He sank onto the couch.
Bart reappeared with two opened cans and sat down opposite, school frown-lines firmly in place. He stared intently at Robert. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ He had to clear things up immediately. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you teaching me wrestling because you feel sorry for me? Because I nagged you into it? I’d hate it if that’s how you felt. I need you to be honest. Why am I here?’
‘Is this because of… of what happened just now?’
‘That started me thinking.’
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘I do now.’
Those three words, uttered like an accusation, sent fear pounding, constricting Bart’s throat and drying his mouth. ‘No, no,’ he whispered, ‘it’s not like that! I’m sorry. It just …. It’ll never happen again! I promise.’
Oblivious to the confusion, face drawn, Robert insisted. ‘Tell me, Bart! Why am I here?’
The utter hopelessness of his case calmed Bart’s nerves. He sighed. ‘True confessions, eh? OK, you first.’
Robert hesitated.
‘Not so easy, is it?’
‘Promise you won’t hate me?’
‘Sounds ominous, but I promise.’
‘Don’t look.’
Bart stood and stared out the window.
Robert took a deep breath and nervously uttered the words that, although he was certain would lose him a friend, simply had to be said. ‘I’m gay, Bart, and I think…I think I’m in love with you.’ His whole frame was shaking and he buried his face in his hands.
Bart was sure he was going to burst. Relief swamped him, filled his being and set his skin aflame. He stayed at the window until his own trembling stopped, then sat beside Robert on the couch, not daring to touch him in case the dream fractured. ‘Robert,’ he said softly, ‘you’re here because I’m crazy about you. And as for the idea you nagged me into it, it’s the other way round.’
Robert's face was a mask of incredulity.
Nervously, Bart continued. ‘On the first day of this term, and for the first time in my life, I let gut-feelings guide my actions. A young man crossed the quadrangle in tight trousers and I thought, this guy looks interesting, I wonder what he’s like. Using the excuse of compulsory activities, I asked Warren Pinot if there were any new senior students. With predictable innocence he gave me your name and form. At interval I handed Molly Henderson a note telling you to come and choose an activity. She was a bit surprised because the scheme has, in reality, lapsed. When I explained that I wasn’t going to risk getting the boss on my back, she understood and passed on the message. I then got cold feet and wondered how to get out of it. That’s why I was such a wanker. But when you started to walk away I regretted it and asked if you always gave up so easily. You’re a pig-headed cuss, so back you came.’
‘You’re having me on.’
Bart grinned. ‘No way. I got worried, though, when you pushed your leg against me in that study period. I had visions of you trapping me for revenge. I got a hard-on, impossible to hide in those PE shorts, covered it with the clipboard and didn’t dare move in case you or anyone else saw it and reported me. I was paranoid by the end of the period.’
‘And here I was wondering if you had any nerves in your legs. But what if I’d just accepted one of the activities? And how were you to know the headmaster would support me?’
‘If you’d chosen one of the listed sports I’d have developed a sudden interest in it, and if you were as nice as you looked, I’d have offered special coaching or something.’ He gave an amused shrug. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. As for Nikelseer, I was pretty sure he’d act like that. But if he hadn’t I was ready to back down - that’s why I made certain I was there. And I wasn’t going to let you get away with practicing only once a week, so made a date for every morning.’ He laughed with embarrassment. ‘Got so excited I couldn’t sleep at nights. When I thought you were hooked, I stopped the practices at school.’
‘Why?’
‘Like you, only with more reason, I’d begun to question what I was doing. I was getting emotionally involved and that was stupid, because apart from anything else, I knew nothing about you. Also, I wanted to see if you really liked wrestling, and me, or were just feeling guilty because you thought you’d pushed me into it.’
‘But what if I hadn’t asked to come here?’
‘I was on the point of offering my services.’ Bart laughed again, this time
with more confidence. ‘We’re a complicated pair.’
‘Complex sounds better,’ grunted Robert, staring at his feet, willing himself to believe. He risked a look at Bart, let the truth wash over him and grinned. ‘I thought of naked wrestling.’
‘You’re a genius.’
‘So… you’re gay too?’
‘As queer as a coot.’
‘And I never guessed.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Did you guess about me?’
‘My appalling behaviour was based solely on hope.’
‘But why? You didn’t know me.’
‘That’s the crazy part. You’re not bad looking, but it wasn’t anything to do with that. Something… I don’t know… the way you walked, held your head, you looked… God knows. All I know is a little voice in my head said you were the man for me.’
Robert's brain was bubbling. This was exciting, intimate. He’d never imagined having a conversation as open and frank with anyone - being able to say you liked them, and why.
‘I liked you after the first lesson,’ he confessed. ‘You’re such an excellent teacher, and…’
‘And?’
Robert blushed and hung his head. ‘No, it’s too embarrassing.’
‘’And?’
‘And when you smiled at the other teacher I thought I’d never seen a more wonderful thing. I fell in love with it.’
It was Bart’s turn to beam with delight. Hesitantly, they touched fingers and, almost in unison, heaved sighs of relief.
‘How long have you known you were gay?’ Robert’s heart hammered at his daring.
‘Since I was about fourteen. And you?’
‘About fourteen minutes. I’m a slow learner.’
‘You mean…’
Robert nodded.
Bart’s panic returned. Robert was probably confusing admiration with being gay. Suddenly he saw their relationship as others would – a teacher seducing a pupil! Only three people knew about the wrestling, thanks to Robert’s reluctance to tell anyone; his parents and the headmaster. The last one was a worry as he had already condemned their association. Robert was frowning.
‘Nikelseer?’ Bart asked.
‘How’d you guess?
‘Great minds. Somehow I thought we were invisible, but he sure picked up the vibes. No one else knows – apart from your parents?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, wise young man!’ Bart sighed in exasperation. ‘Why do I feel like this? You’re not under age and… and we haven’t even done anything. We might never! It’s evil the way that poisonous squirt destroys pleasure.’
‘He hasn’t. I’ve never felt happier, and I’m incredibly proud you chased me like that. The other day you said you were no good at picking people up. It’s not true. You wrote the book! What I can’t believe, though, is that I’ve never realised I’m gay. I’m so thick!’ He shook his head, thrust it between his knees and rubbed his hair. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’
‘Approval seeking? So busy trying to be like everyone else that you didn’t see the differences? There’s a hell of a lot of pressure to be the same, so we assume we are.’
‘I’ll move in with you.’
‘You will not! You’re going to take a week to think about everything. We will avoid all physical contact until next Saturday afternoon. Don’t interrupt,’ he said as Robert started to protest. ‘This morning you were a reasonably well-balanced, eighteen-year-old heterosexual. This afternoon, just because we had a nude wrestle and got a bit aroused - I saw it,’ he laughed, ‘you’ve suddenly decided you’re gay. By next Saturday you’ll have got over your conceit at being hunted like a rare beast, and will have had a chance to think clearly about what you really want. A week won’t hurt, just wank twice as often. If you still feel the same next Saturday, we’ll start from there.’
Robert looked doubtful but said nothing.
‘You see,’ Bart continued seriously, ‘I’m not looking for a quick bit of trade. I’d sooner live the life of a monk than have a string of one-night-stands and short-term flings. So that’s another thing for you to think about. You’re young and probably should look around before making a commitment. I’m just being selfish. Protecting my own feelings.’
Robert looked despondent. ‘And if I decide I’m not ready to commit myself?’
‘That’s fine. It doesn’t mean we stop wrestling and seeing each other. All I originally hoped for was friendship. At the first lesson I felt comfortable with you in a way I’ve never felt with anyone else. They reckon sex can spoil a friendship, and I don’t want to risk that. Whatever you decide, I want us to be friends. That’s the most important thing for me – friendship. Sex comes a distant second.’
To give him his due, Bart believed what he was saying. He simply wasn’t saying everything. A true romantic, he believed implicitly in love at first sight, and at his first glimpse of Robert had been drenched in it from head to foot. What he really wanted was to lie naked beside his new friend, caress him with soft fingers, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, lightly kiss every square centimetre of the satiny flesh, arouse him to unimagined heights of passion and then quench the fires of lust.
Of course he wanted a friend - but he wanted his friend to be a lover as well. Wisely, for one so young and inexperienced, he sensed that a relationship in which one partner imagines he is more desirable, or has more to offer than the other, is doomed to failure. Only when both partners are equally desirous, equally longing, equally committed, and celebrate their equality, is there hope of permanence. Robert also had to long for the relationship and put his feelings on the line. Bart had bared his heart and risked all, now it was Robert’s turn. That would render them equal.
Robert didn’t have the energy to protest. He was still glowing with the warmth of enlightenment. He was part of the human race! He could love someone. He certainly wasn’t too young! Several kids in his class were having regular sex, most had boy or girlfriends, one couple had left home and were sharing a unit. Grimms’ Fairy Tales had been absorbed along with mother’s milk, and the noble prince in him almost relished the notion of delayed gratification in the interests of long-term gain.
‘Fair enough,’ he responded seriously, ‘but I need a little more information to help with decision making.’
Bart’s look of mystification turned luminous as Robert kissed him.
‘That wasn’t quite enough,’ Robert muttered as they separated for breath. ‘One more.’
‘No you don’t. You’re a sex-maniac. Stick to the bargain.’
‘OK. Do you want to go to the flicks? We could catch the five-o’clock.’
‘Hey! You’re supposed to beg me to relent! Not give in to my logic!’
‘I know when I’m beaten, Sir. Come on, let’s celebrate!’
‘Phone your parents and ask.’
Permission granted, they ended their first afternoon together with a hugely calorific take-away under the trees of the Old Botanical Gardens beside the river, having walked out of the most forgettable film they ever remembered paying good money to see. The tentative and gentle kisses in the car before Robert was dropped off, were an expression of friendship, not a breach of the ban.
Chapter Nine
‘How was the film?’ Father and son were sharing a late breakfast; Monique had gone with Susie to the Sunday markets.
‘Mushy, sentimental, banal. We left early.’
‘Good on you. What are you doing today? Susie and Jeff are coming to lunch.’
‘I’ve three assignments to complete and a couple of experiments to write up; that’ll take most of the day.’
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself.’
‘Yep.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Nope.’
‘Bart’s congenial.’
‘Yep.’
‘Seeing him today?’
‘Nope.’ Robert began to sweat.
‘We’re glad you’ve made a friend.’
‘Good.’
‘Am I being nosy?’
‘Not your style.’
‘Well, I can’t listen to you gossipping all day, there’s a stone I have to squeeze a few drops of blood from.’
They cleared the table and washed up in companionable silence.
‘See you at lunch. I’m meeting Jeff for a round of golf.’
Lunch was on the patio. Fresh food from the markets; bread, pâté, fruit, cheese and juice. Both Susie and Jeff were on diets. A friend’s recent heart attack left them feeling vulnerable. Such attempts to undo sixty years of abuse occurred at least three times a year. Susie turned to Robert, ‘The mother of a girl from your school goes to the same evening art class as me. She’s worried. Her daughter never tells her where she’s going, comes home at all hours, is rude and abusive and spends more money than her mother gives her. A right little madam.’
‘Half the kids are like that!’ Robert snorted in disgust, ‘Anyone who becomes a teacher is nuts!’
‘Bart’s a teacher,’ said Monique.
‘And it’s driving him mad.’
‘Who’s Bart?’
‘Robert’s friend. He’s a PE teacher, and is teaching him to wrestle on Saturdays.’
‘Who’s the girl?’ interrupted Robert before his mother could elaborate.
‘Sorens… Mandy Sorens. She’s in year eleven. A little raver, according to her mother. By the way, I hope you didn’t let my nonsense with the Tarot cards upset you, I felt silly afterwards.’
Robert knew better than to be cagey. If he appeared open and at ease she mightn’t start digging. ‘It’s bizarre!’ he said, the twinkle in his eye suggesting he was taking the mickey. ‘Everything you mentioned is happening. My life’s changed direction and I’ve discovered all sorts of things about myself. Even had that revelation! I feel like the hanging man - seeing the world from a new perspective. I wonder if you’re a witch?’
‘Oh, I am. Ask Jeff. That’s how he managed to beat Sanjay at golf this morning. Isn’t that right, dear?’
‘Absolutely, my love, you cast a spell on all around you.’ Jeff patted his wife’s cheek affectionately before turning to his hostess. ‘Have you thought any more about India, Monique?’
‘Last night, Sanjay convinced me that Robert is a man, not a boy, and as he has Bart for company it’s safe to leave him behind. So we’re going.’
‘India? This is news to me! When? And why aren’t I going? Doesn’t your son rate consulting?’
‘In the school holidays, chérie. I know I’m being selfish but we can only afford two fares. We were going to tell you this evening. Sanni has some buying to do, and it may be the last time we get to see your great-grandmother.’ She stopped in embarrassment. ‘Would you really like to go?’
‘No he wouldn’t!’ Sanjay turned to his son. ‘This is going to be our second honeymoon and we don’t need kids hanging around.’
‘Yuk. A nostalgia kick for old fogies.’
‘Exactly. We were hoping you and Bart would guard the house while we’re away.’
‘Can I use the car?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re on!’
‘I’m dying to meet Bart.’ Susie’s smile was arch.
Robert frowned into his coffee cup.
‘Keep your wife on a short leash, Jeff. She’s getting excited.’
Everyone laughed.
‘There might be waterfalls after that heavy rain last night, let’s go for a walk to work off the meal.’ Sanjay was a master of tactical conversation.
They drove to Mount Coot-tha and tramped up the track, but there was only a disappointing trickle, made even more unsatisfactory by having to share it with about a thousand others. Mr Rands is right, thought Robert. Parks and reserves are already too small for the number of people who want to use them. He couldn’t help wishing he had been there with Bart rather than the others.
The interiors of a few large churches and the occasional town hall auditorium built before the advent of modernism, are virtually the only large, enclosed architectural spaces which inspire one to higher thought. The school Assembly Hall was one such place. Tall, Roman-arched windows in thick, white-stuccoed walls, threw shafts of dust-spangled morning light over the assembled students. Behind the raised area where the teachers sat, an enormous Honours Board glittered with gilt-lettered memorials to past achievers. Far above, massive carved wooden trusses leaped effortlessly across the shadowy gulf - a sight to render contemplative even the most jaundiced eye.
Upstairs in the gallery, where the senior school sat in splendour, Robert waited for the teachers to process on to the platform for the morning’s assembly. He wondered what it would feel like to see Bart after what had happened. Excitement, however, was tempered by a fear that his secret had leaked out and the entire school would stand up and denounce him. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that although he had no problems with his actions, others would. He felt sick at the thought.
Mr Riggs struck three chords on the piano and the assembled throng joined raggedly in an inharmonious rendering of the school anthem as the teachers strode up the aisle. Robert leaned forward and was poked in the back.
‘Pull your head in, curry muncher!’ Lance hissed, under-awed by his surroundings.
There was Bart! Next to Miss Wybord the strange little Latin teacher. The roof didn’t cave in. Everything remained the same except for a warm flutter in his chest. Someone, apart from his parents, cared about him. He grunted a laugh. What a twit he was.
At lunchtime, taking a short cut behind the main block, Robert stumbled over Murray, bleeding and dazed in the rubbish bin enclosure.
‘Can you move?’
‘Yeah, I’m OK.’
‘Lance again?’
‘Yeah.’
Robert supported him to Bart’s office, which adjoined a small sickbay accessed through an arch in the wall. He lay Murray on the bed. The boy hid his head under the pillow, sobbing quietly. Pretending it was just curiosity and a desire to be prepared, Robert called the secretary to ask which doctor the school used. He arrived within ten minutes, driving straight to the gym as Robert had instructed. Murray was suffering from a suspected rib fracture, a probably broken nose, and possible concussion. There was extensive bruising in the groin.
‘Doctor, will you tell the headmaster about this?’
‘Doesn’t he know? Don’t tell me you called off your own bat. I’m only supposed to come on official calls.’
Robert briefly explained the history of harassment. The doctor was young and inexperienced, so agreed to advise Mr Nikelseer to charge the offenders. The physical damage was not grievous; a bandage and a couple of weeks would see to the ribs, but he had to be kept under observation for twenty-four hours in case of concussion.
‘I’m in a rush, so I’ll telephone from the surgery.’
‘Thanks.’
Midway through the afternoon the mathematics room door was flung wide. Ignoring both teacher and class, Mr Nikelseer cast narrowed eyes around until they landed on Robert.
‘Karim! Come to my office immediately!’ He slammed out.
A swelling chorus of ooooooohhhs accompanied Robert as he stood and looked to the teacher for permission. Mr Blampied nodded sympathetic assent.
‘Who’s been a naughty boy then?’ chanted a voice from the back as the door closed behind him.
‘Stand there!’ The headmaster, lips trembling bluely, fingers clawing at the blotter, pointed to the carpet in front of his desk. ‘What is the meaning of telephoning the doctor for Corso? How dare you again set yourself above the organisation of this school? Why didn’t you go to the sickbay?’
Robert explained that he thought Murray might be badly hurt, didn’t know where the main sickbay was, and was just trying to be a Good Samaritan. This unleashed a torrent. ‘How dare you use the Bible as an excuse for your behaviour? What right have you to…’
Robert wanted to slam out of the office, but realised he would also be slamming out of school. As he waited for the anger to abate, it occurred to him that Mr Nikelseer was unhinged. He switched off.
An envelope, embossed with the school crest and addressed to his parents, was handed to Robert by a pupil messenger during the last period. Before going home he went to the gym, but Murray had been sent home. Bart wasn’t there either. Desperate to find some way of convincing the headmaster he wasn’t an interfering upstart, Robert decided to pick Mr Pinot’s brains. Murray had said he was useless, but things could hardly get worse.
The Guidance Room was empty. An open briefcase indicated Mr Pinot couldn’t be far away, so Robert went into the storeroom, found the pile of long trousers and flicked through to see if another pair more his size had turned up. The outer door slammed and he heard voices, Pinot’s and a girl’s.
‘I don’t usually have the pleasure of your company on Mondays,’ the guidance counsellor effused, reminding Robert of an oleaginous primary school teacher who’d wanted everyone to love her. ‘To what do I owe this good fortune?’
‘Yeah, well, just thought I’d make your day, didn’t I?’ The reply was slightly nasal with the hint of a voluptuous sneer.
Robert peeked out.
The girl was leaning against the desk in a pose reminiscent of Robert’s at the beginning of term. She wore her hair in a couple of ponytails jutting out behind each ear, and well-developed breasts bobbed unharnessed behind the partially unbuttoned blouse. He had seen her before - she was one of the harpies shouting abuse at Murray on the day he’d stopped the bullying. Mr Pinot, his back to the storeroom, placed his hands on the young woman’s shoulders. ‘I’m glad you’re here, it’s been a difficult day.’
‘D’ya wanna do it then?’
‘Ever ready to succour a fair damsel.’
‘You always talk stupid.’ She hoisted herself onto the desk and lifted her buttocks so Mr Pinot could remove her panties. He placed them carefully on the desk and undid his zip. The girl sniggered, ‘You sure are horny.’
The Guidance Councillor sank to his knees and lifted her skirt. She leaned back against the wall, opened her thighs and slung her legs over his shoulders, enabling him to bury his head and, judging by the slurping noises, his tongue.
Robert was transfixed. A waft of perfume mixed with musky desire drifted unpleasantly on the air. The girl chewed gum and looked vacantly at the ceiling while Mr Pinot began to grunt and jerk as well as slurp. After what seemed an age, the sounds and movement ceased and Mr Pinot emerged, panting, sticky, and no longer Robert's idea of an educated gentleman. He wiped and adjusted himself without embarrassment, then rinsed his face in the hand-basin while she jumped down and replaced her knickers. Without speaking he went to his briefcase and took from it a ten-dollar bill. She gave a toss of her head and a snort of derision.
‘Things have changed. I want a hundred dollars now, and in arrears! This is the seventeenth time you’ve done it, so you owe me fifteen hundred dollars, I’ll let you off the forty.’
‘You’re joking! A hundred dollars for that? I don’t even penetrate.’
‘Your tongue does. Lance says I’ve been stupid and that I could get a hundred and fifty, but I’m not greedy.’ Her voice had lost its dumb-chick quality and sounded altogether sharper and smarter.
Pinot looked as if he’d swallowed a bucket of vomit. ‘But, Mandy, I haven’t that sort of money! Surely you haven’t told Lance Osbairne about us?’ He was choking with alarm.
‘Of course I’ve told Lance; he’s my boyfriend. This was his idea. Get you hooked then turn the screws. So listen, old man, either you pay me fifteen hundred dollars by the end of this week, or I’ll tell your wife what you’ve been doing to one of the innocent young girls who came to you for guidance.’
‘But - I thought you enjoyed it,’ he wailed, his misery increasing as her confidence and contempt grew.
‘You geriatric fool! If you think I enjoy having a disgusting old man slobber over my twat while he jerks himself off, you need your head examined. Get the money by Friday, or else!’ A slammed door underlined the threat. Warren Pinot slumped into his chair, head in hands. After an age in which Robert feared his bladder would burst, the guidance counsellor stood, picked up his brief case, thrust his body into its coat and shuffled out.
Having read and re-read the headmaster’s letter of complaint and listened carefully to her son’s account of the affair, Monique dismissed the accusations out of hand. ‘Forget this nonsense. Your headmaster has several screws undone. I forbid you to worry.’
Robert took her advice. He had more pressing concerns. Did he want to have lots of affairs, or only one? Not having had any so far he couldn’t even begin to think. Other kids had been experimenting with girl friends and sexual activity since the onset of puberty; he had only pretended. This was his first experience - six years late and too important to muck up!
‘Mum, have you ever wished you had more than one man?’
Monique shot him a quizzical look.
‘I mean, you’ve ended up as a sort of slave - cooking, looking after us, doing Dad’s books - no life of your own. Don’t you sometimes wonder what it would be like to be your own boss and have several boyfriends?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I assume you have a serious reason for asking?’ A shy smile. ‘Before I met your father, I had several boyfriends. Nothing serious. Mostly unsatisfying. I told myself I had freedom, but all I had was an empty ache. Eventually I realised that what I really wanted was someone who wanted only me.’ She looked at her son, appeared satisfied he was serious, and continued. ‘When I met Sanjay the emptiness disappeared and I was full of… it is impossible to explain, but I couldn’t bear to be apart from him. I felt happy, sad, everything at once.’ She smiled softly and gave a light laugh. ‘C’est l’amour, mon chou. La plus belle chose du monde. If ever I think about infidelity, I remember how much better your Papa is than any other man I have met, and the idea disappears.’ She smiled to herself, then looked up sharply. ‘I take exception, though, to being called a drudge.’
‘Slave.’
‘Whatever. I do what I do for love! It is a joy, not a penance. One could think the same about you doing those boring jobs in the gymnasium for Bart.’
Robert reddened, he hadn’t thought of it like that. What if the others at school thought the same thing? He’d better be careful. ‘That’s nothing like it,’ he blustered. ‘It’s so he’s got time to wrestle on the weekends.’
‘Of course.’
‘So you think it’s better to have one man than many?’
‘Definitely. But not everyone’s like me. We each have to work out our own salvation. Ah, here’s Sanjay. I’m hoping he has an idea what to do about this pathetic letter.’
Sanjay’s idea was to visit the headmaster and oil the waters. He re read the letter and laughed incredulously. ‘Gross insurrection, usurpation of responsibility, contempt for the established channels of support, traitor to the school spirit… Forget this letter.’
‘Not difficult, I’ve more cheerful things to think about.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’ve discovered I like being me.’
‘That’s lucky, seeing you haven’t much choice.’
‘And I reckon I’ll do OK in my tests.
‘Good.’
‘By the way, you’re a lucky chap. Mum doesn’t want any other man in her life but you.’
‘Neither do I, not even another woman. What brought this on?’
‘Oh.’ Robert replied airily, ‘I’ve been bouncing ideas.’
‘About?’
‘Fidelity, sleeping around… that sort of thing.’
‘And?’
‘I’m still bouncing.’
Before school, Robert approached Mr Rands. ‘Sir, Murray Corso was bashed up badly last Friday, so I called the doctor and got a tongue lashing from Mr Nikelseer. But what should I have done? No one seems to care - not even his parents!’ He flapped his hands in frustration.
‘And why do you?’
‘Because he doesn’t deserve it! He’s a good kid who can’t help the way he is. It’s worse than racism. At least I can go home to my black father and commiserate with him when I’m the butt of abuse, but he has no one.’
‘And you want me to see the headmaster?’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes, but I know the result already.’
‘Thanks, Sir. I can’t bear injustice.’
‘Justice is an ideal concept with no correspondence in the real world.’
‘How depressing.’
‘Not for most people. Anything else bugging you?’
‘Nothing important, but… if you had to make a decision, what would you do?’
The Art teacher roared with laughter. ‘I can’t even decide whether to get up in the morning. If my wife didn’t put out my clothes I’d spend the day in a jelly of indecision, wondering whether to wear a white or a blue shirt.’ He thought for a bit. ‘What would I do? I was once advised to write two lists, things for and things against, then select the longer. Never worked for me. What I usually do, after agonising for a suitable length of time, is toss a coin. If you like the result, do it. If not, do the other thing. It’s not until a decision has been taken that most of us realise the consequences. The coin is like a decision, but not irrevocable.’
‘What if you lack the experience to make the best choice?’
‘I console myself with the idea that everything happens by chance. It would take till the end of time to weigh up all the possible consequences of lifting your right hand, so you just do it. The alternative is to remain transfixed by indecision. We cannot know what will happen, so we have to pick what seems like the best option at the time and hope we don’t make things worse than they already are.’
‘Don’t take life too seriously, you’ll never get out of it alive?’
‘That’s going a bit further than I suggested, but...’
‘A friend of the family said almost the same thing the other day - that was her joke by the way, not mine.’
‘If you ask the same question of different people you’ll usually get a similar answer, providing you ask someone intelligent.’
‘I ask no other type.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’
The assembly bell sent them scurrying.
The talk in the common room was of holidays.
‘What are you going to do, Robert?’
‘Chaining myself to a rainforest tree in an old-growth forest.’
They half believed him. He was still a bit of a mystery – pleasant, apparently open and straightforward, but usually appearing to inhabit a different cosmos, a world governed by priorities subtly different from their own. Rather than erecting a barrier, he left a gap. When everyone was talking, joshing and gossiping, Robert would switch off. He appeared to be either unaware of, or indifferent to, the conventions and fashions that ruled their lives. Being one of the gang, not standing out too much, knowing the popular bands, going to new clubs, using the latest slang – these things didn’t interest him. He never said as much, he didn’t have to; it was apparent in every unconscious act.
The others swapped believable holiday plans. Marcia, who kept an unrequited eye on Robert, asked him again why he spent so much time in the gymnasium. ‘We hardly see you any more, you’re always over there. Isn’t it a bit chilling with Vaselly looking over your shoulder?’
‘On the rare occasions our paths cross, I tell myself he’s just a robot, a hunk of cyberflesh.’
They all laughed.
‘That’s exactly what he is, too perfect to be true,’ sighed Helen, who daydreamed about being carried away in his arms.
Robert wondered guiltily if he had betrayed Bart, but what was he supposed to do? Before his ‘revelation’, he’d only experienced a vague sense of dislocation in groups like this when they shared experiences, hopes and plans. Since then, self-preservation alarms rang constantly. He looked at the other students – there was no one he could trust with his thoughts, his hopes and plans. It didn’t worry him, life had always been like that, but now he had something precious to protect, and every stranger was a potential enemy. Lance slouched in and sprawled across the sofa.
‘I do eat curry occasionally, Lance,’ Robert said equably, ‘but surely a dredge through the sludge of your brain could produce something more original than curry-muncher?’
The others looked mystified.
‘How about ‘Brown-eye’?’
‘Oh come on, Lance,’ Barbara protested. ‘Is that how you get your thrills? Badmouthing people? I hate being called Tits Tappendon, but you don’t care. You have a problem!’
‘You’re the one with the problem, Tits.’
The murmurings of protest were subdued; no one wanted one of Lance’s verbal thrusts. He was hopeless at schoolwork, but a genius at insult. ‘Bumper’ for Brenda with her large breasts; ‘Wets’ for Philip who had apparently wet his bed as a child. How Lance had found out was anyone’s guess. ‘Princess’ for Peter who was a touch too careful in posture, appearance and speech. Lance’s names were never nice, they were calculated to destroy pleasantness.
‘Can’t see it matters. A rose by any other name.’
‘How about you, Lance? I’ll call you ‘Blackmail’.
‘You’re the fuckin’ black male, Brown-eye, not me.’
‘As in extortion, dumbo.’
A quick intake of breath from Lance, silence from the others.
‘From where I'm standing your only entry ticket to decent company is your tongue. The abuse you hand out is a type of blackmail. Everyone’s frightened your bad-mouthing will get out of control and some of the mud will stick. Or, being the big strong man you are, you might get your thugs to bash them up.’
Lance’s look was murderous.
‘Where’s your sense of humour now?’ snapped Charlie, breaking the malignant silence. ‘You’re not the only one who can dish it out.’
‘Yeah. Swallow a bit of your own bile for once, Dick-head.’ Stewart’s eyes shone with daring at his first ever confrontation with Lance. It was mutiny and the hostile looks and mutterings shook Lance’s confidence. He’d gone right through school with this bunch of kids, and imagined everyone had got used to his brand of humour. He’d always been one of the gang – until the smarmy black curry-muncher arrived on the scene.
Lance suffered from an inflated sense of his own importance. His early years had been spent in the spotlight of an emotional mother’s love, but life had dealt her a bad hand and she lost her grip on reality. When she died, her son’s sole emotion was relief. Perversely, his father’s almost complete lack of interest stimulated both admiration, and an overwhelming desire for approval.
Lance’s major source of satisfaction was the power of his father’s money. The power that let him do what he wanted. His viciousness had nothing to do with hate - an exaggerated sense of superiority saved him from so vulnerable a state. He was seeking the approval of those he admired in the only way he knew how – by trampling over the rights of others. He fixed his gaze on the cause of the present problem. This bastard he really was beginning to hate. It was a new emotion and strangely exciting. A feeling almost akin to lust twitched at his groin as he contemplated performing nameless horrors on the greasy wog.
The school bell rang.
Robert’s own alarm bells were sounding. Mr Rands was right; it was only as the words fell out of his mouth that he realised the consequences. He’d shown his hand and turned an unpleasant lout into a serious enemy.
Chapter Ten
Next day, Lance was waiting. ‘Brown-eye,’ he sneered across the common room, ‘Why do you spend so much time doing little jobs for Vaselly in the gym? Anyone would think you were married to him.’
Robert managed a confused look. ‘What’s Vaselly got to do with it?’
Someone sniggered.
‘You know bloody well what,’ Lance simpered. ‘Running around after him like a slobbery little dog. Even the headmaster thinks it’s strange.’
Robert managed a casual shrug. ‘You’ve lost me. I work in the gym instead of paying fees for the weights room. From the look of you,’ he reflected coolly, ‘a bit of exercise wouldn’t do any harm.’
Lance wasn’t in good shape. When he sat down and crossed his legs, you expected to hear the clinking of bones. Large scrawny hands hung from skinny wrists, and chest and shoulders cried out for exercise. Even his strongly boned face was spoiled by hollow, acne spotted cheeks and lank hair. As the students looked from him to Robert, the sad reality that was Lance became obvious. No wonder he was always putting everyone down.
His face flushed with fury. ‘Fucking Wog wanker!’ he jeered. ‘Think you’re God’s gift, don’t you? Well I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’ He slammed out.
‘He’s got shit for brains,’ consoled George. ‘Take no notice of him, Robert. He’s realised he’ll never pass his C.S.T. and is taking it out on you.’
‘He sure is weird.’ And how does he know about my jobs in the gym?
Everyone else thought I was doing fitness circuits. And how does he know what
the headmaster’s thinking?
‘Despite having commissioned Dürer’s life-size paintings of the Four Apostles, the newly-Protestant City Fathers refused to pay up, because the works were an unwelcome reminder of Roman Catholicism. Nothing’s changed. Today, unless art is both fashionable and politically correct, its praises will go unsung. Lastly, remember that the engraving, Melancholia Two, must be considered alongside his nude self-portrait, because together they give us the both external appearance of the mature artist and his psychological profile. Good luck with your tests.’
It was the end of the period and Mr Rands signed to Robert to stay behind. ‘I saw the headmaster about Murray. All he could talk about was how you and Mr Vaselly were out to undermine him. I didn’t realise you knew Bart?’
‘I help out in the gym so I can use the weights room.’
‘Good idea. The Head’s got a bee in his bonnet about you two.’ He shook his head and shrugged hopelessly. ‘You do realise, I expect, that his life is based on selected Christian writings? Mainly Old Testament. As soon as I mentioned Murray Corso he was quoting Deuteronomy, Leviticus and St Paul. Sometimes he makes me ashamed to admit I’m a Christian. I suspect the man is under stress. It can’t be easy running a school like this.’ He looked speculatively at Robert, was about to say something, changed his mind and continued breezily. ‘This is what we’ll do. As soon as you see Murray, tell him to come to the Art Room every interval and lunchtime until things are sorted. He’ll be safe enough there. I’ll make him an honorary monitor or something. Have to rush.’
‘Thanks, Sir. I’ll tell him at lunchtime.
While Robert was considering the relative merits of free-form poetry and rhyming metrical verse, a metallic-green Commodore parked in front of the main entrance. Mr Nikelseer watched from behind the curtains of his study window as an impeccably dressed, slim, ethnic gentleman emerged, locked his car door and, after a brief glance around, mounted the red painted steps. Thirty seconds later the inter-com buzzed on his desk.
‘Mr Karim to see you, Headmaster. Shall I send him in?’
‘Yes.’
Ignoring Sanjay’s proffered hand, the headmaster gestured vaguely towards the chairs before seating himself behind the bulwark of his desk. With a smile of the utmost candour, Sanjay drew a letter from his pocket and with quiet sincerity began the task of resurrecting his son’s good name.
‘Headmaster, I want to thank you for the interest you have taken in Robert. It’s unusual for schools to treat students as individuals, and even rarer for them to be concerned about moral development. And on the academic front, we are extremely happy with the high standard of his schoolwork.’
The headmaster, looking as though he had recently sucked on a lemon, gazed at a point slightly above and beyond his visitor’s right shoulder.
Sanjay cleared his throat. ‘Naturally, my wife and I regret that Robert has overstepped the bounds of correctness in the matter of Murray Corso. In his defence, all I can say is that in his previous school he had not experienced the type of organisation you have here. Of course he should have left it to the responsible parties to sort out the matter, and I thank you for drawing our attention to it. You can rest assured there will be no repeat of his behaviour.’
During this little speech there was an unravelling of furrowed brow, knotted fingers, and the lines compressing the headmaster’s mouth. The hint of a relieved smile brushed at thin lips.
‘Mr Karim,’ he murmured, ‘you have set my mind at rest. I had feared your son’s aggressive, non-conformist behaviour might be the result of parental neglect. I now see it can only be the influence of his previous school.’
Sanjay nodded sagely.
‘Teaching is a difficult task, not helped by bush lawyers informing every one of their rights but never mentioning responsibilities. It is scarcely surprising youngsters are confused. In my experience, the only constant, the sole path to redemption, is the way of God.’
For the next twenty minutes Sanjay was made privy to Mr Nikelseer’s personal pathway to salvation. It was a confined, one might say constricted alley, both straight and narrow. The would-be traveller on this road who turned his head but slightly, even to admire the view, was showing contempt for both the path and its virtues. One foot set outside its rigid confines could destroy a man’s integrity; a deliberate excursion to discover whether there might perhaps be other paths, was a heresy of such magnitude that the voyager’s soul would be damned for eternity.
Tea and biscuits were served by a sullen secretary.
Taking advantage of this lull in the diatribe, Sanjay ventured an observation of his own. ‘It’s such a pity that Jesus never wrote anything. Having to rely on the second-hand reports of people like St. Paul, who never even met him, surely confuses the message?’
‘The hand of God wrote the Gospels.’
‘Of course. Unlike you, I am not a scholar of Christianity, so please correct me if I am wrong,’ Sanjay continued, confident his host would not hesitate to do so. ‘As I understand it, Jesus offered to take on the burden of past sins so mankind could start afresh; more or less throwing out the lessons of the Old Testament, which is, of course, the history of Jews and Moslems as well as Christians. I find it odd when Christians quote the Old Testament to support their opinions.’
Mr Nikelseer’s whitening lips drew together like a string purse as Sanjay continued brightly.
‘It seems to me that what Jesus was saying was; we all make mistakes, God understands this, and will forgive us as long as we admit our errors and try to improve. A message of hope, charity and compassion. I would long ago have been cast by the wayside if I hadn’t been permitted to make mistakes.’ He smiled expectantly at his listener as if awaiting a pat on the head.
The headmaster’s tensions had clawed their way back. ‘You are deluding yourself if you think sinners will respond to such a simple message,’ he responded thinly. ‘They will read it as a licence to sin, and sin again, in the hope that at the last minute they will be redeemed! For if we sin wilfully after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remains no more sacrifice for sins! The Bible answers you clearly and strongly!’ His voice had risen several tones and acquired a hard edge.
‘No! Mr Karim, the sole way to ensure that only the righteous will enter the kingdom of heaven, is retribution! If we spare the rod, we spoil the child. Without the fear of eternal damnation and the sure and terrible vengeance of a Just God, humankind will wallow forever in the morass of lust. The time for judgement is now, and the true servants of God are seeking out nests of vipers and exterminating them. The time for forgiveness is past! Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war! You perhaps know the hymn, Mr Karim? God’s army is on the march and will not be stopped!’
He ceased his tirade and sat still, head sunk onto his chest. When he looked up, it was not to a friendly, conciliatory parent, but to an enemy of the true path. ‘Good day to you, Mr Karim. Thank you for responding to my letter. I trust you will convey my message to your son.’
He stood and moved swiftly to the door as if to forestall any further
conversation, then turned to cast a final pearl. ‘I see myself as the shepherd
of my flock. You question the value of the Old Testament to a Christian, but it
is the revealed truth of the one God. If the uncircumcised hearts of those
who have walked contrary to me be humbled, and they then accept of the
punishment of their iniquity, then will I remember my covenant.’
With that revealing misquote from Leviticus, the headmaster ushered an uncircumcised and decidedly unhumbled parent from his office.
Instead of immediately turning left, back to the entrance and his car, Sanjay stood for a minute behind the double glass doors that gave on to the quadrangle. It was interval and bodies were hurtling everywhere. Even behind the glass the noise was deafening, and the watcher felt a sense of disquiet. He had forgotten how uncompromisingly aggressive, cold and unfriendly a school playground could be, and was very glad he was no longer a student.
Half an hour before lunch, an ambulance pulled up to the covered way beside the groundsman’s storeroom. A blanket-draped stretcher was carried out and placed inside before being driven away.
Robert stopped at the storeroom at the beginning of lunchtime to see Murray, but it was locked. He had just finished checking the PE gear and was replacing out of date notices when Bart beckoned him to the office, closed the door, and in a voice cracking with tension said, ‘Murray’s dead. He drank insecticide by accident. The groundsman found him in his storeroom after interval.’
Robert stared at Bart for a second before letting out a cry of fury. ‘No one drinks insecticide by accident! Especially not Murray! I told you something was going to happen. I could feel it.’ Tears streamed at the hideous waste. That a nauseous moron like Lance should live while a harmless kid like Murray died, was the most monstrous injustice he had yet encountered. His brain refused to think.
‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’
Monique was relieved when Sanjay arrived home with Bart. Robert was still overwrought and it took a great deal of talking to convince him he could have done nothing to prevent it. They decided it was probably suicide, not an accident, and Bart was deputed to tell the police about the taunts and violence. To leave people thinking it was an accident, would be a crime. Nothing could improve if such things were hushed up.
At the following morning’s assembly the headmaster made a brief announcement. ‘There was an accident yesterday. A student, illegally playing in the groundsman’s storeroom, drank some lethal chemicals and died. The school, which is in no way to blame, has sent their condolences to his parents.’
There was no Bible reading, no prayer, no other comment.
The police, in the person of Duty Constable Rawlin, a large, smooth young man whose eyes showed neither credulity nor disbelief - merely an unnerving suspension of opinion - were politely unimpressed by Bart’s information. ‘Thank you, Mr Vaselly. We will make further inquiries and contact you again if necessary.’
Bart’s details and those of Robert, the primary witness to the assaults, were taken. Bart felt flat and unsatisfied, but it was out of his hands. Later the same day, two police officers spent half an hour in the storeroom, and interviewed the groundsman and the headmaster again, but didn’t ask to see anyone else.
There was little overt reaction to the tragedy from the pupils. Few year-twelve students had even heard of Murray. A couple of the more sentimental girls made loud noises, and that was it. No one linked Lance’s bullying to the death, and when he appeared he was as irritatingly smug and abusive as usual.
‘So, the little faggot got his desserts, bloody good show. The world’s a better place today than yesterday. What do you reckon, Brown-eye?’
‘I say you are guilty of his death, Lance,’ said Robert quietly. ‘Your bashings and abuse made his life unbearable. I hope the guilt consumes you.’
The shocked silence was broken by Lance’s raucous laughter. ‘You poncy, queer-lover. His sort is better off dead. The sooner the world is rid of all disgusting perverts, the better.’
This finally got a reaction. The other students picked up their bags and left.
‘I’m right, just you see if I’m not!’ he shouted after them.
‘Don’t listen to him, Robert,’ consoled Helen. ‘I told you ages ago to avoid Lance like the plague. We all like you and dislike him, but none of us can afford to stick our necks out. Exam results are too important to jeopardise over a venomous half-wit. I wish you’d do the same.’ She took his hand and squeezed it in unaffected sympathy. It nearly unleashed a deluge of tears. He took a deep breath and controlled himself.
‘Thanks, Helen. Good advice as usual.’
The same advice was offered by Bart and his parents, ‘Get the tests over first.’
He found it easier than expected, having what he had come to realise was a peculiar brain – only able to concentrate on one thing at a time. He could either think, or listen to music, or read a book, or converse. When absorbed in an activity he was deaf and blind to everything and everyone around him. While walking or jogging he frequently offended acquaintances by ignoring them. His parents had given up trying to talk to him when he was concentrating. Study was an excellent numbing device and time sped by in an orgy of revision and preparation.
Friday morning’s assembly was notable for the lack of any further mention of the tragedy. Only the Bible reading shed a little light on the intricacies of Mr Nikelseer’s mind.
‘Remember I pray thee, whoever
perished being innocent?
Where were the righteous cut off?
Even as I have seen,
they that plough iniquity and sow
wickedness,
reap the same!
By the blast of God they perish
and by the breath of his nostrils
are they consumed!’
Robert’s blood ran cold. Mr Nikelseer had accused him of iniquity and wickedness, and certainly had considered Murray to be a sinner. A previous Bible reading had described God - and by extension his servant Nikelseer - as judge; today’s as executioner. Despite an agnostic upbringing he found it hard to remain calm.
Eleven o’clock Saturday morning found Mandy Sorens hammering at Warren Pinot’s door. She was suffering from a splitting headache after a party the night before, where Lance had given her several pills and a couple of blue tablets. She hoped she’d had a good time because this morning it certainly wasn’t any fun. He had refused to give her any pick-up pills until she’d been to screw the money out of the Pinots.
An elderly lady, about the same age as Mandy’s grandmother, devoid of make up, grey hair pulled back softly into a bob, feet in fleecy-lined slippers, asked politely what she could do for her. Mandy hadn’t expected an old, sad-looking woman and was on the point of saying she’d made a mistake, when her head gave an almighty jolt. ‘It’s private,’ she snapped. ‘Can I come in?’
The house was neat and clean. One wall of the lounge was full of books, still on the wooden shelves supported by bricks they had been occupying for forty years. The other walls bore murky oil paintings of eucalypts, slab huts and the occasional cow raising dust along a track. The carpet and furnishings were of the same vintage as the bookshelves. A fine old piano with polished brass candelabra was open ready to be played, and piles of sheet music lay about. There was no television visible, only a cheap stereo.
‘Please sit down, dear,’ Mrs. Pinot said with a kindly smile, seating herself carefully in one of the equally aged arm chairs. The defiant lack of affluence enraged Mandy’s senses and she plonked herself down, told her tale bluntly for maximum impact and demanded to know whether Mrs Pinot wanted the world to be told. If not, it would cost her fifteen hundred dollars.
Mrs Pinot sat quietly throughout the recitation. She hadn’t lived with Warren all these years without being aware of his moods and flights of fancy. She had certainly noticed his recent nervousness. Thus, she was reasonably certain this dalliance had been his first real lapse, and judging by the girl’s manner, it had almost certainly been entrapment. She felt oddly pleased for him and hoped he had enjoyed it, because despite their two children she had never been much use to him sexually, and a lifetime of mild guilt had trailed her. Today that burden had been lifted. She smiled gently. ‘What is your name, dear?’
Within a surprisingly few minutes all the necessary details had been extracted from the incredulous Mandy and Mrs Pinot was on the telephone inviting the girl’s mother over because her daughter was in a spot of bother. She replaced the receiver thoughtfully and turned back to her guest. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on. You look as though you could do with a cup of tea.’
All Mandy’s survival instincts screamed at her to get out, but her legs refused. Dimly she realised she wanted to get caught. She was sick of the endless arguments with her mother, the headaches, the strange men. She would like to live here in this grotty old house with this cruddy old lady. Tears started to roll - for herself - not for the heartache she had caused her mother and Warren Pinot.
Mrs Sorens arrived in minutes, an expensive fur coat thrown over the flounces of nightwear. She wasn’t looking in much better shape than her daughter, having had a similar night. Her drug had been alcohol and her partner not a total stranger, but the result was the same. Over tea and homemade biscuits, Elizabeth Pinot gave an expurgated version of Mandy’s story and threats, suggesting that mother and daughter didn’t fight, but try to sort things out, because blackmail was a serious crime and today’s laws treated seventeen-year-olds as severely as adults. In a gentle, apologetic voice, she warned them that, were she to hear of anything like this happening again, she would have no compunction about informing the police.
When Warren returned from his circuit of the park with the dog, she remarked casually over the teacups, ‘A young woman, Mandy, came visiting while you were out. She talked a lot but seemed confused so I gave her a cup of tea and called her mother to take her home. I do feel sorry for some young people.’
Her husband’s eyes were a trifle weepy as he bestowed the first loving hug and kiss she had received in years.
Chapter Eleven
Robert’s Saturday morning was given over to study. During lunch he shared with his parents his bewilderment over the latest Bible reading, and the headmaster’s state of mind. Returning to his room, half a minute was spent on decision making. He knew what he wanted but thought it best to honour the oracle. He tossed a coin, took careful note of his reaction, and set off at a brisk jog. Twenty minutes later he was in the dark stairwell outside Bart’s unit. Muffled, over-heated voices seeped through the closed door. Almost as soon as he knocked it was thrown open and Bart greeted him with theatrical surprise.
‘Hello, Robert! Good to see you. I must be getting popular, the headmaster has also paid me a visit.’ The determinedly cheery tone did not conceal his nervousness.'
‘It’s not urgent, I’ll come back later.’
‘Rubbish, I have too few visitors. Come on in.’ Fingers brushed as Robert walked through to be confronted by a cold stare.
‘What are you doing here? I made it perfectly clear that I do not approve of teachers consorting with pupils.’
‘Bart’s a friend of the family,’ was the innocent reply. ‘He’s coming to dinner tonight. I always go for a run in the afternoons to keep fit. Mum asked me to make sure he was coming.’
The headmaster’s baleful glare conveyed his disbelief better than words. ‘Now you are here,’ he stated primly, ‘I can inform you personally of my extreme displeasure at the corrupt rumours you and Mr Vaselly have been generating. Murray Corso’s parents categorically deny he was a homosexual. They also reject the contention that he had been harassed at school any more than would be considered normal.’ The headmaster turned aside to cough twice into his hand before continuing in a tone where menace was a none too subtle ingredient. ‘It has come to my attention that you are attempting to convince the police that Corso’s death was suicide, and to this end have publicly accused Lance Osbairne of being the cause. These are very grave accusations and I have had to use all my influence with his father to prevent him from laying charges of libel. It is only in deference to me and the good name of the school that he has so far stayed his hand. Therefore,’ the headmaster stood up to give greater significance to carefully measured words, ‘I am issuing a warning to you both. I am of the firm opinion that all relationships between pupils and teachers outside school are unhealthy. If you continue your association, and persist with unfounded accusations against the good name of not only the dead but the living, you will face grave consequences.’ He swept out the door before the young men had either the time, or the wit, to respond.
‘It wasn’t meant to be like this,’ pleaded Bart. ‘Today was to have been special.’
‘That wasn’t special?’ asked Robert tersely, hiding a fit of the shakes by walking onto the balcony and gazing at the view. ‘I don’t know whether to scream with hysterical laughter or throw myself over the railing.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘That’s what Murray did,‘ he said quietly. ‘And what Nikelseer would like us to do.’ He fixed Bart with a frown. ‘The man’s a dangerous nutter, Bart! You’ve heard his readings at assembly. Henceforth is laid up for me a crown of bloody righteousness! Talk about delusions of grandeur! Well, he’s not going to get me slitting my veins. Shaft the bastard.’ He turned back to the view to hide a trembling lip.
Bart felt sick. If he opened his mouth he’d let loose a stream of useless invective. It might make him feel better but would hardly be fair on Robert, so he stared silently at his shoes until the urge passed.
‘Hey, droopy!’
Bart looked up. Robert was standing at the window, hands on hips, an indecipherable look in his eye.
‘Are you going to stand there all day? I came to wrestle.’
The evil spell was broken.
Bart gave a humourless grunt. ‘You’re tough - or insensitive.’
‘Both.’
‘And here I thought you were a fragile bud.’
‘That too.’
‘A man for all seasons.’
‘Not yet seasoned.’
‘Spicy enough for me.’
Robert laughed a little too wildly. ‘So that’s why Lance called me Curry Muncher.’
‘Yep, you’re hot stuff. Are you sure you want to… wrestle?’
‘What else?’
‘I thought…’ a hint of disappointment.
‘What?’
Bart tried to read Robert’s face, couldn’t, so took a deep breath. When he spoke his voice lacked its usual confidence. ‘Probably a good idea… work before words… Purge our minds of that man.’
Robert smiled humourlessly.
They stripped and got down to battle. It was a brave effort, but Mr Nikelseer’s warning had rendered them self-conscious, poisoning pleasure. Interest waned and they sat awkwardly on the floor, propped against the sofa. Neither knew how to broach the topic that had occupied their thoughts for every waking minute of the previous week.
‘The Secondary Schools’ Wrestling Championships are being held on the Gold Coast this year. Want to enter?’
‘When?’
‘Last week of the holidays.’
‘Wouldn’t mind. Think I’ll do any good?’
‘No chance, but it’ll be valuable experience.’
‘I sure lack experience – in many things.’
Bart’s tension increased. ‘Have you thought about…?’
‘Little else.’
‘And?’
Robert shrugged. ‘I tossed a coin this afternoon before running over.’ He left the words hanging.
‘And?’
‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’
‘Robert!’
‘The long or the short answer?’
‘I’ll wring your bloody neck!’
‘The long one then.’ Robert looked up seriously. ‘But not here… in the bedroom.’
The bold words concealed a growing doubt. Side by side on crisp new sheets, shyness overtook them. Reality was, for once, overwhelmingly more impressive than fantasy. They lay on their sides facing each other, exploring with timid fingertips. Robert was almost sick with nervousness. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to act? Desire was no substitute for experience. He willed his penis to stiffen – it shrank even further into its foreskin. Panic. Bart must be despising him. Sadness tugged. He thrust his body wildly, almost violently, sweat streamed, nothing happened. He risked a glance.
Bart’s smile unnerved him. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve all afternoon. Relax.’
Robert could only manage a worried frown.
Bart hoisted himself onto his elbow. ‘Are you regretting this?’
‘No! No! I… I don’t know what to do.’
‘Take it easy. It’s supposed to be a pleasure.’
‘But… I can’t get a hard on.’
‘So what?’
‘I’m useless.’
‘It’s you I love – not a stiff cock.’ Bart stroked Robert’s shoulder. ‘You’re just nervous. Calm down, it’s not a competition.’
‘You really don’t mind?’
‘Couldn’t care less.’
Relief released tensions as Bart pushed him onto his back and with fingers, lips and tongue brought his lover’s skin to life. Every hair follicle goose-bumped, nipples stood on end and skin kindled to tingling fire until Robert was certain he was about to either expire from sensual overload or, if the sweet torment stopped, die of deprivation. Never in his wildest imaginings had he conceived of such intense, almost unbearable pleasure. Groans and shudders of ecstasy slipped through bars of self-control. Bart hovered above, locking eyes before sinking gently.
‘If that wasn’t an erection I’m not queer,’ he grinned as his weight pushed Robert into the bed and they hugged and kissed with the frenzy of youthful lust and love.
Many people find sex disappointing, even unsatisfying, not realising there is at least as much fulfilment in giving pleasure as receiving. Robert was no such passive layabout and couldn’t wait to give as good as he’d got.
Much later, head resting on Bart’s outstretched arm, he dragged still-inquisitive fingers lightly over his lover’s chest, belly and thighs.
‘That’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.’
Bart smiled.
‘No! For real. I thought I knew what sex was – God knows I’ve wanked enough – but wanking’s nothing like what you did to me. Honestly, Bart. I thought I would die if you stopped and die if you went on. How can skin be so sensitive?’
‘It was like that for me too.’
‘I’m glad we didn’t do… other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know… arse-fucking. I was scared I’d have to do that.’
‘Would you have?’
‘Of course – if you’d asked me.’
‘Then you’re in luck – we both are. I don’t fancy it either.’
‘Have you ever done it?’
‘A guy picked me up once and took me back to his place. I was nearly chundering with excitement but we didn’t even get our clothes off. He just pushed my face against the wall, dropped my trousers, put on a condom, greased up and started shoving. I was rigid with shock, yelled before he’d even got started, dragged up my daks and took off.’ Bart fell silent, thinking about it.
‘That’s gross!’
‘Yeah. It was pretty off-putting. That’s probably why I never tried again. I thought, if that’s gay sex I’m not interested.’
‘Who taught you to do what we just did?’
‘Read it in a woman’s magazine.’
‘Ever done it to anyone else?’
‘The encounter I just told you about is my one and only sexual experience with another man. I decided to wait until a worthy recipient of my talents came along.’
‘Am I worthy?’
‘Beyond my wildest dreams. Well worth the wait.’
‘So we were both virgins.’ Robert smiled contentedly. ‘I loved every second. I can’t get enough of your body. You’ve no fat on you at all. If you get sick you’ll have no reserves. What I can’t stand about women’s bodies is their softness and fat. Tits, hips, stomachs - everything is soft. I love your hardness.’
A dirty laugh.
‘Yeah, that too. I’m not going home tonight. I can’t bear to leave you. I don’t think I can ever have enough of just touching. I want to get to know every part of your mind and body, to somehow… climb inside you, be part of you.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘No pain, no gain. I hadn’t realised I was missing out on something so awesome as simply lying and touching someone you like... love,’ he corrected with a shy smile. ‘I feel all pure and noble and bloody silly talking like this.’
‘Don’t stop, I love it. I’m happier than… I don’t know… that you decided to be my…’
‘Lover?’
‘More than that. Friend, companion, sparring partner… Everything!’
Robert looked thoughtful.
‘If you’re still unsure though,’ Bart added, worried he’d mentioned things Robert wasn’t ready for. ‘You know - the goods haven’t come up to expectation, you’ve realised you’re not ready for that sort of… that sort of relationship - there’s a back-out clause that expires in one minute.’
While he counted to sixty under his breath, Robert pulled a judicious mouth, frowned as though he was seriously considering changing his mind, then smiled innocently. ‘No, all things considered, everything’s fine.’
‘You prick! If I’d had a heart attack it’d be your fault’ Bart threw himself on top. ‘I wonder what old Nikelseer’s reaction would be if he could see us now?’
‘You sure know how to break the spell.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking that he’s always on about Sodom and Gomorrah, but we don’t do sodomy so he’s barking up the wrong tree. I wonder what people like that really object to about us?’ He ran his fingers through Robert’s hair. ‘I’m trying not to feel jealous that I had to wait four years longer than you to experience this. Sounds soft, but I feel all gooey inside when I think about you and.... and.... I can’t bear the thought of a minute without you. I’ve a pessimistic streak and worry about dark forces gathering to rend us asunder.’ He threw himself onto the bed, wiped the back of his hand across his brow and gave vent to a melodramatic sigh. ‘Being older and more responsible…’
‘Only older.’
‘It falls to me to initiate a campaign strategy. What do you reckon we should do about people like Nikelseer?’
‘Now that’s what I call an excellent strategy, ask the intelligent one what to do. I’ll do the same as you.’
‘Right. First up; what are we? Victims or victors.’
‘Never a victim, that’s out for a start. Tell you what, you be Batman and I’ll be Robin. Hey!’ he yelled in surprise, ‘Bartman and Robert! It fits.’ Half seriously, they shook hands to seal the pact, not re-surfacing till hunger pangs forced them reluctantly from the bed. A flipped coin decided that Robert would get take-aways while Bart rang Monique and restored the house to order.
‘Take Hyacinth.’
‘I want to live, not rattle myself to death.’
‘I’ve re-assembled the interior and he’s now as good as new.’
‘Almost new. Thanks, but I’ll jog. It’s only a couple of blocks.’
‘More like ten. Be careful crossing roads. I don’t want to loose you now I’ve found you.’
‘Like James-James Morrison’s mother?’
‘Yeah. Lost or stolen or strayed.’
‘No worries! I’ll be back in time for tea.’
Ian Nikelseer had rested at the bottom of the stairs to calm his hammering heart. He had been in the presence of corruption and was now certain that his premonition in the gymnasium had been correct. The two young men had embraced the devil. Dizziness and nausea weakened his knees and he sank onto the concrete steps, gulping at the cold stale air in an attempt to still runaway thoughts. What to do? Action was urgently required because eternal souls were at stake! Christian to the core, he was determined to love the sinner while hating the sin, but the Devil was up to his old tricks.
How, Ian found himself wondering, can I love the man but not his actions? Surely we can only know someone by their actions? Either I must love both action and man or hate them both? But Christ enjoined us to love everyone – so I must love their actions too! Fool! shouted his faithful conscience. The headmaster glanced around nervously in case someone had overheard. The body is sinful. Only by constant struggle can man control his evil flesh. The mind can never be in harmony with the body on this earth. Only when he enters the kingdom of heaven through the grace of our lord Jesus Christ, will man find peace! Thus reconciled to his god’s inscrutable ways, Ian apologised and promised to do something to stem this slither to depravity. His heart slowed, breathing returned to normal and hope blossomed. He would seek the assistance of the only person he trusted, the one man to whom he could confide his hopes and fears; the chairman of his School Committee.
Arnold Osbairne answered the door and led the headmaster to his study. They discussed minor school matters, commiserated over their diminishing congregation, and sipped a coffee prepared and delivered by the housekeeper. Having better ways to occupy his time, Mr Osbairne prodded his guest.
‘Out with it, Ian. Something’s bugging you. What’s the problem?’
The headmaster outlined his worries.
‘Those are the two spreading rumours about Lance?’
‘The same.’
Mr Osbairne pushed telephone and directory across the desk, then watched impassively as his guest dialled and asked to speak to Mr Vaselly. Mr Nikelseer replaced the receiver quietly, shrivelled back into his seat and looked helplessly at his host. ‘He is not going there for dinner.’
‘OK, Ian. Leave it to me. I’ll sort something out. Forget about it now. Right?’
‘Thank you, Arnold. It is getting beyond me.’
After showing his guest out, Arnold summoned his son to the study. Osbairne senior wasn’t a fool; he knew Lance’s tastes, understood and even shared certain of his predilections, and was mildly amused by what he knew of his son’s recent development. What didn’t amuse him was carelessness. He didn’t doubt for an instant that the bullying of the faggot kid had occurred, nor that his son might be, in some minor way, censurable. Exuberance is to be applauded in the young and mistakes happen. But! To be so careless as to get himself not only publicly accused, but also known to the police, was inexcusable. He eyeballed his son for several seconds. ‘Nikelseer reckons the PE teacher is having it off with that black kid who accused you in class. Know anything about it?’
‘Sort of guessed, from what Nikelseer was muttering the other day after bloody bible-class. Christ! I’m sick of that stupid old fart!’
Arnold’s cold stare forced his son’s eyes to the floor. ‘As I’ve already told you, you’ve screwed up! Your name’s been bandied around in association with that dead poofter. The cops have your name on their books. How anyone could be so stupid…’
‘But Dad! I wasn’t…’
His father raised his hand. ‘Spare me the details, but remember this. If you want to enjoy life, never get caught, and never admit anything to anyone, not even to me!’ He let the words sink in before continuing. ‘Can I trust you with a job?’
Lance nodded vigorously, desperate to regain his father’s esteem.
‘Ian wants the two queers to stop seeing each other. Thinks their eternal souls might be damaged or some crap. I told him to leave it with me - now I’m leaving it with you. Nothing too drastic. Just get a couple of your mates to persuade them to find other arses to screw. Reckon you can manage that without letting the whole world in on the act?’
Lance’s face had acquired an unpleasant mauve tinge. This was real adult stuff and his father was trusting him. ‘No worries. I’ll fix ’em.’
Something in his voice made Arnold looked up sharply. ‘A warning!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t get any stupid ideas. You stuff this up and you’re on your own! Clear?’
Lance had been born too late. He would have made an excellent enforcer for St. Dominic, Calvin - any of the self-appointed soul-savers whose dogmas have tormented humanity over the centuries. He nodded impatiently. This was one success he desperately needed. His father hadn’t guessed the half of it.
Monique was happy for Robert to stay for a meal, as long as it didn’t get too late and Bart ran him home. Saturday nights made her nervous. ‘Your headmaster telephoned and asked to speak to you,’ she said with surprise. ‘He was certain you were dining with us. What on earth could have given him that idea?’
Bart told her and apologised for the nuisance. ‘I can’t believe he wanted anything,’ he added, ‘I’ll bet he was just checking on me. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about Robert and me. Reckons we shouldn’t be friends. It’s against his ethical code, or whatever he likes to call it, for teachers and pupils to become ...ah... close,’ he ended lamely.
A small but loud silence trickled through the line before Monique announced firmly, ‘Sanjay and I are pleased that you have become… close. It has been a settling influence on Robert, so don’t concern yourself about that sorry little man. Come in and see us when you bring Robert back. We’ll still be up as some friends are coming round.’
The bed had been straightened and Bart was starting on the lounge when someone knocked at the back door. Robert must have come up the back way to surprise him. He unlatched the door and returned to his tidying. No one entered. ‘OK smart arse,’ he called, ‘I know you’re there.’ A muffled groan broke the stillness. Imagining the worst, Bart raced into the darkness, the heat-sensors having once again failed to turn on the lights.
A blow to the side of the head sent him to his knees. As he was struggling to prise himself up against nausea and the suddenly enormous force of gravity, his hands were kicked from beneath and a boot crashed onto his head. Someone grabbed hold of his legs, twisted them painfully and flipped him onto his back. A heavy weight landed on his chest, pinning his arms. Other hands manhandled him towards the handrail.
Through the fog of pain and confusion, three shadowy figures and an indistinct voice. ‘Die, you nosy shit! Make the world a better place.’
A boot crushed his neck, squeezing blood into his temples, making it impossible to shout. With an effort he freed his arms and flailed them wildly. They were quickly stomped on. Someone kicked at his ankles. His head was already under the rail, only inches from the drop to the garages three floors below. Gradually his torso was forced around until his legs fell over the edge where they kicked impotently. Heart lurched, pulse thumped insanely. There was too much pain to think about what was happening, let alone how to stop it.
A bone-shattering kick sent his hips over. He was on his back, powerless, someone shoving at his shoulders and head, thrusting them under and through. A bolt of agony jagged up his spine. My back’s broken. Metal scraped his ear and warm blood ran into his mouth. Why were they taking so long?
Cringing from a kick that should have sent him plummeting to the concrete below, the fog suddenly cleared and reality burst into his brain. A surge of adrenaline fuelled a mighty twist of his torso and wildly swinging arms bashed against one of the uprights. Fingers clawed, grasped and gripped. A hoarse, frail sound - the ravaged cry of a stricken animal - fluttered into the night.
His assailants prised at the fingers, but for the moment he was too strong. His brain spiralled deep into itself, refusing to accept the certainty of what was happening. A mindless ball of agony, he hung on for an eternity until shrieks of fury accompanied by a resounding thwack on the railing abruptly terminated the kicking and muttered curses. Three shadows flitted down the back stairs pursued by a furious Hazel wielding a short length of pipe.
‘Rotten delinquents,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’ll have to get that lock fixed.’ She shone her torch down the stairs before retracing her steps. A whimper stopped her. ‘What’s that?’ A sweep of the torch. ‘Damned stray cats,’ she muttered, returning to her flat. As she was closing the door another faint cry. By now very wary, the elderly woman crept back, pipe at the ready, hair tingling on the nape of her neck. ‘If those criminals are playing tricks, I’ll get them,’ she said loudly in an increasingly vain attempt to bolster flagging courage. Torchlight reflected the slick redness of bloodstains and fingers about to slip from the metal post.
‘It’s hands! A man!’ she gasped, dropping her torch, throwing herself onto the concrete and grabbing hold of Bart’s wrists, which were by now so sticky with blood she could scarcely maintain a grip. ‘Help! Help!’ she screamed, voice cracking with hysteria.
Saturday night, everyone out partying. Hazel’s calls became howls of impotent fear and anguish. After seconds that seemed hours, one of the doors below opened, casting a beam of light onto Bart’s swinging body. ‘Help! Come up here! This man is going to fall! I can’t hold him!’
The young Malaysian student bounded up the stairs, and together they dragged Bart back up and under the rails, where he lay, exhausted. Hazel was sobbing with relief and effort. When she had recovered her breath, they half-carried, half-dragged Bart into his kitchen. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she kept repeating pathetically to the student. ‘You’ve been most kind. I’ll call a doctor.’
The young man left her to it, curiosity over-ruled by fear of involvement.
Robert had lost his way, taken a wrong turning and suffered a long and impatient wait in a queue of smokers. He was gone nearly three quarters of an hour. Prepared for jibes about how long he’d been, he knocked loudly on the front door.
‘Who is it?’ A nervous female voice. He identified himself and a distraught Hazel let him in. ‘Oh, thank goodness you are here. I can’t get a doctor and I don’t know whether to call an ambulance. I’ve telephoned the police, but they couldn’t tell me how long they’d be. I don’t know what to do!’
Robert dropped his parcel and threw himself to his knees beside Bart, sagging on the edge of a dining chair, slumped over the table. A bowl of bright red water stood on a towel, and a cloth dripped onto the floor.
‘What happened?"
Hazel told him what little she knew.
Bart's eyes were closed, breath rasping. Robert stroked his neck, saw the bruising, grabbed some packets of frozen vegetables from the freezer and applied them to all the bluish tinged flesh he could see.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Hazel said quietly as she sponged. ‘It’s mainly grazes and scratches and terrible bruising. If there are no broken bones he’ll be all right. I did a first-aid course years ago, so I think I can remember how to bandage anything that requires it. And you know about the ice, football?’
Robert nodded. He was back on his knees impatiently wiping tears from his own face as he stroked Bart’s hair and whispered into his torn and bloodied ear, ‘You’re safe, Bartman. Robert’s here,’
Bart raised his head and whispered with the ghost of a smile, ‘What’s all the fuss, can’t a man have a bit of a kip? Hazel, you’re an angel.’
When he could sip a cup of strong, sweet tea, they pieced together what must have happened. ‘I almost killed one of them,’ Hazel said ominously as though she wished she had. ‘One of my swipes knocked his hat off. It’s probably still out there. Go and have a look, Robert.’
Grabbing a torch from the shelf beside the back door, Robert searched around outside. Nothing. He leaned over the rails, felt sick at the gore and shone the beam into the basement. A small object was lodged in a hanging basket of geraniums two floors below. He ran down and retrieved it. A dark blue beenie, the sort sold everywhere.
‘The police may be able to find out who wore it. Show it to them,’ was Hazel’s advice. She fixed an anxious eye on Bart, still convinced he should try one of the hospitals. Saturday night was the worst possible time to go to Outpatients, he assured her, and thanks to her ministrations he was feeling better already. If he was, it wasn’t apparent.
Hazel returned to her flat, convinced that three would-be thieves, surprised by Bart, had tried to get rid of him. They in turn had been surprised by her.
The bandaged hands were clumsy, so Robert held the cup for Bart to drink and broke the chicken into small portions. But Bart couldn’t eat. Despite warm tea and a blanket draped round his shoulders, tremors wracked his frame. Robert helped him to the bedroom where he carefully peeled off the torn clothes, trying not to show too much of the horror he felt at the extent of the bruising over ribs, ankles and thighs. Amazingly, there was no badly broken skin. He gently lowered his friend onto the bed, applied more ice, judiciously as the patient was already disturbingly cold, covered him with the doona then stripped and climbed in beside him, wrapping him in his arms. His survival manual had recommended this as the quickest and best way to warm a body. They lay in silence until Bart’s shaking ceased and his temperature slowly returned to normal.
‘Any idea who they were?’
‘Young voices. I didn’t tell Hazel, but they said, "Die you nosy shit, make the world a better place." Those bloody lights didn’t come on, so I was blind when I went out. First thing tomorrow we’ll get that security door fixed. And the lights.’
‘I’ll ring Mum, I’m not leaving you here alone tonight.’
‘Nikelseer rang your parents. Asked to speak to me. What a load of crap. The bastard was just checking up on your story. It’s probably a coincidence, but a few hours later I was mugged. Killed if it hadn’t been for Hazel. They were serious. It wasn’t a joke.’ He began to shake and it was a minute before he could continue. ‘Nikelseer said he’d stop us. But why? All I’ve done is suggest to the police that Murray’s death was suicide due to harassment. That wouldn’t even get his precious Lance a rap over the knuckles. He must be worried about something else.’
‘I’ll bet he told Lance it was you who went to the police suggesting suicide. It’s got to be bloody Osbairne and his thugs. But, as you say, what the hell are they so frightened of?’
‘God knows. Hazel called the cops. They said they’d come as soon as possible. Saturday night’s their busiest time. It’s been a couple of hours so you’d better put some clothes on in case they finally do arrive. What do you reckon? Should we tell them our suspicions?’
They decided to play it by ear, depending on what sort of hearing they were getting. They also decided to deny a gay relationship if it was suggested. They’d stick to the story about wrestling preparation for the competitions in the holidays and a family friendship to lend their association validity in the eyes of the world. Sanjay’s reluctant offer to come round when Robert told him Bart had suffered a bit of an accident was politely declined. There had seemed no point in alarming his parents with the truth at that time of night. It was fine for Robert to stay over, but Bart had to come round to the Karims’ the next day.
Robert found some sheets and blankets and made up a bed on the floor in the spare room in case the police wanted to look around. He got in and messed it about so it would look as though he had just got up, then found two pairs of pyjamas, eased Bart painfully into one and dressed himself in the other. He cleaned up the remains of the meal, gave Bart four aspirin because his head and neck were really starting to hurt as the shock and other aches receded, then crawled carefully into bed beside him.
A loud knocking on the front door dragged them from sleep. Robert raced to the spare room, put on the light and then called out, ‘Who is it?’ His watch showed eleven fifty-five, nearly six hours since Hazel rang.’
‘Police.’
Two large, tired-looking men entered. The older was about forty-five, the younger in his twenties. ‘You rang about an assault.’ It was almost an accusation and Robert felt guilty. He nodded nervously. The two men stood in the middle of the lounge taking up an inordinate amount of room. ‘I’m Senior Constable Ponto and this is Constable McBain. Is there a table?’ The older one sat while the younger stood looking around as though for evidence of wrongdoing. They both appeared unsurprised by Robert’s summary of what had happened.
‘Your name? Are you a relative? Do you live here? Your address? Why were you here? Which unit does Hazel live in? What’s her surname?’ Robert didn’t know and felt guilty of withholding evidence. They wanted to see both her and Bart.
‘She’ll probably be asleep.’
‘Not if it was as traumatic as you’re alleging. Go and get her while we talk to Mr Vaselly. Is he mobile?’
A groggy, torn-looking Bart appeared in the doorway of his bedroom, staggered over and lowered himself into the chair facing the officer. In his blood-stained bandages he was a gory sight. Hazel answered the door as soon as Robert knocked, her tired face peering through the narrow gap permitted by the safety chain.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Hazel, but the police want to talk to you.’
She was dressed and ready. Statements were taken from both her and Bart, read back, and signed. The beenie was thrust unceremoniously into a briefcase. They weren’t interested in suspicions about Lance, they dealt only in facts. Their interpretation was the same as Hazel’s - Bart had been ‘nosy’ by disturbing an attempted burglary. They advised him, however, to write down everything he could think of which might give some credence to the suspicions he had voiced, then have the document read, dated and signed by the local police. Being thus sort-of on record, he could produce it if there was a recurrence. It wasn’t clear what the two officers thought about the attack. It appeared that such assaults were a fairly common occurrence, and little cause for surprise.
They departed quietly, offering neither sympathy for the victim, nor condemnation of the attackers. Hazel returned to her long-awaited glass of brandy, which she had been careful not to tipple in case her breath made them think she was an unreliable witness. Robert walked her back. Before returning to bed the young men warmed a couple of tumblers of whisky and milk, a Vaselly family cure-for-all-ills. Robert felt suitably decadent.
In the middle of reviewing every possible fact that could have a bearing on the assault, they fell asleep.
Monique and Sanjay’s alarm when confronted by Bart’s injuries, turned to horror when they learned the truth about the accident. He insisted he already felt much better, although his bloodied ear, bruised neck, lacerated hands and slow, painful movements didn’t back up the assertions. Things were as bad under his clothes, but during the bathing and dressing of wounds that morning he had made Robert promise not to mention them. Sympathy was the last thing he wanted. He had already snapped at Monique for fussing - apologising immediately. She had patted him on the head and said she understood, but he still felt rotten.
He had a strength both rare and unappreciated in a society based on convention and conformity. He took responsibility for himself - unlike the "tough Aussie bloke" sneering What are ya? from the security of a bunch of equally intolerant mates. Despite misgivings, he had welcomed a lover into his hard and solitary world, but was now realising that Robert’s family would also expect entrance. He wasn’t ready for that.
The sunlit peace of the patio was disturbed by raised voices from the kitchen. Robert was mystified, his parents never argued – at least not when he could hear. Bart’s sick nervousness increased. He guessed the parents were discussing him. A sudden sharp vision of the previous night’s terror sent a wave of nausea through his guts and he just made it into the garden before throwing up most of the sloppy porridge and tea he’d forced down at breakfast. Robert supported his trembling frame back to the divan, replaced the blanket and held a glass of water to his lips before hosing the evil smelling mess into the ground.
‘They’re arguing about me,’ Bart croaked through a throat even sorer than before. ‘I’m getting out of here before they tell me to go.’
‘Like hell you are! You’re staying even if I have to tie you down. They like you! It’s not about us at all.’
The day clouded over and a south westerly blew up to remind them that, although it was September, winter hadn’t finished with them yet. Robert lit the fire in the lounge and installed Bart on the couch. Monique prepared lunch with a tight mouth while Sanjay sat at the dining table writing in a notebook.
‘I can’t eat anything. I can’t swallow.’ Bart murmured miserably.
‘Leave it to me.’ Robert went to the kitchen, put his arm round his mother’s waist and spoke quietly. Their murmuring increased Bart’s disquiet, but he was so exhausted he fell into a doze, to be woken by Robert sitting beside him and rubbing a spoon across his cheek.
‘Get outside this. Mum’s blended everything so it’ll slip straight into your stomach.’ In between his own mouthfuls, Robert spooned the mush into Bart. It wasn’t that his hands were too sore to hold the spoon; he didn’t trust himself not to shake and spill everything. He felt better afterwards and the fire cheered his spirits. Monique and Sanjay continued their muted conversation at the dining table. After everything had been cleared away, they joined the two young men, sitting in their armchairs at each side of the fireplace.
‘Show-down time,’ Sanjay stated humourlessly. ‘When murder stalks its time to lay all the cards on the table.’ He opened his notebook.
Bart jerked involuntarily.
‘We assume the attack on Bart may have something to do with the following three things. One: Murray Corso’s suicide; two: Bart talking to the police about Lance Osbairnes bullying; three: Mr Nikelseer’s warning to you both, and his telephone call last night. The missing piece in the puzzle is the exact relationship between you two.’ He gazed severely at the young men.
Neither dared speak. Bart was trying not to throw up again. Robert was trying not to throw a tantrum. One stared at the floor, the other at the fire. Monique cleared her throat.
‘We are not prying, nor are we sitting in judgement.’ Sanjay continued. ‘All we want to know is, are you friends or lovers?’
Dead silence as Bart wished the earth would swallow him, and Robert fought the urge to smash something. He looked both parents in the eye and stated defiantly, ‘Both. Best mates and… the other thing.’
‘But how can you know, mon chere? How can you be so sure?’
‘How did you know you were heterosexual?’ whispered Bart.
Monique blustered. ‘It… it is normal. It feels normal.’
‘What I want feels normal to me.’ Robert sounded petulant.
‘But you’ve had girlfriends. Jocelyn? She was nice.’
‘Nothing happened with Jocelyn. I didn’t like her in that way.’ Robert turned to his father for support. ‘Dad knows, we talked about it after that party at the beginning of term.’
Sanjay nodded. ‘That’s one explanation for your problem with the girl that night. But are you certain it’s the correct one?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bart is a sympathetic young man. Perhaps it is hero-worship?’
‘Mum! Give me some credit.’
‘Is it my fault? Have we done something wrong?’
‘Fault? Wrong? What the hell are you on about? I’m gay! I love Bart! There, I've said it! And he loves me!’ Distraught, he turned to Bart sitting red-faced and miserable beside him.
‘But how can you expect to be happy if…?’ Despite herself, Monique’s voice was developing a hectoring edge.
‘That’s enough, Monique. Because it would be unnatural for us, doesn’t mean it is for them.’ Sanjay turned to Robert. ‘Is this harming your prospects for good examination results?’
‘You’re joking! I’ve never felt better.’
‘But surely, to discover you are… homosexual, must be a terrifying experience?’
Robert’s mouth gaped. ‘Don’t you understand anything, Mum?’ he shouted. ‘Until last week I thought I was sub-human! I couldn’t bear the thought of going on! I wanted to become an instant old man so I wouldn’t have to go through this sex and growing up crap. I was desperate! Now I’m… I’m… I feel as though I’ve finally become a human being!’
Monique looked bewildered.
‘It’s not traumatic to realise you’re gay, Monique,’ Bart ground out in a whisper, ‘if you have supportive parents. Self-acceptance is always accompanied by a sense of liberation, even exhilaration. Confusions fall into place, problems recede and tensions disappear. Work performance usually improves as well.’
The other three looked at Bart curiously.
‘Am I talking like a text-book?’
Sanjay nodded.
‘I was a telephone counsellor for a year and read everything I could find on the subject. Replacement therapy for the real thing, I expect,’ he added morosely.
‘I'm sure it will come in useful.’ Sanjay was finding it hard not to smile. ‘So, Robert, you’re confident your exams won’t suffer?’
‘Of course not!’
‘And that problem you had with the girl at the party. Has that receded?’
Robert blushed furiously. ‘Of course it has! And I hate you both for putting Bart through this.’
‘Don’t,’ muttered Bart. ‘Be grateful. They are doing it because they love and care about you. Parents who don’t try to understand their children don’t care about them – only about themselves.’
‘Do your parents know about you, Bart?’
‘No. They wouldn’t be able to cope. My father guesses, that’s why he never wants to see me. My mother goes through life in blinkers, refusing to admit what a misery her life is. I’m not going to add to that.’
Silence. Mother and father looked into each other’s eyes and reached silent agreement. Robert and Bart sat in blanked-out embarrassment. Sanjay got to his feet and stood impressively behind his wife like a caricature Victorian paterfamilias. His tone was formal. ‘Thank you for putting up with our questions. You have convinced us that you understand yourselves, and we accept your sexual orientation without reservations. That doesn’t mean we are pleased about it, but that’s our problem, not yours.
Bart started to shake.
Monique knelt at his side. ‘Bart! What is the matter? Are you in pain?’
‘No, no. I feel... light, happy, relieved and relaxed for the first time I can remember. You are the first heterosexuals I’ve ever told I’m gay.’ He sniffled and swallowed painfully. ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like, to live with the fear that people will find out. To always lie and pretend. To never let your guard down. To feel so completely alone and… and yet unable to change.’
‘Poor Bart. Have you often wanted to change?’
‘Never! I like what I am. I’d hate to be heterosexual - so I can understand your reservations.’
‘Despite the euphoria, you have to see a doctor.’
‘I’ve had worse knocks playing water polo, Sanjay. That’s a really rough sport - especially under water. No, I’ll just stay away from school for a few days.’ He did not intend to risk the loss of hard-earned respect by displaying his injuries to his pupils, and certainly wasn’t going to give Lance any pleasure - whether or not it had been him and his mates.
‘You’ll need a doctor’s certificate to avoid losing salary, so go and see our doctor tomorrow. Unless you have one of your own?’
Bart shook his head.
‘Tell him you need at least three days off. He usually does as he’s told.’ Sanjay smiled at his hands, then caught Monique’s eye, nodded slightly and continued seriously. ‘You’d be doing us a favour, Bart, if you didn’t return to your unit until you’ve recovered.’
Bart frowned.
‘It is not you we’re thinking of, it’s us. Robert will drive us mad worrying, so stay here for a few days. There’s a spare bed in Robert's room.’
‘Thanks, but I hate putting people out. I’m fine, honestly. I can manage perfectly well at home.’
‘Nonsense!’ Monique was adamant. ‘I could never forgive myself if anything happened!’
Bart looked from one to the other, uneasy at the attention.
‘That’s settled then,’ said Sanjay firmly.
Robert was having difficulty breathing. Everything was out in the open. No poisonous secrets waited to destroy the family bond.
Bart was in peril of bursting into tears. It had all happened too quickly and he still couldn’t believe it. He swallowed and took a few seconds to speak. ‘Why? Why are you like this? There has to be some misunderstanding. No one can be so easy about their son having… doing… being… with … Are you sure…?’ He bit his lip, not daring to trust their words.
‘We’re sure, ‘said Monique with a sly grin. ‘At first I was annoyed that I will never be a grandmother, but then I realised that neither of us wants the responsibility of grandchildren growing up today. Also, we find you sympathetic and… I would be very jealous of a daughter in law.’
Bart looked trapped.
Robert was out of his depth.
‘To make sure you both understand where we’re coming from I’ll state our position again, so listen carefully,’ Sanjay said with a slight smile. ‘Monique and I have scrupulously examined our feelings about your relationship. Whether you believe it or not, we are happy about it. Robert has been a pain in the butt for the past three years and his association with you, Bart, seems to have snapped him out of it. Any reservations we might have are purely selfish, and nothing to do with your sexual orientation.’ He grinned. ‘It would be a pity if it worried you more than us.’
‘I have no problem with myself, Sanjay. I fear for Robert. There are people out there who want our sort dead! I wonder if, after last night, I can take responsibility for another person?’
‘Hey! No one takes responsibility for me! I take it for myself! I do what I do because I want to. It’s my decision, my responsibility. If things go wrong, I can handle it!’
‘Not our brother’s keeper eh?’ Bart shook his head, sighed and dared a smile. ‘This is the second best day of my life.’
‘When was the first?’ inquired Sanjay innocently.
‘Yesterday.’
Sanjay grinned. ‘Now to the important business - the enemy. Can you manage a discussion now, Bart? Or would you like a rest first?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’
‘Very well. I’ll read what I’ve written, then we’ll let our minds drift. First, the headmaster. One, dogmatic. Can’t handle criticism. Two, denies Murray suicided as a result of gay bashing. Three, disapproves of Teachers consorting with pupils. (Thinks Bart and Robert are conspiring against him. Threatened trouble if their association continued.) four, despite three above, has personal contact himself, with Lance. Now Lance. One, with two others, has assaulted Murray at least thrice. Two, is homophobic, racist, sexist and little liked. Three, has threatened Robert, because of his suggestion of blackmail as a nickname, and his accusation that Lance was responsible for Murray’s death. Four, appears to have a hot-line to Nikelseer’s thoughts.’ Sanjay put his notes on the table. ‘It’s not much.’
Robert cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I haven’t told anyone,’ he said carefully, ‘because it mainly concerns Mr Pinot. But it also involves Lance, so maybe you should know about it.’ He gave a not too graphic description of the session between the guidance counsellor and Mandy Sorens, but left them in no doubt that it was a serious attempt at blackmail; inspired, if Mandy could be believed, by Lance. ‘If she kept her word he either paid up on Friday, or she went yesterday to tell his wife. I wonder what happened.’
The silence as they contemplated the mystery of their fellow humans was broken by Bart’s hoarse whisper. ‘We have to find out more about Lance… About everything.’
There was general agreement and it was eventually decided that when Bart recovered he would sound out the groundsman and Mr Pinot, Monique would take Susie to see what they could get out of Mandy’s mother, Sanjay would dig up the dirt on the Osbairne family, and Robert would do his best to uncover any dirty linen belonging to Lance and his mates.
Chapter Thirteen
The following Tuesday morning, Monique and Susie found an excitable, chain-smoking Mrs Sorens at home. In rasping cadences she welcomed and invited them in. The house was large, blatantly expensive and extraordinarily messy. Dried washing skulked in its basket in the middle of the hall-way, the sink bench was submerged beneath unwashed dishes, a partially dismantled vacuum cleaner emptied its dust into a corner, shopping was still in plastic bags on the dining table and discarded clothing littered the living area. Closed windows left the house airless and stale, while sunlight slanting through recklessly askew venetian blinds, illuminated swathes of dust-spangled webs around the bookcase and under lounge-room chairs. None of Susie’s carefully constructed pretexts for the visit were required.
‘Thank goodness!’ their hostess grated. ‘Visitors! You’ve saved me from the housework. I hate it,’ she added unnecessarily, rummaging in a pile of possibly-washed china. ‘Grab a mug, I think there are enough clean ones, and let’s take our coffees out on the verandah where I can’t see the mess. What the eye doesn’t see, eh?’ She laughed coarsely as though coining the original naughty joke. ‘No biscuits, sorry, I’m on a diet!’
Ducking under an unappetising banner of wet underwear, they dusted off the elegant, excruciatingly uncomfortable wrought-aluminium chairs and sat, clinging to their coffee mugs for support. A friendly few minutes were spent discussing the art classes before Susie asked solicitously if Mrs Sorens was having any luck with her daughter. Placing her coffee mug on a pile of newspapers and adjusting generous buttocks more comfortably on the perilously flimsy chairs, Mandy’s mother drew a censorious breath before giving vent to an eruption of bitter self-pity. For several minutes, and with an astonishingly varied vocabulary, she denounced unappreciative daughters who let their parents down.
On Wednesday afternoons Sanjay played squash or golf. Today he had arranged a squash game with an associate whose special interest was invasions of privacy, and laws intended to prevent such things. Paul Irvine resembled the original brick shit-house; shaven head, thick neck, huge biceps, tree-trunk legs, barrel chest and no waist. Sensuous moist lips laughed at everything and everyone, making him a man impossible to either ignore or like. He arrived in a pair of enormous red shorts, joggers, and a purple T-shirt emblazoned with the message, Beware! Buggers at Work! At one metre ninety he was an impressive sight. Despite his dimensions, he was agile and bounced around the court like an inflated toy. After winning five hard games in a row, during which Sanjay was sure he had cracked an elbow, fractured his shoulder-blade and dislocated an ankle, Paul gracelessly accepted the victor’s spoils of a drink in the cafeteria.
‘If I wanted to find out personal details about someone, Paul, how would I go about it?’
‘What someone?’
‘A businessman whose son has been harassing people. I’m considering confronting the father with the son’s activities, but I’d like to know a bit about him first.’
‘Muck-raking.’
‘No, not at all! Well… I don’t know, yes… I suppose so… in a way... I’m not sure.’
‘Great to meet a man who knows his own mind.’
‘I know what I want, but I’m not sure why. It’s all a bit complicated. Anyway, how do I find out personal details about someone?’
‘No idea, Sanjay. According to detective stories, you need a friend in the police force who owes you one. He’ll check through their computers and give you a run-down on everything from the suspect’s parking tickets to the last time the Federal police bugged his phone. Got anyone like that?’
A shake of the head.
‘Competent hackers can get into personal computers and read faxes and saved mail. I’m not in that class, I often can’t even find my own files.’
Sanjay looked despondent. ‘And here I wasted an afternoon being beaten at squash. I thought you were the expert on invasions of privacy?’
‘The infringements, not how to do it. Who is he and what have you tried?
‘Osbairne. I haven’t done anything yet, I was hoping you’d push a button and tell me everything I wanted to know.’
‘The name rings no bells, but my memory’s not up to much. Come up to my office and I’ll take a look.
Sanjay peered over Paul’s shoulder as he keyed in, Bugged & Buggers.
‘Your choice of file name?’
‘Of course.’
‘Hence the T Shirt?’
‘Quite.’
Under Osbairne there was one small entry: Osbairne, Herbert, Harry. ‘This is the only bloke of that name. Filed for bankruptcy 1987. Complained to Civil Liberties that his name was published in the newspapers – reckoned someone had infiltrated his files. Won’t get you far, might not even be the same bloke. Look, forget the private detective bit, Sanjay. Go and ask the chap.’
‘You’re right of course, but it doesn’t have the same thrill as secret codes and computer print-outs.’
Paul grunted, impatient to be elsewhere.
‘Thanks for the game and advice.’
Another grunt.
The telephone directory divulged several Osbairnes, but none labelled "Lance’s Father". A telephone call to the school proved more fruitful.
‘Who is calling please?’ asked the receptionist politely.
Caught completely off guard, Sanjay blurted out the first name that entered his head. ‘Sorens.’ Please don’t let the secretary be a friend of the family, he whispered as she went off in search of the details. She wasn’t, and read out the Chairman’s home number.
‘This is the Osbairne residence, to whom am I speaking?’
Sanjay could scarcely stop his laughter. The voice was his mother’s, right down to the last, soft, Hebridean burr and the inevitable ‘to whom’.
‘It is perhaps rude of me to inquire, but you’re from the Outer Hebrides, aren’t you? For a second I nearly said hello, Mother.’
‘What do you want?’ The woman was in no mood for a chat.
‘Is that Mrs Osbairne?’
‘She is dead. I am the housekeeper.’
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘Why? She died five years ago. If you knew her you’ve waited long enough to renew contact.’
‘Can I speak to Mr Osbairne?’
‘No.’
‘Could you tell me where to contact him.’
‘I’ve no idea. Try one of his businesses.’
‘I don’t know them.’
Her impatient sigh was the audio equivalent of tightly pursed lips, stiffening neck tendons and a narrowing of impatient, glittering eyes. Sanjay completed his mental picture with rimless glasses, no make-up, hair scraped tightly into a bun and heavy stockinged legs disappearing into sensible, lace-up shoes. There was an irritated shuffling of papers and impatient intakes of breath before the three businesses that constituted the Osbairne empire were announced. ‘Oz Dry-Cleaners, Arnold’s Secretarial agency, Oz-Bairne Property Management.’
‘Do you have the addresses?’
An exquisite spluttering which almost arrived physically through the handset preceded a very terse, ‘Use the telephone directory!’
Sanjay followed her advice and, now that he knew the number, discovered the home address in the process. It was only a dozen streets away so he drove round.
The Osbairnes inhabited an elegant, but neglected old wooden house, the exterior of which boasted intricate fretwork around the verandah, a complicated roof-line, carved finials and a desperate need for several coats of paint. Sanjay leaned on the stone fence and peered at the beautifully kept garden.
‘Like it, do you?’ A skin and bone old man in tweed trousers, white shirt and dark blue tie had been kneeling directly beneath, weeding a bed of zinnias.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there. Yes indeed! It’s a brilliant garden. Quite a contrast.’
‘With the house? Yes, I couldn’t go on living here if the garden also went to rack and ruin.’
‘Are you Mr Osbairne, of Oz-Bairne’s Property Management?’
‘No, that’s my son, the lazy bugger. I gave him this house and look what he’s done with it.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Or hasn’t done! I live in the cottage at the back.’
‘It must have been great once.’
‘Classic! Pressed-steel ceilings, fretwork, breezeways, glazing no one’s seen for fifty years, French-polished hardwood panelling.’ He paused for a second to appraise his listener. Satisfied that Sanjay’s interest was genuine, he asked, ‘Would you like to see inside?’
‘Very much.’
Inside, all was dim, musty and cold. A long, wide hallway, divided into three sections by two flamboyant wooden arches, bisected the house. The front room, to the left of the entrance, was both large and elegantly proportioned. High ceilings still bore traces of the hand painted reliefs of a century before, and two enormous floor-to-ceiling bay windows gave an aura of antique opulence. Such reminders of past splendour rendered the mismatched furniture, lack of paintings on the walls, faded torn curtains, damp spots and worn patches on the carpet, even more depressing. They had barely entered the room when a smartly presented and coiffured woman in her thirties thrust her slim figure into the door-way with a sharp, ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
Sanjay didn’t trust himself to speak in case his own voice was as easily recognisable. He smiled gently at his host.
‘Oh bugger off you stupid Scotch bitch. Go on, bugger off!’
Her face was a picture no one would hang. She tossed her head and stalked out, high heels beating a receding tattoo of disapproval down the uncarpeted hallway.
‘My son’s idea of a house-keeper,’ the old man snorted in disgust. ‘That tarty bitch was supposed to have kept an eye on young Lance after his mother died, but she’s made him worse. Leaving at the end of the week, thank Christ. Can’t stand the sight of her!’ This verbal assassination had been fog-horned loud enough to be heard at the far corners of the house.
‘Not a bad room,’ he stated proudly. ‘We used to have dances and parties in here. There’s nothing like that now for young people. The poor kids haven’t the foggiest what they’re missing so it’s no use feeling sorry for them. I’m just bloody glad I’m not young. I’m also glad I’ll be dead soon. What a world we’re making. What a world.’ Head shaking in sadness for times past, he led Sanjay, who was making vague murmurings of agreement, to a wall covered in magnificent hard-wood panelling. ‘Look at this!’ he protested. ‘Just look at it!’
From close up it was appallingly apparent that someone had taken to the panels with an inexpertly guided skill-saw. Rough edges and the backs of already rusting hinges protruded. Osbairne senior grabbed hold of an edge at the centre and gave a hefty tug. The entire wall reluctantly folded at each hinge and could, with difficulty, be manhandled in a concertina fashion until it was more or less tucked away at each side. This manoeuvre exposed a narrow altar jammed against the wall of the revealed alcove, replete with white cloth, two candles in cut-glass holders, and a large, shiny brass cross. An ornate scroll on the wall above assured its readers that GOD is JUST. The alarming declaration made Sanjay wonder what the Osbairnes thought of Portia’s plea to season justice with mercy.
‘Isn’t this a load of utter bullshit?’ The old man was nothing, if not direct.
Sanjay nodded, horrified that anyone could so vandalise such beautiful panelling.
‘Arnold’s playing wet-nurse to a pathetic bunch of born-again-Christians who’ve had an argument with their preacher. They rent this place twice a week. They’re all well heeled and in business, so there’s probably something in it for him. He was sucked into it by that idiot headmaster at Lance’s school, or maybe it was the other way round. God knows. The silly old bugger’s always here with a clutch of other simple-minded morons. ’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Lance has been drinking in their bigotry and attending some stupid Bible-class. It’s made him bad. I used to worry but now I’ve given up.’ Osbairne senior looked hard at Sanjay as though testing him. Apparently deciding it was safe to unload his bitterness, he continued. ‘My son, however, is worse than my grandson. He drove his wife to drink and an early grave. Would like to do the same to me - but I won’t give him that pleasure.’ Both body and voice seemed to shrink, as he added, ‘I’m ashamed to have sired him.’
The sudden shadow from a passing cloud underlined the dispiriting tale. Sanjay placed his hand on the old man’s arm. ‘Mr Osbairne,’ he said softly, ‘I’m grateful to you for showing me the house, but I prefer your garden. That’s the product of a healthy, sane mind.’ Gently, he guided him outside where they cheered up immediately, made a round of the garden, bid each other farewell and went their separate ways.
Bart returned to school on Thursday wearing a roll-neck skivvy under his tracksuit to hide still livid bruises. At the beginning of the second period he went to the "dungeon", where he found Mr Pinot concentrating on a game of computer solitaire. His contented smile faded pathetically when asked what he knew about Lance Osbairne. Once assured Bart’s interest lay solely with the harassment of Murray, and his own skeleton was still safely in its closet, Warren threw caution to the wind. His brush with young Osbairne’s mercenary depravity had left him severely disenchanted.
‘He’s as thick as thieves with Ian Nikelseer,’ Mr Pinot confided. ‘Ian began a Bible-studies group the year before you arrived, and Lance was the leading light. As far as I can gather his father gives support to Ian’s oddball religious sect, and Saint-Ian thinks the sun shines out of you know where. He’s been a Bible thumping evangelist as long as I’ve known him, and that’s over a quarter of a century. Lately, though, he’s become quite peculiar - dragging kids off to his office to put the fear of God into them, literally!’ Mr Pinot glanced at his computer screen, blushed at the message asking whether he wanted another game, cancelled it and returned his attention to Bart with a sigh of resignation.
Bart smiled encouragement.
‘Like me, Ian’s due to retire this year so there seems little point in doing anything. Mind you, blokes as nutty as him are two-a-penny in local councils, state parliament and every bloody corridor of power.’ He shook his head and looked up, shy at such an unwonted outburst. ‘Lance is the only one left of the original Bible class, sucks up to Nikelseer like a leech, spies for him and devours all the boss’s paranoia as gospel. They remind me of a misguided Prospero and his Ariel.’
‘More like Caliban, perhaps?’
Mr Pinot smiled his assent, turned again to the computer, typed in an access code and invited Bart to look over his shoulder. Lance had been absent from eighty-four periods so far that year. For both of the previous two years, his interim test results for each subject had been abysmal, and yet he had managed to pass the examination at the end of each term.
Unfortunately, the guidance counsellor knew nothing else about Lance, having kept as far out of his orbit as everyone else in the school. Few students came to Mr Pinot for serious guidance, so it wasn’t likely he would hear about drug use, or anything else for that matter. Bart briefly outlined his suspicions regarding Murray’s death and recounted his own almost fatal experience. Warren was suitably shaken, especially when he understood that, were this conversation to leak out, he might suffer similar treatment.
The groundsman was oiling mowers in the tractor shed. Ralf Boreham, a solid man in his fifties with a well-trimmed grey beard, kind eyes and Northern English accent, had skills with machinery that kept him in constant demand. He was endlessly inventive, loved the kids and helped with staging school plays and musicals by creating special effects, organising sound systems, lights, anything that required skill and imagination. He and Bart had hit it off from the start. After the usual pleasantries and congratulations on the state of the playing fields, the question of Murray Corso was raised and Bart’s suspicions voiced.
Ralf’s eyebrows shot up and he glowered like a garden gnome. ‘Those bloody cops and that bastard in the front office need their flaming heads read. I kept telling them there was something not right; that Murray wouldn’t have drunk that stuff deliberately. But would they listen? Would they take a blind bit of notice? Not on your nelly. I’m just the groundsman. They’re the professionals. It was all they could do not to tell me to pull my head in!’
He shook his head in frustration before continuing bitterly, ‘I really liked that kid. He had guts. I know he acted a bit of a girl, but so what? He was tougher than a lot of the so-called he-men around the place. The hidings he used to take and then get up and never give them the joy of knowing they’d hurt him. It’d be better if he had,’ he added reflectively. ‘By not giving in he was almost forcing them to go on until they broke him. That’s why I let him use the storeroom. I reckoned he deserved a break.’ Ralf stopped and looked Bart in the eye as though defying him to disagree. ‘He was a great kid,’ he said belligerently, before biting his lip and turning back to the mowers.
‘I agree with you. And Robert Karim’s also convinced it’s not the sort of thing he’d do.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘New pupil this term. Stopped Lance belting into Murray once.’
Ralf’s face cleared. ‘Good looking kid? Half Indian or something?’
Bart nodded.
‘Murray liked him.’
Bart felt obscurely proud. ‘What was the room like when you found him?’ he asked carefully.
‘A hell of a mess! Stuff off the shelves, the insecticide open on its side spilling onto the floor, bloody dangerous fumes. Murray was twisted in a heap in the corner, hands grabbing at his mouth and stomach, head thrown back, eyes wide…’ Ralf’s voice shrivelled. ‘I still have nightmares.’
‘Did it look as though he had drunk it alone, or… or could someone else have been there?’
Ralf looked at Bart strangely, started to shake his head, thought better of it and asked angrily, ‘What are you getting at? You’re not pushing the same bloody barrow as those blasted cops are you?’
Bart looked nonplussed.
‘Those snarky bastards had the cheek to suggest I’d been having it off with young Murray and had forced him to drink the stuff because he was threatening to report me, or some claptrap. I tell you, I bloody near gave them a bunch of fives. They asked what it had been like in the Navy, where my wife was, all polite and smarmy. But I knew what they were getting at. After that I shut up. I’m going to say nowt to those bastards – ever! There’s no way I’m going to get involved in that sort of mire. It wouldn’t bring Murray back, and from what I’ve heard about his folks he’s better off dead. It shouldn’t be like this though,’ he muttered, turning once more to the mowers.
‘Ralf, I know you’re a good man. Of course that’s utter crap! I was just wondering if the louts who bullied him could have found him and done it.’
Ralf looked up. ‘Of course they did, but they left no clues did they? Look, Bart, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it any more, I’ve told you everything I know. If I go on any longer I’ll be blubbering like a girl. If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.’
The Course Skills Tests had been held over four days and Robert was pretty sure he’d done well. He waited for Bart at the usual place on the Thursday evening and spent the night at his flat in celebration of both the end of the tests, and Bart’s almost complete recovery. It was remarkable how quickly bruises had faded and cuts and scratches had healed. ‘No fat, and a healthy constitution,’ the doctor had explained. He still had to be careful with his back, but it was nothing rest wouldn’t cure.
The last four days had been heaven. On the first morning at breakfast it felt as though Bart had lived with them all their lives. He fitted in, helped with the dishes and somehow made the family complete. ‘This is what we’ve been missing. Three’s company, four’s perfect.’ was Monique’s only comment.
Nevertheless, the two young men had felt some insecurity and many inhibitions. They knew so little about each other, and nothing about living together. These things they needed to find out in private - something Monique and Sanjay understood. They had lived with his mother for nearly a year when they first arrived back in Australia, and it had almost destroyed the marriage. Their love needed many daily commitments, frequent kisses, touches, loving looks and the performing of little services. If they didn’t kiss and say, ‘I love you’ at least five times a day, they didn’t feel complete.
Giving oneself totally to another is an act of poetic bravery, rendering both giver and receiver vulnerable, and like all investments, the returns are commensurate with the risks. Their insistence on Bart’s staying with them had been a convenient and, they hoped, reasonably subtle way of showing the boys how they felt. But they also understood and lauded their desire for privacy.
Within ten minutes of their arrival a tap at the back door announced Hazel, face wreathed in smiling wrinkles and bearing a huge, layered, chocolate-and-cream cake. At least ten million calories and all of it homemade and delicious. Protesting she didn’t want to intrude, it was just to show how pleased she was that Bart had recovered, she was none the less persuaded to stay and enjoy a slice with a cup of tea. Bart presented her with the enormous bunch of flowers and box of chocolates he’d bought on the way home.
‘Thanks, Hazel the Life-Saver,’ he said seriously, planting a noisy kiss on her brow.
‘Me too,’ laughed Robert giving her a hug. ‘You’re the greatest, Hazel.’
‘Ah, my two diamonds, if anything’s worth saving, it’s you.’
Like a pair of newborn Adams they awoke the next morning into their own, freshly-minted world.
‘Today I trail the three stooges and their molls.’
‘It’s no joke, Robert! Those three are not to be taken lightly. Don’t do anything silly and don’t go outside the school grounds.’
‘Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.’
‘Stop it! This is not some thriller movie where you go out on a limb and get rescued in the nick of time. Next week, next term, we can follow this up. There’s no hurry, and if they feel they aren’t watched, they may do something silly.’ He placed both hands on Robert’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘Promise?’ The look was chilling. Robert suffered a vision of the crumpled heap that would have been Bart without Hazel’s intervention. They hugged and he promised.
‘But I’ve got to have something to report.
‘You’d better have bloody good test results, that’s all that matters at the moment.’
Robert was dropped off a few blocks before school so they could arrive separately, both certain they were never going to last until Saturday afternoon.
Before his first lecture on Friday, Sanjay drove past the three Osbairne businesses. Oz Dry-Cleaners was shut off from the world behind heavy roller doors and, like the house of its owner, in need of maintenance. It didn’t look ready for any sort of work, being situated behind a row of warehouses beside the railway tracks. A tax write-off? The Secretarial Agency appeared just as it should. A shiny glass door emblazoned with Arnold’s Secretarial Agency in elegant gold letters, and beneath it Oz-Bairne Property Management in workmanlike black. It opened directly into a small vestibule with stairs leading to offices on the first floor. His morning’s reconnaissance complete, Sanjay spent the rest of the working day entertaining himself, and educating his students.
Friday’s assembly began as usual with the procession of staff on to the stage, except that Bart wasn’t among them. He still limped a little, but had explained his wounds with a self-deprecating joke about well-coordinated PE teachers tripping down stairs. Mr Nikelseer glowered at the assembled pupils from behind his lectern, academic gown fluttering in the light breeze like a twitchy bat. After a portentous clearing of throat and without introduction, he launched into his reading.
These six things doth the Lord
hate,
yea seven are an abomination unto
him.
A proud look, a lying tongue
and hands that shed innocent
blood.
An heart that deviseth wicked
imaginations,
feet that be swift in running to
mischief,
a false witness that speaketh lies
and he that soweth discord among
brethren.
Rapidly scribbling down the words, Robert became aware of Lance peering over his shoulder.
‘Reckon the Lord hates you, Brown-eye?’ he whispered into the narrow space between them, leaving a sweetish, unpleasant taste on the air. Pretending to be startled, Robert whipped up the hard edge of his notebook, catching Lance under the nostrils. ‘Sorry, Lance, you startled me,’ Robert smiled sweetly.
‘And where’s your precious Vaselly then?’ his enemy snarled through watering eyes. ‘Can’t hack the pace?’
‘What pace? Sounds as though you’ve an eye on him, Lance.’ Another day off to a precarious start.
Shadowing five students is no easy matter, as Robert soon discovered. The only one he could find at interval was Lance, in the common room with the others when he poked his head in.
‘Robert! You must come to our End-of-Test party on Saturday night.’ Marcia was bubbling with her usual enthusiasm and not-yet-extinguished hope for a love affair with Robert. ‘It’s at my place for a meal first, and then we might go on to a club or something if we get bored. Do say you’ll come! We never see anything of you except at school, and even here you’re usually busy.’
‘I don’t think it’s exactly his scene,’ sneered Lance. ‘You’re not into taking girls out for a good time, are you, Brown-eye? Maybe if you offered to wrestle with him he might accept.’
‘Shut-up, Lance. Thanks, Marcia, I’d love to come. I’m in a rush right now so I’ll get the details from you in Art History.’ As he left the room, wondering how Lance knew about his wrestling, he could have kicked himself. There he was back to his old ways, doing things to please others. Only this time it was self-preservation. But what a fuck-up! The last thing he wanted was to go to a stupid party at Marcia’s. She obviously still fancied him and he especially didn’t want to go if Lance was going to be there. How to refuse without attracting attention? Saturday was his night with Bart! What the hell was he going to do? Would Bart understand? He could always cancel. Like his grandmother. She would accept every invitation, then back out with charming apologies at the last minute, leaving her erstwhile hosts admiring her fortitude in the face of such disappointment. Postponing a decision until later he set off to find the groundsman. Success. Ralf knew where Lance’s cronies usually hung out; under the cottonwood tree on the back boundary, beside the cricket shed. After a bit of persuasion, Ralf handed over the key to the shed with a demand for it to be returned without fail before the end of school.
A couple of minutes before lunch, Robert excused himself from Chemistry. The shed door hadn’t been opened since the previous season and the padlock needed oiling, but the bolt was greased and slid easily. The lunch bell was already ringing before he managed to wrench the door open, pull it closed behind him and conceal himself. He guessed he would be fine as long as no one noticed the bolt wasn’t shot home on the outside. It was a brick structure, low ceilinged with small barred windows on each end wall. There wasn’t much space between the enormous roller, two hand mowers, motor mower, two hundred-litre fuel drum, a couple of pitch covers, a pile of old stumps, balls of string, line marker, bag of whitewash and other paraphernalia. He squeezed over to the grimy window facing out onto the cottonwood, lugged over a couple of sacks for a cushion and settled down to wait.
He had hardly taken a bite of his roll before girls’ voices approached. He didn’t look out in case they saw him, but the unlined walls allowed him to hear them breathing. One farted, sending the other into gales of laughter, reminding her of a smutty joke about an old bloke who shat himself. Robert learned nothing useful. They were pissed off with Mandy not being allowed out till the end of term, discussed recent record purchases and what they were going to wear on Saturday night to the club. Then - ‘Where’s Lance? He promised he’d be here with the stuff. I could murder that bony bastard, he knows I get up-tight on Fridays.’ She started hitting the wall with a stick, chanting ‘Fuck, bloody fuck....’
‘Give it a rest, Raylene. You make me tired, always swearing. Hasn’t Lance given you your cut?’
‘No, he’s supposed to give it to me now, with the uppers. Is he still screwing you?’
‘Yeah. Funny how a skinny runt like him has such a huge dick. He hurt me last time, going on and on and then wanted to tie me up while Ernest and Nigel had their go. I’m getting sick of him.’ She stopped talking and blew her nose. When she spoke again her voice had lost its bravado and gained a quiver. ‘He’s kinky and… and since Mandy got caught I’ve been worried.’ She began to snivel. ‘Mum and Dad’ll kill me if they find out. I... Oh Raylene! I want out of this thing. It’s making me crazy.’ The snivel became a wail.
‘Don’t blub all over my blouse. Christ you’re a wimp. I thought you needed the money? At least you know who’s getting into your pants each week. Just tell Lance you’ve had enough.’
‘I tried to, but he said, "OK. I’ll write a note to your parents thanking them for their daughter’s services." I couldn’t.’ She blew her nose wetly.
‘You should’ve thought of that before. At least you’re getting something for it. If you were married to him you wouldn’t be. Hell, I’m not waiting around here any longer. And where’s Nigel and Ernest? They promised to be here. Shit, shit, shit! Come on let’s find Lance before I chew my bloody lips off.’ They picked up their bags and scuffed off.
Robert finished his roll and was wondering whether to risk leaving when a shuffling under the window made him listen.
‘Where’re the bloody girls, I told them we’d be here. They might have guessed I’d have a detention. Fuckin’ stupid bitches. I’ll bet Lance didn’t show and they’ve gone searching.That’ll make him mad.’
‘He’s starting to piss me off, Nigel. Thinks he’s a fucking Mafia boss the way he goes on, and he still hasn’t paid us for doing that job. I reckon we should do something about him. I mean really do something.’
‘Don’t be a fucking lame-brain, Ernest, he’s got us by the balls. He’ll tell the cops if we don’t do as he says. ‘
‘It’s his fault not ours. He said it’d only give him a pain in the guts. Fuck, I’ve got a guts-ache myself. D’ya know what he said Saturday night while you were shoving your load into Janice? We went into that dreary great lounge they’ve got, you’d think they’d have better furniture wouldn’t you, all that money? Anyway, behind some panels they’ve got a church thing. You’d never guess it was there. I think he must have been a bit pissed. Anyway, he was showing off what a great guy he was and raving on about how he had enough stuff hidden in there to last till the end of the year. Then he said, "Speed is the religion of the kids", or something like that and giggled himself silly. Remember he was still giggling like a girl when we came back in and belted you on the bum just as you were coming? Fuck, I didn’t know you could get so mean. That’s what started me thinking we could tell him to shove it. I’d always thought you were a bit of a wimp.’
‘You talk such a load of crap, Ernest, your lips are turning brown. Give it a rest. There’s the bell and I’m getting a fucking headache. Christ! I could kill him.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ continued Ernest persuasively as their voices faded.
Robert waited another few minutes before attempting to leave. When he tried
the door it was jammed. No matter how hard he pushed there was nothing doing. Bloody
hell, he thought, someone’s seen the unlocked door and shot the bolt.
He was wondering whether to try the windows, shout, or just sit there, when he
smelt petrol. A few seconds later a whoosh was followed by loud crackling
noises as flames leaped up outside the windows. Someone’s set fire to the
place, but surely it can’t burn, it’s brick. No need to panic, there’s a way
out if I can only think of it.
Fighting back hysteria he threw himself against the door. It was wood and
would eventually burn, he’d be able to get out then. Smoke was finding its way
through gaps under the eaves. Dry grass as well as the tree was alight and
acrid smoke from discarded plastic wrappers, bottles and condoms was
horrendous. He shouted, but the smoke was already hurting his lungs and it was
getting alarmingly warm. The wooden rafters were smouldering where they
over-hung outside, and paint was beginning to blister on the window frames. The
bars held firm. A couple of sacks in front of the door had started to smoulder.
He lay flat on the floorboards in an effort to avoid the fumes. I should
have smashed the windows, he thought, coughing uncontrollably. That
would have let some air in.
Every Friday, the caretaker and his wife, who lived in a small lodge beside the gates, invited Ralf for a cooked lunch because Emmy refused to believe that single men were capable of looking after themselves. ‘At least he will have one good meal a week,’ she would say every Friday morning when reminding her husband to invite the groundsman, who she secretly thought was rather sexy. As usual, everything was over-boiled, under-salted and tasteless. At least it made Ralf appreciate his own cooking. He was wandering back, debating whether to check the new grass on the bottom field or return to the workshop, when he noticed a column of smoke drifting up from the boundary. Heart racing, he pounded across the fields to the cricket shed. A small group of kids, supposedly on an ecological survey of the waste area beside the fence, had gathered to observe, ignoring the ineffectual bleating and arm waving of Miss Koutt who was desperately trying to herd her charges to a safe distance. Ralf burst through them, nearly tripping himself up on the young arms and legs as they scattered before his bull-like charge.
The flames outside had died down but smoke was gushing from under the rafters. The bolt was searingly hot so Ralf whipped out his handkerchief and slid it back. As he threw open the door the sudden increase in oxygen ignited a sheet of flame across the inside of the roof. The onlookers screamed with hysterical laughter at sound and sight, then gasped in amazement as Ralf crawled across the threshold and disappeared into the smoke. He emerged seconds later dragging a bundle of clothes and bellowing, ‘Get back! Get back! It’s going to blow!’
Enough children heard him to start a panic rush, so Ralf and his bundle were only ten metres from the shed when a chest-pounding VAROOM followed by an enormous thump hurled them to the ground. The entire roof had lifted about half a metre into the air before plonking back drunkenly askew on the walls. Within a minute the rafters were alight and the kids watched in delight as the cedar-shingled roof collapsed crackling and roaring into the containing brick walls. Such was the absorption demanded by the spectacle that no one noticed Ralf put his mouth to the bundle of clothes again and again and again, before sending Miss Koutt away.
For the second time that term an ambulance carried a body away through the school gates.
Chapter Fourteen
As they stepped from the lift into the smell of disinfectant and bedpans, a short, thickset man of about their own age walked towards them. ‘Robert’s parents?’
They nodded dumbly. He gave a tentative smile and with a flick of his head indicated they should follow.
‘How is he?’ Monique asked nervously
‘They won’t tell me. I’m not a relative. I've been waiting for you.’
Eight silent beds skulked behind green curtains. Ralf indicated one and waited in the corridor. Robert was completely still, his body concealed under a white sheet. A green plastic mask over his mouth and nose was connected to a black oxygen cylinder on one side. He was lying so quietly and the rise and fall of his chest was so slight that at first he seemed not to be breathing. Sanjay threw himself onto his knees beside the bed. Monique stood beside him, gently running fingers through both men’s hair. After a minute she whispered, ‘Robert, c’est nous. Maman et Papa.’ Robert’s eyes flickered under a furrowed brow. A flurry of the curtains admitted a bundle of efficiency in a nurse’s uniform.
They stood, faces of fear.
‘You are the parents?’
They nodded.
She busied herself on the other side of the bed, removing the mask and turning off the cylinder.
‘How is he? What happened?’
‘Haven’t you seen the doctor?’
‘We’ve seen no one! We’ve only just arrived!’ The pleading in Sanjay’s voice was painful.
‘Hang on a tick, I’ll get him.’
Within two minutes they were joined by a slightly over-weight, bearded young man in baggy, knee-length grey shorts, wrinkled grey socks, loafers, an open white coat and a reassuring smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Karim?’ Staccato bursts of information were interspersed with questioning looks as if gauging their understanding. ‘Robert’s doing splendidly. Smoke inhalation. Trapped in a burning shed at school. No details. Toxic brew. Mouth to mouth resuscitation at the scene. Oxygen and salbutamol when the ambulance arrived. Eight litres of oxygen every half-hour since. This is the last. We’re monitoring his condition. Everything’s fine. He’s very healthy. Lungs in excellent condition. Little likelihood of permanent damage. If things stabilise, home in the morning.’
‘But – if he’s fine, can’t he come home this afternoon?’
‘Have to keep him over-night. Possible complications. Mild sedation at the moment, that’s why he seems a bit dopey. No talking for a couple of days. Damage to mucous membranes. I’ll prescribe something soothing. Got to rush. Broken neck.’ With a perky nod, like the white rabbit he was gone.
Ralf put his head round the curtain. ‘I heard that, excellent news. I’ll head off back to school then.’
‘Hold on, why are you here and not Bart?’
Ralf raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry, that was rude. We’re terribly grateful someone came with him, it’s just that Bart’s his... ah... friend and I thought...’
‘Bart probably doesn’t know yet. I was on the spot so came in the ambulance. It was all a bit of a rush and panic. I’ll make sure he knows as soon as I get back to school.’
‘I do apologise. I’m Sanjay Karim and this is my wife, Monique.’
‘Ralf Boreham.’
They shook hands.
‘I wonder if you’d do us a favour?’
Ralf nodded cautiously.
‘Would you take my car? That way you’ll get there quicker. Bart can drive it back.’
‘Delighted.’ Ralf couldn’t conceal his relief. ‘I wasn’t looking forward to public transport. Can’t remember the last time I was on a bus. They never seem to go where I do.’
Monique was studying Ralf quietly. ‘Ralf,’ she began hesitantly, ‘What was Robert doing in the shed?’
Ralf hesitated in his turn.
‘Don’t worry. We know what has been going on at school.’
Ralf’s face cleared. ‘Bart told me Robert had been friendly with Murray, so when he wanted to know where the kids hung out, I gave him the key to the shed so he could eavesdrop. When I saw the smoke I raced over and dragged him out.’
‘So it was you who saved him and gave resuscitation? We owe you his life, Ralf.’
‘It was my fault for letting him spy without support. I should have realised we aren’t just dealing with naughty kids.’ Ralf paused slightly before continuing with great seriousness, ‘If anyone asks, I think we should simply say that Robert saw the smoke, went to make sure there was no one inside, and was overcome by the fumes.’
They looked mystified.
‘You see there is something very wrong. When I tried to get into the shed, the bolt had been shot from the outside. There’s no way Robert could have done that himself. I reckon someone locked him in and set fire to the place.’
Colour drained from faces as they considered the implications. First Bart, and now Robert. It was becoming a nightmare. Monique took one of Ralf’s hard hands in both her own and gave her most appealing smile. ‘Ralf, we want to thank you properly for what you did. Come to lunch tomorrow?
Forty minutes later Bart hovered in the doorway, afraid to enter. Sanjay led him to the bed. ‘The doctor says he’ll have a sore throat for a few days, but unless something unexpected happens overnight he’ll be able to come home tomorrow. He’s sedated.’
Bart ran his hand through Robert’s hair, blew into his ear and whispered, ‘Bartman’s here.’ Robert’s face relaxed. ‘What happened,’ Bart whispered over his shoulder. ‘Ralf said you’d tell me.’
After repeating the little they knew, Sanjay went to find the Nursing Sister, who checked Robert’s heartbeat, blood pressure and temperature and declared herself satisfied. Bart and Monique returned to the Karim’s for a meal. Bart then swapped places with Sanjay, determined to spend the night at Robert’s bedside.
‘We are going to the police!’ Monique was insistent.
‘We are.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as we have Robert’s version of events.’
Monique forced herself to be satisfied. ‘Are we neglecting our duty?’
‘No. It isn’t necessary for anyone to be there.’
‘It is a relief to share the worry.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘We are lucky people.’
‘We are indeed.’
They snuggled deeper into bed.
There were no complications, so by eleven o’clock the following sunny Saturday morning, Robert was tucked up on the couch in the lounge, enjoying the attention but not the raw throat. Bart had showered and collapsed onto Robert’s bed after a sleepless night on a hard chair; freezing until an orderly took pity and draped a blanket round his shoulders. He hadn’t been welcome, but managed to convince the staff that Robert could be in danger. He’d had visions of the arsonist returning to finish off the job - a scenario from a recent American TV movie. Now sound asleep, he was deaf to both doorbell and telephone.
Two hours later he donned a pair of Robert’s shorts and a sweater and went through to the lounge. Sanjay’s voice resonated from the patio, so, finding the patient dozing alone, Bart knelt and kissed him. Robert opened his eyes, threw both arms round Bart’s neck and drew him into a hug so desperate that he was shaken. A slight noise. Ralf was crossing to the kitchen.
‘What are you doing here? I mean... I didn’t...’ Bart stopped in confusion, the pulse hammering in ears and throat making it difficult to breathe.
‘I’m here for lunch. As for the mouth to mouth, don’t fuss yourself. I was doing the same thing twenty-four hours ago. The Doctor said his breathing might be difficult.’ Ralf laughed easily.
Bart continued to look like a cornered cat.
‘Stop looking so bloody mortified! I was a sailor for twenty years. Good luck to you both. Now, where’s that ice?’
Robert was frowning.
‘Did you know he was there?’ Bart whispered anxiously.
A shake of the head.
‘Does it worry you?’
A perplexed nod.
‘Are you ashamed?’
A vigorous shake.
‘Me neither. Do you love me?’
An even more vigorous nod.
‘I love you too.’
Lunch was delicious and Ralf waxed lyrical. Robert stayed inside on the couch, sucking liquid nourishment through a straw. No one was allowed to see the effort it took. He was feeling very much a victim and not enjoying the sensation. A worm of fear had burrowed into his bowels. Was this how Bart had felt after his bashing? He had to talk to him. Everything was going sour and their life together had only just started. In vain did he deep breathe and try to calm his thoughts. Why couldn’t he be like a Dick Francis hero – able to take the knocks and then go back for more? Part of him wanted to be held in someone’s arms and be told that everything was going to be all right, but at the same time a voice sneered at such weakness and told him to be a man. Since the incident on the hill, one of his mother’s oft repeated phrases had haunted him; L’enfer, c’est les autres. Hell was indeed other people. At least, some other people.
Bart plonked himself down. ‘How’s my main man?’
Robert burst into tears. Not just tears but a chest-wrenching, sobbing deluge of incoherent muttering, gasps of pain, mucus, saliva and salty water. He turned his face away and hid it in a cushion. Bart picked him up and carried him to the bedroom, where cuddles, strokes and whispered endearment eventually calmed the hysteria.
‘I’m weak, Bart. I’ve tried to be strong but I’m a wimp. I can’t stop thinking about dying, the heat, the smoke, the…’ he dissolved into sobs again, grunting at the pain in his throat.
‘You’re not a wimp,’ Bart stated, wiping Robert’s face with a damp cloth, but you are covered in snot and dribble. Shut up while I make you presentable, then we’ll talk.’
The attention soothed Robert’s wretchedness, but not his embarrassment. He gazed up at Bart. ‘You didn’t freak out after being bashed up,’ he whispered. ‘You’re a real man. I’m just a weak poofter.’
‘Shove over. I’ve a confession to make.’ He lay beside Robert and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘The first morning after you went to school I lay on the bed over there and nearly shook it apart. During the attack my brain froze, and then the aches and pains distracted me. After that I couldn’t stop my brain. I kept envisaging what might have happened if Hazel hadn’t arrived on the scene. I imagined myself hurtling through space, even felt bones cracking as I splashed onto the concrete. I was sick twice. When Monique poked her head in I pretended to be asleep. Every night I had nightmares – when you’re not there I still do. Last night, despite the cold, I woke up in a ball of sweat. This time it was the two of us, on fire, hurtling down a bottomless shaft.’
‘Why haven’t you told me?’
‘Didn’t want you to think you’d got yourself hitched to a weakling.’
‘That’s what I’ve been thinking. I was frightened you’d dump me. Also, I feel ashamed.
‘Of what?’
‘Being frightened of dying.’
‘Do you wish you had?’
‘No way!’
‘Then be happy you’ve survived.’
‘I am. But… what if it happens again?’
‘It won’t. Forewarned is fore armed.’
‘I’m also angry. Why can’t people leave us alone?’
‘Most will, so don’t waste your energy.’
‘I’ve got to feel something! At the moment it’s a see-saw between anger and fear… Also…’ he stopped, unsure whether to go on.
‘Also…?’
‘I ought to be more independent. I’m too old to expect parents to pick me up - and I don’t even want them to – I don’t want another parent. I want someone equal. Someone who treats me the same as he treats himself. Sounds stupid?’
‘Not to me.’
‘While I was slobbering over you I felt angry with myself for acting like a baby, but at the same time I loved being looked after. It’s hard enough being younger without you handling me with kid gloves. How can I ever grow up?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m not. I love you more than ever now you’ve told me you’re also a weakling.’
Bart smiled and with his index finger lifted Robert’s hair back behind his ears. ‘The Weakling Brothers; sounds like a circus.
‘Next time you feel like it I want you to cry. It’s my turn to wipe the snot off your face’
‘As long as your handkerchief’s clean.’ He pulled Robert's head across and kissed him.
‘From now on I’ll always keep a spare. I suppose we’d better go back before they ask questions.’
‘They’ll just think we’re having a bit of nookie.’
‘That would be embarrassing.’
They joined the others on the patio. As Robert settled himself onto the recliner, Sanjay cleared his throat and tried not to look pompous. ‘I don’t want to give you indigestion, Ralf, but we’d like to thank you once more for saving Robert.’
Ralf raised his hands to deflect further praise and frowned self-consciously. Robert got off the recliner and knelt in front of his rescuer, took his hand and placed it on his bowed head – a debtor. It was done too seriously to be funny. Ralf left his hand there and said simply. ‘I am grateful to have had the chance to help.’
‘We also want to pick your brains,’ Sanjay added quickly to prevent a slide into bathos
Ralf’s smile betrayed a mixture of curiosity and pride.
‘You probably don’t realise that Bart has also been the target of a killer – we suspect the same person.’
That made Ralf sit up. ‘You mean?’ He threw a questioning look at Bart, who nodded seriously.
‘I thought it was a bit odd, you falling down the stairs.’
Bart outlined what had happened.
‘The police were called after the attack on Bart,’ Sanjay continued, ‘but there was no evidence pointing to anyone. Therefore, before reporting the attack on Robert, we’d like to have something to substantiate our suspicions. We think both attacks are related to the death of Murray. You know as much about that as anyone, so if we pool our experiences and ideas, we might come up with something.’
‘You reckon it’s that Osbairne kid?’
‘Yes.’
Ralf didn’t trust himself to say any more.
Sanjay nodded to Monique, who blushed and stood up, felt conspicuous and sat down again with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I went with my friend Suzie to see Mrs. Sorens, because her daughter, Mandy, is involved with Lance. At first, the mother seemed keen to share her problems, but after complaining about the usual things she stopped talking. It was disappointing for us, but I’m glad she protects her daughter. So I have nothing to report.’
No one thought it necessary to tell Ralf about the guidance counsellor’s adventures.
Bart summarised what he’d learned from Warren Pinot. ‘Lance Osbairne’s father has given a home to a Christian sect, to which the headmaster belongs. A couple of years ago Mr Nikelseer started up a student Bible-Class. The only remaining member of that is Lance, who has absorbed the old man’s prejudices. Father, son and Nikelseer appear to have formed an unholy trinity. Apparently the headmaster talks to Lance’s father and he talks to Lance. It’s unlikely that either adult knows much about Lance’s private doings.
‘From a quick look at the school records it appears that Lance receives some helpful extra-curricular tuition. He has always just managed to pass the final tests, despite dismal interim results. I imagine Nikelseer knows Lance can be violent, and may even suspect Murray died because of the transfer of his own homophobia to Lance, but I reckon he’s an old hand at blanking out things he doesn’t want to know. He no doubt believes Murray took his own life out of shame. His assembly Bible readings indicate that he sees himself as the executor of God’s will.’
‘That’s the silly old fart to a T,’ snorted Ralf
Sanjay smiled sadly and asked about Murray.
Ralf gave his information with humble economy.
‘I’m sorry, your English is too precise for me,’ apologised Monique with her usual tact. ‘My brain doesn’t work so quickly. Is this what you are saying? From the state of the storeroom and your knowledge of the lad, you think Murray was forced to drink the insecticide?’
Ralf nodded.
‘But the police think you were interfering with Murray and killed him to shut him up. Where would they get such a stupid idea?’
‘Nikelseer? Lance? Who knows? Ralf’s look of disgust would have done credit to Gielgud. He looked at Bart and Robert and said thoughtfully, ‘It’s my bet Lance thinks you blokes know more than you do and is trying to cover his arse by getting rid of you. Like most of the population he’s been fed a diet of American TV violence and thinks it’s the way to live.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Sanjay. ‘It also fits in with what I’ve discovered about the Osbairnes. Mother died from neglect and an ardour for alcohol five years ago. Husband does little except make money.’ He gave a brief description of the known businesses. ‘He’s away from home most of the time. As Bart mentioned, he supports a crackpot religion, even built a chapel in the walls of the lounge. Lets Lance run wild, probably imagining Nikelseer has taken him under his wing. I haven’t met Arnold Osbairne yet, that joy is still to come. We’ve been led by the headmaster to believe he was upset by Robert’s suggestion that his son was involved in what we then thought was Murray’s suicide. It’s possible he knows nothing at all about his son’s activities. He’s got enough money to be listened to.’
Robert pulled a page of notes from his shirt and handed them to Bart. His larynx was on fire. He reached for the sore-throat syrup.
‘When did you write these? As soon as you got home?’
Robert nodded.
Bart winked his approval and began to read. ‘Raylene and another girl moaned about not being paid for something, and Lance not being there to give them their uppers. Nigel and Ernest complained about the girls not waiting, that they hadn’t been paid for a job, that Lance hadn’t arrived with the stuff, that he was a bit of a sexual maniac, that he was getting up himself and they would have to "do" something about him. He has some power over them. Lance told them it would only give "him" a pain in the guts! He showed them a church?? in the lounge and said he had enough stuff for the rest of the year. Said something about a speedy religion of the kids?’
‘That’s excellent, son. It all ties in. My guess is that Lance saw you going over to the shed and took his chances. He probably came up from the other side of the boundary fence.’
‘Exactly,’ Ralf angrily agreed. ‘And that bit about telling the boys it would only give him a stomach ache; that’s how they were talked into making Murray drink the insecticide. Lance made it seem just like another bit of bullying.’ He pulled his eyebrows together. ‘The bastard,’ he ground through his teeth. ‘That’s murder!’
‘Well? When do we go to the police?’ Monique was becoming very fidgety as the implications sank in.
‘We need facts for that,’ cautioned Bart. ‘So far, it’s all speculation. What indisputable facts have we? The police have made up their minds that the skirmish at my place was nothing more than a couple of disturbed thieves. Mandy’s not going to help. A few snatches of conversation overheard by a schoolboy spying in the cricket shed? The kids might have been making up stories to impress each other, and it only needs the suggestion that Robert was in there smoking pot and set himself on fire, to have his story thrown out and counter charges laid by the school.’
‘Mmm. It is a bit thin.’ Sanjay flicked through Robert’s notes. ‘The church you questioned, is what old Mr Osbairne showed me and I guess the opium remark is a misquote of Karl Marx’s comment about religion.’
Robert rolled his eyes and looked ignorant.
‘When he published his ideas for a fair deal for the workers,’ Sanjay explained, ‘he noted that the wealthy classes had easy access to opium to achieve temporary relief from their boredom, but the poor couldn’t afford it. They had to make do with religion. Hence, Religion is the opium of the masses. No one’s ever been sure whether Marx was suggesting that opium should be available to everyone or not. Certainly it’s come full circle, everyone and their dog has access to high quality heroin, which is to opium what the latest luxury Ford is to the Model T, and the masses are no longer well represented in the devotional stakes.’
‘That’s most interesting, mon chere, but what are we going to do?’ Monique was itching to punish those responsible for nearly killing her son but hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it. Nor had anyone else.
Ralf looked dejected. ‘I reckon you should call a halt for the moment. Robert won’t be returning to school this term, Monique and Sanjay need to get everything ready for their trip to India, Bart and I have plenty to do before the holidays, and we all need time to think. We don’t want any gut reactions.’
Bart, who certainly didn’t feel up to anything, agreed. ‘Ralf’s right. So far no permanent physical damage has been done.’
Monique’s eyes flashed.
‘Although the potential was disastrous,’ he quickly added. ‘If Lance thinks we know he organised the murder of Murray, he’ll probably try to silence us again.’
‘I insist we go to the police,’ Monique said bluntly.
‘Have you considered the newspapers?’
‘What do you mean, Sanjay?’
‘These sorts of stories have a way of leaking out. Are we ready for the
papers to splash, Homosexual teacher and pupil lover accuse fellow
student of attempted murder?
‘Surely not!’
‘Sanjay’s right.’ Bart had difficulty keeping the panic from his voice. ‘And that’s why I suggest we don’t go to the police with unprovable accusations, but to praise them for their intelligence, and find out what they think about the burning shed. We’ve got to get them on our side in case there’s a showdown next term.’ He took a deep breath and turned to Sanjay. ‘Oil on the waters - that’s your specialty isn’t it, Sanjay?’
‘It’s Scots, not Irish in me veins, laddie, although I confess to a certain gift of the gab. OK, I’ll do that little thing. Also, I want to take a look at Osbairne Intermediate. I think once I’ve seen him I’ll know whether he’s cognisant of his son’s iniquities.’
‘If you are correct about the newspapers then I reluctantly agree,’ Monique conceded. ‘But you must unofficially tell the police our suspicions, Sanjay!’
‘I’ll see how it goes.’
His wife’s belligerent stare slowly turned to indecision. ‘I don’t think…,’ she said quietly, looking at her fingers. ‘Perhaps it would be better... Everything being like it is... Robert damaged and… and... I don’t know… everything so dangerous. I should not go to India!’ she exploded defiantly.
Robert stared at her incredulously, then without warning hurled his pillow onto the table, sending a coffee cup smashing onto the pavers. Everyone looked at him in surprise. With an angry glare at his mother he stormed through the house to his room and slammed the door. They stared at each other in consternation. Monique got to her feet. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry… I’d better go and…’
‘I’ll go, Monique. Robert’s probably upset because he doesn’t want to spoil your holiday. It’d be a real guilt trip. He needs to feel independent.’
‘But he’s still sick! He needs…’
‘Bart’s right, darling. Robert’s not seriously ill, but he’s very wound up having been through two weeks which would have rendered anyone fragile. Examinations, the attack on Bart, his own terrifying ordeal and… other things. Bart’s better equipped than we are to help.’ He looked up. ‘Are you OK, Bart?’
‘You mean… do I need counselling?’ A wry smile.
‘No! Yes. Well…’
‘I’m fine thank you, Sanjay. Maybe what Robert needs is a change of scene. I’ve some friends on the Sunshine Coast and thought I’d take him there for a break while you’re in India. Get him away from unpleasant associations. I’ll take good care of him,’ he added in response to Monique’s nervous look.
Sanjay was pleased. ‘That sounds ideal. Now go and bring him back. If he stays away too long he’ll find it difficult to face everyone.’ When Bart was out of earshot Sanjay sighed with resignation. ‘I’d hoped this sudden aggro was over. Last year he got a really bad dose. We put it down to adolescence. He feels everything too deeply. Sometimes he simply can’t get things in proportion and takes it out on objects around him. Do excuse us, Ralf.’
‘Not at all. My wife suffered like that, only more so.’
‘And she …?’
‘Jessica suicided nine years ago. It’s OK,’ he added, responding to their looks of concern. ‘I’m over all the guilt. I know she’s happier dead. But Robert’s not like that!’ he added brusquely. ‘He’s a sensitive kid with too much on his plate. Jessica veered erratically between violent anger over nothing and a depression so deep it immobilised her. If I thought for a minute Robert was anything like Jessica, I’d tell you.’
Monique looked away in ill-concealed embarrassment.
Bart was more tired than he realised, and Robert’s outburst had unnerved him. What the hell am I doing here? he asked himself, pausing at the door to Robert’s room. Teacher and pupil! That’s what’s caused all this drama. I can just about cope with my own problems. Do I really want to add those of a mixed-up kid? He threw open the door. The room was empty and the outside door was ajar. Alarm splashed through his guts as he ran out. Robert was standing absolutely still, staring down at a leaf. Sunlight played across the back of his neck, hair hung in sleek hanks across his cheek, long lashes caught reflected light from the house and his mouth had relaxed to a half-smile. Bart dissolved in a tingling whirlpool of emotion.
Who knows why we fall in love? It is not only a mystery to friends - the afflicted are equally in the dark. All we know is that life without that special other person would cease to have meaning, hope or pleasure. Death would be preferable. A surge of love threatened to burst Bart’s chest as he crept up, wound his arms around Robert and kissed his neck. Robert remained still, then turned his head and looked back, unsmiling.
‘Coming back inside?’
Robert’s voice had all but disappeared; the effort of whispering so excruciating he screwed up his face. ‘Not if Mum’s staying home to look after me.’
‘She isn’t. She doesn’t even want to. Just thought she ought to offer.’
‘They think I’m a spoilt brat.’
‘They think you’re coping well with severe trauma.’
Robert raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
‘It’s true.’
‘You despise me now.’
Bart took hold of Robert’s face in both hands and kissed him on the forehead. Robert couldn’t respond, but permitted himself to be led back to the lounge.
‘Chérie, I am a silly old woman. Of course you will be better with Bart than me. Especially as I much prefer going to India.’
Robert gave her a dutiful nod before returning with Bart to the divan. Sanjay winked at his unresponsive son. Ralf sipped his drink as though nothing had happened and changed the subject. ‘If what Robert overheard is correct, it seems the kids are taking pep pills. Ever taken any drugs, Sanjay?’
Husband and wife exchanged exaggerated looks of improbity. ‘Hashish was cheap in India twenty years ago, so we bought about half a kilo. It’s the resin exuded by seed heads of female marijuana plants. According to the stories, naked men walk among the plants and resin sticks to their bodies. When they’re dripping with the stuff someone scrapes it off and it’s mixed with crushed, dried plant material before being compressed into sticky blocks. It is very potent. Monique couldn’t resist it of course. To her undying regret we didn’t see it being collected.’ They shared a smile. ‘It made me incredibly witty. To others, including my wife to be, however, I became a repetitive bore. Each new second seems unrelated to the previous and so you can repeat the same thing without ennui. And no hangover.’
Monique took over. ‘We brought this sticky lump of stuff wrapped in tinfoil back with us; panicked at the airport where there was a Last Chance to throw away your Contraband bin, and dropped about eight thousand dollars worth of hashish into it - probably to be picked out and smoked by one of the customs officials. But to us it wasn’t worth any risk. I don’t think either of us has wanted to try anything since.’
‘My brain’s too labile,’ laughed Sanjay. ‘A glass of beer sends me silly. I have to feel I’m in control of my mind. If I take drugs I lose that. How about you, Ralf?’
Ralf reckoned he had tried everything at least once. Opium was easy to get and cheap in the ports of Asia when he was in the Merchant Navy, as was just about every other drug, but he’d been able to take it or leave it. With him it certainly wasn’t a case of one fix and you’re hooked for life. Since leaving the sea he hadn’t bothered with anything except the occasional beer or tot of rum. What intrigued him was where school kids got the stuff. No one ever approached him on the street offering instant heaven.
‘That’s because you look as though you’ve already found it, Ralf.’ smiled Monique. ‘But you’re right. Where do they get it?’
‘Depends what they’re taking,’ said Bart carefully. ‘I did a course on Drugs in Schools. You’d be amazed how many people are prescribed Valium, Rohypnol, and other tranquillisers. Kids help themselves to Granny’s pills and sell them at school. Doctors can easily be persuaded to prescribe more. Some types of amphetamines are used for illnesses such as epilepsy, and these can be stolen by cousins or siblings for resale to school mates. There’s no sallow man in a greasy raincoat, hat pulled down to conceal his face, hanging around the school gates. It’s last year’s school-leavers who’ve been to clubs, met someone, are down on their luck or unemployed. They get a supply and re-sell them at school.’
‘Of course,’ said Ralf with dawning comprehension. ‘Why has no one told me this before? There are several kids like that who hang around school regularly. I could point them out to you if you like.’
‘No way!’ Bart was adamant. ‘Apart from anything else, most of the things they take are preferable to alcohol in my opinion, and secondly, our idiot headmaster doesn’t accept that there are any drugs. And poor old Warren Pinot would wet himself if he had to do anything positive.’
‘That’s very depressing, Bart,’ said Sanjay.
‘Not really. Most of the kids aren’t going to become addicted. They’re just looking for a bit of excitement. A way to assert their independence. Apart from schoolwork they’re given no responsibilities, nothing against which to measure themselves. Most don’t even have to tidy their own rooms or do the dishes. All they’ve had since birth is, Shut up and look at telly. Or, Here’s ten dollars, get lost. Bart stopped talking, suddenly self-conscious.
‘’Go on, Bart.’
‘I’m raving, Sanjay.’
‘No you’re not, it’s most interesting.’
‘Politeness will be your downfall.’
‘Get on with it, I’m learning things,’ grunted Ralf.
‘Be it on your own head,’ Bart grinned. ‘The tragedy is that children are discovering the law is an ass. In countries like Holland there’s a line drawn between soft and hard drugs. However, they’re under constant pressure from the U.S.A and France to adopt more severe laws. I suspect that’s why our Government won’t do anything enlightened. As soon as they try to liberalise anything, to make a humane, sensible law or drug trial, there’s a telephone call from Uncle Sam and it’s cancelled. It’s insane, especially when you see the terrible results of the years of fighting drugs in the States. High crime rates, high addiction rates, appalling sickness and death rates, millions of homeless addicts and prisons overflowing with innocents who have taken something much milder and less harmful than alcohol. It’s not surprising that when kids are offered hard drugs they assume the warnings are equally inflated lies.’
‘You are right. Evil Empire USA has a great deal to answer for in this modern world,’ agreed Monique, following her own train of thought. ‘And statistics show that most juvenile crime is committed by children who have been neglected by their parents. I could weep for them.’
‘Only certain temperaments become addicted,’ Bart continued, ‘usually those who feel disappointed with life. Therefore, if there are ten thousand addicts at any given moment on five different drugs, and we introduce ten new drugs, there still will be only ten thousand addicts. They’d simply spread their usage over a wider selection of fixes. That could actually be better, because nine out of ten addicts are stuck on alcohol, the worst drug for side effects.’ He shook his head and let loose a sigh.
‘Makes sense,’ mumbled Ralf.
‘But the situation’s hopeless,’ Bart continued with an intensity that delighted his hosts. ‘Everything’s surrounded by such hysteria that no politician is prepared to do anything rational in case they’re seen as soft on drugs. Newspapers rant and rave when one teenager dies of an overdose of Ecstasy at a nightclub on the Gold Coast, but during schoolies week it’s considered normal for thousands of teenagers to become vomiting paralytics because of a dangerously high intake of alcohol. There could be a case made for preferring amphetamines to that. The hysteria surrounding it, though, makes research impossible, and in an unregulated market no one is ever quite sure about the purity or the strength of the dose. And of course the Booze Barons aren’t going to let other drugs, no matter how innocuous, take any of their profits.’
‘That’s depressingly true, Bart. And what about you?’
‘Bart shrugged and grunted self-consciously. ‘Like you two, I’m not interested in getting a criminal record for something that’s not worth it. I have the occasional beer. Robert shared one with me a few weeks ago. Haven’t had one since. And the occasional whisky. Again, the last one was with Robert. We had my mother’s panacea, a small tot with hot milk after my brush with oblivion.’
‘No risk of addiction there,’ smiled Sanjay.
Everyone agreed there was a lack of debate about what was becoming a serious problem and the talk turned general until a comfortable silence fell as each browsed among their own thoughts. A short while later Ralf made his excuses and left, offering thanks for the meal and best wishes for the coming trip.
Monique and Bart cleaned up, Sanjay went outside to prune his topiary syzigium, and Robert wrote a message to be telephoned to Marcia, sending his abject apologies for missing her party. In it, he suggested his condition was much worse than it was, hoping to give Lance a sense of accomplishment. Bart and Robert spent the rest of the afternoon napping in the bedroom while Monique began a preliminary sweep through her wardrobe, selecting clothes for India.
Chapter Fifteen
During a week in which Robert's throat slowly healed and preparations for the trip to India occupied most of Monique's waking hours, Sanjay found time to continue his investigations. Under the pretext of needing someone to collect rents while he was away, he made an appointment to see Arnold Osbairne, using his mother’s surname. The elderly receptionist clearly didn’t believe that a man of his ethnicity could be called MacDonald, but sent him through to the Osbairne inner sanctum nonetheless. Arnold offered a moist, soft hand. He was a heavy man of medium height with no visible neck, whose solid was running to fat. Receding hair lent the pale head an innocent blandness.
On the wall behind the desk hung a framed world map on which red lines had been ruled from city to city and continent to continent. Sanjay asked the significance of the lines. His dividend was a twenty-minute replay in the gravelly harshness of Arnold Osbairne’s hectoring tones, of every overseas trip taken in the last ten years. Every problem, harassment or other misfortune caused by customs, border police and other erring, non-white, non anglo-saxon-Protestant officials, was detailed with mind-numbing precision. Sanjay’s muted response was heroic, but he became increasing alarmed for the multicultural future of his country and decided it probably wasn’t worth his while to talk to this man about his son’s budding business empire. Mr Osbairne didn’t invite even sympathetic criticism or advice.
On the way home he called in at Oz Dry-Cleaners. The roller-doors were up, half a dozen overall-clad workers of both sexes pushed hand trucks here and there and three vans were waiting at the loading dock to deliver or pick up bundles. Sanjay parked down the road and walked back. No one took any interest. He entered the poky office and asked if he could have a suit dry-cleaned, only to receive a blank stare followed by slow-motion enlightenment. ‘Sorry, mate, not that sort of place. Bulk commercial. Overalls and stuff. The Village is the nearest.’
Sanjay nodded and withdrew. This was probably a goldmine. No frills, few overheads and incredibly busy from the look of it. Mr Osbairne probably made his money legitimately.
The meeting with the police was unsatisfying. Sanjay had thought deeply on the issue and decided it would be unfair to Monique not to at least mention the possibility of arson and their suspicions. By a coincidence, his interlocutor was Senior Constable Ponto, who had investigated Bart’s night of horror. They traversed a noisy corridor and seated themselves at either end of a scarred table jammed against one wall of an interview room, bare except for a stack of metal chairs under the windows and a tape recorder on a stand beside a blackboard. The police officer listened calmly to Sanjay’s story of his son’s incarceration and near immolation, face expressionless apart from a slight narrowing of the eyes when Sanjay mentioned his suspicions about Lance.
Ponto shuffled his papers together, spread them out again, referred to a note in a margin, harrumphed twice and then spoke placatingly. ‘This is a different tale from the one we were told by the school authorities.’ He scratched his head and looked at Sanjay speculatively before asking, ‘I imagine the groundsman - Mr Boreham, was a bit excited when he got to the shed?’
Sanjay shrugged his shoulders in assent, the question was more or less rhetorical.
‘Mmm,’ the Senior Constable mused, playing briefly with his pen before gazing speculatively at Sanjay. ‘The shed was old with wooden rafters. White ants? Dry-rot? Maybe it was starting to sag? It’s quite possible the door jammed? Mr Boreham could easily have imagined the bolt was across. He used a handkerchief because of the heat, so he wasn’t able to see the bolt. In the extremity of fear and excitement the mind can play tricks?’ He looked up as though seeking confirmation of his hypothesis in Sanjay’s face. When none was forthcoming he again gathered his bits of paper.
‘Thank you for taking the trouble to come and see us, Mr Karim, and giving us the benefit of your - ah - opinions. We rely on such assistance from the public’ The officer clasped his hands together on top of the file, leaned forward in his chair and fixed Sanjay with a dry eye. ‘Your son and Mr Vaselly have twice before alleged that Lance Osbairne has committed offences.’ He selected a piece of paper. ‘Here we are: - tormenting Murray Corso until he committed suicide,’ he looked up with a quizzical expression. ‘Even though both the headmaster and the boy’s parents are satisfied with the Coroner’s verdict of accidental death.’
Sanjay’s face remained impassive.
The officer’s voice was entirely without inflexion as he continued. ‘On another occasion they accused Lance of bringing two others to Mr Vaselly’s apartment in order to push the teacher under the railings to his death.’ He paused for effect, and if there wasn’t just the hint of incredulity on his countenance then he had been born with an unfortunate face. ‘I am told that over recent years school pupils have become more difficult to control,’ he continued. ‘Not what they were when you and I were at school. But that much out of control?’ He shook his head and sighed heavily with the air of a man who needed to get something off his chest, but wasn’t sure whether he ought to.
Sanjay guessed correctly that silence was the best way to keep the other man talking.
‘Policing is difficult,’ sighed the officer. ‘And getting more so. Suspicion, hearsay, rumour – none of those things are sufficient to warrant serious investigation. But that doesn’t mean we don’t keep our eyes open. I talked with Lance Osbairne, unofficially, after the Corso accident and…’ the policeman paused as though searching for the right words, ‘I had occasion to visit his father soon after the attack on Mr Vaselly.’ He pursed his lips and looked straight at Sanjay. ‘When asked to recall the evening in question, Mr Osbairne confirmed that his son was at home that entire evening. Do you understand that I have no choice but to let the matter rest?’
Sanjay nodded, aware that the Senior Constable was telling him quite a bit more than necessary.
‘Can you offer me any shred of evidence to support this latest suspicion? Anything at all which might encourage me to investigate the fire further?’
Sanjay shook his head.
‘Can you suggest a convincing reason for his wanting to do away with your son and the teacher?’
Sanjay thought quickly. ‘Perhaps he is angry at the accusations against him? Perhaps there is some truth in them and he doesn’t want it to get out?’
Ponto shuffled his papers again. ‘As I said before, and I meant it, thank you for your time and trouble.’ He gave a sigh of resignation before continuing. ‘Please do not hesitate to contact us should you discover anything, anything at all to substantiate these further allegations.’ He stood. ‘I can see you are unsatisfied – so am I. I dislike mysteries.’ He nodded his head briefly and was gone through a door marked No Entry before Sanjay had time to pick up his brief case.
It was a depressed but resigned group around the dining table that evening after Sanjay had given them an account of his interview.
‘Stay totally away from Lance and anyone else to do with school over the holidays. Do you understand, Robert? You too, Bart!’
‘Oui, Maman.’
‘Yes, Monique.’
The temptation to laugh was very slight. Something in her tone made everyone’s flesh creep a little. Robert had never seen his mother quite so determined or serious. She looked intently at her two young men. ‘Promise me,’ she insisted. ‘Promise me you will do nothing stupid! I do not want to go into mourning. I look terrible in black.’ Her slightly mocking smile chilled their hearts and extracted the promise.
At the Bon Voyage dinner on Thursday evening, Susie made no effort to conceal her curiosity. Bart took to her immediately, countering inquisitive coquetry with gallant attention and an apparently bottomless pit of good humour. He had a weakness for theatrical women and Susie was at her melodramatic best in an electric-blue kaftan bordered with gold and ivory ibises, topped by a matching turban. Ivory and gold bell-earrings touched her shoulders and tinkled at every toss of the head. She should have been peering into a crystal ball in a zodiac-decorated tent instead of regaling Bart with saucy anecdotes, outrageous flattery and a promise to tell his fortune when they had an hour alone.
Robert was more pleased than he could have imagined at how Bart, when he was the centre of attention, deliberately brought others into the spotlight. Along with pride came a creeping fear that he was out of his depth. This was a Bart he’d not yet seen; charming, witty, and relaxed with strangers. How many more Barts were there? Wasn’t he too young and boring to keep the interest of someone like this?
‘You’re quiet,’ Susie whispered. ‘What deep, dark thoughts hold sway?’
‘Oh… I’m surprised Bart wastes his time on me.’
‘I’m not. You are just as engaging. He probably feels the same about you occasionally. You complement each other. Yin and Yang if you’ll forgive the Seventies sentiments.’
Robert continued to frown.
‘Fear, doubt and regret are the three great spoilers of joy. Avoid them by knowing what you want, wanting what is possible, and going all out to get it!’
‘Sensible Susie.’
Her smile was enigmatic.
Sanjay agreed to Jeff’s request that the boys should run a few errands for the company during the holidays if they were in town, and the young men were happy to deliver a parcel to a shop in Maroochydore on their way North.
The meal was a pleasure for eyes, nose and palate. A spicy goulash with all the trimmings that Susie assured them had been passed down through the family for centuries and been simmering on her stove for the last four days. It was followed by a mulberry mousse, five different cheeses, and fruit.
The Skeldrakes were told about the two attacks on the boys. Jeff looked worried; Susie rubbed her chubby hands together in uneasy agitation, hoisted herself to bejewelled sandalled feet and stood behind the two young men, laying a palm on each head. A wrinkle of disquiet flickered unseen by them across her brow. When she spoke her voice contained the hint of a warning.
‘You’ll both live. Could be some fun and games before the end of the year, though. Come and see us if you need anything. Anything at all, my treasures.’ Jeff nodded his head vigorously in assent and Susie bestowed the kiss of a witch on each young cheek and changed the subject.
At six-thirty the following evening, Bart and Robert stood in the observation lounge watching the jet lift into a darkening sky. Bart had relayed details of the final assembly for the term during the drive to the Airport. Robert’s brush with death had been dismissed by Mr Nikelseer in a brief homily suggesting that if students wanted to break school rules, then they should accept the consequences. There had even been a suggestion that the bill for replacing the structure might be forwarded to his parents. Rules were not made to be broken and it was dangerous to break into locked sheds for any reason. When the miscreant returned to school he would have to face the headmaster. There had been no mention of Ralf’s timely intervention, without which there would have been a second death. The rumour department had been working over-time and all the teachers Bart spoke to assumed Robert had been in the shed smoking dope, setting the place alight himself. The Bible reading appeared to support to the headmaster’s lack of sympathy.
For if we sin willfully
after that we have received the
knowledge of the truth,
there remaineth
no more sacrifice for sins,
but a certain
fearful looking for of judgement
and fiery indignation which shall
devour the adversaries!
As soon as the plane was out of sight, Bart and Robert joined the trek to the car park and drove home through the remains of the rush hour.
‘Two weeks – two weeks of bliss,’ chanted Robert as they sped back to the house.
Chapter Sixteen
Robert ticked off the items. ‘Tent, sleeping bags, clothes, food, water, stove, silk samples. Blast off!’
When they called in to Bart’s to pick up his clothes, Hazel was waiting with another of her enormous Black-forest gateaux; five layers of sticky chocolate cake and cream topped by flakes and glace cherries, carefully packed into a cardboard box.
‘Hazel it’s magnificent! No one should go camping without one.’ Bart handed her the keys of his car. ‘For what it’s worth, Hyacinth’s yours while I’m away. He may be old, but I keep him roadworthy.’
‘That’s very generous, Bart. I don’t think I’ll be game enough to drive it, but I have a nephew coming to stay during the holidays, he has a licence.’
‘Whatever you decide, it’s there if you want it.’
After accepting an unnecessary coffee, they set off, Robert at the wheel.
‘By the way, Hazel no longer thinks you’re my cousin.’
‘What does she think we are?’
‘What we are.’
‘Good.’
Layer upon intangible layer of worries, cares, problems, fears and doubts peeled from both young minds as suburbs receded, city roads became motorway, and distance between the old life and the new increased. Bart leaned against his window and watched gratefully as pleasure-in-life returned to the face of his driver. They kept up a continuous chatter about anything and everything, and managed to keep excitement under control. Holidaying with a lover. Too perfect to be true. No one had the right to be so happy. Robert rested his hand lightly on Bart’s thigh, Bart checked there was no car following before leaning across to kiss him on the cheek.
The samples had been safely delivered, the sun was shining and they were parked beside the river. Having made no plans, they were unsure of the next move.
‘Swim here - or further up the coast?’
‘Somewhere private.’
‘Not here then.’ Bart took the wheel and within half an hour they were shouldering their packs for the walk through Noosa National Park to Alexandria Bay. They passed a dozen or so other walkers, most of whom were lost - many of the track-signs having been stolen by vandals. Twenty minutes later they emerged, together with three surfies lugging their boards, at the entrance to a beach. But what a beach!
The turquoise ocean was hurling breakers on to a long crescent of white sand, seagulls whirled over rock promontories at either end, and trees straggled from encircling hills right down to the dunes. A vast amphitheatre, open to an even vaster sea - yet intimate and friendly. The surfies joined a group directly in front of the path. To the left, small figures could be seen playing with a ball and several lone men gazed out from the sand-hills. To the right, an encampment of sun umbrellas, gaudy towels and shade devices indicated the most popular section. Bart headed for it, ignoring Robert’s grunts of surprise.
‘They’re all naked!’
‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’
They found a casuarina-shaded spot under the hill, spread their towels and surveyed the scene. No one had taken any notice of them. All shapes and sizes, all colours of skin, all ages, all sexes, were reading, chatting, applying lotion, playing games, running down to the water, sitting in it, paddling, swimming, body surfing, enjoying the idyllic spot in their own way. There were no dogs, no radios, no giggling self-conscious girls trying to attract boys, no louts showing off to their mates and girlfriends, no galah-gaggles of women picking everyone else to pieces.
‘Race you!’
Clothes were jettisoned and they raced across the sand to hurl themselves into the clear, cold water. After bodysurfing, chasing each other through waves and hooting with laughter as they fell into unseen holes, they lay side by side in the shallows, jostled by the enfeebled remains of breakers. They were neither the youngest nor the oldest on the beach. Others were as good-looking or better, many worse. Firm flesh stood, sat, or lay beside sagging, wrinkled buttocks, legs and bellies. Firm breasts showed what the limp flaps on others had looked like half a century before. It didn’t matter. Naked, they were clothed in innocence.
Relaxing back on his towel, face and thighs sprinkled with chocolate cake and cream, Robert gave a nod of comprehension. ‘I’ve finally realised what the Renaissance painters were on about. I could never understand why a naked woman represented Sacred Love while the clothed one was Profane. But now I get it! When every one’s naked, there’s no coquetry, no deception. Bodies are not a mystery to endlessly and unprofitably occupy our thoughts. Minds are freed to look for other, more enduring and valuable things.’
‘Like that guy, do you mean?’ Bart pointed at an exquisitely formed young man in his late twenties doing handstands a few metres in front of them. Long brown hair was pulled back in a thick plait, every other part of his slim, bronzed body had been shaved smooth and copiously oiled. He turned and gazed at them coolly before crouching behind an umbrella. A few seconds later he reappeared carrying a child, and ran athletically to the sea followed by a young wife with colossal, dimpled buttocks.
‘Thank goodness,’ Bart sighed with the merest hint of lust. ‘A hell of a waste, but I’m not in the mood for competition.’
‘That’s no competition. I know when I’m well off. Do you think I want someone so attractive I’d have to lock him up? No way! Someone old, ugly and faithful, that’ll...’ He got no further. Bart had his arm up behind his back and his face in the sand. ‘Old and ugly is it? We’ll see about that!’ They wrestled lazily until, realising they had drawn a small crowd who weren’t sure if it was serious, they broke apart, laughing. The onlookers melted away, but the obvious disapproval on the faces of several of the men gave the boys an unpleasant twinge. They chased each other into the sea to wash off both the sand and the feeling before sprawling once more at the edge of the water.
‘Why were they so up tight?’
‘They thought we were queer.’ Bart frowned and began snapping a stick into pieces. ‘Fucking bigots!’ he said violently, ‘But it’s hardly surprising. The only gays they’ve come across are in films and books, and without exception they’re depicted as miserable, vicious, pathetic victims of their perversion - better off dead. And those idiots on the sandhills don’t help.’
‘What idiots?’
‘Ferals prowling for anonymous sex.’
‘Yuk. What about disease?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But… most of the people on the beach look nice enough.’
‘Ignore appearances - trust no one!’
‘And the bloke with the long hair - his prick was half stiff.’
‘He also had a wife and kid. That makes it respectable. It’s a heterosexual world out there and don’t you forget it!’
By the time they left the water the sun had left the beach and chill shadows reminded them it was still September.
‘Where’ll we sleep?’
‘Here.’
‘Not allowed, it’s a National Park.’
‘Where then?’
‘The State forest up the road?’
‘No camping there either. Who’d know if we hid ourselves in the trees?’
‘Snakes, goannas, spiders, ants, bandicoots.’
‘Pretty serious. I’m willing to risk it.’
On the way back to the car the perfect campsite was found on a sandy plateau, invisible from the path behind a stand of scribble-gums. They didn’t even have to smooth the ground as a pair of thoughtful bush-turkeys had scraped every stick, leaf and blade of grass for metres around to create a pile of compost for their eggs. Carefully marking the entrance to the spot on the path with sticks and branches, they continued on to get the tent.
Returning in the dark, every path seemed different. Bends and curves were in the wrong places and each fallen twig or branch looked like their marker. They got the giggles and raced around like mice in a maze.
‘We’re not going to find it.’
‘Then here will have to do.’
They trudged up a rise and discovered they were exactly where they wanted to be.
‘Ya fooled you. I knew all the time.’
‘Me too, I was just seeing if you’d wimp out.’
Robert assembled the tent, one of those masterpieces of springy steel which, once released, form of their own accord into an igloo, complete with ground-sheet and zip-up entrance.
Bart was impressed. ‘Now that’s what I call an erection!’
‘Not bad is it? We went camping near Cape Tribulation a few years ago and a Swiss couple had one. Dad wouldn’t rest until he’d got one for himself. But of course we’ve never been camping since, so it’s brand new.’
‘Can’t wait to baptise it.’
Inside, they spread out sleeping bags, made depressions in the sand for hips, cut two thick lumps of bread and two equally enormous slices of cheese, then, sharing the water bottle, quenched both hunger and thirst.
Sunrise woke them about six. They dressed warmly against the chill, cleared the site, re-packed everything, checked there was no evidence of their stay and took off back to the beach - empty of humans but not their debris. Each took a plastic bag and filled it, depositing the loot in the drum provided. Ninety percent of the rubbish came from the area in front of the path where the surfies and their girl friends had spent the day covered in long board-shorts and zinc ointment, sneering at the beach to their right. The naturists had left their beach almost spotless.
A quick dip refreshed, invigorated and stirred hunger pangs. Robert collected wood, Bart cooked, and within ten minutes there were fried eggs and bread, hot tea, slices of papaya and a banana each. ‘The best breakfast I’ve ever eaten in the most perfect surroundings! Makes you feel sorry for all those poor gits in their units and motels.’
‘A man after my own heart.’
They erected the tent to reserve a good spot for later, then, carrying only a small pack with their valuables, took off round the rocks and over the headland to the "Devil’s Kitchen". He had served crystal-clear blue soup just off the boil, barely breaking its surface on the rocks fifty metres below. Only gannets fractured the peace of the morning, crying and shrieking as they whirled and circled above the somnolent swell before plummeting for fish. Silky grey-green casuarinas, wild flowers, morning dew, views down to the bay, and south along the surf beach to Coolum - everything glowed under the transparent dome of a cloudless blue sky. The stuff of poetry. Side by side they sat, warming their backs in the sun, arms around each other’s waists, hearts beating in unison.
‘This is perfect, Bart. If only it could last forever.’
‘It’ll last as long as we want it to.’
‘I was wondering if we should have a trial period? …Just to make sure?’ Robert sounded diffident.
‘I see,’ replied Bart, defensive in spite of himself. ‘And how long do you think this trial period should be?’
‘I thought that.... I thought about ninety-nine years?’
‘I must have been a trout in a previous life. You string me along and I rise to the bait every time.’ Bart turned to a grinning Robert. ‘That seems reasonable, as long as I can get an extension if I’m still not sure.’
They followed a couple of hikers back to the beach where the first enthusiasts were setting up camp.
‘What’ll we do today? Explore the wonders of Noosa?’
‘What’s there?’
‘Expensive shops, expensive restaurants, expensive sidewalk cafes, crowds of holiday-makers pretending they’re in the south of France, a traffic jam or two and a nearby beach full of families.’
‘Sounds great. Reminds me of when my grandparents came for a holiday from France about six years ago. They were looking forward to wide open spaces, empty beaches, sunshine, fresh air and lack of stress. After doing the big circuit - up to Cairns and back through Longreach - they reckoned the traffic on the coast was nearly as heavy as in France, and the beaches were just as crowded. Where there was surf it was too wild and dangerous, and further north the tide was either in, with stingers, sharks and crocs, or out so far you couldn’t see it. They hated all the advertising, billboards and other American-style visual pollution, and thought they had wasted their time and money.’
‘And what did they think of the outback?’
‘They didn’t mind that it was flat, windy, hot, boring, treeless, endless, uninteresting and empty, what they couldn’t handle were the flies. They were still twitching days after they returned. Grandma swore she’d never get the feeling off her lips. They came again for a visit two years ago. Flew to Brisbane, spent a couple of weeks with us, then flew to Tahiti for a "real" tropical holiday.’
‘Ungrateful.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, what to do today. My choice?’
‘Yours today, mine tomorrow. Tuesday we take to the hills.’
Robert looked apprehensive. ‘I hope your landlords like me. How old are they?’
‘Late fifties – early sixties?’
‘An old married couple. – Yuk!’
‘Been together over thirty years.’
‘Big deal. Why do we have to visit them? I only want to be with you. I hate being with people who don’t understand what it’s like. I’ve got to get used to being gay.’
‘They understand.’
‘Says you!’
‘They’ve got a beaut house - and you might learn something.’
‘Doubt it. They’ll think I’m stupid.’
‘They’ll love you. Everyone does.’
‘Except Lance.’
‘He’d love to be you though, which amounts to the same thing. Come on, make up your mind. Where’re we going?’
‘You obviously want to mix it with the beautiful people, so we’ll spend the day climbing that hill over there, admiring nature, and swimming. It’d be bad for you to get everything you want. Then the same hotel again tonight.’
From the summit of the hill they had views of the sea, glimpses of blue bays dotted with surfies, and, through a gap in the hills, a vista of apartments on Main Beach.
‘Let’s go down.’
‘To those yuppies?
‘We’re over half way.’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
More annoyed than he would admit at having to visit the elderly landlords, Robert needed to assert his independence. ‘It’s OK, I’ll go on my own.’
‘But - we’re doing what you decided this morning!’
‘Well now I’ve changed my mind. See you back at the beach.’ Robert waved lightly and took off at a fast jog. After about a hundred metres he stopped, realised Bart hadn’t followed, and felt the first surge of apprehension. Bart had better still be there! He pounded back up the track, pushing aside anyone in his way. Muttered imprecations from those splattered with sand or lashed by swinging branches didn’t filter through his increasing alarm. What if he isn’t there? He wasn’t. Robert raced headlong down the path back to the beach. ‘Bart! Bart!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Wait!’ A group of hikers looked at him with interest but he kept on yelling.
A fork in the track. Which way? A hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He turned, gaped idiotically and blushed furiously.
‘You raced past me back there. I’d stopped for the view. I couldn’t catch up and you were yelling so loud you couldn’t hear me. What’s the rush?’
Robert grinned sheepishly. ‘Dunno, Teach. Frightened I was going to get lost? Worried we might never meet up again?’
‘You’re a free man.’
‘I know, but… time spent away from you seems a total waste. And… I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I kept imagining something terrible would happen and I’d never see you again.’ He grinned shyly. ‘I guess I really am in love. I’ve read it’s like a gruesome sickness.’
The last day was the best. With the beach almost to themselves and the weather continuing perfect, they swam, ate, walked, climbed, and explored rock pools. After lunch they lay in the shade, spilling lives into greedy ears. Not surprisingly, they found they shared similar opinions about every important thing - books, exercise, movies, school, dancing, music, and arrived at the obvious conclusion - their love was inevitable. The planets could not have continued on their paths through the heavens if Robert and Bart hadn’t met, wrestled, loved, and vowed eternal allegiance.
Chapter Seventeen
From a lookout high on the coastal hills, the sea and National Park filled their vision, while recent memories filled their heads. Reluctantly they turned towards the hinterland where solitary mountain cones punctuated rolling hills and valleys.
‘Over there,’ pointed Bart. ‘Beneath that small mountain. Be there in half an hour.’
Robert’s smile dropped. He disliked not knowing, not being in control of his life. With an effort he prevented himself from throwing a tantrum and refusing to go. Bart was obviously excited and he didn’t want to spoil it for him. But next time! Next time they would both decide where they were going.
They drove silently along tree-lined secondary roads winding through State forests and farmland. The gate was open and they bounced the car up a long tunnel of overhanging mimosas and flowering banksias, then parked under the miserly shade of eucalypts. The air seemed fresher and cleaner than on the coast. Only a bad-tempered screech from rainbow lorikeets feeding in a grove of grevilleas, a butcherbird and his mate warbling duets, and a distant hen disturbed the peace. They turned to greet a tanned, stringy old man in brief red speedos.
‘Michael! You look so healthy!’ They shook hands warmly. ‘This is Robert.’
‘Welcome, Robert.’ Hands were shaken.
‘Thanks.’
‘Where’s John?’
‘He heard the car and cut down to chain the gate. Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses lie in wait to rush up and torment him if we leave it open.’ He shook his head in mock despair. ‘You’ve timed it well. Half an hour to freshen up before lunch.’
A path led under a bower of purple-flowering vines through a garden overflowing with an improbable variety of plants. Kaleidoscopic flashes of flowers, sunlight, insects, birds and sky. Lizards scuttled, birds screeched, creepers dangled, butterflies fluttered, the sun shone, the air shimmered and Robert laughed.
‘I’ve never seen a garden so threshing with life. Where’s that plant from the Little Shop of Horrors? It’s great. Orgazmic!’
‘Tell John, he’s their slave; spends half his life watering and the other half propagating.’
‘It’s huge.’
‘And growing. My sole contribution is feeding him and making sure there’s enough water.’
‘Bart, look! Over there! Cabbages, capsicums, tomatoes and all sorts of other vegetables among the flowers.’
‘Yep. Plants is plants. Ah, here he is.’
‘John, great to see you again. This is Robert.’
John, also lean and grey but with a full head of hair and more regular features, was as pale as Michael was brown, and carefully shielded from the sun in long trousers, shirt, leather jacket and a huge Mexican sun-hat. His careful smile and dry handshake gave nothing away. ‘Hello, Robert’
‘Hi! Your garden’s the best I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to see the rest!’
John’s somewhat sombre face smiled doubtfully. ‘Most people think it’s a mess. Reckon I should put everything in rows and weed out three-quarters of the stuff to give everything else a fair go, but I like it like this.’
‘Me too!’
‘Goodness, an intelligent man. Where’d you find him, Bart?’ John led the way to the house, whose ochreous stuccoed walls, punctuated by deep-set arched windows, nestled into its garden as though growing from the rocky soil. A metal-studded wooden door opened into a blue-tiled room where they kicked off their shoes. An archway gave on to a shaded courtyard, cooled by a small fountain tinkling into a blue-tiled pool. A table set for four stood ready at one side.
‘It’s just as magic as I remembered.’ Bart turned to Robert, who stood open-mouthed in surprise. ‘This is Michael’s creation.’
‘You’re in there, as usual.’ Michael indicated a door in the right wall of the courtyard. ‘Beers on the verandah when you’re ready. No rush.’
The guestroom was large, cool and simple, furnished with an old-fashioned wooden double bed with a mosquito net, dresser, wardrobe and a couple of chairs. A thick yellow rug splashed across the floor. The bathroom door was at the left of the entrance, and arched windows looked into the garden. Robert stared around in disbelief. ‘I never imagined such a place existed. Where’s Aladdin?’
‘I knew you’d love it.’
‘Then why’d you keep it a secret?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said they were a boring old married couple.’
‘I never said boring, and you said married, not me.’
‘You didn’t deny it.’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘I hate surprises.’ Robert surprised even himself with the feeling packed into that word. ‘The last three days would have been a thousand times better without this bloody visit hanging over me.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Yeah.’
A childhood memory flickered. ‘I didn’t… I’m sorry… Christ I’m stupid.’
‘It’s OK.’ Robert tried to shrug off his irritation.
‘No it’s not. For my twelfth birthday I was told we were going to visit my grandmother in Brisbane. Typical Dad idea, make out that a duty visit to his mother was a special treat for me. I was so pissed off I wrote a note and took off.’
‘Where to?’
‘Rode my bike to Picnic Point and bored myself silly watching everyone else enjoy themselves.’
‘What did they say when you got home?’
‘Mum was worried, my brothers and sisters were smug and Dad was pleased as punch. He’d taken everyone to Movie World. It was going to be my birthday surprise, but because I was such an up-myself little shit, his words, I deserved to miss out. He gloated about saving my entrance fee.’
‘What a mean bastard.’
‘Yeah. If he’d told me I’d have had weeks of pleasure thinking about it, telling my mates at school. Now I’ve done the same thing to you.’
‘Your punishment is to scrub clean my salt-encrusted, once-silken carcass.’
After the shower they found time to sample the bed before replacing their shorts, it was warm enough to do without a shirt, and returned to the courtyard. An archway opposite the entrance led into the main living area. To the left was a large room with a fireplace of rough-hewn stone taking up most of the end wall. Brightly cushioned couches, low wooden tables and oriental rugs dotted the floor; paintings enlivened the walls. In front of them, a heavy wooden table and chairs, a sideboard and glass doors standing open. To the right, the kitchen, where Michael could be heard stirring a pot and singing to himself. They stepped out onto an open loggia. About half a kilometre away on the other side of a tree-filled valley, reared a lone mountain.
‘That’s the one in your painting!’ Robert exclaimed. ‘Who painted it?’
‘John. Clever of you to recognise it.’
‘Can’t wait to see it at sunset. I hope it glows like in your painting.’
‘It probably will, there aren’t any clouds.’ Michael had joined them.
‘Everything’s so perfect it makes my hair stand on end,’ Robert said, wiping impatiently at his eyes and wishing he hadn’t inherited his grandmother’s ability to shed tears at the first whiff of sentiment. They sank into loungers and sipped cold home-brew until John arrived and they moved to the courtyard for lunch.
‘The meal’s delicious, Michael.’
‘Because everything’s home grown by John.’
‘Claude’s cooked up well,’ John mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.
‘Claude?’
‘He was getting a bit rough on the girls. Some were developing bare patches on their backs. Helen’s sitting on a clutch of eggs, so he’ll be replaced in a couple of months. I thought he’d be tough with all that bonking.’
‘Isn’t it a bit rude eating your rooster?’
‘It’s the ultimate compliment. There aren’t too many humans I’d be prepared to eat. He’s now semi-immortal. Until the day we die we’ll retain some molecules of Claude in our bodies.’
‘Even so…’
‘He’s had a great life.’ John waved his fork for emphasis. ‘It’s not death that’s important, Robert, but how life is lived! Claude lived it to the full - happy, healthy, free. A good life and a quick and painless death; that’s what I’d like for myself. Cruelty, is keeping people alive as vegetables in nursing homes. They hate it, their relatives hate it and it costs millions; but to say anything against it might lose a politician votes. I hope all those who opposed voluntary euthanasia die lingering, painful, wasting deaths in lonely misery.’ As if buoyed by the idea, John tucked into his food with renewed vigour.
‘Weren’t you both vegetarians when I met you?’ Bart asked.
‘Only because we didn’t have animals of our own. I’ve no objection to killing animals for food, but I object strongly to the way they are kept until that blessed release! Have you ever visited a commercial poultry farm? Seen cattle in feedlots? Watched sheep gagging on toxic drenches and suffering the heat in paddocks devoid of shade? Look at commercial piggeries! The most intelligent of animals kept in shameful conditions from birth until death!’
Robert glanced at the others. They had resumed eating, thoughts obviously elsewhere. ‘What about fish?’
This led to another homily on the appalling waste when half of all sea creatures caught are thrown back dead, and the damage done to the seabed.
‘More yoghurt, Robert?’ asked Michael calmly. ‘Only the best, youngest and healthiest bacteria used, and a guaranteed quick and painless death in your stomach.’
‘Have I been raving?’ John was embarrassed.
‘No more than usual.’
‘Mum’s the same. It wouldn’t feel like mealtime without a sermon about some disaster or other.’
‘There you are, John, you’ve satisfied everyone. Dishes and then a walk?’
By the time they had weeded a patch of lantana, inspected the chickens in their half-acre of freedom, picked a bowl of mulberries, and checked that the neighbour’s cows had not again breached the boundary at the back, the small, water-lilied lake was a welcome sight. John and Michael eased themselves into the clear brown water down concrete steps. Bart and Robert dived in from the bank. It was cold, invigorating, perfect. They lay in the sun to dry off.
Robert had never felt so relaxed with strangers. The two old blokes were already looking thirty years younger than when he’d arrived. It was only their faces now that seemed old, and as soon as they talked you forgot even that. He gave a loud whoop of delight. ‘This is the best day of my life! I feel normal! Normal! Normal!’ Racing to the steps, he executed a wild dance of ecstasy before hurling himself into the water.
Bart grinned.
‘He’s a good kid,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Hang on to him.’
‘I intend to.’
They stood on the verandah watching in awe as foreground trees darkened and the mountain’s greens and ochres changed through yellow to orange and deep blood red, before quickly becoming as dark as the trees. An almost-full yellow moon ballooned into the pale blue sky.
After dinner they relaxed in front of the fire, hosts in arm chairs, Robert lying on the couch with his head in Bart's lap. Conversation drifted. ‘I can’t believe you two have done all this. It must have taken years,’ Robert said dreamily, almost hypnotised by Bart’s fingers.
‘Four years and two months. A retired builder, escaping from his wife, stayed in the shed at the back from time to time to help with house construction. There was nothing here when we arrived, just a stony hillside with a scattering of scrawny eucalypts. You can’t imagine the mountains of rocks John’s taken out to plant everything, and the thousands of hours of watering, weeding and mulching. Still, it keeps him out of trouble.’
‘Bart says you never come to town. I’m not surprised. I’d never leave a place like this.’
‘It’s a geriatric playground,’ laughed John. ‘Occupational therapy. Getting old’s no joke. When you’re young you stay more or less fit no matter what you do and eat. But by the time you’re our age, keeping fit and healthy’s a delicate balancing act.’
‘Do you get bored?’
‘We spent half a century working, travelling, parties, concerts. Now we’re happy with our own company. There are few people we can be bothered with any more. With the obvious exceptions.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But the reason we’re contented here is because we’ve done everything else. We know what we’re missing and are happy to let it go. If we hadn’t, and didn’t, we’d imagine we were forfeiting something exciting and probably drift back to town.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Thirty-six years.’
‘That’s eighteen years before I was born! Have you had any arguments?’
The two men burst out laughing and replied in unison, ‘Never stopped.’
‘Only people who don’t love each other don’t argue,’ Michael explained. ‘They don’t care what their partner feels, and if they get annoyed they clear out. We bicker and argue constantly, trying to remake the other in our own image. Not so many ding-dong rows in the last few years. Takes too much energy. Most arguments occurred because we were overtired.’ He smiled to himself. ‘It’s fun making up, though, even if it occasionally takes a long time to get there. I don’t think we’ve ever been silly enough to go to bed with an argument unsorted. It’d be a grave mistake to let one’s partner brood over an injustice all night.’
‘Enough true confessions!’ John embarrassed easily. ‘We’re just like every old couple who’ve been together so long they can’t remember any other way of life. It’s special to us, but a bore to others.’
‘It isn’t,’ Bart countered. ‘I want to be like you, but it’s hard to know where to begin, how to go about it. You’re the only couple I’ve heard of who’ve been together more than a few years.’
‘Your parents?’
‘They’re not gay.’
‘What’s gay got to do with it?’ John snapped. ‘Couples are couples, apart from the fact that we can never go anywhere as a couple except to gay functions. Despite the entire world-order being weighted in favour of heterosexual marriage, in some ways it’s as hard for hets to stay together as for us. Their friends are always ready to gossip, seduce, and create problems. In-laws start stress fractures and half the marriages break down. Think of people as people and model yourself on those you admire. Not public figures though, they usually lead separate lives, emerging together from time to time for appearance sake. A good relationship has nothing to do with sexual orientation, but everything to do with wanting one and setting out to get it. That’s not to say sex is irrelevant. It’s essential, especially at the beginning, but you have to hang in there and work hard to gain the real benefits.
‘How did you start off?’
John grunted, unwilling to reveal any more.
Michael was less inhibited. ‘When we met, John was a penniless student so we used the one banking account, and have done so ever since. Everything we possess is owned jointly. It never occurred to either of us not to trust the other.’
‘And you don’t get bored with each other?’
‘I can’t even fathom my own mind, let alone someone else’s.’ Michael nodded towards John with a smile. ‘Just when I think I’m coming to grips with this man I’ve been sharing everything with for so long, I realise that, like me, he’s changed, so there’s no possibility of knowing everything about each other, or getting bored. With time a relationship between equals becomes deeper, more complex, more and more interesting. Other people cease to be stimulating, except through their creations, because one so easily plumbs the superficial façade they present.’
‘Have you ever thought of separating?’
‘Why on earth should we?’
‘Arguments?’
‘It probably sounds stupid, Robert, but when you really love someone, arguments don’t matter!’ John obviously wanted to drop the subject, Michael chose to elaborate. ‘The minute I contemplate leaving this grumpy, aggravating, lovable man, I remember the lonely searching for a mate at twenty-four. I’m one of those unfortunates who feel incomplete without someone to love. I don’t like my chances of finding a new lover at sixty. Anyway, I don’t want anyone else. We’ve got used to each other. The snappy remarks that used to wound, mean nothing. Horrendous arguments blow over. An occasional lack of interest isn’t a deliberate insult - certainly not worth risking the loss of having someone else in the other chair every evening, listening to music, watching television, reading, talking, or just sitting. Loving companionship, Robert. That’s what it’s all about in the end. We have the same interests and the same commitment to this type of life, as well as a willingness to talk and talk.’
‘The good life.’
‘Mmm. And being contented we don’t waste money. We retired at fifty having done everything we wanted; trips abroad, living how and where we wanted. It hasn’t been necessary to waste money on pampering ourselves to make up for the nights alone, or ensnaring a body for the night. Two can live as cheap as one. Cheaper in fact, because a bit of privation is enjoyable if shared, lethal if alone. Cooking’s fun if there’s someone to do it for – so is gardening. I built this house for us. Not for me.’ Michael turned uncertainly to John. ‘Am I getting too excited?’
‘Probably, I wasn’t listening. I’m sure Bart and Robert aren’t either.
‘We are!’
‘John speaks his mind, thank goodness. It’s useful to have someone to tell you what you look like or how dumb you’ve been, and it’s fun to keep your body trim when someone’s there to praise the result. But,’ Michael grinned, ‘the best thing is that the same lines, sags and pouches appear on your mate as on yourself.’
‘Why tell them?’ despaired John, ‘they mightn’t have noticed.’
’They may be young, but they’re not blind.’
Bart smiled. ‘I’m not blind to the fact that you’ve got something good together. So, a shared life is double the pleasure?’
‘I couldn’t live here on my own. Loneliness and hard work poisons the soul. With no one to show things to, my heart would break. In the same way as visiting Venice alone invites a terminal case of sadness. Everyone has to feel needed, challenged, excited, useful, angry, fearful, loving and loved from time to time. Anonymous sex and drugs are what people turn to if those needs aren’t filled. A permanent, loving relationship provides all that and more. There’s no need for drugs.’
‘Sounds like an impossible dream.’
‘Not if you have realistic desires and a determination to see them through. Instant and continual happiness is never going to happen to anyone, but friendship and love will bring contentment - a much more valuable state than happiness.’
Robert was gazing at Michael in admiration. ‘That’s amazing. I hope I can remember everything.’
‘Ah! The delicious flavour of flattery.’
Over mugs of cocoa and assisted by frequent prompting from Robert, Bart recounted everything from the headmaster’s first disapproval of their wrestling, through to Robert’s being trapped in the shed.
‘This is unbelievable.’ John shook his head as if to clear it. ‘It’s obvious that, what’s his name, Lance, conned the two boys into poisoning the kid in the groundsman’s store room, set his mates on to you and locked Robert in the shed before setting fire to it. He’s a homicidal maniac. You’ve got to get the police on to it. He obviously sees himself as some sort of avenger of social ills.’
‘Hardly, he’s a moral leper.’
‘You’re right, Michael. He should be carrying a bell,’ Bart laughed.
‘Don’t laugh, John’s right. If nothing’s done to stop him, one of you is going to cop it permanently!’
‘The trouble is,’ said Bart shrugging his shoulders hopelessly, ‘we haven’t been able to convince the cops. They probably think we’re just a couple of bitchy poofs making up stories. But the real reason we haven’t jumped up and down and insisted on an investigation is it’s the sort of story newspapers love, and the cops love to give them to prove they’re at the forefront of the fight against crime. You can see the headlines! Gay Teacher’s Love-Nest with Student Erupts in Violence! By the time they’d finished with us I’d be unemployable, Robert would have had a nervous breakdown and I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for our relationship.’
‘You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘He’s right, Robert,’ Michael cautioned. ‘We were a bit hasty. These sorts of stories will always leak out. It’s the daily bread of newspapers and television. A few days of headlines and on to the next sordid scandal, leaving a trail of ruined lives.’
‘Yes. I was wrong. Keep the police out of your life. Keep everyone out of it unless invited!’ John trusted no one. ‘Sit quiet with your eyes skinned, and when they feel secure you’ll have them. Those types can’t resist bragging about their exploits. But I can’t believe how easily you’re taking it. I’d be a wreck.’
‘No brain no pain I guess,’ Robert offered brightly. ‘We both had nightmares after Bart was nearly pushed off the landing, but in the shed I passed out still believing there was a way to escape, so I didn’t suffer till afterwards.’ He smiled at Bart. ‘The sore throat was the worst bit. It still doesn’t seem real. Those things don’t happen to people like me.’
Chapter Eighteen
At daybreak Robert slipped from bed, wrapped himself in a towel against the cold and ran down to the lake. The rising sun flung its shafts through the mist and wisps of vapour curled from the water. Five enormous black cockatoos flapped mournfully by, a heron announced its arrival with raucous honking, a family of fairy-wrens inspected seed-heads on the tall grasses, their slight weight enough to drag down slender stems, a pair of indigo and yellow parrots displayed red bums as they shredded matching calliandros flowers, a whip-bird’s rising whine and crack was followed by his spouse’s chiu-choo reply, a large russet butterfly dropped to the path and lay on its side like a dead leaf, and the sun heaved itself over the edge of the mountain.
Red dragonflies chased electric blue, an insect flashed turquoise, a lone frog screeched, insects and hoppers sprang to life, monochrome trees became green, brown, blue, red and gold, dewdrops glistened on an enormous orb-web and a tear of incredulity at the utter perfection and variety of nature, blurred Robert’s vision.
From a stand of tristanias twenty metres above and behind, Bart watched Robert throw off the towel to expose a body as perfect as the morning, dive from the bank and swim vigorously to the steps, where Michael had just arrived for a morning dip. Wrapped against the chill, they warmed themselves in the sun, Robert enthusiastically recounting everything he’d seen. His voice carried clearly in the stillness.
Bart knew he shouldn’t be spying, but couldn’t bear to let Robert out of his sight. His love was an ache that engulfed his being. He couldn’t look at Robert without wanting to shout his love, to touch and hold him.
‘…you and John are the same age,’ Robert was saying, ‘but I’m four years younger than Bart. Won’t he get bored with me?’
‘You are not boring types. After a while, however, when the novelty has dimmed you might wonder if other men are more… interesting. ’
‘Oh no, I’ll never...’
‘Testing your charms on others is essential if you’re to be certain you’ve made the right choice. If it happens, there’s no need to tell Bart, because I guarantee you’ll discover he’s the only man for you.’
‘Isn’t that dishonest?’
‘Yes, but why give him heartache while you sort yourself out? There’s such a thing as too much honesty in a relationship. Living with a lover means sharing, protecting and considering their feelings. Telling him something that will hurt is not love, its stupidity. If you want to hurt him, then it’s time to examine your relationship. You’ll soon discover that sex with strangers is unfulfilling and pointless, not to mention dangerous. But most people have to discover such things themselves.’
A lean, naked body landed between them, knocking them off balance.
‘You great galah. You’ll give me a seizure.’
‘Sorry, old man, I forgot how frail and delicate you’d become.’ He brushed off the leaves and sticks and, with exaggerated care assisted Michael back on to his towel.
‘Get away! I’m not used to handsome young men dusting my delicate bits so early in the morning. Try and drown him, Robert. Otherwise, breakfast in ten minutes.’ Michael walked slowly back up the path.
‘I was telling him about all the things I saw and heard this morning. Bored him silly I suppose.’
‘Doubt it. There’s nothing like seeing things through fresh eyes. Come on, race you to the other end and back, then tell me everything.’
After breakfast they climbed the mountain. A magnificent stand of old eucalypts was the perch for a raucous squabbling of kookaburras, but most of the older trees were dead - bare bones above a canopy of tristanias. It wasn’t a long climb, but treacherous. They followed the base of unscaleable buttresses, balanced up the edge of a bluff then clambered up a scrub-covered slope to the top. Windswept bushes, rocks, native bees and several hundred butterflies greeted them. In the distance, sea hazily met sky, hills and mountains poked from rolling land, and green valleys carried roads between narrow ribbons of trees. A railway cutting gashed through barren furrows where someone had failed to profit from a cash crop. On the horizon, Noosa Hill was silhouetted against a pale sky.
After John had pointed out the major landmarks, they reclined on the rocks.
‘What do you think of the view?’ John asked.
‘I reckon...’ Bart and Robert began together. Bart laughed. ‘You first.’
‘Well - I almost wish I hadn’t come up. On the drive out here I thought we were travelling through forests. I felt excited about so much nature. But from up here you can see that virtually the only trees remaining are those on the roadsides. The private land has been cleared. Yours is the only property I can see with trees all over it. What were you going to say, Bart?’
‘That I thought it was a great view.’
‘Yeah, it is… but…’
‘At last, a doom and gloom disciple for John!’
‘You’re right, Robert,’ John said with predictable intensity. ‘No one gives a shit about starving wildlife…’
‘Roll up, roll up. Watch the old man wallow in depression and tear out his hair! Guaranteed to frighten small children and dogs.’
Robert frowned and Bart gave a nervous smile, not sure how to react. Considering John’s depth of feeling, Michael’s joke wasn’t funny, but it broke the tension.
‘Doesn’t it worry you, Michael?’
‘Annoy? Yes. Worry? No. Humans are just doing what’s natural. Breeding and taking the easy path. If you offer birds cheese they’ll make gluttons of themselves and never bother to dig out another grub. Eventually we’ll come to our senses. If we don’t, nature will castigate us until we are knocked into line. Meanwhile, I intend to enjoy myself while trying not to make things worse. At least we aren’t breeding.’ He smiled at their frowns. ‘Cheer up, you’re too young to get bogged in a mire of despair over something you can do almost nothing about. If everyone does their bit then things will improve. If they don’t, it won’t. It’s as simple as that. Pointless to ruin your enjoyment of the minute because things could be better. Of course they could! Accept what is and work from there, is my motto.’
The evening meal left them sprawling in the lounge listening to a Vivaldi mandolin concerto. ‘Why haven’t I heard this before? It’s brilliant! It goes on and on like a train sweeping me to... somewhere exciting. Bart's got some great discs too.’
‘Thanks to our hosts.’ Bart turned to Robert. ‘The first time I met John was when he and Michael took me to a Mozart piano recital. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Michael, I’ve often wondered… why did you invite me?’
‘Blame John. I’d been raving about the sweet young thing that jogged along the Riverside Bikeway every evening as I was taking my constitutional. He told me to check you out.’
‘You mean?’
‘Yes. It shames me to admit it, but I hadn’t twisted my ankle. I could have driven myself home. You wisely refused to come inside, so I insisted you let me shout you to a concert.’
Bart burst out laughing and Michael changed the subject.
‘What sort of music do your parents like, Robert?’
‘Romantic stuff. Beethoven, Debussy… pleasant enough if you’re in the mood, but sounds going nowhere I reckon.’
‘How perspicacious. You’re like me – need something intelligent – Mozart, Vivaldi, Bach...’
‘You pompous ass!’ John turned to the others. ‘When I met him he liked pop-music.’
‘Only for dancing. I still love dancing, but John’s too old.’
‘Not too old! The music’s always too loud.’
‘That’s what I said, too old. I made a lot of money out of pop.’
‘How?’
‘As a stripper.’
‘You? A respectable accountant?’ Bart was stunned. ‘When?’
‘I started when I was twenty-two and gave my last show on my fifty-first birthday.’
‘But...’
‘Yes, I was bald by then. Wigs and dim lights fool audiences.’
‘How’d you get into it?’
‘I was in London, needed exercise, joined a gym. One of the trainers offered me a week’s wages for half an hour’s work - a fun wrestling demo at a Ladies Night. So I’ve something in common with you two… wrestling. We donned muslin shorts and, in front of dozens of raucous women had a bucket of water thrown over us, rendering them transparent. They’d been stuck together with water-based glue, so fell apart as we wrestled. We ended up jiving with the audience. It was a riot. After that, I used Eric’s agent. When I got back to Australia I did Hen parties… Mum’s Fiftieth Birthday, Farewells, private showings in motel rooms, specialty nights at restaurants…’
‘Don’t you miss it?’
‘If I haven’t looked in the mirror for an hour or two I sometimes fantasise I’ll do it again. Actually, it’s an enormous relief not to have to worry if I’ve got a pimple on my bum or my butt’s sagged another notch.’
‘You were very tolerant, John.’
‘I’m not above selling my lover for twenty pieces of silver.’
‘Wasn’t it forty?’
‘He wasn’t worth that much.’
A friendly silence descended; two thinking of their life to come, and two of what had gone, never to return.
And what are your plans, Robert?’
‘I haven’t any… unless...’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t stop thinking about this house and how you and Michael designed and built it. I’d love to do something like that. You know, be an architect maybe. It’s the buildings I like studying most in Art History. And… I wouldn’t mind being a stripper.’ He blushed at the confession. ‘I always imagined you had to have a special sort of hard character. But if Michael could do it…’
‘What does teacher think about that?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me. You should see his wrestling gear. I wouldn’t let him wear it in front of the headmaster.’
‘Who shows so much leg in the playground that the girls all have the hots for him?’
‘Get Michael to give you a few hints, then you can earn enough to keep us in luxury.’
‘That’s an idea. I’ll look out some old costumes. Those friends I told you about are coming tomorrow evening and, if you dare, you can put on a show.’
Robert’s heart lurched. He looked at Bart.
‘Go for it. You’ll floor ’em.’
‘You’re on!’
‘I telephoned Mum this afternoon, we’ll pick her up at Roma Street on Saturday morning.’
‘How is she?’
‘The same. Pleased to get away from Toowoomba for a few hours.’
‘And then it’s down to the Gold Coast for Robert’s debut as a wrestler?’
‘Debut and finale I expect,’ laughed Robert. ‘We’ll let you know how it went. It’s great here, you’re both A.1 guys.’
‘Beware the flatterer.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘We know, just don’t spread it around.’
Chapter Nineteen
They woke to the angry, teeth-on-edge cacophony of chainsaws. Breakfast was in the courtyard, it being too unpleasant on the verandah. Afterwards Bart went out to the garden with John while Robert helped Michael with the dishes and tidying up. ‘Breakfast’s your main meal, isn’t it?’
‘That way we’ve got all day to work it off. Have a large meal at night at our age and it sits there adding layers of ugly flab while you sleep. It’s OK for you young colts, but we mature thoroughbreds put on fat like it was time to hibernate. Not to mention indigestion.’
‘Do you really have to watch your weight? You’re both so lean and fit.’
‘Sheer will-power.’
‘That’s why you only have one slice of bread for the evening meal?’
‘Mmm, sad life.’
‘I think you’re both happy.’ Robert wiped silently for a minute. ‘Michael, how did you and John work out who does what jobs?’
‘At the beginning, whoever felt like cooking, cooked. Whoever got sick of the mess first, tidied it up. We gravitated to the things we preferred. I like machines and will follow instructions. John has an indomitable spirit that accepts no harness - definitely no instructions from maintenance manuals and recipe books, so he gathers seeds, propagates and harvests. He also doesn’t mind shopping. That’s a type of harvesting. I’d rather starve than go to a supermarket. I’ll dig gardens but can’t be bothered to pick the fruits. We just fit together. Whether by instinct or necessity I’ve no idea.’
‘You don’t look like a homebody.’
‘I’m not. Some jobs have to be done, so you do them. A word of warning while we’re on the subject. Be wary of those ingratiating women who ask, "And who does the cooking?" Hets can’t help imagining that one of us must play the woman while the other acts the man. They’re incapable of understanding that if I wanted a woman I’d have married one. I want a man, full stop. Certainly not a man who acts like a woman! We’re just ourselves - like everyone else.’
‘That’s a relief. I’m so ignorant I was wondering if I ought to play a balancing counter role. I think too much sometimes.’
‘When I went to my first gay bar, I imagined I had to act limp wristed and feminine, because they were the only images of gays I’d ever seen. No wonder no one took a second look. It was ages before I realised I was allowed to be natural and that most gays are indistinguishable from heterosexuals. You don’t know how lucky you are. Bart’s so uncomplicated.’
‘I’m beginning to realise it.’
The back door flew open. ‘I’m going to slit my veins if I have to listen to that bloody chainsaw any longer. We’re going out!’ John stomped off to the bedroom. Michael raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘They’re felling those old trees we passed yesterday on the way up the mountain.’
Michael nodded. ‘It was on the cards; the owner’s going in for macadamia nuts so all competing roots must be eliminated.’
‘But, that’s terrible!’ Robert felt sick. ‘They were the only mature trees I’ve seen on the holiday. It’s unfair.’
‘Life is unfair, but not so much that we can’t find some enjoyment. Cheer up and give me a hand with lunch.’
An hour’s drive brought them to the Cooloola National Park. It was a relief to enter the melaleuca wetlands with their hectares of wild flowers, after kilometres of monotonous pine plantations. They walked a long track to a water hole for a swim, then had lunch on the white sands beside deep, blue-green waters. Another track led through a couple of kilometres of dense, mosquito-infested old-growth rain forest to a perched sand-lake, ringed by melaleucas and tall reeds. They swam again, this time in limpid water the colour of weak tea.
‘I can understand people wanting to cut these forests,’ muttered Michael between ineffectual slaps at mosquitoes. ‘Watch out for leeches too.’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous!’ John’s depression hadn’t improved. ‘There’s no need for people to live in the rain forest! Everyone knows it’s infertile, damp and miserable. If a corrupt government hadn’t given most of it away for a song years ago, it wouldn’t be for sale for peanuts now. It’s the poor who try to live there, hack it all to bits and then move out because they run out of money. Then the developers move in and complete the rape.’
‘Why don’t you stand for parliament and do something?’
‘Because it would mean being away from Michael. And anyway, nothing can be done. Human activity is anarchic, responding only to catastrophe.’
You’re joking.’
‘A commission of inquiry tried to discover who was running the USA. After several years and millions of dollars they concluded no one was. It was running itself. Politicians try to second-guess trends and pretend they’ve been the prime mover, but it’s a charade. We’re being dragged, willingly, to our nemesis, by multi-national companies spouting the pernicious philosophy of free markets and expanding economies. The planet is finite for Christ’s sake! It cannot expand. Things are running out! End of story.’
‘So there’s nothing anyone can do?’
‘Nothing!’
Michael put an arm round John’s shoulders. ‘Then why so pale and wan lover? Why so wan and pale? Why if rant and rave won’t fix it, should looking ill prevail? Let’s enjoy what’s left while it’s still here.’
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’
John’s depression lifted and they sang, danced and leaped along like a foursome of fauns all the way back to the car.
‘It’s been such a great day I’m dreading going back to school. After this I don’t think I’ll be able to cope with having to hide and pretend.’
‘It’s a bitch, but a hell of a lot better than when we were your age,’ John snapped. ‘Bart would have been sentenced to life imprisonment for what you two are doing legally. So thank your lucky stars!’
The chill of persecution settled on their souls for the remainder of the ride. At home, the chainsaws were silent.
‘Perhaps they’ve dismembered themselves?’
‘Let us pray.’
‘We’ve a few hours till Scott and William arrive. Take a look through my old costumes, Robert. I’ll give you some ideas, then leave you with music and mirrors. If you change your mind, nothing’s been lost.’
The guests were a drab couple in their early forties. Years of self-effacement and pretence had left their mark. After the meal, tongues loosened by Michael’s strawberry wine, they shared views on what was and was not acceptable in literature.
‘Edmund White’s last book made me ashamed to be gay. Lying on the floors of public toilets, sucking off dirty old men. Ugh! No wonder most people think gays are perverted.’
‘How about Robert Dessaix?’
‘At first I thought he offered insight into the differences between gays and straights, but now I wonder if such categories really exist. There are only people. Sexual activity varies from total celibacy to mass orgies; from exclusive homosexuality to exclusive heterosexuality, with every possible permutation in between. Sex is no more important than eating and sleeping. It’s character that counts, not the gender of the person you love’
‘In the last year,’ William interrupted, ‘I’ve read seven books with gay sub-characters. Two were unpleasant screaming queens, one a perverted little bank-clerk, two were pederasts and one was a murderer. Even books written by gays conform either to the stereotypical nihilistic anti-hero whose sole aim in life is to have as many graphically-described, sordid sexual encounters as possible, usually in a drug-crazed haze, ending in AIDS; or else they’re like Hollinghurst’s hedonistic packs of well-heeled wankers.’
Michael shook his head in defeat. ‘How can kids learn the truth?’
‘They can’t,’ John muttered. ‘Because films and TV are as bad.’
‘I was told by a fifteen year-old that queers will fuck any one, blurted Robert. ‘He’d been told that by his father. That’s such crap. Especially as he was repellent! There’s no way I’m going to tell anyone I’m gay.’
‘Very wise. Heterosexuals can cope with single gays, but a couple? That’s threatening.’ Michael slumped back in his chair.
‘But surely you mix with the locals?’
‘You’re joking! The adults would perhaps be OK, but they have kids! Most gay bashing is done by high school kids. This village is full of them and we’ve no wish to get noticed. We make sure we are never seen together in this area!’ John was never far from a wet blanket.
‘I reckon we’d be better off without books, television, and movies,’ Michael announced into the gloom. ‘By conferring a spurious mantle of superiority on fictitious lives, they trivialise our own. In a well-written story the young bloke dying of an incurable disease becomes heroically tragic. In real life he’s pathetic and messy. Two people kissing, sharing a bottle of beer, sitting together in the park or sleeping together when portrayed in a book or on the screen, become icons of significance beside which our own lives are but pale imitations.’ He paused as if unsure whether to go on, shrugged and continued with a self-deprecating smile. ‘After seeing a sexy gay film I become depressed for days. My life lacks the grandeur, the significance, the universal appeal of such stories. In vain does John point out that they’re only actors, probably with problems of their own. That we’re in a much better situation than the guys in the tale. I can’t shake off the idea that my life is insignificant. That I’m not really living because what we’re doing isn’t being recorded.’
‘What utter crap!’ John sounded venomous.
Scott and William exchanged nervous glances, fearing an argument. Bart winked at Robert.
Unperturbed, Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘John’s right, as usual. Everyone I’ve ever known is ordinary. They might be experts, even geniuses in their field, but underneath they’re like everyone else; prepared to do the craziest things in pursuit of the elusive rewards of sex; unable to control their weight, drinking, or stop smoking. Most of them have only a superficial interest in the lives of those around them, unless there’s scandal in the air. Their tastes in art, music and literature are uniform, predictable, and dictated by whatever’s in fashion. There are no princes or heroes who deserve to inherit the earth. The Universal Genius of the Renaissance was a myth, and to go through life in a melancholic torpor because one is neither famous nor flawless, is pretty bloody stupid.’
‘Was that a prepared speech?’
‘No, Bart. It tripped, fully formed from my tongue.’
‘Ignore him. It’s middle-aged mushiness. Michael simply can’t accept his increasing unattractiveness and diminishing horizons.’
‘Why, you sweet-talking old hunk.’
After supper and Bart’s party-piece, a mime of The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter that had everyone in stitches, Robert stole out, Michael dimmed the lights, turned a Rock n Roll tape up so loud it was palpable, and settled back.
Barefoot in white cotton trousers, shirt and sleeveless jacket, Robert sauntered into the room, thumbs dragging down his trouser tops. He danced solo for a minute, a smile playing at his lips. A come-hither flick of his head - a conscious tribute to Murray - brought Michael to his feet. They danced briefly before Robert turned and, slithering out of the jacket, whirled away leaving both it and Michael on the floor.
A sultry advance on Scott set him giggling. He danced lumpishly and, after much prompting, undid Robert's shirt buttons. Robert slipped it from his shoulders, slung it round his goggle-eyed partner’s neck and pulled his head against his chest. Sinuously he spun to William where he tore off his tank top and tempted him onto the floor. A leap and a laugh fit for a satyr and he was dancing with Bart, who willingly kneeled, unzipped the trousers with his teeth and slid them off.
Robert’s enjoyment was infectious. John wouldn’t dance but cheerfully peeled off the Speedos. A flick of the foot sent them across the room. William held them to his nose. Everyone roared with laughter. In gold-spangled pouch Robert’s body was a unity; slender, strong and sensuous. The men were laughing, shouting encouragement and acting like strip-club audiences everywhere.
After dancing with everyone again, Robert loosened the cord on his pouch and, with a sly smile of promise, offered it to each in turn, retracting at the last minute. Finally, he drew Bart onto the floor, tossed the tiny golden triangle in the air and was swept up and out the door. If riotous enthusiasm was any measure, it had been a success. Scott kept repeating his refusal to believe Robert wasn’t a professional.
‘How strange,’ remarked John when Robert reappeared, ‘You’ve been wandering around naked for three days, yet that was an erotic experience. Sex is inexplicable.’
‘You’re a natural! We’ll soon be millionaires.’
‘Surely you wouldn’t let him perform in public?’ William was shocked.
‘I’m only jealous I don’t look as good.’
‘You do to me,’ whispered Robert, snuggling up and causing the guests to wriggle with embarrassment. Displays of affection were impossible to them, even in such company, and the fact that Robert hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes left them in a quandary - approve or disapprove? Like most people, they had never understood that one is required to do neither.
Robert spent most of the last day in the gardens with John, while Bart helped Michael repair a motor, mow lawns, knead bread and replenish their reserves of gossip.
John was widely educated, had an iconoclastic view of himself and his place in the world, a philosophy that was calming in its simplicity, and endless patience with nature. His tolerance level for most humans, however, was low. Robert was entranced by the seed collection, the clutter of the shade-house and potting shed, the creative disorder of the painting studio - a light-filled room attached to the workshop, the huge python draped in somnolent loops under the supports of the shed’s rainwater tank, and the overflowing garden.
‘It’s companion planting, tall plants shade the shorter, you don’t get a build up of disease so easily as with monoculture, and it’s not boring. A bit hard to harvest, but it’s the only way I can enjoy it. Michael’s learned to shut up and leave me to it if he wants fresh fruit and vegetables.’
Pumpkins hung from peach trees, tomatoes sprouted from every bit of open ground beside tamarillos and bananas, lychees and evening-primrose, Chinese cabbage and beans. A red canna lily pushed between the branches of a fig. Mint, day-lilies, nasturtiums and sunflowers clothed the stems of mangoes. Strawberries, choko-vines, papayas, scented roses, ginger-lilies and citrus vied for light, space, attention and care. Herbs, passion-vines, aniseed-smelling bushes, tropical fruit trees suffering from a late frost, spring bulbs, blossoms – a cornucopia.
When taxed on his paintings John was modest. ‘I’m no artist. Every now and again I feel like fixing something in my mind to understand it better. To discover what it is that affects me. After lots of drawing and attempts to paint, I sometimes get a glimmer of understanding.’
‘You should have an exhibition.’ The cry of the non-painter.
‘I don’t need the money. I’d be mortified if no one bought anything, and I’d probably paint what I imagine other people wanted. I need a reason - someone to give a painting to. An empty wall-space. Without that I do nothing. I’d like people to ask me to paint something for them, but they never do. When I show them things all I get is, "Aren’t you clever?" Occasionally I make a painting for someone, but I’m never sure whether they like it or are just being polite when I give it.’
‘I’d love one! I think they’re great. The one in Bart’s lounge captures exactly the primitive feeling of wrestling.’
‘One day inspiration will flow.’
‘Excellent.’ Robert hesitated as though sorting through words and then blurted, ‘ John, Can I do something?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘Kiss you.’
John raised an eyebrow and offered a cheek.
‘I mean a real kiss. You see… Bart’s the only man I’ve ever kissed and I was wondering what it would be like to kiss someone else.’ His voice had shrunk to an unintelligible mumble and his neck and face were hot from embarrassment.
‘Someone non-threatening.’
‘… Yes.’
Bart was bending Michael’s ears.
‘Sometimes I feel inadequate. I’m a teacher, but I know nothing. Robert’s often ahead of me in discussions. He’s going to look down on me when he realises I’m not so smart.’
‘There’s only one unforgivable thing in a relationship, Bart, and that’s a perfect partner. Or one who thinks he is, or thinks he should be. I rejoice when John makes mistakes, breaks something, gets lost or does something stupid. That means I’m also permitted to make mistakes. Living together is not a competition to see who’s nearest to God. Be yourself with no excuses, no apologies, and no delusions of grandeur or inferiority.’
‘Was he better than me?’ They were already half asleep.
‘Different.’
‘One day I’ll throttle you.’
‘Mmm, nice.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Of course not, silly. I felt nothing. He was dry and shy. I could feel his teeth behind his lips and although he looks tough and leathery, when I touched him, instead of feeling muscles and tight smooth skin like yours, it seemed to slide away and I could feel the bones beneath. Not unpleasant - but not sexy. Funnily enough, I liked him more afterwards. I think he’s ashamed of having an old body and didn’t want me to discover it.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘I said he was nearly as good as you.’
‘I’m not perfect.’
‘Thank goodness!’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘For a teacher you’re sometimes incredibly dumb.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘It’s what I love about you.’
‘It’s been great here, hasn’t it?’
‘Mmm, but I look forward to it being just you and me.’
‘Me too.’
They slept the sleep of satisfied, loved and lovable youth.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘He’s very smooth and succulent, like we used to be. I could sense his inexperience. His lust for new and interesting things to think about and do. His energy. All the years ahead of him.’
‘And?’
‘And I was exhausted. And glad I have you. Glad not to be reminded of lost youth every minute of the day. Glad I’ve done all those things and don’t have to do them again. I’m happy with our life, but would never want to repeat it.’
‘Mmm. It’s been pleasant having them to stay, but I’m looking forward to having you on my own again.’
‘Me too.’
They slept the sleep of satisfied, loved and lovable middle age.
Chapter Twenty
‘I feel as though there’s a piece of elastic round my neck with one end fixed at Michael and John’s. It’s getting thinner and tighter, cutting off my air.’
Bart smiled across. ‘It is an abrupt and unpleasant change. I’d forgotten how busy and noisy this part of Brisbane is.’
’Let’s hope the Gold Coast’s better.’
‘You still want to enter the Wrestling Competition?’
‘Can’t wait to show what an excellent teacher I’ve got.’
‘Uh, oh.’
‘Oh ye of little faith!’
As they drew up at a red traffic light, two teenagers on racing cycles pulled up alongside, chests heaving. Robert smiled.
‘Keep your pop eyes to yourself, ya fuckin’ faggot!’ the taller one yelled, giving them the fingers. ‘Go and screw each other, poofs!’ The lights changed and, as they sped off, both cyclists turned in their saddles and shouted, ‘Queers! Go fuck ya-selves!’
Robert was white with shock. He didn’t dare look at Bart. ‘I just smiled! I didn’t mean anything else. I was feeling friendly… I think I’m going to be sick.’
Bart’s mouth clamped into a thin line of contempt and anger. ‘Welcome back to the heterosexual world.’
A traffic jam made them late. Hot, irritated, hungry and thirsty, they raced to the Bus Station. Spending time with his mother had become an increasing burden for Bart. She had never been able to accept her lot with grace, and lately, with the dawning realisation that life was not going to improve, had taken to venting her frustrations on those few who loved her. The bus was late and Bart’s tensions mounted. ‘Don’t stand so close.’
‘Why?’
‘After that display at the traffic lights I’m beginning to wonder who I’ve got myself tied to.’
‘You’re not tied to anyone! And I did nothing. Only smiled.’
‘And we know what sort of smile. I don’t think you’re quite the little innocent you pretend.’
Robert bit his lip, but Bart wouldn’t, or couldn’t leave it alone. ‘Touting for trade out the window, were you?’
‘Bart! Stop it, you know I wasn’t!’
‘That’s right, shout so everyone can hear. Go on! Shout!’ Robert glanced around anxiously. ‘Bart, please!’
‘All that innocence, even getting John to kiss you. I’ll bet they’re having a good laugh.’
Robert backed away, searching for some indication that it was a joke, that he wasn’t serious. Bart flicked his face away impatiently. ‘Just try not to embarrass me in front of my mother. That’s all I ask.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll never embarrass you again,’ Robert whispered, tears threatening to erupt. He backed three more steps before swinging around and racing to the other end of the vast building where he concealed himself behind a cluster of potted palms. He looked back to see whether Bart had followed him, if only with his eyes, but he was staring at the arrivals board as if he’d always been alone and was happy to be so. Robert’s head was drumming. Perhaps he had been a bit obvious to the cyclists. It was impossible to stay. He walked blindly from the terminus, then found himself buying a bunch of flowers from a kiosk and running as fast as he could back to the arrivals point. He got there just in time to thrust the blooms into the hands of the faded, thin woman who had to be Bart’s mother.
‘Sorry it took so long,’ he panted. ‘I couldn’t find a florist. Hi, I’m Robert.’ He smiled engagingly at the woman who looked as irritated and confused as her son had only minutes before.
‘She grunted and turned abruptly to her son. ‘You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.’
Robert hardly dared breathe.
‘Not just a friend, Mum,’ Bart stated quietly but deliberately, placing his arm possessively around Robert’s shoulders. ‘Robert’s my lover.’
His mother appeared not to have heard. ‘Can’t we get out of this noisy barn of a place?’ she demanded querulously. ‘I’ve only got a few hours you know.’ She thrust flowers and shoulder bag at her son, shoved her arm possessively through his and, turning her back on Robert, led them out of the building.
It was a tiring day. The traffic was too smelly and fast, the pavements too hard, the city too noisy, the shops too crowded and expensive, the tea too hot, the cakes and sandwiches stale, the wind too chilly and there was nowhere to sit quietly and talk. As a concession to her bunions they drove to the old botanical gardens. A short walk under the magnificent trees brought them to the lily pond, where they rested for a few minutes watching the fish, before strolling between manicured lawns and flower beds to the shade of the rotunda, where they sat and sipped from cans of soft-drink.
‘Ah, this is better, shelter and a bit of peace. I don’t know why I bother to come to Brisbane.’
‘To see me, Mum.’
‘I can’t see why you won’t come home occasionally.’
‘We’ve been through that.’
‘Your father’s changed.’
‘If he has, it’s because I’m not there.’
‘I’d love another,’ she said, handing the empty can to her beleaguered son, who ran gladly off to buy a repeat.
‘So,’ Mrs Vaselly sighed, turning a vague eye in the direction of Robert’s feet. ‘You’re Bart’s… friend.’
‘Yes.’
‘Younger than him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘He’ll never make me a grandmother.’
‘No.’
She sighed again and gazed with distaste over the shoulder of her young companion. ‘I suppose it takes all types,’ she continued as though talking to herself. ‘Bart’s a good boy, easily excited about ideas and people.’ She shook her head and sighed with the sadness of someone whose dreams have never been fulfilled. ‘Young people don’t realise how lucky they are.’
There was no hint of a question, so Robert felt no urge to respond.
‘Bart should get married, or come home. It’s not right for a young man to live on his own. People who live on their own get queer.’ Mrs Vaselly clearly and innocently meant strange. Although she appeared to be muttering to herself, it dawned on Robert that she was seeking some sort of assurance that her boy was all right, that he was not lonely and in trouble. But she had no way of asking - it was too far from the orbit of her own circumscribed world.
‘Mrs Vaselly,’ Robert said quietly, taking her thin, dry, unresponsive hand in his young, firm one. ‘Bart is an excellent teacher, liked by the staff and respected by the pupils. He has great friends on the Sunshine Coast where we’ve just spent four days. He’s happy with his life and himself, and thinks about you a lot. He told me you taught him all the plant names. He used to love wandering around the garden with you.’
‘Did he?’ Mrs Vaselly pulled her hand away abruptly and looked directly at Robert for the first time. Her voice was clear and cool, but not unfriendly. ‘I realise you are trying to make me feel better about… Bart.’ She paused and looked away. ‘I’m not a fool, and don’t want to hurt you… but I have to be honest. I do not think it is good for Bart to be… friendly with a… with someone so much younger. It’s not natural!’ She looked him in the eye, defiant.
Robert’s heart sank.
‘I’m not saying I won’t change my mind in future… when you have left school, perhaps. When I’ve had a chance to get used to… to the idea. But for the moment… I love my son but do not want to think about it.’
Her listener’s heart lifted a little. ‘Bart’s lucky to have a mother who cares about him as much as you do.’
Mrs Vaselly’s mouth pulled up slightly at the edges; a very distant, slightly mocking but recognisable echo of her son’s brilliant smile. She patted his hand. ‘Thank you, Robert.’
As they farewelled the bus, Bart asked in awe, ‘What did you say to Mum? I’ve never seen her so calm as she was after the park.’
‘I just agreed with her that you were an absolute arsehole who wouldn’t last long at his job and who deserved the life of loneliness, poverty and misery you were careering towards. That cheered her up no end.’
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Too busy flapping your lips and too stupid.’
‘Not too stupid to apologise.’
‘Forget it. I probably deserved it.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Yes I did.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did.’
Hands on hips, Bart warned, ‘Superior physical power will solve this.’
‘Not against superior intellect.’
‘I’ll get the whips.’
‘No! No! My mother wouldn’t like it.’
‘Your mother’s not going to get it.’
‘But - the whips are at your place.’
‘To my place!’
‘Where’s Hyacinth? Hazel must be out gallivanting.’ Bart parked the car in one of the vacant bays and raced upstairs. ‘Seems tiny after Michael and John’s.’
‘Mmm, but cosy. Bed’s made I see.’
‘Shower first, you dirty young man.’
A knock at the back door delayed such plans.
‘Hazel! Great to see you. Everything OK?’
‘With me, yes. Your car? - No.’
On the previous Tuesday, Hazel and her nephew had gone for a drive. Descending the hill towards the river, they’d been forced to brake to avoid a cyclist. The brakes had failed, and the nephew executed a dangerous U-turn. The car slowed to a standstill facing up-hill. Unfortunately, he then suffered delayed panic, sitting frozen as the car rolled backwards, jumped the kerb and ploughed into a power-pole. Within half an hour a tow-truck had arrived. Hazel produced the wrecker’s card.
‘My god, Hazel! Are you all right?’
‘Never felt better. It was quite exhilarating. First the sharp turn, then drifting backwards to crumble, grind and shudder to a stop. It was surreal. Like in a film. I couldn’t stop laughing. The car’s no laughing matter though.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Do you know what went wrong?’
‘The tow-truck chappie mumbled something about insurance and wants you to go and see him when you get back.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow. Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘And spoil your holiday? I’m not that thoughtless.’
‘No, you’re not. I’m glad you didn’t. We had a great time, didn’t we?’
Robert’s smile told it all. At least all that Hazel had any right to know.
‘And how’s your nephew after his brush with infinity?’
‘Embarrassed. He hopes you won’t be too angry. He feels he should have been able to avoid it.’
‘Rubbish. Tell him he showed enormous presence of mind in swinging the car round, dodging the cyclist and not careering down the hill to both your dooms.’
‘I’ve already done so.’
On their own again, Bart looked around suspiciously. ‘I’ve a bad feeling about that accident. There was nothing wrong with the brakes when we left.’
‘You kept him serviced didn’t you?’
‘Did it myself.’
‘What better guarantee of excellence?’
‘None.’
‘It smells suspicious.’
‘I agree.’
‘Let’s stay at our place. Can’t afford to risk Dad’s car.’
When they dropped off the sample box at Susie and Jeff’s, roast pork was oozing its odour along the street, so they stayed. Bart chatted with Susie in the kitchen while Robert checked in with Jeff, who was poring over some official-looking documents. He looked up, frowned, started to put them away, decided against it and said with a smile, ‘I’m working out the characteristics of this gentleman’s signature. It’s a hobby.’
Robert grinned. ‘Can experts really tell what sort of person they’re dealing with by their handwriting?’
‘Up to a point. All I’ve got usually is a signature. No one hand-writes letters, or anything else for that matter, these days. The trouble with signatures is that most people have to invent them when they’re still kids, so they’re often rather juvenile. They change slightly over the years with maturity, but the basic layout is usually childish.’
‘My signature’s different every time I write it.’
‘It’s those differences that help experts to prove it’s yours. A forger usually has only one example to copy, so all his efforts look identical and that’s a give-away. Not knowing which way your variations would go, he doesn’t dare make up any himself.’
‘So if you’re going to copy someone’s signature, do it once.’
‘You’re not stupid.’
After the meal, Robert recounted bits and pieces of their holiday, and Bart told of Hazel’s lucky escape with his car, and their plans to compete in the Wrestling Competitions.
‘If you’re going to Surfers, could you drop off a few things?’
‘No worries.’
‘There’s a carton of urns and statuettes that are too fragile to entrust to carriers. Come to dinner again on Sunday and pick them up. Let’s say five o’clock? Will that be all right, Susie?’
‘Of course.’
‘We can load the car then, and you won’t have to wake me at some ungodly hour on Monday morning.’
Ron’s Wrecking was conspicuously advertised with a luminous-pink, crunched Mercedes atop a pole at the end of a cul-de-sac. Ron himself was in his late thirties and massively built. Unbuttoned overalls revealed curly black thatch from neck to navel. He laughed a lot and slapped Bart on the back as he led them behind rusting heaps of ex pride-and-joys to Hyacinth, who looked about half his original length. Ron and Robert leaned over the opened bonnet while Bart scrambled underneath to see for himself where the hydraulic brake-pipe had been partially sawn through, allowing the precious fluid to escape. Robert caught the odour of fresh perspiration and felt hairs brushing against his neck as Ron draped a muscled arm across his shoulders. Simultaneously flattered, embarrassed and irritated, Robert moved away as though trying to get a better view.
Back in the office, Ron said bluntly, ‘Someone doesn’t like you. - Insured?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Yes.’
‘Going to the cops?’
‘Don’t know.’
Ron eyed Bart speculatively. ‘The car’s a write-off and worth bugger all. You have three options. Pay me the towing, and find someone to buy any salvageable bits; you’ll be paying storage all the time. Leave it with me and call it quits. Or, leave this young bloke with me for the night and you can have the salvage money.’ He sat back in his chair and smiled easily.
Bart’s jaw dropped. ‘Hang on! Robert’s not like that!’
‘He’d be helping out his mate.’
Bart spluttered.
‘It’s OK, Bart. It’s cool,’ Robert laughed, patting him on the shoulder. ‘It’s a joke.’
An urgent shout from the yard. ‘Be right back.’
‘Who the hell does he think he is? What a bloody cheek!’
‘Wouldn’t you like to keep the profit on the salvageable parts?’
‘Not if you have to go to bed with him.’
‘He’s quite nice. Basic and earthy. It mightn’t be too bad.’
‘Robert! You wouldn’t?’
‘It’s time I did something for you.’
Ron returned, sprawled over his chair behind the desk, smiled and asked innocently, ‘What’s the decision?’
‘Keep the car and get what you can for the bits,’ Bart snapped, before signing the transfer forms, handing over the registration papers and stalking out of the room. Robert followed, turning in the doorway. ‘You weren’t serious?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then why?’
‘Can’t help stirring it when love’s young dream walks through the door.’
‘Are we that obvious?’
‘Not at all. But you never know, I might have scored.’
‘You’re a prick, you know that?’
‘A hard one too.’
‘Now I’ve got to get things straightened out.’
‘The path of true love never did run smooth. Maybe when you’ve had enough of Bart you’ll come running to me?’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
Ron’s laughter could be heard from the street.
‘Don’t tell me. You had a quickie in there.’
‘Right then, I won’t tell you.’
Bart sat rigid in the passenger seat, gazing straight ahead.
Robert was about to start the engine when he glanced across and saw a tear run unheeded down his friend’s cheek. He leaned across, took hold of Bart’s shoulders and tried to turn him to face him, but was shrugged off. ‘Bart! You can’t be jealous! It was a joke.’
‘I know. I know. It’s…’
‘What?’ Robert took a firmer hold and shook him lightly.
The delicately tensioned cords of Bart’s psyche had begun to fray. It was happening again and this time he doubted his strength to continue. Hadn’t he suffered enough as a kid? Was his whole life to be a battle against bigotry and hatred? He was losing the urge to fight. The idea of giving up hovered temptingly. ‘Robert… the hydraulic brake lines on my car were sawn through. Someone tried to kill us again.’
A chill ripped through Robert and he dragged Bart’s head to face him. ‘I didn’t think,’ he whispered. ‘That’s awful! And there I was carrying on as though nothing had happened. I'm sorry, I am really. Forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. It’s just...’ Bart shook himself. ‘There’s a great lump of hot lead in my guts. I’m frightened and don’t know what to do.’ He looked at Robert, gathered strength, took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. ‘Instead of wailing like Jeremiah, I should be glad no harm was done. Sorry about my reaction in there.’
‘No. I’m sorry. I should have told Ron to shove it. I never imagined you’d be jealous.’
‘I wasn’t. I was angry that he thought you’d sleep with him.’
‘He didn’t. It was a joke.’
‘I know. But if I’d really needed the money, would you have?’
Robert searched his soul but could find no answer. The idea felt absurd. ‘What do you think?’
‘Pass.’
‘Me too.’
‘But just wait till I get you home!’
‘Can’t wait.’
Like strong men before them, they tossed the incident to the backs of their minds and, temporarily at least, sloughed off despair. They were intelligent, fit and ready to do battle with any normal enemy, but bigotry offers nothing to engage the intellect, nothing physical to fight. There is no way to win with honour.
Hazel was appalled that the car was a write-off, but they managed to make her laugh about it, told her Bart would be happy to get a newer one, and didn’t tell her about the sawn through brake-line. It was kinder to let her think old age had done for the brakes. Neither could see any point in spreading fear and worry.
Between wrestling practice, grabbing lunch from assorted tins and packets, and packing the car, they debated whether to go to the police, eventually deciding it would be stupid to go with another unsubstantiated suspicion. They were probably already a laughing stock with the men in blue. They’d wait till school started, hope Lance would show his hand, and nail him. Thus, they talked themselves out of action, and into celebrating their escape. A new disco had recently opened and Robert was impatient to expand his gay experience.
Chapter Twenty-one
Dressed in their brashest and best, they dined well, if a trifle expensively considering another car was on the shopping list, at a bistro on the waterfront. By nine-thirty they had fronted up to a club in the Valley, forked out for membership and entrance, and ascended the two flights of stairs. The large, dim space contained glittering reflections of four mirror-balls, a small dance floor, Hard Rock music blasting from a dozen speakers, assorted tables and chairs, and a bar. A couple of hunky waiters in brief leather waist-coats, torn-off jeans and heavy work boots, were pushing tables and chairs together, lugging boxes of bottles across to the bar, washing glasses and getting things ready. The only other patrons were four respectable, business-suited types perched on bar stools.
‘We’re too early.’ Robert gazed around in dismay. This was not his idea of a gay nightspot.
‘Nope. Perfect timing. We’ve got an hour before it gets too packed to do anything except grope. Come on, dance!’
Bart was a natural. No matter what the music he could move to it. What Robert lacked in experience he more than compensated for in energy and grace. The place soon became crowded with patrons who were anything but homogenous. Guys in jeans and T-shirts chatted to suits and ties, corduroys and cardigans. A young couple gyrated wildly in backless leopard-skin pouches, their bronzed bodies bearing testimony to either an inordinate amount of time in the gym or a handy supply of steroids. An older man in a caftan was dancing with a youth wearing nothing but a heavy gold chain, white jocks and a stuck-on tattoo. Several leather boys strutted their stuff, and a couple in calf-length battle-boots and not much else, writhed in a world of their own.
‘This is liberated!’ Robert shouted through the wall of sound. ‘I love it when people wear what they want. Wait till next time.’
‘What’ll you wear?’
‘My gold chain.’
‘And?’
‘That’s about it. Gets too sweaty dancing.’
As theatres and cinemas emptied, the club began to fill to overflowing, mainly with conventionally dressed singles, couples or groups, whose roving eyes, distracted expressions and nervous smiles broadcast their intentions. It soon wasn’t much fun on the dance-floor. Pushing their way to the bar they attracted their share of gropes and strokes - the kiss of life if you’re single and on the prowl, a joke if you’re with your lover. By midnight they’d had enough and joined the exodus of those going on to other clubs and parties; forcing their way down the stairs against a rising tide of patrons making the same progression in reverse.
On the street, an eddying of bodies calling taxis, greeting, waving farewell, or loitering – hoping. Bart and Robert had just crossed the street when a surge of patrons pressed nervously back towards the entrance. ‘Gay-bashers!’ called a hoarse voice. Panic stampede back up the stairs. It wasn’t cowardice. No one had a baseball bat handy, and, like the persecuted everywhere they had learned the life-preserving proverb: He who runs away today, lives to fight another day.
Bart grabbed Robert’s sleeve, dodged between parked cars and dragged him down behind some rubbish bins in a stinking alcove. They just had time to wriggle into a position facing the street before six, iron-bar wielding louts swaggered up the street.
‘Kill the queers! Punch the poofs! Fuck the faggots!’ they chanted softly in a deadly monotone, venting their vileness on a couple of parked cars before catching sight of two laughing men chasing each other out of a side street. Suddenly soundless, the six pounced, twisted arms up behind backs until screams reached a satisfactory level, then punched and kneed in stomach, head, and groin. One of the victims vomited, so they threw him down and kicked.
Robert's blood drained. ‘Can’t we do something?’
‘Shut-up and keep your head down,’ snapped Bart, whose concern for Robert’s safety was the sole thing preventing him from launching a suicide attack on the terrorists. ‘Hey! Look at that skinny one!’
It wasn’t until police sirens sounded at least two long minutes later, that the assailants took off like shadows, leaving one groaning, writhing heap, and a silent bundle of agony.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Lance?’
‘I reckon. By Christ we’re going to nail that miserable bundle of bones good and proper!’ Bart was rigid with tension, his jaw so tight he could hardly get the words out. Robert was paralysed with shock. He’d only seen this sort of thing in a movie. But this was totally different. He could smell the vomit, violence and fear. Hair was still standing up on his arms and legs. A sickness gripped throat and bowels. They stayed hidden until both victims had been consigned to an ambulance.
At home they hunched over cocoa, too shocked to speak. Robert began to shake and tears poured down his cheeks. Bart squatted beside him. ‘We couldn’t have done anything. You were tougher than this when I got bashed.’
Robert was not to be calmed. Panic had invaded his soul. ‘If this is what it’s like being queer,’ he sobbed, ‘I don’t want it any more. I can’t handle it! Why can’t we just love each other, live together and not be gay?’
Bart stroked his cheek. ‘It’s not always like this.’ He took both Robert’s hands in his. ‘Apart from tonight, the last week’s been great, hasn’t it?’
Robert turned incredulous eyes on him. ‘How about Hyacinth? And the blokes on the bikes?’
‘That didn’t hurt us. Think of all the Aborigines who can never escape the abuse heaped on them everywhere they go. We can at least hide, they can’t.’
‘I know you’re right, but… but it doesn’t help. I feel sick! Anyway, I read that Aborigines hate queers too, so it serves them right.’
‘Only those who want to suck up to right-wing whites.’
‘I could see myself being bashed and kicked and wondered what I’d do. I tried to picture wrestling with them, and it nearly made me laugh! Wrestling’s useless against those sorts! They don’t follow rules. I’m going to take up Karate - learn how to disable and cripple an armed attacker by reflex.’
‘Can I join you? Without the crippling?’
‘You’ll bloody well have to. I can’t defend us both against the world… The World!’ His laugh was chilling. ‘Susie warned me about the world. She told me that if I couldn’t accept the world as it is, I’d be doomed to unhappiness. Right then! I accept it! I’ll become part of it! But look out the Lances, Nikelseers and gay-bashers of this world.’
Something in Robert's voice made Bart’s heart freeze as he ground out, ‘From now on it’s an eye for an eye - and a tooth for a tooth!’
Sunday was spent in serious wrestling practice. The events of the night before had been discussed, debated, and stored as a passionate determination to fight for their right to be themselves without harassment. By five o’clock they were parked in Jeff’s drive.
‘A change of plan, if you agree,’ he announced, bouncing down the steps towards them. ‘There are more cartons than I’d realised. They won’t all fit in Sanjay’s car so you’d better take the van. Do you mind?’
‘That’ll be better! We can sleep in the back, don’t you reckon, Bart?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Great. Open the doors, Jeff, and we’ll transfer our gear.’
Bart perched on a stool in the kitchen watching Susie prepare the meal, while the other two retired to Jeff’s office to sort out the paperwork. When everything was in order, Robert took a letter from his pocket and handed it across. ‘What sort of person wrote this, Jeff?’
Jeff read with increasing interest and incredulity. He looked up with a puzzled frown. ‘Who does he think he is? God?’
Robert laughed. ‘I think so. How can you tell?’
‘Apart from the substance of the text, look at the signature. It takes up four full lines vertically and slightly over half the page in width. He writes both first names out in full instead of the usual initials. That’s so unusual as to make it almost a collector’s item. And look at the flourishes. This isn’t a signature invented when he took out his first savings account, this he composed as an adult and it’s full of the presumptuous certainty of his own superiority. On its own it’s almost an insult to the recipient.’
‘A pretty good description. What did you think of the letter?’
‘It would seem to confirm my analysis. I’m impressed, I don’t think I’ve ever inspired such a letter.’ He sounded almost jealous. ‘Have your parents seen this?’
‘You don’t think I hide my successes from them do you?’
‘I certainly hope not. Grab the glory.’
‘And good advice too. Would I be able to copy his signature?’
‘With practice.’
‘Show me?’
They bent their heads over many pages of scrap paper.
‘You’re getting the idea, but you’re too slow. I can detect every waver and indecision. If you have to think about it while you’re writing, it will show. Having mastered the style, size, and decorative flourishes, you must now commit them not only to memory, but also to reflex.’
‘How?’
‘Three thousand repetitions should do it.’
Robert grunted in disbelief. ‘Uh? Who’d be a forger?’
‘I didn’t hear that. I’m assuming it is merely academic curiosity fuelling your interest.’
‘Of course it is. That was a rhetorical question.’
‘Naturally. By the way, I imagine you can use a word-processor like the one in the letter?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘That signature must be appended to the correct type of text to convince anyone it’s genuine. What’s the font?’
‘Times-New Roman, 12.’
‘Spacing? Paragraph indent? Margin width?’
‘I get you. There’s a lot more to think about than I’d realised. Maybe a word-processor’s not as impersonal as I’ve always thought.’
Bart put his head around the door. ‘Susie’s getting mad. Come on you two.’
The table was groaning with fat and sugar-laden food; the diet binge having played itself out as usual. They took their coffees into the lounge afterwards, where Susie played some simple-sounding Mozart sonatas on the piano.
‘That was wonderful, Susie,’ said Bart in genuine amazement. ‘I admire musicians, especially pianists, more than any other people. As a kid I tried to learn the piano. A woman over the road said I could use hers. Unfortunately, she also had a library. A whole room full of books including every Doctor Doolittle.’ He shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘As a result, I’ve memorised all the adventures of the Doctor, but remain musically illiterate.’
‘Yep, she’s not too bad for a Gypsy,’ Jeff said proudly. ‘Tell me, what’s happened about your car?’
Having resolved the previous night to take firm control of their lives and not to give power to others, their account of the situation was almost light-hearted. If we don’t act like victims, we will cease to be victims, they had decided, thus lifting their spirits and removing most obstacles to future happiness.
‘Were you insured?’
‘No.’
‘That’s lucky. Once an insurance company got its teeth into that bit of felony your lives would be a misery. They’d be certain to start the ball rolling by accusing you of trying to write-off your own car.’ Jeff looked at them thoughtfully. ‘So, someone’s still out to get you. A worrying thought. No joke at all. You know who, I gather?’
‘Fair idea. Same bloke who tried to push me over the brink, and locked Robert in the shed and set light to it. We’ve no proof of course, but forewarned is forearmed as they say. We’re constantly on the look-out.’
‘Naturally. But surely you should go to the police?’
‘With suspicions? No way. We’ve been over and over this and the disadvantages outweigh any possible gain. The cops are sympathetic enough, but as they made it clear to Sanjay, without something concrete from us they are powerless. We’ll take extreme care and if we get any proof, then we’ll do something. Meanwhile, if we’re lucky he’ll show his hand.’
‘Dangerous tactics.’
‘But you’d do the same.’
Jeff smiled and Susie looked concerned. She leaned over and took Robert’s hand in hers. ‘Life’s not easy for you two, is it?’
They smiled thinly.
‘You will let us know if we can help, won’t you?’
‘Sure, Susie, thanks. But no worries! We’re a great team, a match for any bunch of bullying bastards.’
They went home early as Robert had to be ready to wrestle at nine o’clock the following morning.
‘What were you and Jeff conspiring about?’
‘Just a vague idea I had. I got him to look at Nikelseer’s letter to my parents. I wanted to get his opinion of the signature. He’s a bit of an expert you know. It’s amazing, he gave a perfect description of the little bastard, just from that one letter. I thought we should get to know everything about the enemy as a sort of insurance in case all else fails.’
Bart looked sceptical.
‘I have to feel I’m doing something. Stop worrying,’ he added to Bart’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips. ‘I won’t do anything without telling you first. Promise!’
Bart remained uneasy. This new insouciance was almost as disturbing as the previous evening’s despair. Up till now, Robert’s admirable common sense had been based on balance, not on see-sawing from one extreme to the other.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Secondary Schools Wrestling Competitions were held in the ballroom of a large hotel, one street back from the beach-front and one block from the Ethnic Bazaar, where they had just delivered the cartons of urns and sculptures for Jeff. Bizarre, not Bazaar, had been Robert’s judgement of the egregious collection of kitsch and popular junk overflowing shelves, tables and display-cabinets, and spilling onto the floor. He shuddered to imagine the resulting mismatched interiors. Why so many elderly people left homes and families in the south, to spend their final days in this teeming ant-heap of retirees, stuffing bloated bellies with cheap R.S.L. food and thousands of poker machines with their pensions, was a mystery impossible to fathom.
Bart didn’t care what the oldies did, providing they left him alone.
Beneath a gigantic crystal chandelier, and in front of gilded mirrors and elaborate niches containing pseudo-classical sculptures, the scores of half-naked bodies arranging wrestling mats added a satisfyingly surreal note. A television crew was setting up in a corner. Screens across one end provided minimal changing facilities. Competitors had to get ready two rounds ahead, and ask their coaches or other team members to look after valuables. Robert was wearing Bart’s gear. The winners of the first day’s fights would compete for the trophy the following day.
‘It’s going to be tough,’ Bart warned. ‘It’s sudden death and you’ve a very experienced opponent first up. They have to do that to make sure the second day’s worth watching, so don’t be disheartened.’
‘I’m not expecting to win so don’t worry. I’m only here to say good-bye to the sport and satisfy my curiosity.’
Heart hammering, Robert faced his opponent, a weight-lifter type about the same age as himself, whose concentration was total. Right on the signal, without having given the slightest acknowledgement of Robert’s presence, he threw himself under a partially assembled guard and performed a perfect double leg take down followed by a drive through. Robert managed to land on his side, but was immediately spun onto his knees; head pinned under an arm. Then he was butt-dragged until he overbalanced and flipped like a coin onto his back.
In the second bout, Robert got in first and lunged into a fireman’s carry, lifting his opponent before flinging them both backwards - Robert on top. As he tried to turn over, he was caught by a brilliant reversed body twist. A double leg pick-up from the knees flipped him head over heels and the simple leg-back heel-trip that followed ended his participation in the competition. As he hobbled over to Bart, he burst out laughing. ‘I’m surprised you’re not hiding in shame.’
Bart laughed with him. ‘It wasn’t that bad. I’ve been talking to his coach. Your opponent’s the school and district champion, has been wrestling for five years and has been selected for the junior team to tour the States next year. I was proud of you. His coach refused to believe you’d only been wrestling for one term. Feel better now?’
‘Sure do, coach! What’s next? Stay here and watch, or do the town?’
‘Up to you.’
‘Let’s go. We can come back tomorrow and see the champions fight it out.’
They visited a theme park, tested the surf with hired boards, chatted up a couple of young Japanese who insisted on giving them their Osaka addresses in case they should ever find themselves in Japan, and shared a take-away lunch with their new friends. After buying enough bread, cheese and salami for both evening meal and breakfast, they watched from the dunes as sunset slipped from mackerel clouds and the eggshell sky turned grey.
‘Still coping?’
‘I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.’
‘Want to try another night-club?’
‘And your mother thought it was me leading you astray.’
‘You do drive me crazy.’
‘Would you mind if we didn’t?’
‘I’d be relieved.’
‘I only need you… and…’ Robert’s brave facade collapsed. He looked at Bart in despair.
‘And you can’t get the gay-bashing out of your head.’
‘It’s eating into me. I’m suffocated by the injustice. How can people hate you when they don’t know you?’
Bart was silent. Robert’s anguish as he repeated the question that has plagued humans since they first stood upright, tore at his heart. There are millions of answers, but no solutions. No guidebook for the persecuted. They can only try to survive, a full life denied. Some suicide, some run, most try to blend. The gregarious construct ghettoes and a few brave souls stand and fight. They seldom win, but that is the only way they can live with themselves. He took Robert’s hands, kissed each finger in turn, then whispered, ‘If I could protect you from the hydra of hatred and bigotry, I would. But it is nowhere and everywhere. Cut off one head, and another grows in its place. I promise though, that I will share it all with you for as long as you need me.’
‘Bart, I love you.’
The unguarded entrance to a housing development led them between partly constructed town-houses to a double garage. With water from a nearby tap to wash down the bread and salami, they satisfied ravenous appetites.
‘A bit of horizontal exercise before sleep?’
‘Otherwise we’ll get indigestion.’
Up at dawn in case a diligent builder should arrive, they drove to the beach and raced into the surf in the breaks between joggers, early-morning walkers, fishermen and sea-gazers. Afterwards, they cold showered on the beach, prepared and ate breakfast on the sand, and discussed plans for the remaining three days of the holidays. One day would be spent looking for a car for Bart, one preparing for school, and one bush walking in the hills behind Brisbane. On Saturday, Monique and Sanjay would arrive home and Bart would return to his flat.
‘I’m going to be lonely at nights.’
‘Me too.’
‘I can stay over on week-ends.’
‘You’d better.’
‘And next year?’ - They hadn’t discussed what would happen when Robert went to University.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Move in with you. Mum and Dad won’t mind. It’s slightly closer to Uni. I can do what I like when I leave that bloody school.’
‘How about the other students?’
‘What about them?’
‘You know bloody well what!’
‘As you said, we can’t live our lives frightened of what others might think.’
‘And say and do!’
‘Would you rather I didn’t move in?’ Bart’s hesitation had come as a shock.
Bart frowned. ‘I’ll still be at school.’
‘But Nikelseer and Lance won’t.’ Robert tried not to sound disappointed. He was sensible enough to realise that things were different for Bart, but innocent enough to expect problems to disappear if you wished hard enough. ‘I guess we need time to think about it. Let’s leave it for now.’
‘No, we won’t leave it. We are going to live together. I’m just wondering how we can make it as painless as possible. I don’t have to be a teacher, there are other things.’
That raised a smile. ‘Like what? The jobless rate in Southeast Queensland’s among the highest in the country.’
‘Something’ll turn up.’
‘Blind optimism.’
‘Comes with blinkered vision.’
‘If you quit you’re going to need my help with the rent. So I’ll have to come and share. I’ll be a rent-boy.’
‘With Ron?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘We could both go on the game.’
‘No way! I’m not having my man selling himself.’ Robert surprised himself at the strength of his reaction.
‘Ah ha! The boot’s on the other foot.’
‘It’s not really a joke, is it?’
‘No.’ Bart struggled to sound optimistic. ‘Life’s bad for lots of people. We’re bloody fortunate you know.’
‘Compared to whom?’
‘Australia has the highest youth suicide rate in the world.’
Robert was shocked. ‘What?’
‘And about half of them are gays.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Most are just innocent kids who know they’re gay, but are too frightened to grow up because of all the shit hurled at us. When their parents join the bigots, they pull the plug.’
‘I’ve never read about it in the papers.’
‘Politicians, parents and teachers deny it. They’d have to do something about vilification otherwise. Many parents are so twisted they’d feel more ashamed at admitting their son was gay than that he suicided.’
Robert sat in appalled silence, then looked up with a frown. ‘That’s why the cops assumed Murray had suicided.’
Bart nodded.
‘Have you ever thought of… doing it?’ Robert asked quietly.
‘I played around with the idea at school, but when I got to Uni it wasn’t so bad. Meeting Michael and John probably saved me from doing anything stupid.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I have every reason in the world to live.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to buy a new car.’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll give you three seconds. One…two…’
‘Oh…And you of course. Forgot about that.’
They shared saddened grins.
Bart threw a sideways glance. ‘While we’re on the subject, have you ever thought of topping yourself?’
‘No way! But… if things got that bad for me, there’s no way I’d go out alone! I’d take as many homophobic wankers with me as I could!’ He smashed his fist into the sand in frustration. ‘Am I overreacting?’
‘You? Never!’ Bart stretched out on the sand. ‘Do you want to sit here all day moping over the injustices of the world, or do you want to watch the wrestling?’
‘Do you care who wins?’
‘Couldn’t give a stuff.’
‘Are we two people with one mind?’
‘I reckon.’
They drove home the long way; stopping whenever something seemed interesting, buying fish and chips for lunch, and following the lazy windings of the river back to Toowong. Robert grabbed the first shower and collapsed onto the bed. Bart showered slowly, then stood gazing at the body sprawled on top of the sheets. Every time he saw Robert like this he was overcome by disbelief that such a splendid young man could love him. His eyes drifted over the smooth contours.
Robert prised open an eye. ‘What’re you thinking?’
‘Wondering why I love you.’
‘Because I‘m such a wanker?’
‘Because you’re a complete and complex young man.’
‘Sorry I’ve been a bit of a neuro the last couple of days.’
‘Makes life interesting – and you had good reason.’
‘Bart, I don’t know if I've mentioned this before, but... you’re not a bad bloke.’
The privacy of patio and garden proved more alluring than sharing forest trails with a thousand other hikers, so they spent the first day reading, loving, lying in the sun and eating. The day of cleaning and preparation took two days, being interspersed with less worthy activities. Bart’s car hunt was put on hold. ‘I’m in no hurry. It’ll do me good to jog to school for a while; it’s only a couple of kilometres. Maybe I’ll buy a bike. That’s what we all should be doing as teachers, setting a healthy example for our students.’
Robert smiled.
‘Or perhaps I’ll jog. No, I’ll get a bike. I’ll go looking after school on Monday. There’s no point in rushing things. What do you reckon?’
‘Indecisiveness turns me on.’
‘That’s lucky. I don’t really know what I want. The idea of not having a car is seductive. A bike is too, except for vehicle exhausts.’
‘You can howl abuse at passing queers.’
‘That is tempting, but I think I’ll just hold fire and see what it’s like with nothing except my legs and public transport.’
‘Bus-loads of colds, flu’s and other bugs.’
‘Irresistible.’
And so they decided to decide on nothing for a day or so, or at least until Bart got desperate. Like monks in a monastery they forgot the outside world, its cares and problems. The tensions that had been building dissipated. They no longer talked about the bashing outside the club, the sabotaged brakes, or their fears for next term. Three perfect days were filled with blissful insouciance, their only venture into the heterosexual world, a film in the city that didn’t live up to its rave reviews.
Robert managed to write two thousand copies of the signature and was becoming quite proficient; however, the better he became, the higher his standards rose. He could see it was going to take the full three thousand before he had committed it to reflex. He also recorded the page set-up and all other editing quirks used by that obsessively neat letter writer. Bart was curious, but proved his trust by saying nothing. Their realm was so complete they almost resented the return of parents, until the plane drifted to earth exactly on time and, with mutual delight, kissed a bubbling Monique and hugged an affectionate Sanjay.
‘We had a wonderful time,’ Monique enthused. ‘Everyone was friendly and helpful, we saw and did everything we wanted, but… Oh! I’m glad to be home! I’m getting too old to travel. Thank goodness I did a lot when I was young.’
‘How about you, Dad? Found the going tough?’
‘Never! I’m as resilient as ever. I just pretend to be worn out so your poor old mother won’t feel so bad.’
After they had freshened up, rested, and enjoyed one of Bart’s gourmet-frozen-dinners, they relaxed over coffee.
‘Your great-grandmother sends her blessings and this. She’s getting frail, but still manages to rule the roost.’ Sanjay passed across a small box containing an elaborately-worked gold filigree ring set with a dark red stone, in the centre of which was trapped a tiny, shimmering white star.
‘Hey, this is a work of art! What’s the stone?’
‘A star sapphire, heated till it turns red. It was your great-grand father’s and supposed to be mine, but they decided I was too westernised. After asking a great many questions, which I answered honestly, she was adamant it was destined for you.’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Dad.’ He turned to share it with Bart, ‘Look at the fine threads of gold. It’s unbelievable. So intricate! Put it on me?’ Blushing at the implications, Bart slid the exquisite bauble onto Robert’s ring finger.
Monique and Sanjay tried not to feel embarrassed.
‘I’ll only wear it on special occasions.’
‘And this is from us.’ Monique handed over a gift-wrapped box. ‘Careful! It’s fragile.’ Inside was a miniature video camera.
‘Does it work?’
‘Of course it does. We made them demonstrate in the shop. Singapore was full of them so of course Sanjay couldn’t resist. Just don’t spy on us!’
Naturally, it had to be tested. While Sanjay rummaged through his luggage for adaptors and leads, Bart was given a snakeskin belt and matching watch strap as a reward for looking after Robert. When the batteries were loaded everyone sang something, did a dance and felt like film stars until the replay set them writhing with embarrassment. The sound and picture qualities were remarkably good, although it was going to take a bit of practice to ensure the subject’s head was in the frame.
‘Tell us more about India.’ Bart was enthusiastic. ‘I’d love to travel. As soon as Robert’s got his degree we’ll be off.’
‘The younger the better,’ advised Sanjay. ‘I look back now in amazement at how much I enjoyed roughing it when we were young. I would never consider doing now what we did then. I not only need comfort and sanity, but my tolerance of bureaucratic ineptitude has sunk to explosively low levels.’ He darted a half-embarrassed glance at Monique.
‘At least twice,’ she laughed, ‘I saved your father from certain incarceration. After the umpteenth official demanded to see yet another lot of papers or proofs of identity, he would twitch, and I would intervene to stop him landing a punch on the nose of the officious official.’
Sanjay smiled sadly. ‘I got sick of having to grease the passage of even the most ordinary transaction with rupees. I don’t think I’ll go back. Everything is such a mess. Next time we need someone to go on a buying spree, you and Bart can do it.’
‘You’re on! I know the sorts of things you get and what sells. You should see the shop in Surfer’s and the horrible muck it’s jammed with.’
‘Believe me, I know,’ Sanjay sighed in despair.
‘Pay no attention to old doom and gloom. I loved it. India is wonderfully exotic, especially the towns and villages on the canals around Cochin. But there are so many people! Every street, shop, alley and open space is teeming. We must have met every member of Sanjay’s extended family. They all seemed to have some reason to spend their days in the house where we were staying. They were lovely, but sometimes I longed for solitude.’
‘I am not doom and gloom, but it does become irksome when every day the power goes off at the most inconvenient time and sometimes there’s no drinking water for a day or so. Fortunately, the locals seem to know in advance, so every available bit of floor-space is covered with containers of water. I’ll never take reliable services for granted again.’
More holiday stories were swapped; Robert’s brief appearance as a competitive wrestler, Sanjay’s run-in with the waiter in the plane, Monique’s disastrous attempts to communicate in Hindi, Bart’s friends on the Sunshine Coast and many other things, until at last it was time to tell about Hyacinth’s brakes.
The fun was over. Parental worries returned, Robert’s stomach knotted, and Bart’s heart ached. This had to be solved for the sanity of them all. Monique, pale with fury at the thought that Robert might have been killed in a car crash, burst into tears. A welcome distraction. A reminder of Sanjay’s last interview with the police failed to convince her that, as there was absolutely no evidence pointing to anyone, it would be counter-productive to report the sabotage. She wrung frustrated hands in vain.
There is something deeply shaming for a man to be a victim, especially of anonymous attacks. He feels weak, inadequate and contemptible. All three men felt the same. To go running to the cops again would be like running home to mummy. It might be foolish, but to retain their sense of worth they had to make a serious attempt to fight this thing themselves. The boys didn’t mention the gay bashing, for the same reason they hadn’t told Hazel about the brakes. One doesn’t become a man by dumping problems onto others.
‘You’re in a bit of a predicament then,’ Sanjay muttered. ‘Hang on a minute.’ He was back in three.
‘Jeff agrees there’s no reason for the van to sit in his garage between its infrequent journeys, so you can have the use of it.’ He held up his hand as Bart started to protest. ‘Hang on, there’s more. This is not a gift. It’s an offer of employment. We’d like you to take over deliveries for us. We’ll pay you of course, so it’ll be sensible for you to keep the van at your place and take it to school. There’s no advertising on it, so no embarrassment there.’
Bart frowned. ‘But I’m at work all day.’
‘School finishes at three-thirty. You’re always there from before eight in the morning till after five, according to Robert. You hardly get any lunch-breaks, what with planning, preparation and sports teams, so Monique and I decided you are working too hard and must drop a few extra-curricular activities. As long as deliveries are made before six o’clock, that’ll be fine. Many can be on Saturdays and Sundays. We’re only talking about half a dozen a week, nothing onerous. You’d also be expected to arrange maintenance.’
‘Then you’ll be Dad’s slave instead of Nikelseer’s.’
Bart looked defensive. ‘I dislike being helped,’ he said bluntly. ‘I know I’m ungracious, but when people do things for me, I feel they own a piece of me.’
‘Hey! I was only joking.’
Bart turned to Robert with an indecipherable look. ‘I know. And I also know there aren’t any strings attached. I just had to tell you how I feel. To explain why I’m not being more effusive.’ He turned to his hosts, shook his head as if to clear it, then lit his face with the incomparable smile. ‘Having got that off my chest, I’d love to be your driver and keep the van at my place, at least until I get something else. Thanks a million! And you’re right, it is time the worm turned.’
‘Admirable sentiments, deplorable language.’
‘Oh shut up, Robert, this is important. We’re thinking of you too, you know.’
‘I know, Dad, sorry. Can I help with the deliveries?
‘If you finish all your homework first, and if Bart wants you to. He’s the boss of that side of things. You won’t be paid though.’
Monique and Sanjay went early to bed.
Robert drove Bart home. On the way they made three decisions: not to see each other again until the following Saturday; Robert would stop helping out in the gym; and Bart would drop at least three after-school activities. As far as their primary problem went, they would attempt to discover more about Lance’s gang, and the nature and extent of his relationship with Nikelseer. Most importantly, neither would take any risks.
It was early the following morning before Robert returned to his own bed. He thought he ought to share Sunday with his parents and, for reasons that were a mystery even to himself, wanted to perfect his three thousand copies before school started on Monday.
Chapter Twenty-three
Alone in his darkening room, Ian Nikelseer watched the dying light drape his school in spurious Gothic splendour. In twelve hours the final act of his career as a headmaster would commence, and in twelve weeks he would leave this home of twenty-two years. The thought brought comfort. His brain, that finely tuned instrument with which he had attempted to subdue an errant world, had begun playing tricks. An incessant whirling of images and thoughts had brought him to the edge of exhaustion. He wondered if, after years of railing against iniquity, his mind had at last revolted and was vomiting back every loathsome thing it had been forced to think about over the years. The same topics and problems presented themselves again and again without solution. His energy was gone. Hands, brain and body trembled. Twelve weeks. Could he last? He no longer understood his pupils, his teachers, his fellow men - if he ever had.
Sex, nothing but sex. The world’s obsession caused his heart to shrivel. Where was love? His mother had taught him love. Until his eighth birthday and the bizarre accident that killed his father, he was deeply loved by both parents. A birthday-treat speedboat ride up the river ended abruptly when a loose sheet of iron from a passing barge sliced through his father’s neck. It seemed an eternity before the boatman glanced back and noticed the blood-drenched boy and headless man.
In front of an altar built by his father as a protest at the mainstream churches’ loss of direction, young Ian had knelt beside his mother for endless hours of prayer. An elaborately framed photograph of his father became an icon of purity that convinced him he was responsible for his father’s death, by having pleaded for the ride on the river. He knew, in the innermost reaches of his soul, that selfish pandering to earthly desires deserves severe punishment. His penance was life-long guilt.
His mother’s frequent reminders that he was now the man of the house on whom she depended, became the boulder of Sisyphus. She took him to her bed to comfort both his nightmares and her loss. She was a fragile, bird-like woman and they would sit together on the verandah for hours listening to songs of faith while browsing through their favourite book, Christian Saints and Martyrs - Illustrated. Each time they contemplated returning to separate sleeping arrangements, one or the other would have a relapse of nightmares. Secure in God’s command to love one another, their mutual comforting continued.
Nightmares about his headless father became enmeshed with the stoning of Stephen, Lucy plucking out her eyes, Sebastian perforated by arrows, Catherine broken on cart-wheels, young men and women torn to shreds and eaten alive in arenas, nails driven through hands and other such tortures. Perhaps because of this, the young lad developed an almost hysterical dread of his fellow humans, so his mother took him to school and collected him each day.
He made no real friends, being happy to be alone with her the rest of the time. Childhood fears matured at university into a paranoia that, together with reclusive belligerence, earned him no friends and few acquaintances apart from fellow devotees of Old Testament dogma.
Adulthood usually slips a protective layer around adolescent psyches, enabling us to go out into the world, earn a living, and compete. Irrational fears are submerged in the hurly-burly of life. Ian was no exception and learned to assert himself, achieve promotion and become a Head of Department, even though he was still living at home, sleeping in his mother’s bed and relying on her to give his life meaning. She remained the only person he felt he could trust in the world, and by continuing to reinforce his belief in the innate cruelty and sinfulness of humankind, she prevented him from making friends who might have taught otherwise. Together they closed their minds to the truth and planted problems for the future.
At the age of forty, Ian discovered he needed a wife to gain further promotion. With his mother’s blessing he married, and not long after became headmaster of his present school. Before their engagement both he and his bride, a homely and somewhat excitable spinster several years his senior, had agreed that at their time of life they did not want children. However, after only two weeks he became sickened by his wife’s demands for consummation. ‘The only Christian purpose for sexual intercourse is procreation.’ Ian had insisted.
His wife’s reproachful silences became reproachful words, then anger, then violence. In moments of hysteria she would shout that his devotion to his mother was incestuous.
His soul petrified.
They slept in separate rooms, meeting only for meals. Within six months, Mrs Nikelseer had become severely depressed, refused to go out, to meet people or to shoulder her responsibilities as headmaster’s wife.
School matters began to occupy more of Ian’s time as he sought to avoid her eyes - dark-ringed wells of reproach that trailed him throughout the house, accompanied by a refrain of grief. ‘Why did you marry me? Why did I waste myself on you? What have I done to deserve this treatment? Am I not a woman with a woman’s needs? Your mother has stolen the love that should be mine!’
When this failed to elicit a response she would wail wordlessly, squatting hunched on the floor, knees clutched to her chest, swaying backwards and forwards. When her husband tried to stop her she responded by throwing herself around, rolling under the furniture, beating her fists on the walls and knocking over ornaments, all the time crying and shouting that it was she who should receive his love. In vain had he expostulated, described the sort of love and respect a wife owed her husband, and explained the abhorrence God felt for those who committed lustful acts.
One morning as he was about to descend the stairs on his way to school, she emerged, stark naked, from her bedroom. Dancing jerkily on her toes and singing in a high-pitched monotone, she pushed past him and sank to her knees on the stairs, preventing his descent. Clinging to his thighs, she pleaded with him to treat her like a woman. He averted his head and held his briefcase above his head so as not to contaminate either it or his hands. As she fumbled with his trouser fastenings, a spasm of disgust overtook him and he thrust her violently from him, and fled.
The cleaning lady found the body at the foot of the stairs. The coroner’s verdict was that she had been about to dress, hurried to answer the telephone, which was downstairs, and slipped. The headmaster was praised for the strength of character he displayed when informed of his loss. His mother moved in as house-keeper, and Ian found himself possessed of a new, over-riding goal: to rid the world of the evils of sexual lust, which he now saw was the greatest single character-destroying force.
It was now five years since Ian’s mother had been admitted to a nursing centre where she died. His adult protective layer had grown perilously thin, childhood phobias were returning and malignant evil raised its hideous head everywhere he looked. The world had emptied of both love and meaning. All that remained was an obsessive desire to be a perfect servant of God.
His thoughts turned with gratitude to young Lance, who alone had stayed the course and taken up the sword of righteousness. It was a shame the Bible-class had dwindled, however, better one worthy warrior for God than a dozen half-hearted drones. He shook his head impatiently to curb the doubts tugging at his conscience. If he, in all those years of patience and persuading had made no impact on the minds and souls of those in his care, if their hearts remained as lecherous and libidinous as ever, then the time had come for the Wrath of God to be unleashed.
An unsettling image of Murray Corso flickered across his mind. He quickly suppressed it. Corruption had to be weeded out and Lance had promised to assist. His fervour for the crusade had perhaps been marred by youthful zeal, but at heart he was a good boy. After all, Christ had whipped the traders from the temple. Lance would learn restraint and Ian would guide him along the paths of righteousness.
He dragged himself upstairs and knelt for two hours in front of the photograph of his father, ending with a fervent prayer for the eternal souls of Vaselly and his catamite, before collapsing onto the empty bed.
A short way across town, Lance too was infected with the reflective urge. He had lost the services of Mandy, Janice wasn’t so keen on screwing any more, and recent rumblings of mutiny from Nigel and Ernest were beginning to irritate. They had refused to go with him the other night and hadn’t come to his house when he’d left a message. If they didn’t want a reminder that he had them by the balls, then they’d better shape up. He tossed a well-thumbed history of torture onto the floor. Even the graphic descriptions and photographs weren’t having the same effect as they used to. He lay back on the bed.
His only real problem was bloody Vaselly and his black boyfriend. He was now certain, from what Brown-eye had said in the common room, that they knew he’d been trying to blackmail Pinot and had organised the snuffing of Corso. It was only a matter of time before they convinced the police. He fucking well had to get rid of them. He had checked the papers every day for accidents – but nothing. They obviously hadn’t used the car. He’d have to wait till they returned from wherever fags went for their holidays.
He smiled as an image of two bodies trapped in a mangled wreck, blood oozing from cuts and wounds, danced before his eyes. If that didn’t work, he had to think of something foolproof. No more leaving things to chance. Nikelseer was becoming a menace too. He was so far round the twist that he’d soon give the game away. Thank Christ there was only one more term of the slimy old shit. Maybe he should dump Janice. He wasn’t getting it up so easily with her any more.
For no obvious reason, his mind drifted back to his mother. He hardly recollected her as anything other than a weepy, bottle-of-brandy-a-day drunk. Ever since he could remember, his parents had shouted and abused each other at the tops of their voices, and then his father would beat the crap out of her. He recalled the night before his fourteenth birthday. Shouts and cries had been going on for ages and then the house echoed with the thwacks and whimpers of his mother’s punishment. He had crept down the passage to their bedroom. The door stood open - usually it was shut against prying eyes - and watched silently.
His mother was bent over the end of the bed, head thrust under a pillow, hands stretched out in front and tied with panty-hose to the headboard. Red hand-marks glowed on white thighs and buttocks. Her skin was still twitching from recent slaps. His father, also naked, white feet and bum conspicuous in the dim light, stood behind her fondling his erection. He looked up casually at his wide-eyed son, transfixed in the doorway. Turning back to his wife, he landed her a resounding smack with the flat of his hand on an already livid weal, then, with a strange, almost calculating smile, slowly inserted himself.
As passion overtook self-control his buttocks pounded, heaved and clenched in random spasms. Lance was ecstatic. He had never seen anything so arousing. Porn videos were nothing compared to reality! His father withdrew, wiped himself on the sheet, then wandered over to his son and closed the door in his face without looking at him. Lance crept back to his room to indulge in fantasies of his own.
The episode had never been mentioned, however a conspiratorial bond developed, and one evening about six months later he was taken to an expensive prostitute’s apartment where they shared both whips and girl. This was the first time they had done anything as father and son that Lance could remember. It was enormously successful and similar visits continued on a regular basis for two and a half years. When the Scotch bitch arrived on the scene it had stopped, and nearly eight months had passed since they had gone whoring. Maybe now she’d gone things would return to normal.
Poor Lance. He hadn’t reckoned on Senior Constable Ponto’s social conscience. Being a family man with teen-age children of his own, he considered it his duty to warn parents if their offspring appeared to be slipping off the rails. His unofficial visit to Arnold Osbairne’s office after the attack on Bart, and again after Sanjay’s suggestion that Lance was possibly involved in the shed-burning, had poisoned any budding paternal feeling. Lance’s father promised himself there and then that he had lied for his son for the last time. His conscience was clear. The instructions to the boy had been precise - give the poofters a warning. Nothing too violent and at all costs avoid suspicion. Arnold hadn’t bothered to tell his son about either visit. As far as he was concerned the kid had blown his chances. He was eighteen, a skinny runt, and from now on could bloody well stand on his own two feet!
Lance had tried going to prostitutes on his own, but couldn’t get a hard-on with a girl unless another bloke was watching. It was a painful admission, but that was why he needed those zombies with him when screwing Janice. The only thing that could arouse him at the moment, was constructing fantasies about slowly killing Vaselly and his cock-sucking mate. He spent hours wanking to variations on the theme, impatient to witness the real thing. Watching that little poofter writhe as the poison burned his gullet had been excellent, but this was going to be perfect! He smiled as a new idea surfaced. There were twelve weeks left to complete his plans. He now hoped the brakes wouldn’t kill the bastards; he wanted to be there. That would be really orgasmic.
Nigel was at Ernest’s place. He spent most of his time there now. His parents had kicked him out of the house when they found a plastic bag of dope and a packet of pills. They wanted no trouble with the police. Every evening he’d say a polite goodnight to Ernest’s Mum and Dad, go out the front door then sneak back and into Ernest’s sleep-out, a converted shed in the back garden. Ernest always kept his door locked, so there would be time for Nigel to crawl under the bed in an emergency. So far it hadn’t been necessary. While Ernest was having breakfast, Nigel would scarper and wait in the park down the road, eating the food they had plundered the night before. At the moment they were both fully occupied fighting interstellar battles with computer-generated aliens. There was no room in their thoughts for anything else.
Ralf had invited a woman to share his evening. On the previous three Saturday mornings they had swapped jokes and a chat in the supermarket and Ralf had toyed with the idea of putting on the hard word. She was about his age, laughed a lot, took nothing too seriously, and had leapt into bed at the first tentative suggestion. He usually preferred to have to work a bit harder than that for his fun, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She knew what she was doing, did it with style, and it had been great. He’d even enjoyed the stream of jokes. With a slight shock of self-discovery, he realised that he probably approached sex too seriously. He would definitely invite her again. She didn’t stay the night, her teen-age children wouldn’t approve.
Monique, Sanjay and Robert were on the patio enjoying the peace. They had finished telling everything about their holidays and lapsed into silence. Sanjay stroked Monique’s neck and leaned over to kiss her cheek. Robert was feeling nervous about returning to school.
‘I haven’t seen anyone since being locked in that shed. I hope they don’t ask too many stupid questions tomorrow.’
‘Just tell them exactly what we decided on. You saw the smoke, rushed into the shed to make sure no one was trapped, tripped and knocked yourself out. End of story. However,’ Sanjay continued, ‘I’ll be very surprised if anyone remembers. Nine-day-wonders and all that.’
‘I hope so.’ Robert gave a sigh. ‘It’s going to be hard not seeing Bart every day in the gym. And at night,’ he added shyly.
‘It will be as hard for him,’ Monique observed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s as much in love with you, as you are with him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He never takes his eyes off you, listens to everything you say, follows you around, laughs at all your jokes, sighs and looks goofy. The usual signs. You’ve got them too.’
‘How embarrassing!’
‘Why? What I don’t understand is why you don’t touch each other more. We’re always touching each other aren’t we, Sanni?’ She turned and stroked Sanjay’s arm, taking his hand in hers and running a row of kisses up his arm.
‘Can’t keep my hands off. Harnesses my lusts till we’re alone.’
‘But - you’d be repelled! Everyone hates queers. We’ve got to hide it as much as we can.’
‘Not here you don’t!’ Sanjay sounded curt. ‘We love you more than anything in the world. Your gayness is just one of the hundreds of things that makes you special.’ He looked across to check that Robert was paying attention. ‘After years of careful observation, I’ve realised that those couples who are constantly touching, caressing, casting loving-glances and saying affectionate things to each other, are the ones who continue to love and find each other attractive. I’m not talking about heavy petting and deep sensual kisses. That would be embarrassing no matter who was doing it.’
Monique took up the baton. ‘When we lived with Grandma for a year, when we first married, it was terrible! She discouraged any show of affection. We nearly divorced with the tension of having to pretend we weren’t dying to kiss and hug all the time.’ She leaned over and placed her hand on Robert’s head, gently ruffling his hair. ‘If you had a girlfriend and were as reserved with her as you are with Bart, I’d worry that you were gay. Now I worry you’re not!’ She laughed easily. ‘We’ll start to think you don’t trust us if you don’t act naturally in front of us. If you feel like touching each other, cuddling, saying nice things, even kissing, do so without embarrassment.’
‘Your mother’s right, as usual.’
A lump filled Robert’s throat. He got up to fetch a tumbler of water from the kitchen and rinsed his eyes. When he had himself under control he returned and said huskily, ‘No one could have said anything nicer. But you see, since that first time you accepted me… when Bart was here, we…we haven’t ever talked about it, and I imagined it was only the idea you could tolerate. I was frightened you’d be disgusted if we actually did anything in front of you. There’s so much hatred out there you start to feel poisoned by it.’
‘Surely not. People are quite accepting now.’
‘Where’ve you been? All the kids at school hate queers and so do most of the teachers – it’s the worst insult you can throw at someone. Gays are beaten up in the streets all the time. Even in their houses. How about those politicians and religious nutters who are always trying to make out we are a threat to families.’
Monique sat beside Robert on the couch and put her arms around him. ‘Poor darling – but at least some laws have changed. Things are slowly improving.’
‘You’ll cope. But why aren’t you with Bart tonight?’ Sanjay’s question sounded like an accusation.
‘Because we thought that, as we wouldn’t be seeing each other till next Saturday, we should get used to it.’
‘Masochists as well? Is everything ready for school tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you give him a ring and see if he’d like you to go over for a while? It’s only seven o’clock. You can have the car. Go on!’ he added at Robert’s hesitation.
‘Hi, it’s me... Ghengis Khan! Who the hell do you think? Are you busy?… Can I come over for a bit?’ He looked to where his parents were gazing out into the evening, and whispered bravely, just loud enough for them to hear, ‘I love you too.’
Chapter twenty-four
Sanjay had, of course, been right. In the bustle of a new term only Marcia remembered to say anything, and that was when they were alone in the common room, having arrived first at interval.
‘Robert! You look great. Have you completely recovered?’
‘Sure, it was nothing. A bit of smoke inhalation. Had a good holiday?’ And that was that.
Everyone recounted the bits of their holidays they hoped would impress, and commiserated at returning to school. Lance slouched in and Robert’s heart lurched. There was something different about him; a malevolence. Distracted, Robert forgot to close his bag and his books tumbled everywhere, making him the last to leave the room. As he went out the door someone shoved him hard between the shoulder blades. He dropped his bag, tripped on it and fell onto hands and knees in the corridor, aware of someone standing directly above.
‘So, Brown-eye, your big nose led you into trouble last term. Got your fingers burnt,’ Lance sniggered unattractively. ‘And how’s lover-boy Vaselly?’
Robert’s flesh crept and stomach knotted. He jerked upright, jamming the point of his right elbow back and up into the soft flesh under Lance’s rib cage, following it up with a quick left-handed jab to the same spot. With stunning abruptness, Lance dropped to the floor, gagging and gasping for breath. His diaphragm had gone into spasm. Students ran up and stood round in confusion.
‘What happened?’
‘No idea. He suddenly dropped, and started choking.’
Lance’s face was bluely mauve.
While someone raced to the sickbay, Robert fought with himself, surrendered, rolled the enemy onto his back, pressed his thin shanks as hard as he could into his belly, then released them suddenly, repeating this several times until, with a shuddering of breath, a fit of coughing and gasps and heaves of his puny chest, Lance’s colour gradually returned. By the time the nurse arrived, he was propped up against the wall breathing thinly. Everyone reckoned he’d had a fit. Perhaps he was an undiagnosed epileptic. He was taken home and his father informed.
‘A pity,’ said Charlie Kosich. ‘If you hadn’t known what to do he might have karked it. Not so quick with the heroics next time.’
Robert smiled, inwardly cursing his cowardice.
‘Welcome back, everyone.’ Mr Rands, obviously happy to be back at school, projected a slide onto the screen. ‘Genre is the term used to describe works that depict the daily lives of an artist’s contemporaries, but it doesn’t mean there’s no deeper significance. All art, to be worthy of the name, deals with more than superficial appearances, otherwise it’s merely illustration or decoration. This is Brueghel’s Fall of Icarus. Helen - off you go.’
In turn, each student pointed out something in the painting. It delighted their teacher when pupils observed things that he himself hadn’t noticed, drew attention to similarities and differences with other works, or noted an unusual bit of iconography that the texts didn’t mention. Before long, the elegant furrows created by the plough-boy in his scarlet shirt and grey tunic, the sheep and shepherd on the cliff top, the fisherman, the ruined castle on the rock in the extraordinarily turquoise sea, the square-rigged sailing ships, the distant cities, delicate trees and white mountains had been admired and noted.
‘What’s the significance of the title?’ someone asked.
‘Yeah, who and where’s Icarus?’
‘Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a Greek inventor. They were both on Crete at the time of the earthquake that destroyed the Minoan civilisation. Daedalus made wings of wax and feathers so they could fly from the upheavals. He warned his son to keep with him and not to fly too high, but Icarus was in love with Apollo, the Sun god, and flew to him. The wax on his wings melted, he fell into the sea and drowned. Those tiny things splashing between the rear of the ship and the shore, are his legs.’ Mr Rands indicated with a pointer. ‘Anyone care to interpret?’
Not surprisingly, there were no takers. Their Art-History teacher was the first person to pose such metaphysical questions as, why are we here? How should we live? Can we tell right from wrong? He was also astute enough not to pressure them into answering questions before they were ready.
‘By setting the scene in the sixteenth century, Breughel was telling his audience that the messages behind the myths of ancient Greece were still important. By reducing Icarus to a pair of vainly kicking legs, he suggests the insignificance of individuals in the great scheme. In addition, Icarus had dared to consider himself equal to the Gods. The price for such conceit was his life. Pride comes before a fall. Beware of entertaining too high an opinion of yourself.’
‘Could it also be cutting down tall poppies?’ called a voice from the back.
‘Certainly.’
Soon everyone had found something with which to identify - even if it was merely the pleasure of a panoramic view of the sea from cliff-tops - and the painting became part of themselves, never to be forgotten.
Robert sat through the discussion with increasing disquiet. Bart’s car, Hyacinth - named after the murdered lover of Apollo – had been destroyed. Icarus was destroyed by Apollo, and Apollo was one of Robert’s foundation cards when Susie read the Tarot. Was he getting a bit up himself and next in line for destruction? He mentally shook himself. This was ridiculous! He had never been superstitious and wasn’t about to start!
Just before lunch, Robert was summoned to the headmaster’s study. He presumed the time had come to test his story about the cricket shed. The guidance counsellor and deputy-headmaster were already there, uncomfortable in the leather-padded seats. Mr Pinot indicated to Robert that he should stand by the door. Mr Nikelseer sat wordlessly at his desk throughout the interview, as though barely interested in the proceedings. The deputy looked curiously at Robert. Doesn’t look the studious type - should be in the First XIV. Good looking - bet he has to fight off the girls. Can’t see why Ian’s so against him. The Deputy knew he stood a good chance of taking over the headmastership when Mr Nikelseer retired, so it was in his interests to keep the school running as smoothly as possible. He was keeping his fingers crossed that the headmaster would simply go quietly balmy in his office without any fireworks. He cleared his throat.
‘Robert, you have impressed your teachers with your attitude and application to work. Unfortunately, two problems have reared their heads.’
Robert blinked. Two problems? He began to sweat.
‘First, the business of the cricket shed last term’ The deputy sat back, folded his arms and gazed equably at Robert. ‘Tell us what happened.’
Mouth dry, but ready for the question, Robert stated his case.
‘That agrees with what Mr Boreham said. A brave and quick-thinking response. Well, I think that answers our questions. Don’t you agree, Headmaster?’
The headmaster’s head was at that moment buried in a folder of notes, but Mr Pinot nodded and affably mumbled his assent. He had an extraordinarily soft spot for young Karim.
‘Now to the second matter. Let’s hope we can dispose of that as easily. According to Lance Osbairne, you attacked him in the corridor this morning after interval, nearly killing him with a punch to the stomach that stopped his breathing. This charge, if proven, could lead to prosecution unless you can satisfy us that the allegations are untrue.’
As he hadn’t given the morning’s incident a second thought, it wasn’t difficult to inject an authentic note of incredulity. ‘But, Sir! I was the one who saved his life! I’d dropped my bag outside the common room door and bent to pick it up. Not realising Lance was behind me, I stood up, swung round and rammed my elbow into him.’ He gave a demonstration. ‘It gave him a pretty good thump, but blokes often get winded on the sports field. I knew what to do, and when he recovered so quickly I forgot all about it.’ His honest frown of perplexity convinced the deputy. The headmaster gave a short ‘harrumph’. Mr Pinot cleared his throat. ‘According to witnesses…’
Robert’s heart lurched, surely there weren’t any!
‘…there was speculation about an epileptic fit. Why didn’t you contradict them?’
‘I thought they must be true! I assumed my smack in the guts set it off. As I said, it didn’t seem that much of a whack to me. It certainly wouldn’t have floored any of my friends.’
‘Isn’t Lance a friend?’ Pinot asked with alacrity.
Robert made a transparent attempt to keep his face empty of emotion and his voice level. ‘Lance has spat on my books, called me an interfering black bastard, and given me the nick-name, Brown-eye.’
The deputy tried to conceal his smile.
‘I have no reason to like him, but I would never endanger my reputation by picking a fight with him.’ It had been a calculated gamble, admitting his dislike, but he had read both the deputy and the guidance counsellor correctly. They sat back, nodding in satisfaction.
‘Thank you, Robert. You have been most forthright. In my opinion, the matter should not be taken any further. Do you agree, Headmaster?’
The response was a strangulated gurgle accompanied by an irritated shuffling of papers.
That afternoon Robert kept his head down and his brain busy. It was now more important than ever to retain his reputation for diligence and hard work. He still hadn’t thought of a way to find out more about Nigel and Ernest, but he was certain they’d desert Lance if they could. After school, hoping Ralf might be able to give him a few ideas, he knocked at the storeroom door. The memory of Murray made him feel sick and a tic twitched at his lip. The door was locked and he was about to turn away when two shapes flickered at the edge of vision. He swung around, back to the door, fists ready to slam into anything that threatened.
‘Hey, hey! Cool it.’ The boys cringed as though already hit. ‘’We just wanted a word.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ As the meeting was too good to be true, it was probably a trap.
‘I’m Nigel, he’s Ernest.’
‘Oh yeah, Lance’s little drudges. Go and lick your master’s boots.’
‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Nigel’s voice easily developed a whine. ‘We’re on your side. We want to make you an offer.’
‘What? An insecticide cocktail?’ Robert sneered at their suddenly white faces. ‘Look, you little maggots, I know all about you both, and you haven’t got away with anything! Even a couple of dingbats like you must have heard about the long arm of the law. And don’t think Lance is going to shelter you, because he’s up to his neck in so much shit he’ll soon be as brown as me.’
Their grey expressions were like applause to an actor. Robert turned away with a snort of disgust. ‘Hello, goodbye... losers.’
‘Wait! Hang on! You haven’t heard what we’ve got to say!’ There was an edge of panic to the words as Ernest tugged at Robert’s sleeve.
He swung round in genuine revulsion, lashing at the offending hand. ‘Keep your filthy, murdering mitts off me!’
They shrank back in alarm at the almost hysterical outburst, Ernest nursing his bruised hand in shock.
Robert took a deep breath and made an effort to appear indifferent. ‘If you seriously want to talk, come to the weight-lifting room tomorrow morning at half-past eight. I’ll open the windows on to the soccer fields so you can get in without anyone seeing. No one’s going to know I’ve been talking to scum like you. And no smart-arsed tricks!’ He turned away in disgust.
‘Promise you won’t do anything till we’ve talked?’ Ernest entreated. Robert nodded briefly without turning his head - mainly to conceal a twitching mouth and brimming eyes.
Sanjay and Monique congratulated Robert on his success with the interview that afternoon, but cautioned against further attacks on Lance. If he did it again, Lance might be seen as a martyr and Robert an aggressor. After discussing Nigel and Ernest with his parents, Robert rang Bart to get his approval for the plan, to see if he could think of any improvements, and to ensure he would be behind the door of the weightlifting room.
At eight-thirty, Robert opened the frosted glass windows. Huddled beneath, as though they had been there all night, were the two young reprobates. With an intensity that surprised himself, Robert realised he hated them. Up till then he had considered himself cool, able to take things as they came. He was discovering that there are some problems in life, which, unless tackled head on, corrode the soul. The boys climbed in and looked nervously around as though expecting a trap.
Robert closed the window. ‘Go on, check everywhere. Look for hidden wires, cords, microphones, cameras. I don’t trust you, I don’t expect you to trust me.’
They gazed vaguely around, but had no idea what to look for. This wasn’t like films and videos, it was both too ordinary and too unreal. Robert manoeuvred them until they perched side by side on a weights-bar suspended across a couple of supports, facing the windows. ‘OK. What have you got to say?’ He sounded conciliatory to give them hope and loosen tongues.
Ernest caught him off balance by talking about something else. ‘Didn’t think you’d smoke. Thought you were the sporty type.’
‘Just shows you don’t know everything, doesn’t it?’ Robert replied testily, giving the cigarette packet in his breast pocket a light pat and adjusting it slightly. Not trusting himself to speak further, he waited while they exchanged nods, whispers and nudges.
‘Yeah... well…’ Nigel cleared his throat. ‘We’ve had it up to here with Lance. He’s way over the top. We didn’t mind bashing up a few kids for kicks. He gave us uppers, and money and stuff.’
Robert nodded, keeping himself very still.
‘Well, you’re right,’ Nigel continued, his whine gaining in prominence along with his confidence. ‘We thought it was just a joke. Lance told us it’d only make him feel a bit sick. Honest he did! He swore it! But he must’ve known all the time, and when Murray started twisting, chundering and bubbling out of his mouth, I wanted to throw up. I’ve had bloody nightmares about it.’ He stopped talking and bit his lip.
‘My heart bleeds.’
Nigel stared at Robert intently. ‘Do you know what Lance did? I tell you man he’s some sick dork, he dropped his trou and stood there flogging away at his fucking dick and grinning like a mad-man.’ He nodded urgently at Robert’s look of disbelief. ‘It was fucking disgusting!’ He swallowed quickly before continuing. ‘I said to myself then that I didn’t want anything else to do with the prick, but when I told him, he threatened he’d tell the cops it was us who poisoned the kid, and we’d get life. Because it was us who held him down and forced him to drink the stuff. But we didn’t know it was poisonous - and now we wish we hadn’t’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s got us in so much shit.’
‘So then you went with Lance to Mr Vaselly’s?’ He paused to observe the effect. ‘Catching flies?’ he asked as their mouths gaped.
‘No way!’
‘The old woman who chased you away knocked someone’s hat off, and reckons she could identify one of you.’
‘No way! Don’t even know where Vaselly lives.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’d be some of his queer-bashing mates. No! Really! It wasn’t us!’ The boy’s obvious sincerity and alarm began to edge out Robert’s certainty.
‘But you knew about it?’
‘Honest! No! All he said was that you and Vaselly were going to get what was coming to you.’
Robert thought for a bit. ‘And the shed?’
‘Nothing to do with us, honest. We had no idea you were in there till Lance told us. You really pissed him off by not getting incinerated.’ They giggled stupidly.
‘Sawing through brake pipes?’
They looked mystified. ‘I know nothing about no brakes.’
‘What the hell are you here for then? Piss off.’
‘To tell you what Lance is planning so you can get him off our backs.’
‘Lance can cut you into small pieces as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t even mind watching.’
‘If you promise to keep us out of it, we’ll tell you what he’s gunna do.’
‘You’re not in a position to ask favours. So far you’ve told me nothing I didn’t already know.’
Ernest’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper and he looked around nervously. ‘He’ll kill us if he finds out we’ve warned you. Promise you won’t tell him?’
Robert nodded.
‘He said he’d let us off the hook if we did one last thing. Get you and Vaselly together. We thought that if we told you, you could trap him and we could pin everything on him.’ His voice trailed away. ‘It sounds a bit arty farty now I’ve said it. Shit, I don’t know what to do.’
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘We went round to see him at lunchtime. There’s nothing wrong with the skinny shit. But he’s not coming back to school for a couple of days. He feels an arsehole because everybody knows about you beating him up. Christ he hates you!’
‘Where does he want to meet us?’
‘His place. He told us to tell you he’d be out of town on Saturday morning, and we know where he keeps his drugs and… and everything else he’s done, in a secret church-place in their lounge. And we would show it to you.’
‘I know about his father’s chapel. What time are we supposed to be there?’
‘Half past ten.’
‘Half past ten, next Saturday morning, at Lance’s house,’ Robert repeated carefully.
Both boys nodded apprehensively.
‘Fine.’ Robert pulled a face as though he was considering something carefully, nodded, smiled to himself and continued, ‘Tell Lance we swallowed your story and will be there. You wait there for us. We might come, but I’m not promising anything. If we get what we want, we’ll forget about your part in Murray’s murder. But it’s a big if! Now piss off.’
The assembly bell sent the boys scurrying out the window, and Robert to the top of the steps where he handed his cigarette packet to Bart.
‘Did you hear everything?’
‘Too much noise from upstairs.’
‘They unburdened their souls. It was perfect! Hang on to this and come round for dinner tonight so we can look at it. See you.’
The picture was sharp and the sound clear. The tiny video camera had worked even better than expected.
‘That’s certainly incriminating,’ muttered Bart.
‘It’s under-age testimony from two kids who have everything to gain and nothing to lose from perjury.’
‘It’s better than nothing, Sanni. We have something to show the police at last. You’ve been very resourceful, Robert.’
‘But I promised the kids I wouldn’t tell the cops yet.’ Robert’s top lip twitched. His voice was pitched low – aggressive. ‘And how about that meeting next Saturday?’
‘There’s no way I’m letting you go to the Osbairne’s on Saturday, my son!’ Sanjay was blunt. ‘The way you’re feeling at the moment, it will be Lance that gets murdered this time! And where will that leave you? No one is suggesting he doesn’t deserve a swift trip to the nether world, but it isn’t worth your freedom for the next twenty years. If you can’t think of yourself, think of Bart!’
Robert looked at Bart, who smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘Good advice I reckon. I’m not interested in being a martyr to the cause. Remember we decided last term to be victors, not victims?’
‘I haven’t forgotten, but I made a promise. We aren’t stupid. If we go, we can trap him. As Dad said, the tape isn’t proof.’
‘Get real! We’ll go to the police and hand over this video. End of story!’
‘Bart’s right. We are not equipped either mentally or physically to be righters of wrong. The police are.’
After a heated discussion in which Robert was out-gunned three to one, it was decided that Bart and Robert would take the video to the police directly after school the following day.
Robert tossed on his bed. It was insane. It was capitulation. An affront to his masculinity. He desperately needed retribution. Pride demanded that he defend himself, not run to others. Hadn’t he suffered enough? His brain went over and over Murray’s torment and death, the murder attempt on Bart, his own near death in the fire, the tampered brakes and Hazel’s horrifying experience. Despite the video, they had nothing! Nothing to positively incriminate Lance. It wasn’t good enough! He got up, paced nervously around the room, wrote letters and notes to himself, and turned plans and ideas over and over in his head until they were lodged like permanent recordings. When he could flick his mind from idea to idea and plan to plan, he gave a frown of exhaustion and slipped into sleep.
Chapter Twenty-five
.
Mr Nikelseer supported himself against the wall outside Bart’s office. The thought of what he had done set a pulse throbbing between his eyes. Stabbing shafts through the base of his skull thrust him deeper into the maw of shame and panic clutched at his throat. Swallowing became difficult, breathing ragged. Had his whole life been a mistake? Sanity teetered on the abyss - such questions must never be asked. Surely he had been virtuous? Doubt gnawed at his belly. His life had been a beacon of righteousness - hadn’t it?
Shame, that murky, quicksand emotion, sucked him in, spread panic and prevented rational thought. He wanted to scream to his god, ‘Why? How could you let me? How many other errors have I made in your name? Instead, the tremulous bundle of indecision and fear cowering before unanswerable questions, whimpered, ‘Almighty God. Forgive me for I have sinned.’
The previous afternoon, angered by his deputy’s decision to let Karim off the hook, the headmaster had paid Lance a visit to offer both commiseration and support. The Osbairne front door was unlocked so he let himself in. He had never visited Lance’s bedroom and, unwilling to call out, stood quietly to get his bearings. A cry of pain followed by grunts set his pulses racing and he hurried along the hallway to a partially opened door where he stopped to catch his breath, fearful of what he might see.
It was a large, dimly lit room with a television flickering in front of the curtained window, and a bed facing it. Lance was stretched over the bed, propped up on pillows watching a video. No one else was in the room - the cries were coming from the screen. The headmaster stared, but had no idea what he was looking at. Then, like a stab to the heart, understanding. As the camera zoomed out, two violently copulating bodies were joined by a third. Mr Nikelseer reeled, clinging to the door for support. He risked a glance around the room. Heavy Metal posters, centre-fold girls, knives, a black doll hung by its hair, a life-sized pneumatic woman suspended from the ceiling, gaping mouth and vagina leering derisively and… Ian averted his eyes from Lance’s jerking fist. He gagged, withdrew, and shuffled back the way he had come.
The night had been a torment. He had prowled the house in search of relief, crawled in agony to the bathroom, held his head under the cold tap. Doubts still shredded his soul, and through the gaping wounds he saw the truth about his relationship with Lance. At least Vaselly and Karim liked and respected each other. At least they were… what? They were… He refused to even think the word. Seeking forgiveness, desperate for human company, he fidgeted outside the office.
Bart Vaselly would understand. He also had befriended a pupil. Vaselly would understand and forgive him. Forgiveness. The idea obsessed him. By dint of thought processes as obscure as the faith he followed, his young PE teacher had become the sole possible dispenser of atonement. He let himself into the office. Sunlight streamed in the windows and hurt his eyes. He went through the archway to the relative darkness of the sick bay, sagged onto the bed, and sank into a nervous sleep.
Concentration had been impossible during the first three periods. Robert spent the time pretending to listen and make notes, all the time sifting through the evidence and trying to accept the family’s decision. By interval, his head refused to function further until he had confronted Bart one last time in an effort to delay the visit to the police. They had to play Lance at his own game and lay a counter-trap.
Bart had also endured a sleepless night. Robert’s obvious and nagging disappointment at the decision to involve the police, was beginning to annoy him. It was all very well for a student to think of playing cops and robbers, but a teacher had to maintain at least a facade of respectability. At some stage they would have to go to the cops, and then what an idiot he’d look – even if everything turned out OK. However, he couldn’t imagine it would. How could they even contemplate trapping Lance? They hadn’t the faintest idea what he was planning. He might have nets suspended from the ceiling and canisters of poison gas for all they knew.
The return to school had reignited Bart’s tensions. His day was one of constant nervous apprehension, fear of harassment, and anxiety that someone would discover he was gay. He was tired from lack of sleep, tired of… everything. It was getting too much. Maybe the costs of a relationship outweighed the benefits. Maybe those gays with their short-term liaisons were right after all. Why chain yourself to someone else’s problems when your own are more than enough? He reached his office, took out his key, and bumped into Robert.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he whispered angrily. ‘I thought we’d agreed to avoid each other at school?’
‘This is serious. I’ve been thinking all night and have a sure-fire way to get that creep. I’m convinced we can get irrefutable evidence against Lance if we wait till after Saturday before going to the cops.’
‘For Christ’s sake give it a rest! We’ve been through this over and over, so cut it out!’ Bart’s whisper had become sharp and agitated.
‘There’s no need to shout, I’m only...’
‘Shut up and get inside.’ Bart shoved Robert roughly into his office and closed the door. ‘You’re determined to put us in the shit! Why do you have to play at cops and robbers? I’m sick of your puerile approach to what you don’t seem to realise is a bloody serious problem!’
‘I do, but...’
‘If you go ahead with what I reckon you’re planning, you’re sinking as low as Lance. You’ll be nothing but a vigilante – taking the law into your own hands. That’s not how our civilisation works.’
‘It hasn’t worked for us!’
‘It will. We have to trust it. It’s the only protection we have.’ Bart dropped his hands in despair and stood back, too exhausted to argue.
Robert stared out the window. Out there were thousands and thousands of people who hated him simply for what he was. It was too much. Much too much for one person to fight. As the realisation sank in, a burden slipped from his shoulders, his brain cleared and, overwhelmed at the sense of release, he sighed and turned back to Bart. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted softly. ‘It would be stupid. Not only stupid, but a waste of energy. As you said, prejudice is like the Hydra. For every bigot countered, two spring forth.’
The sense of release at having sloughed off responsibility for bringing Lance to justice, rendered him weightless. His spirits soared and drifted into an equally treacherous realm - euphoria. Everything was going to be all right. They had weathered this last hurdle. Nothing could separate them now. As though in a dream, tears of liberation streaming down his cheeks, he wrapped his arms around the man he loved more than anything else in the world.
Sleep slipped away and the headmaster opened his eyes to the sound of whispers. It took a second to focus, but when he did, recent resolution took flight. Illuminated by sunlight streaming through the windows, his PE teacher wrapped his arms around a student, kissed him gently and said, ‘I love you.’
Pain ripped a gash through the headmaster’s skull, annihilating thought. Revulsion surged. He grabbed a hockey stick from a pile against the wall, lurched through to the office and swung it with all his force. His victims recoiled in shock.
Bart wrenched the weapon from the old man’s grasp. ‘You stupid old fool!’ he snarled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Nikelseer sank to his knees, raised eyes to heaven and spat curses with such venom that his listeners were silenced. ‘Oh Lord! This day have I seen the abomination of the devil! Cursed be this man! May every parish in the land know of his iniquity, and let there be no escape! His shame shall be burnt into his soul and his degradation shall cause God-fearing men to know the moral depths to which this land has sunk!’
Robert felt the beginnings of an hysterical laugh.
The headmaster’s eyes watered, his flesh was grey and the tendons on his neck knotted. ‘Robert Karim’s youth, oh Lord, is no mitigation. Despite Your warnings he has deliberately defiled the temple of his eternal soul. He is as rotten carrion. A leper!’
The school bell was ringing to mark the end of break. Laughing, chattering children could be heard entering the gymnasium as the world continued on its confusing way. Robert’s had stopped. Bart looked at the hysterical old man - mauve lips flecked with spittle, veins standing out on stringy neck, watery eyes staring straight ahead - and was repelled.
‘You asinine, little shit,’ he said softly. ‘Get out!’
‘The authorities will be informed,’ spat the old man.
Bart grasped the headmaster by the neck and thrust him out the door, slamming it behind him. Nerves, shyness, fear, shock, and the utter absurdity of the situation set him shaking. He drew a deep breath, turned Robert to face him, and said as lightly as he could, ‘I was sick of teaching anyway. Can you go back to your old school?’ He tried a smile.
Robert stood absolutely still, only his jaw twitched slightly. He swallowed. His breathing was shallow.
‘Robert? The man’s mad. He’s lost the plot. Nothing will happen. Snap out of it. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll just continue as normal. Wait for me in the van after school. OK?’
Robert continued to stare straight ahead.
‘Robert? Robert!’ Bart shook him hard. ‘Snap out of it. Everything’s fine. The bloke’s a nutter, he can’t do anything. As soon as it’s all made clear to the authorities, nothing’ll happen. Everyone knows he’s a goof-ball.’
Robert shook his head as though to clear it, but refused to look at Bart. A door had slammed shut somewhere in his head. It was imperative to shut such madness out. His voice had a far-away sound. ‘Yeah… yeah… See you later.’
Mr Nikelseer made his way slowly to the office. ‘I am not feeling well,’ he announced, grey face and vacant look confirming the statement. ‘I am going home.’
The secretary couldn’t believe her luck. ‘No worries. We’re not expecting any disasters. You just toddle off and put your feet up.’
She received a glower for the insubordination. A small price to pay for a peaceful afternoon.
Outside the gym, Robert stood absolutely still, his brain refusing to send instructions. After a few minutes he drifted out the gates and down the road in the direction of home. He had no plan, no thoughts, no ideas. He reached a small park and sat on a bench in the shade. Ants worked unseen up and down the trunk, a bird shrilled unheard on the branch above, a woman and two toddlers played on the swings. He sat. Heavy, unfeeling, dead. No one took any notice.
It was getting on for lunchtime and children’s voices could be heard advancing down the street from the day-care centre, when Robert gave a small shudder, hugged himself and growled through his teeth, ‘I will never let Bart suffer. I cannot live when the world hates me for what I am. I will not live my life like a hunted criminal, pretending to be what I’m not, to like what others like.’ He thrust his head between his knees and tore at his hair, finding solace in the physical pain. He dug his nails into his scalp. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead. He bit violently on the fleshy part of his hand until the skin punctured, leaving blue marks tinged with white, seeping dark red drops. He raised his eyes and became aware of a child staring at him. ‘Fuck off!’ he hissed with such intensity that the kid took off like a lizard. He grabbed his bag and ran without stopping until he collapsed, exhausted, onto his bed. His parents were out and the house was empty.
Slowly, swirling grey chaos shrank to one blindingly focussed idea. He leapt up, showered and inspected the damage, applied disinfectant and was satisfied that nothing showed. Seating himself at the computer in his father’s office, he concentrated for two hours, made a print-out, which he signed, copied everything onto a floppy, then deleted all record of his work from the hard drive. At a quarter to three he stowed some gear in a backpack, put on his school uniform, propped a note on the dining room table, and left the house.
A fast jog brought him to Lance’s street only minutes before the kids who lived in the area would arrive. Keeping his head down, he ran to the front door, placed an envelope addressed to Lance prominently on the doormat, knocked loudly, then raced back to stand behind a tree on the other side of the road. Bikes and shouting kids tore past, but no Lance. He had to be there! Robert was on the point of going back to give the door another hammering when it opened, Lance peered out, picked up the letter and retreated into the gloom.
Next stop, the station and a single ticket to Roma Street. He spoke for a few minutes to the ticket seller, asking her about train times, and at his destination chatted briefly to the collector, before carefully tucking the cancelled ticket into his wallet. In the toilets, he changed from school uniform into a dark-blue tracksuit, re-packed everything and jogged back to Toowong along the riverside path.
Having a few minutes to spare, he rested at the top of the hill beside the
monument where the woman had abused him. It meant nothing and he was amazed at
the strength of feeling the incident had aroused at the time. So much of real
significance had happened in the intervening three months. He had grown up,
learned what he wanted, and the importance of protecting and guarding what he
valued. He was learning to say ‘fuck-you’ to the world before it fucked him.
The words of Patrick Henry flashed through his head, and he paraphrased them to
suit his mission. Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at
the price of secrecy, denial and fear? Forbid it all ye Gods! I know not what
course others may take, but as for me, give me the freedom to be myself, or
give me death.
It was six-fifteen and almost dark by the time he arrived at his destination. Although he had eaten nothing since breakfast and slept very little the night before, he felt neither hunger nor weariness - rather a heightened sense of perception - an alertness combined with a feverish determination to end the nightmare - to confront the devil within and force him to submit - or be damned in the process.
Chapter Twenty-six
The headmaster’s house was set back from the road in a fenced off piece of the school grounds. Low hedges and a nearby street lamp, meant that anyone at the door would be visible from the road, so he had to be quick. Fortunately, there was little traffic. A light went on in what he supposed must be the lounge. He crossed the road swiftly, glided up the path, and knocked firmly. The hall light was switched on and the door opened just wide enough for Mr Nikelseer to identify his visitor.
Spending the afternoon at home had not been a good idea. Writing letters had not stopped the headmaster brooding on the evils of the world, and he was furious that his evening should be disturbed by this personification of depravity. Before he could slam the door, Robert slithered through, kicked it shut and, filled with dread and sharp fears of what would happen if he failed, grovelled at his headmaster’s feet.
‘Sir! Sir! Have compassion! I’ve been in torment since you spoke those words to me this morning. I’ve prayed all day for guidance, and… and... I think the Lord has spoken to me!’ The final half-dozen words burst forth in a rush of confusion, embarrassment and hope. Mr Nikelseer stepped back to avoid contact with this disciple of the city of Sodom, for whom even the Lord God could find no mercy. Had he been able, he would have turned his supplicant into a pillar of salt on the spot, but not knowing the trick, he did the next best thing. Making the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands, he shouted, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’
Hysterical laughter threatened to burst through Robert's self control. His mental state was as fragile as the headmaster’s. He raised stricken eyes to his persecutor, chillingly aware that his last cards were being played.
‘You have breached my sanctuary!’ Nikelseer hissed. ‘Leave instantly, or I will call the police!’
Fear of failure set Robert pleading anew until, angered beyond bearing, Mr Nikelseer backed towards his study. ‘You have been warned,’ he intoned from the doorway. ‘The law knows how to treat godless perverts!’
With appalling clarity Robert envisaged a future of public notoriety, ridicule, harassment and loneliness. He was going to lose Bart! The flimsy filaments of hope, love and fear with which we weave our natures, stretched, spun themselves into a cord as cold and hard as life itself, and Robert bowed his head. He had offered the enemy a chance. The offer had been rejected. The old man had sealed his own fate.
The headmaster waited anxiously for a few seconds, then, deciding it was safe, turned and entered his study. Robert, eyes blank, face expressionless, leaped silently to his feet. Before Mr Nikelseer could reach the telephone, a sock filled with small lead sinkers thudded into his skull behind the ear. Robert caught the falling body and carried it back to the entrance, where he let it fall roughly to the floor. He took a new pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and put them on, before grasping the old man under the arms and dragging him into the study.
Leaving the body in the centre of the room, he removed from his pack a large plastic bag and three strips of rubber cut from a discarded inner tube. He dealt a second, firmer blow with the lead-filled sock, placed the plastic bag over the old man’s head and secured the opening round his neck with one of the rubber ties. With the others, he fastened the arms to the body and the legs together. Turning to the desk, he grimaced with satisfaction. The computer was the same as his father’s, although the printer was different. He switched on and unpacked. A glance over his shoulder showed spasmodic twitching of his victim’s head and a convulsive shuddering of the thorax, but little other movement. The plastic bag was already fogged and starting to cling to the face.
The computer wasn’t connected to either the Internet or a fax, so there was no password to worry about. He brought up the Letters file and was presented with more than a hundred titles, organised alphabetically with the date appended: ‘Aust. Prof. Assoc. 23.9.98’, through to ‘Yeller’s Motors, and the previous day’s date. Robert scanned random letters. All seemed to be personal and all were dated. A second date, not always the same, had been added at the bottom of each letter, presumably to indicate when the letter had been printed and posted.
He checked a letter with the prefix Ed Dept. and that day’s date. It described in detail what the headmaster had seen in Bart’s office that morning, demanded immediate expulsion for him, and termination of employment for Bart. Robert felt sick. There was no date at the end, so he took a chance that it hadn’t been actioned, and deleted the text, replacing it with a prepared letter from his floppy. He printed this, dated the computer copy at the bottom to indicate it had been printed, then signed the printed letter with a practised flourish. Taking care not to make any creases, he pressed the letter against the fingers of the still warm, but by now dead man on the floor behind him. He then placed it in the desk drawer on top of everything else as though intending to post it in the morning.
There were letters to the editors of newspapers on aspects of morality; memoranda about Bible class activities, and dozens of letters to A Osbairne about the church. The last letter in that file was a copy of the letter to the Education Department. This also had no date at the bottom, so Robert deleted it. There were no letters labelled Lance, but that omission was soon rectified. Robert had the seven dates he needed in front of him. It was a simple matter to choose existing letters, check they had actually been created on the date required, rename, delete the text, and replace it with one of the prepared letters from his floppy. By the time he was finished he had seven letters labelled Lance, followed by the date they had ostensibly first been written, printed and sent.
One, dated eleven months earlier, commenced, ‘Dear Boy’, and congratulated Lance on his success with the Bible class. The next, dated during the second term of the present year, praised Lance’s playground attempts to physically dissuade boys who demonstrated "unnatural tendencies". The third, dated four days after Murray’s death, included these sentences: You have demonstrated remarkable leadership over this latest problem. I have offered up prayers for the lad’s eternal soul, but remain concerned for your safety. Rest assured that the two sinners of whom we spoke will not be permitted to judge you. Their own judgement-day is nigh. Robert would have preferred to date it two days earlier, but there had been no suitable letter to replace. The fourth letter, dated two days following Bart’s near fall to oblivion, admitted to a certain sadness that a permanent solution to the problem had not been achieved, but commended the skill and planning involved. The fifth lamented the loss of a perfectly good cricket shed, but ended philosophically with the cliche about God moving in mysterious ways, and was dated the last day of the previous school term. The sixth, dated in the middle of the school holidays, suggested that attempts to achieve their mutual goal could not rely on mere chance. Such things as brakes failing were likely to create suspicion. There was a terse, badgering tone emerging, suggesting that Lance was failing in his duties.
While composing the letters, Robert had conjured up a picture of the headmaster; recalling conversations, turns of phrase, the letter written to his parents, and harangues from the stage at assembly. Imagining he was the headmaster, he had then simply written without thinking, letting the words tumble forth.
The note Robert had delivered to Lance earlier that afternoon was very simple, merely demanding that he visit the headmaster at eight-thirty p.m. exactly, neither earlier nor later, to discuss what were described vaguely as new and possibly dangerous developments. It had ended with an injunction to destroy the letter immediately by burning, and to speak to no one about it. Luckily, the headmaster had typed a complaining letter to his bank the previous evening, so this was deleted and replaced with the "original" of the letter given to Lance. It was very different, however, from the one dropped on his doormat. A smile of satisfaction flickered as Robert gazed up at a faded print of Christ Triumphant hanging above the desk. He adjusted a sentence, re-read the letter, and checked it carefully:
Dear Boy,
Something of the utmost importance has occurred! God spoke to me whilst I
was conducting my morning devotions. I was kneeling before the image of Christ
Triumphant, when loud music welled within my head and I heard the voice of God
praising the work both you and I are doing. There was more music, and wondrous
lights poured over my study, bathing everything in the aura of perfection. The
voice spoke again, urging me to tell the world of our great deeds and noble
self-sacrifice.
You must visit me tonight at eight o’clock precisely. Be neither
early nor late. We will discuss together how best to inform the world proudly
and at once of our fight against the devil in our midst. I am filled with joy
and anticipation,
Yours in God’s Judgement,
Having minutely re-checked this final letter for errors, Robert inserted the correct date at the top, and typed that day’s date at the bottom to indicate it had been printed and delivered. After re-sorting the files into alphabetical order, saving everything to the hard-drive and emptying the ‘recycle bin’, he searched around on the desk, in the drawers and the cupboard underneath before he discovered a box containing a floppy neatly labelled "Back up - Letters". He inserted it, set it going, checked his list, and hoped he had thought of everything.
It was now fifteen minutes to eight, exactly ninety minutes since he had knocked at the headmaster’s front door. Time was getting tight. The computer had to be shut down before eight o’clock because someone was sure to check on when the files had last been modified. As soon as the Back up was completed, Robert turned off the computer, unplugged the keyboard, carried it across to the dead man and pressed cool and rapidly stiffening fingers onto the keys before returning it to the desk and re-connecting.
There was no time to think about what had been done, simply an overwhelming urgency to ensure that every possible eventuality had been anticipated. He re-packed everything, double checked that nothing remained to show he had been there, turned off the study lights, turned on the reading lamp and television in the lounge, left the front door ajar, then exited by the back door, making certain the lock caught as he closed it. He then vaulted the back fence, ran across the darkened school grounds to the corner of the street where there was a public telephone, and dialled 000.
While waiting for his call to be put through to the police, he recalled Warren Pinot’s lazy, educated voice and slightly bewildered way of not seeing what was obvious to everyone else. By the time an efficient voice announced, ‘Police,’ he was ready. It was eight twenty-five.
‘I think I want to report an assault.’
‘Do you or don’t you?’
‘I do... I…I think.’
‘Give me the details. Speak clearly, I am recording this conversation.’
‘Goodness. Well, let me see. I must be precise, yes. Well, I was driving through Toowong this evening at about eight o’clock and managed to lose myself. I stopped to check my map and glanced at the house over the road. As I did so, a thin young chap parked his car, walked up to the door, knocked, and when an old man opened it, the fellow stepped inside and hit him on the head! I was dumbfounded. As I watched, he dragged the body out of the way and kicked the door shut. When I finally discovered where I was, it was quite stupid really, I was only one street away from where I usually drive, but you know how it is?’
‘No, sir, I do not!’ an irritated voice interrupted. ‘Please stick to your story.’
‘Yes, yes, sorry. Now, where was I? Oh yes, when I got home my wife insisted I ring and tell you. I hope I haven’t waited too long?’
‘Where exactly was this, sir?’
‘I don’t know the name of the street, but it was an old, two-storeyed, mock-Tudor style house in the grounds of a school in a similar style.’ Robert’s voice had gathered an involuntary but useful edge of hysteria. ‘Does that help?’
‘Yes. I know the place. Your name, sir?’
‘Oh, goodness me! I don’t want to get involved, I mean, there’s my wife and children to consid...’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Oh, heavens! No.... I couldn’t.... The papers, my job...no.’
Robert replaced the receiver, left the telephone box and concealed himself behind a stone wall in the shadows of an overhanging tree, just in time to see Lance stop his car in front of the house and saunter up the path. He left the scene quickly. No point in tempting the Gods. He was no Icarus.
A three-minute run brought him to the station. Suddenly ravenous, he used the wait to grab a couple of sandwiches and a can of drink. He took the train to Central and changed into his school uniform in the toilets, dumping the rubber gloves, the bent and useless floppy and the train ticket in separate rubbish bins as he raced for the cinema – the same one he and Bart had gone to four days previously. It already seemed an aeon ago. It was just on nine o’clock. A paperback-reading ticket-seller absentmindedly sold him a ticket. He entered the darkened, half empty auditorium and waited for his breathing to return to normal. As soon as he was certain he didn’t look as though he had been running a marathon, he went out and knocked on the door labelled Manager.
‘Come in,’ called a pleasant voice belonging to an overweight young man.
‘Gosh! Are you the manager?’ asked a wide-eyed Robert.
‘Assistant - a title to compensate for the low wages. Maybe some day. Cheap security guard is a more accurate description. What can I do for you?’
Robert’s plans had run out. All he knew was his presence at the movie had to be noticed and remembered. The Assistant Manager smiled affably, allowing his eyes to stray to his visitor’s taut crotch, where they tarried. Suddenly Robert knew what to do. He smiled shyly, then hesitatingly said, ‘Actually, I have a bad headache, and I wondered if you had anything for it? I wouldn’t have dared come in here normally, but before the show I saw you in the foyer, and you smiled at me and I thought you looked really nice, so that’s why…’ his voice trailed off as his host’s smile turned to puzzlement.
‘I don’t remem…’ he began, then stopped as another thought visibly entered his head.
Robert’s face fell. He blushed and stuttered, ‘Oh, I’m… I’m sorry. I feel so stupid. I… I thought you were looking at me… and…’ He bit his lip and stopped talking.
The assistant manager’s face cleared, he hit his head lightly with the heel of his hand and showered a dazzling smile over his tightly trousered guest. ‘Of course I remember! Sorry! My mind was miles away, I wasn’t concentrating. Yes… yes. How could I forget? Here, sit down. I’m sure we’ve got aspirin somewhere.’ He searched in a cupboard, produced a first-aid box, dispensed two tablets, filled a tumbler from the sink in the attached washroom and presented it to Robert, who downed pills and water gratefully. They chatted amiably for a few minutes, Robert mentioning how silly he felt in his school uniform. In return, he received fulsome compliments on its snug fit and, as he was leaving, a pat on the bum and an offer of a drink after the show – or any time he was passing.
Returning to the auditorium, he forced himself to stay awake and recall the short films before the interval, as well as the feature.
A train from Central, followed by a fast jog, got him home just on eleven o’clock. He entered his side door, secreted the pack under the bed, and went through to the lounge where his parents and Bart were waiting, anxious but doing their best not to show it.
‘Not waiting up for me, I hope? That’s why I left the note telling you I was going to town to the flicks, so you wouldn’t worry. Bart! What’re you doing here? I told Mum to ring and tell you.’
Bart didn’t trust himself to speak. He had been physically sick earlier in the evening with the fear that Robert had done something irrevocable. He made do with a worried frown and a shake of the head.
‘We didn’t get home in time to ring him.’ Monique was terse. ‘Bart was here waiting for us when we arrived back at four o’clock!’
‘We have been very upset!’ Sanjay came as close as he ever had to sounding really angry. ‘Bart told us you had a run-in with the headmaster and that you had skipped school. We thought you might have done something silly.’
‘Hardly! As Bart said, we’ve done nothing wrong. I was suddenly sick of the whole stupidity and felt like being on my own for a bit. Sorry if I worried you. It was selfish of me.’ He sat down beside Bart, who still had not trusted himself to say anything, and snuggled up under his arm. ‘Forgive me?’
He looked so young, innocent and appealing, that all Bart could do was laugh nervously, try not to cry, give him an affectionate squeeze, and say, ‘Of course, silly. I’m a worrier.’
‘I wandered around town, saw lots of miserable looking people and realised my own lot wasn’t so bad. Went to a boring movie, caught the train home, and here I am. What’d the cops say about the video?’
‘I didn’t take it in.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not without you.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t up to a cross-examination after Nikelseer’s ear bashing. Tomorrow?’ Robert’s tired, easy smile calmed their fears.
‘Sure. Tomorrow.’
‘Thanks for worrying about me.’
Monique and Sanjay went to bed. The lost sheep had returned. All was well. Because it was so late, Bart stayed the night.
‘What did you tell Mum and Dad about this morning?’ Robert asked casually as soon as the light was out.
‘I didn’t mention our argument, just said Nikelseer caught us having a bit of a cuddle and lost his cool. I told them everything he said, though. That’s why we were so anxious. No one should have that sort of shit thrown at them.’
‘I want you to promise me something.’
‘What?’
‘Promise first!’
‘I promise.’
‘No matter who asks, or how many times they ask you, never, ever tell them what Nikelseer saw us doing in your office, and never, ever repeat what he said to us - the threats he made!’
‘That’s easy. I promise again.’
Silence.
‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, so stop worrying!’
Robert continued to worry and, despite his exhaustion, found sleep elusive.
Lance parked his car, stomped irritably up the path and pressed the bell. He was sick of the greasy old fart expecting him to come running every time he had another inspiration about bloody God and sin. It was all he ever talked about. But things were getting serious. His father had been ignoring him totally ever since he stuffed up at Vaselly’s. He’d been a hundred percent certain that was going to work. He also didn’t trust Nigel and Ernest, even though they’d promised to deliver. Fat lot of good that’d be anyway. Despite hours of thinking he had no plans for Saturday. His mind was a blank. He couldn’t even get a good night’s kip any more. Nightmares about getting raped by huge bastards in prison had him waking in cold sweats. Because that was where he was heading if he didn’t get shot of Vaselly and Brown-eye! He shook off his fears, wondering why he’d been summoned to the Holy Presence. Must be something serious. He brightened. Maybe Nikelseer would have an idea.
There was no answer to his ring, so he hammered on the door. It swung open. The old fool’s probably draining his brain, and left it open for me, he thought as he let himself into the hallway and slammed the door behind him. He went into the lounge, dumped his jacket over a chair and sat watching television for a minute before he realised the old man was either having a very long piss, or had gone out. He went to the foot of the stairs and called up before noticing there were no lights on. Perhaps the silly old fool had gone out for a stroll and that’s why the door was open.
He went out and looked up and down the street. No one. Leaving the door ajar in case Nikelseer came back, he poked his head into the ground-floor rooms. Kitchen, dining room, toilet, laundry and… switching on the study light he at first didn’t notice the body on the floor, almost tripping over it. When he saw what it was, he gave a grunt of surprise followed by a vicious smile as he knelt down, lifted the edge of the plastic bag to check it really was the headmaster, and felt the wrist to see if there was a pulse. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Someone’s done me a favour. I wonder who and why?’ The smile was wiped as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Christ! I’d better fucking disappear. This looks like a set-up.’
He raced out to the car and was a couple of blocks away before he thought of his jacket. A panic stricken U turn caused an oncoming car to throw out all the anchors and skid wildly before righting itself and driving on. Lance jammed on his brakes and sagged over the wheel shaking uncontrollably. A fucking cop car! Why hadn’t it stopped him? ‘Because it was going to Nikelseer’s, that’s why,’ a voice whispered in his head.
Whimpering with terror, Lance drove unsteadily home. If he’d known where his father was he’d have called and begged him to come home. With a shudder of revulsion he realised he had shat himself, so tossed his jeans in the washing machine, cleaned himself up and downed a couple of slugs of whisky. Thus fortified, he was glad his father wasn’t there. He’d only start asking questions and nagging him. Probably wouldn’t even believe him. Anyway, his jacket didn’t prove anything. He could have left it there the previous day. Yeah. That’s what he’d say. The headmaster had invited him round yesterday to check he was OK after Brown-eye had beaten him up for no reason. Lance warmed to his plan. He’d say the headmaster was going to expel the prissy black queer today. Let him crawl out of that one.
Arnold Osbairne arrived home angry. He didn’t realise he was angry because he’d been in that state for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to exist in any other. Lance’s car was parked in the centre of the drive, so he had to scrape his own on the bushes to get to the garage. The sooner that fuckwit kid got out of his life the better. He let himself in through the back door and, without turning on the laundry light, removed his clothes.
He was a fastidious man who could not bear to wear anything more than once. Each night he would put everything washable in the washing machine, walk naked to his bathroom, shower, and don fresh pyjamas. It had become his only pleasurable ritual. He lifted the lid and threw everything in before registering the smell. He turned on the light, lifted out his clothing, and discovered Lance’s soiled jeans. They were inside out and some of the muck had stained his shirt.
‘By Christ but I hate that bastard,’ he hissed through his teeth, picking up the jeans, stomping along the hallway, throwing open Lances door, switching on the light and slamming the stinking mess into his sleeping son’s face.
‘You fucking little snot-nosed bastard,’ he seethed, holding the jeans firmly against the gagging mouth.
Lance was petrified. He had no idea what was happening. Imagined it was the police, a gang of queers seeking retribution, Murray’s ghost. With a supreme effort he dragged the suffocating cloth off his face, grabbed a lung-full of air and let loose with a scream of such terror that his father leapt back in alarm. Lance sat up, white with shock, eyes distended in fear. ‘Dad! What’re you doing? Why?’
His father was repelled. This shit-smeared runt couldn’t be his. He had hated him since his wife returned from the hospital and transferred her affections to her newborn pup. He wanted to strangle the scrawny, screaming little creep. Instead, he turned on his heel and went to shower off his disgust.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Lance cowered in bed until his father left for work. Mind empty, unable to think, he dressed, downed a couple of tabs with a swig of whisky, felt a little better, and went over his story for the hundredth time. Panic welled. He couldn’t face school – couldn’t stay home. His father might come back during the day. He never wanted to see him again. As soon as the thought was out he began to cry, blankly, standing in the middle of the cold kitchen, letting the wetness flow over his cheeks. He didn’t know why he was crying and eventually the tears stopped. He felt no different. A mounting fear that the cops had got his number and would come to ask about the jacket, drove him from his sanctuary. He couldn’t face them alone!
Robert hunched on the edge of his seat in the assembly hall. Breathing ragged, heart thumping, pounding in his head. He looked around. No! It couldn’t be! Lance was leaning against the wall at the back of the gallery, staring at him. Robert quickly looked away. Something had gone wrong! Lance was supposed to be locked up! How could…? Why hadn’t…? A cold sweat of fear added to his discomfort, and the tightness in his chest became a steel band. As the school stood and the teachers walked solemnly up the aisle on to the stage, he swayed slightly, squeezed his eyes shut and with all his force willed it to have been a horrible dream.
Eyes opened to the jarring truth. The headmaster wasn’t there! Everything had happened! It hadn’t been a nightmare! Poor Robert he imagined he had outfaced his ‘devil’ the night before, but his torment was only beginning.
The deputy headmaster, not a man to mince words, stood solemnly at the lectern. ‘Last night the headmaster was murdered,’ he said evenly. ‘Remain standing for a minute’s silence.’
After an audible intake of breath, the school stood for a stunned minute, and then, for once, sat quietly.
‘There will be a memorial service for those who wish to attend later in the week. School will continue as usual, except for the presence of the police who will need to ask questions of a great many people. I expect your full cooperation.’
Robert thought he was going to vomit.
Helen nudged him. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered. ‘You’ve gone all white.’
‘Yeah, fine. Just a vivid imagination. I hate violence.’ He took a large breath, smiled palely, and Helen was appeased.
Lance’s hate-filled stare bored unnoticed into the back of his enemy’s head.
Nigel and Ernest scuttled furtively from behind a large potted shrub as Robert crossed the quadrangle. They kept their heads down, matched their steps with his, and muttered, ‘He’s done it! The crazy fucker’s topped old Nikelseer!’
‘What makes you think it was him?’
‘He’s always going on about what an arsehole the old bugger is and threatening to get him.’ Ernest nudged Nigel, who swallowed twice, looked around slyly, and in a nervous rush asked the question that had been plaguing them all morning. ‘Are you going to tell the cops about us?’
‘What for? If they suspect Lance he’ll be throwing as much shit as he can to divert attention from himself. Anything they hear about you will be from him - or yourselves if you’re stupid enough to blab. Act dumb. It’s the only thing you do well.’
‘Thanks.’ Nigel’s relief was evident. ‘How about you? You look a bit sick, mate.’
‘It’s being near you two.’
‘Yeah, well, see ya.’
They scuttled for class.
Solid doubts were clunking into Robert’s gut, and he paid an urgent visit to the toilet. It didn’t help, but while there he wrote a note to Bart, which he delivered during the first period as though it was official.
The police were a tangible presence in the school. Officers hunched over too-small desks in the drama room, making copious notes and recordings; typing countless facts and opinions into lap-tops. Interviews had started at eight that morning in every available space, and continued with no breaks till five-thirty. No one dared complain in case it was seen as a sign of guilt. Everyone was asked variations on the same questions, and everyone gave a version of the truth. Several red herrings were dragged across the trails, and innocent people drew suspicion upon themselves. Fortunately, their interrogators were intelligent and well practiced in sorting wheat from chaff.
‘Where were you last night?’ ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder the headmaster, no matter how flimsy your suspicions might seem?’ ‘Can you think of anything, anything at all that might help the police with the investigation?’ ‘Was your disagreement last week with the headmaster resolved?’ Thus it continued - exhaustingly and seemingly interminably, as every student or teacher who had enjoyed more than casual contact with the headmaster was questioned. Uniformed police officers were mobilised to check out alibis and stories.
Despite the deputy headmaster’s injunction, schoolwork was disrupted and little of educational value was accomplished. The police investigation, on the other hand, despite its time-consuming and repetitious nature, was productive.
Inspector Kareltin was pleased.
‘Robert! We must show the cops the video. They need all the help they can get!’ Bart was exasperated.
‘I told you! If they know we were spying with that camera, they’ll think we’re juvenile crap-heads. It’s entrapment, probably illegal, and will only distract them. I think we should let it lie.’
‘But they have to know.’
‘Nigel and Ernest will spill their guts.
‘And Murray?’
‘You’ve already been to the cops with our suspicions about that.’
Bart frowned. ‘So when the cops ask if we knew Lance was planning to get us, what do we say?’
‘We’d been told, but thought it was just Lance mouthing off. And when this blew up it hardly seemed fair to distract the cops on the basis of what is probably a lie.’
‘It does make us appear super cool.’
‘Exactly.’
The two police officers flashed their identification. ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Osbairne. We’re making routine inquiries about an incident, and wondered if you might be able to help us.’
‘If you’re quick.’
‘Where was your son last night?’
‘Lance? What’s the stupid prick done now?’ Too late, the words were out. He was getting as careless as his son, but he recovered quickly. ‘Don’t tell me someone’s taken to him again? It’s only a couple of days since the Karim kid decided to use him as a punching bag. I should have listened to the headmaster and laid charges.’ That should cover the blooper, he thought, wondering why, despite his resolution, he was defending the little turd.
‘We don’t know that he’s done anything. We simply wondered where he was last night.’
‘At home.’
‘And you?’
‘None of your business.’
‘What time did you arrive home?’
‘Just before midnight.’
‘And your son was home then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anyone who could vouch for his presence at home?’
‘No.’
‘Did you buy him the blue Suzuki?’
‘He could hardly afford it himself.’
‘You obviously want the best for your son?’
Arnold glared at the bland faced young woman, unsure how to take that, so he grunted.
His unwelcome guests left, leaving him none the wiser, so he telephoned the school and asked to speak to the headmaster.
He put the telephone down quietly and sat thinking for a long time.
By Friday lunchtime, Inspector Kareltin and Constable Jurgenz had narrowed their field of suspects considerably, and began interviewing some people for the second time.
‘Sit down, Mr Vaselly. Sorry to trouble you again. We’ve a few new things to talk about, but mainly it’ll be going over the same ground as last time in the hope of shaking out new thoughts. Try to answer the questions as though you’re hearing them for the first time.’
Bart nodded.
The inspector looked as neat and fresh as he had at the beginning, his air of confidence suggesting he had already solved the case. He scanned a paper, looked quizzically across at Bart, flicked at it nonchalantly, and stated, ‘The headmaster wrote a letter about you recently to the Department of Education. Do you know why?’
Bart’s heart missed several beats. Surely they didn’t know about the incident in his office! He blushed hotly and shook his head, not trusting his voice. The policeman handed him a photocopy of a bizarrely formatted letter, signed with the characteristic flamboyance of the deceased. He read it through.
I write
in sad confusion
to you, about my young PE
teacher who, busily usefully, has
been
extremely active in this school
nigh on two
years. I know not even whether his
covenant
renews: - but I do care…... Such
thoughts concern,
go through my head both night and
day. Why no peace?
When will you wild thoughts, your
round me roaming end?
This young man… of valued works…
beloved of his pupils
why I not cherished so? Be still,
oh jealous heart!
As High God Omnipotent instructs
me, so I act.
I wish to clarify my deeds before
my going.
My soon withdrawal from active
fight.
Please instruct. - Inform now me!
‘Does this make sense to you?’
Bart hoped his grin looked like incredulity rather than relief. ‘There’s a bit of Hopkins there. The round me roaming end bit.’
His interrogator looked hopeful. ‘Hopkins?’
‘Gerard Manly. Dead Irish priest. Wrote obscure poems. Perhaps the old man was trying to be a poet?’ Bart’s relief was short lived.
‘Do you think he fancied you?’
‘Who? Nikelseer? Hardly!’
‘But you are loved by your pupils?’ Was there a slight stress on loved?
‘As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I’m the most feared teacher in school.’
‘What is your relationship with Robert Karim?’
Sweat was running freely. Soon it would show through his shirt. ‘I taught him to wrestle last term. We went to the competitions on the Gold Coast during the holidays together.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m obviously not much of a teacher; he’s decided to take up karate instead. You could say we’re friends. I also know his parents so we see a fair bit of each other.’
Inscrutable didn’t even begin to describe his interrogator’s face as he sorted through a sheaf of papers and drew one to the top, stabbing at it with his finger.
‘When I showed you these copies of records from central files yesterday, you reiterated that, in your opinion, Lance Osbairne was partially responsible for the death of a student last term. Do you stick with that?’
‘Yes. Murray Corso was tormented by him in the playground, and I suggested that the death might be suicide, not an accident.’
‘The boy was a screaming queen?’
‘Occasionally flamboyant.’
‘Subsequently, there was an alleged murder attempt on you at your unit.’
‘As I told you, I wrote an account of the incident, which I took to the police station for signing as they instructed. I’ve got it at home. In it, I suggested that the attack might perhaps be retribution for voicing my suspicions about Murray Corso. However, the officer convinced me it was more likely to be disturbed burglars.’
‘How are your car’s brakes?’ It was the first time the other officer had spoken. Her soft voice startled Bart, who had been running out of easy, surprised looks. This time he was genuinely astonished. ‘How did you know? I haven’t reported anything?’
‘Why not?’
‘It was an accident. In good faith I lent it to my neighbour, who narrowly escaped injury when the brakes failed. It ran backwards into a power-pole. No one was hurt. No damage was done to anything except my car. It was a write-off and not insured, so why bother you people?’
‘Where is the car now?’
‘Spare parts in someone else’s old bomb, I guess.’ He gave the name of the wrecker and uttered a silent prayer.
‘How do you get to work now?’
‘I’ve started a part-time delivery job, so I use the van.’
The inspector took over again. ‘Who are your employers?’
‘Skeldrake and Karim.’
‘Cosy.’
Bart pretended not to hear.
‘What do you know about the shed being burnt at the end of last term?’
Bart repeated again what they had decided on.
‘Did you hate the headmaster?’
‘No.’
‘Have you had any disagreements with him recently?
‘No.’ Bart was sure he had hesitated, but the inspector continued without pause
‘Has his death upset you?’
‘The manner of it? Yes. His death? No.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was an unpleasant man, lost in the past.’
‘What were you intending to do about Lance’s recent death threat? The other officer again took up the questioning.
Bart stuttered, blushed, and appeared to be searching for a response.
‘You did know about it, I believe?’
‘Yes. Yes of course. Robert told me what the two kids said.’
‘Well?’
‘We thought it was a bit far-fetched. It was either a lie, or Lance trying to set us up as burglars or something.’ He looked across at the inspector. ‘We were going to report it, but when all this blew up we decided not to.’
‘Why on earth not?’
Bart shrugged. ‘Like I said – it was probably a load of nonsense. We thought you people had more than enough to do.’
‘Magnanimous.’ She waited expectantly, but Bart could think of nothing to say.
The inspector broke the silence. ‘We have checked with the Karims, and they confirm you were with them on the night of the murder.’
Bart nodded dumbly.
‘But their son wasn’t.’
His spirits sank.
‘That will be all for the present, Mr Vaselly.’
Bart walked to the van and, trying to look as though he was searching for something, rang Monique on the company mobile. ‘Monique? Bart here. Have the cops seen you and Sanjay? Only that one check on my whereabouts the other night? Good. When they do, make absolutely certain that you do not mention the argument Robert and I had with Nikelseer on the morning of the day he died. Nothing at all! Not a word! It didn’t happen! Can you talk yourself into thinking that?’
She was certain she could.
‘Ring Sanjay immediately and pass it on. Don’t stop ringing until you’ve got him! I’ll explain tonight. Bye.’ Nervously, he dialled Ron’s Wreckers. ‘Hi, Ron? Bart Vaselly. Have the cops been on to you about the brakes on my Datsun? Shit, that was quick. What did you tell them? You’re a beaut. Owe you one. No way! Yep. You too… Cheers.’ He heaved a sigh of relief. Why, he couldn’t have told himself, but pressure was building. It had something to do with Nikelseer’s ridiculous letter. He gave up trying to think, and returned to class.
During his first interview, Lance had surprised himself with his sang-froid. The cops had simply asked him lots of questions and believed everything he’d said. They had hardly seemed interested in him, so he approached his second interrogation with careless bravado.
While they were waiting, Kareltin and Jurgenz went over everything again. Jurgenz still thought it had been silly not to have mentioned any of the crimes suggested in Nikelseer’s letters at the first interview. He would have immediately accused the young lout of the murder of Corso, three counts of attempted murder, and one of planning a felonious act. However, his superior officer had insisted those charges would wait. He wanted the young man to feel relaxed and secure.
Lance swaggered in and sat down without waiting to be asked.
‘Sorry to trouble you again, Lance,’ Kareltin smiled, ‘but we’d like to go over it all again. You never know, you might think of something new.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’ Lance relaxed back into his seat.
A twinge of pity pulled at Jurgenz’ chest as the Inspector smiled and continued. ‘The day before the murder, Mr Nikelseer invited you to his place to cheer you up after you had been knocked around by Robert Karim?’
Lance nodded.
‘That’s when you left your Jacket?’
‘Yep.’
‘On the afternoon of the murder you received a note asking you to go to his house at eight-thirty p.m. Yet the copy in the computer asks you to be there at eight o’clock.’
‘Like I told you – it’s got to be a set-up.’
‘Any more ideas about who?’
Lance had given this a great deal of thought. There were quite a few bastards who’d like to see him in trouble. He scratched his head. Ernie and Nigel hated his guts, the girls were sick of him. The rest of his class had been pretty bloody unfriendly lately. Brown-eye sure hated him. He looked at the policeman warily.
‘Plenty of people. Jealous because my dad’s rich.’
‘Name the most likely.’
‘That creepy black faggot, Brown-eye Karim, and his mate, Vaselly.’
Does – did the headmaster always tell you to burn his letters?’
‘What’re you getting at? He’s never written to me before! He just talks to me at school.’
‘You don’t seem upset about Mr Nikelseer’s murder.’
‘What’s to be upset about? He was a stupid old fart. Got up everyone’s noses.’
‘I thought he was your mentor?’
‘Wha..?’
‘He took an interest in you – ran your bible studies.’
‘I hated that. Dad made me go.’
‘Who would want to kill him?’
‘Lots of people. Ask Karim. Like I told you, Nikelseer was going to expel him for bashing me up.’
‘Not according to the deputy headmaster.’
Lance blinked. This was the first time his story had been questioned, and he didn’t like the tone.
‘On the night of the murder, you said you went to the house, and when no one answered the door you drove away.’
Lance nodded.
‘Surely you thought it odd that the door was open?’
‘I thought the old man had forgotten about me and had gone for a walk.’
‘You didn’t go inside?’
‘No way!’
‘Why were you in such a hurry? You nearly ran a police car off the road.’
‘I wanted to get home to watch TV.’
‘Read these.’ Constable Jurgenz handed Lance copies of the letters to him, from the headmaster.
Lance’s jaw dropped, his face lost what little colour it had, and his hands were trembling well before he had read them all. He was unable to speak, simply sat there, mouth gaping.
‘Let’s take them in order. The first one suggests you arranged for the murder of Murray Corso.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Nigel and Ernest say you did.’
‘It was those two cretins! They did it, I tried to stop them, but they’re crazy – always talking about raping and murder and…’ Lance eventually wound down and sagged back onto his seat.
The inspector remained ominously calm. ‘The second letter suggests it was you who attacked Mr Vaselly at his home.’
‘I don’t even know where the fucker lives,’ Lance snarled.
‘Why did you lock Karim in the shed and set light to it?’
Silence
‘When you tampered with Mr Vaselly’s brakes, you nearly caused the death of an elderly woman to whom he had lent the car.’
Silence. Then, ‘I want a lawyer’ – the reflex response of an American TV addict.
‘And you shall have one. But first, why did you murder Mr Nikelseer?’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t!’ Lance was yelling hysterically. ‘I fucking told you I didn’t! But if I had, I wouldn’t have just stuck a plastic bag over his head, I’d have…’
The silence was shocking. Jurgenz went to the door and beckoned in a constable.
‘Thank you, Lance,’ said the inspector sadly. ‘Even if you are telling the truth about the headmaster, you have many more questions to answer. I’d like you to accompany Constable Sastre to the police station.
Lance slumped in his chair, too stunned to cry, too numbed to speak, too miserable to think. He had never felt so alone.
Robert was enduring another grilling and Constable Jurgenz was snappy.
Why had he stopped Lance from attacking Corso? Was it because the kid was a homosexual? How had his parents reacted to the letter condemning him for calling the doctor? What had happened at Bart’s on the night of the attack? Who did he think the attackers were? Why didn’t he admit he had been smoking pot in the cricket shed and set fire to himself? How well did he know Ralf Boreham? What was his relationship with Bart Vaselly? What was his relationship with the headmaster? Had he had any disagreements with him lately?
To these and many, many other questions, probing looks, pregnant silences and sudden demands from both inspector and constable, Robert answered thoughtfully, succinctly and calmly. On his way to the interview he had blanked out the mess, and created a picture in his mind of himself as he thought he had been before everything went wrong, and acted that part. It was convincing. He appeared concerned, polite and honest. He made no bones about his admiration for Mr Vaselly, his liking for Mr Rands and Ralf Boreham, his dislike of Lance, and his distaste for the dead headmaster.
‘What do you know about....’ the constable consulted his notes, ‘Ernest Borg and Nigel Bradwin?’
‘They’re Lance’s bullyboys at school. They helped bash up Murray.’
‘According to them, they talked to you last week.’
‘Yes, They told me Lance was planning to kill me.’
‘Just you?’
‘And Bart Vaselly.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
‘I did. Bart and my parents.’
‘And?’
‘And we intended to go to the police. But then this happened and I talked them out of it.’
‘Why?’
Robert gave a rueful smile and shrug. ‘We’ve already made two accusations against Lance. I didn’t want the police to think we made a habit of it. It was probably a lie from a couple of thugs who’d had a run in with their leader.’ Robert gave a cynical smile on the last word.
‘I was under the impression you didn’t like Lance.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Tell us again exactly what you did and where you were on the night of the murder.’
No one could have misinterpreted Robert’s look; it was that of every usually well-behaved school kid, caught out the only time he has ever played truant.
‘Like I told you yesterday, I was suddenly sick of school and took off at interval. Stupid, I know. I went home for a bit, decided to go back to school, then changed my mind and went and sat up on the hill by the monument till school got out. Then I caught the train into town, mooched around there, got a bite to eat, took in a movie, came home and went to bed.’ It came out as though he was recalling it to mind as he talked. As though he had been unprepared for the question to be asked again, and was oblivious to the significance of his having been out on the night of the murder.
‘Do you know what I think?’
Robert shook his head.
‘I think you had a grudge against both Lance and the headmaster. I think you murdered Mr Nikelseer and set Lance up as the patsy.’ Inspector Kareltin sat back, folding his arms in satisfaction.
Ice formed in Robert’s lungs and belly. He didn’t dare move a muscle. His face froze. Surely they didn’t know? Had someone seen him? Were they bluffing? What should he do? He was on the point of shouting Yes! I killed the horrible old man before he could ruin Bart’s life! But as he opened his mouth he remembered Michael’s advice; Never give anyone ammunition. He shut it again. His face felt like stiff clay. Slowly he looked from the constable to the inspector. Goose-flesh ran up his back and over his scalp when he realised how close he’d come to disaster. It was a trick! They were bluffing! A vertical frown creased his brow as he said nervously, ‘I didn’t get back from town till after ten-thirty. Was Mr Nikelseer murdered after that?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Sorry. I only asked because, if he was, then you’re right, I could have killed him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could have jogged past his place on my way home after the movie – I suppose.’ Robert had no difficulty appearing worried.
‘So, you’re sticking to your tale about a movie in the city?’
‘It’s true.’
‘So far, we’ve only had your word for that. Can you prove it?’
‘Help. I don’t know. You should have asked me yesterday. I usually stuff tickets and things in my pockets and forget about them. Makes Mum mad when the bits end up all over the washing machine. I can look tonight if you like?’
‘What were you wearing?’
‘School uniform. I’d intended to go back to school, you see. Hang on, I’m wearing it! This is the only one I’ve got. Mum has to get it washed and dried overnight if I get it dirty. The trousers haven’t been washed since, but the shirt has. Maybe there’s something still there. He rummaged through his pockets. Several coins, a handkerchief, a small screw and a tightly rolled up and partially shredded train ticket, were exhumed from the back pocket of his trousers. A ballpoint pen, a washed but still recognisable movie ticket, and a note about homework, the paper felted and most of the ink illegible, were fished out of his shirt pocket. ‘That’s about it,’ he shrugged with a nervous smile, pulling his trouser side-pockets inside out, apparently not noticing a screwed-up paper that fell to the floor as he shook the tips of the linings.
The constable swooped on it. It was another train ticket. He smoothed everything out, slipped the evidence into an envelope, labelled it, and warned Robert that they would need to talk to him again.
Robert nodded thoughtfully, left the interview room, ran to the toilets, dry-vomited, rinsed his face, and sat despondently in a stall until his heart and breathing slowed and cold fingers stopped grabbing at his entrails. When blood returned to his face, he forced himself to relax. It would be pointless to have given a good interview if he was subsequently seen looking like death warmed up. Suddenly he couldn’t face schoolwork, so walked to the grandstand where he slumped on a bench overlooking the playing fields. A shadow blocked the sun. He looked up lethargically.
Ralf stared into his eyes, took hold of his arm and muttered urgently, ‘Get a grip on yourself! Come with me!’ He led Robert to his tiny office and shoved him roughly inside, closing the door firmly.
Robert shook his head dazedly. ‘What’s the matter, Ralf? Are you mad at me? Sorry. Whatever it is, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Shut up and drink this.’ Ralf handed him a cup of hot sweet tea from his thermos. ‘What did you have for lunch?’
‘Didn’t feel like eating.’
‘Eat!’ He thrust a couple of cheese sandwiches at him, then sat on the other stool and glowered while Robert chewed and chewed but couldn’t swallow.
‘Bloody drink and swallow. You’ve chased that around long enough.’
Robert finished the food, and felt a little better. ‘Thanks, guess I was getting hungry. I never realised.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Third degree with the cops.’
‘Did they see you like this?’
‘Don’t think so. I fooled them.’
Ralf looked startled, was about to say something but bit his lip. ‘Well you’ll soon un-fool them if you go round looking like that. What’s the matter with you? You look as guilty as sin. Do you want them to think you’re the flaming murderer? Pull yourself together!’ He slapped Robert hard on the shoulders. Robert looked up in surprise, suddenly wary.
‘What’re you on about?’
‘Look at yourself.’
He handed Robert a mirror.
‘Shit!’ His face was white and drawn, the top lip twitched and dark rings were appearing round the eyes. He stared at himself, wondering for the umpteenth time whether he’d got it wrong.
‘I’ve no idea what’s the matter, but you need help.’
‘It’s…’
‘I don’t want to know!’ Ralf snapped. ‘I just want you to survive. Cops are human – they need a culprit.’ He placed both hands on Robert’s shoulders. ‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself and not let this get you down?’
Robert nodded.
‘Keep your pecker up. Right? If you need me, I’m here. Got that?’
Robert nodded again, close to tears.
‘I’ll be off then. Stay and finish the tea. I’ll tell Bart to pick you up from here when he’s ready to go home. Shoulder your problems like a man. When it’s too late to go back – go forward!’
Left alone, Robert’s thoughts tumbled. Was what he had done really self-defence? Did Lance deserve to have the rap pinned on him? It had all seemed straightforward when he was working out his plan, but he hadn’t understood then that he would have to live with the results. The uncertainty. The fear of involving his family and Bart. The shame they would suffer if... That was what Mr Osbairne would be feeling now…
Once more Robert ran his mind over all his reasons, reminded himself of what might have happened if he hadn’t stepped in, and once more managed to quell the demon plague of doubts. But each time it got harder. Much harder. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘I don’t trust it. Nothing should be this easy.’ An irritated Inspector Kareltin paced the small room he had commandeered above the main entrance. It was half-past five, they had a believable suspect, and he could close this part of the investigation. Instead of savouring victory, however, he felt cheated. After sifting through mountains of interview summaries, forensic reports, facts, opinions and gossip, his instincts screamed, "No!"
‘Right, Jurgenz, give it to me.’ He closed his eyes, sighed and leaned back wearily in a chair. ‘No padding, cut to the chase.’
The detective constable cleared his throat. ‘We have eliminated everyone except for Lance Osbairne and Robert Karim. All the others have satisfactory alibis, or no reasonable motive, or both. Osbairne has admitted being at the scene of the crime, and driving away in panic before the police arrived. His smudged prints were found on the plastic bag, door handles, light switches and such-like, as well as Nikelseer’s left wrist. Letters saved in the computer suggest he was silencing the headmaster to stop him revealing his involvement in the murder of Murray Corso, the attack on Vaselly, the burning of the shed with Karim locked inside, and the sabotaging of Vaselly’s brakes. We are almost certain the first one is correct, because of the testimony of Nigel Borg and Ernest Bradwin, and charges will be laid. Despite his denials, it appears he was also involved in the other three incidents.’
Lance had continued to deny everything. He had wept, screamed, howled abuse, and almost knocked himself senseless against the wall of his cell. It hadn’t been enough. Even his father apparently didn’t believe him, because he refused to visit. This did little to help his son’s cause.
Constable Jurgenz continued. ‘There is no evidence to suggest that anyone other than Osbairne and Nikelseer had been in the headmaster’s house that evening. The three girls; Sorens, Curso and Gross, accuse him of drug dealing and pimping. According to Borg and Bradwin, he has unusual sexual appetites. He has been left to run wild since his mother died. The housekeeper, who left recently, also has a low opinion of young Lance. Apart from providing excellent legal counsel, his father appears to have washed his hands of the boy.’ Constable Jurgenz looked at his superior’s closed eyes and hoped he hadn’t fallen asleep. ‘That’s all about Osbairne, Sir. Are you ready for Robert Karim?’
The inspector grunted.
‘On the day of the murder he wagged school and went to a movie in the city. Any motive he might have for the murder can only be deduced from circumstantial hearsay or creative imagination.’
Kareltin looked up. ‘Stick to the facts, constable.’
‘Yes, Sir. Karim suspected that Osbairne had something to do with Corso’s death, the attack on Vaselly, and the fire in the shed. Lance was in the habit of calling him unpleasant names – but he did that to everyone. Osbairne claims Karim attacked him last Monday. Both deputy headmaster and guidance counsellor dispute this. Karim’s parents received an extraordinary letter from Nikelseer abusing the boy for over-stepping the mark, but no one would believe that was sufficient motive for murder. Perhaps he killed the old man in order to set-up Osbairne for revenge. Such a scenario would set a jury sniggering, especially if he presents himself in the dock as well as he did at our interviews. He didn’t set a foot wrong – even when you tried to trap him.’
‘That in itself is suspicious,’ grunted the inspector.
Jurgenz continued. ‘If it could be proved that Karim knew for certain it was Osbairne who murdered Corso, attacked Vaselly, set fire to the shed, and was going to try to murder them again, then there is, perhaps, a motive. A motive to murder him, not the headmaster. However, they have already been to the police with their previous suspicions. That suggests they would do so again and, in my opinion, rules out Lone Ranger retribution.
Kareltin grunted. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself.’
‘Yes, Sir. Karim’s alibi for the night checks out, but is suspicious because it was unusual behaviour and coincided with the murder. However, it would be impossible to prove he didn’t do what he said he did. The train and cinema tickets are authentic. A ticket collector at Roma Street recalls seeing him. The assistant manager at the picture theatre reckons he remembers him from before the film started, that’s before eight o’clock. He described him, school uniform and all. Karim has definitely seen the entire film. Added to that, his teachers, the deputy headmaster, guidance counsellor, Uncle Tom Rowley and all, think the sun shines out of his backside.’
A snort from the inspector.
‘They also consider him incapable of a vindictive action. Rands thinks he’s headed for great things, Vaselly dotes on him, the groundsman likens him to Heroes of Old. Gerald Manly Hopkins is not studied in Literature at any level. The only other possible motive for Robert Karim would be something between him and Nikelseer we don’t know about.’
The inspector opened his eyes. ‘Exactly! According to Arnold Osbairne, Nikelseer was profoundly upset by the relationship between Vaselly and Karim. He wanted it to stop. Maybe he threatened them?’
Arnold Osbairne had not, however, mentioned either his offer to the headmaster to "fix the problem" or the commissioning of his son to "attend" to it. He might have given up on his son, but he wasn’t going to load the enemy’s guns.
‘Sounds like a smear campaign to me. No one else thinks there’s anything in it. No one else thinks they’re gay, come to that.’
‘Have you asked?’
‘No. But someone would have mentioned it. According to his classmates, he’s got a girlfriend. Marcia something. Bright kid.’
The inspector nodded sagely. He had no idea where to go from there, but wasn’t admitting it.
Jurgenz continued. ‘Now to Bart Vaselly. He’s not a suspect, but is interesting because of this rumoured association with Karim. His alibi was confirmed by Karim’s parents, who, by the way, have been au fait with all goings on. It was the father who contacted the police regarding Lance’s possible connection with the burning shed. Vaselly’s motives, if any, would be as unprovable as his friend’s. He is held in almost as high regard as Karim, although some think he’s too tough on the kids. The headmaster’s attitude to him would appear to be ambivalent, if you can believe that letter, which had only his fingerprints on it and was definitely signed by him.’ He looked up expectantly. ‘That’s it, Sir.’
Kareltin got up and looked out the window. ‘There’s one thing you haven’t mentioned. The tip-off phone-call. What is the chance, Jurgenz, of someone getting lost and stopping their car in front of that house at the precise moment the headmaster is knocked on the head? A zillion to one! That’s what it is, a zillion to one!’
‘Coincidences do happen, Sir.’
‘Just as Robert Karim coincidentally goes walkabout? I do not like it.’ The inspector shook his head in irritation. He desired nothing more than to end the case quickly, but couldn’t stop himself wondering if that too-clever-by-half Karim kid didn’t have at least as much to do with it as Lance Osbairne.
A movement below caught his attention. He leaned against the glass and saw Bart and Robert cross the car park, get into a green van and drive off. A slow smile dawned. They had walked with their shoulders touching and, before separating, had brushed fingers. From his vantage point he could look down into the cab and, as the vehicle swung round, caught a glimpse of a hand on the driver’s knee. They were on together. He knew they weren’t underage, and didn’t care how they got their thrills, but he was too old to change prejudices. When it came to queers versus straights, straights won every time in his book, even if they were more than a little bent. However, he knew better than to sound off in front of Jurgenz, who’d been brainwashed by the Gay-Liaison brigade. A thought struck him and he turned abruptly.
‘What if Osbairne was right? What if Nikelseer discovered his PE teacher was having it off with Karim and threatened hellfire and damnation?’
Jurgenz looked surprised. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly.’
Jurgenz was now looking thoughtful. ‘You’re stretching things, Sir. Remember that letter? The old chap sounded more than half in love with Vaselly himself. And anyway, they’re not under age. Why would they care? It’s hardly a big deal today.’
‘Where do you think you’re living? This is the Bible-Banging State. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘Attitudes are changing.’
‘Like hell they are!’ The inspector was warming to his theory. ‘Decriminalisation has terrified the anti-homo brigade. Teachers with pupils? Could get very nasty. Don’t you remember that federal politician? And she was straight. The papers would have a ball. Television would love it. Families fall apart and people suicide from that sort of stress.’ The thought did not appear to concern him.
Jurgenz shook his head. ‘If that was the case, surely they’d be in it together? I can’t imagine Vaselly letting his mate go it alone.’
Kareltin grunted. ‘How about the computer files? Those concerning Lance Osbairne had been mucked around with that evening. Surely that’s suspicious?’
‘It’s annoying, but doesn’t point to anyone. Anyway, we reckon we've solved that. The bloke was a letter-writing nutter; fussy and fastidious. He would have prepared himself for the meeting with Lance by going through all the old letters again, and it only takes the knocking of one key for the computer to consider the file to have been modified. It’d be surprising if he hadn’t changed the letters a bit. He was so far gone he probably imagined they would form the basis of his memoirs.’ Jurgenz looked across to his superior officer for confirmation, but was faced with a glassy stare of incomprehension.
‘You’re saying it’s not suspicious enough? We can’t use it to nail too-good-to-be-true Karim?’
‘No, Sir. As I said, it’s curious, but doesn’t necessarily point to anyone else. Forensic agrees, especially as only the victim’s prints were found on the keyboard.’
The inspector sank into a lethargy. ‘Sure, sure, Jurgenz. No one uses rubber gloves. OK you’re the expert. What else?’
‘That’s it, Sir. Do we lay formal charges?’
‘All in good time. I think we’ll visit the Karims first. Let’s drop by tonight.’
‘Shall I ring and arrange it?’
‘No. It’ll be a spur-of-the-moment visit. We don’t want to worry them.’ He smiled thinly and heaved himself to his feet. ‘Go home to your long-suffering wife, and pick me up at half-past seven.’
Bart drove carefully, sick with concern. Robert was rigid in the seat beside him, eyes staring ahead, right hand clawing spasmodically at Bart’s thigh. Certain of the truth, Bart was uncertain about his feelings and what he should do. Murder most foul. But was it? Was it a crime? Surely not! It could never be a crime to kill in self-defence. Some judges think it a reasonable defence if a murderer claims he was upset at being propositioned by another man - even when the killer had a history of gay bashing and he’d told friends he was going to go and kill a faggot. At least thirty such murders had been committed in the last decade of the twentieth century in Australia, not to mention the thousands of cases of maiming, assault, mental abuse and, of course, suicide.
In the absence of antivilification laws, hate merchants were growing ever more bold and trumpeting their poison throughout the land. What was it John had said? Death is not important, it’s how you live your life that matters. Nikelseer and Lance had made their lives intolerable, and would have destroyed, maybe not their physical bodies, but that more important realm, the mind. Life would have ceased to be worth the effort.
He drove past the Botanical Gardens to the nearest off-road parking area, and led his friend up a track through the trees until they were out of sight of prying eyes. Robert was twitchy and distracted.
‘Ever studied any poems by Hopkins?’
‘What? Oh, only Peace. The teacher at the last school thought he was the greatest thing in verse.’
‘You made a good job of the signature.’
There was no reaction. Robert found he couldn’t speak. His normally serene face had become pinched, a nervous tic twitched at his left cheek, dark skin around his eyes attested to insufficient sleep, and lassitude infected his being. Bart stopped walking, took hold of Robert by the shoulders, turned him so they faced each other and said softly, ‘Robert, I know you did it, and I understand why. You’ve been keeping it to yourself to protect me, haven’t you?’
Robert nodded.
‘That was wise and very brave. I’d never have been able to face the last few days if I’d known. Now, sit down and tell me everything. And I mean everything.’
Ten minutes later a sobbing, exhausted Robert, his heart several tonnes lighter, rested his shuddering back against Bart’s chest. ‘I…I…I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know how I did!’
‘It’s too late for regrets, and anyway, I’m glad you did.’
Robert looked up in disbelief.
Bart’s look was serious, his voice aggressive. ‘It was self-defence! We were both going off our rockers, remember? You were defending us. If you hadn’t done this, our names would have been splashed over the tabloids and television news, I’d be looking for a new job, you’d be a neurotic mess, and our relationship would not have survived. As for incriminating Lance - he murdered Murray, tried to kill us, and was planning a third attempt. He bashed up gays, pimped, blackmailed old men, dealt in drugs and was probably going to do Nikelseer in before long himself. We went to the police with our suspicions, they were polite and helpful, but we didn’t have enough proof to be taken seriously.’
Robert began to shake again. ‘But I… I murdered him.’ His whisper was full of the horror of self-discovery and the shocking realisation that he, Robert Karim, was capable of such an act. What other dread surprises lay in store? ‘I’m a… a murderer!’
Bart pulled his head back and stroked his hair. ‘Murder is an emotive word for killing, not applicable in this case. Vilification from pulpits and teachers’ desks is a primary cause of suicide. That’s murder - by remote control. He stopped speaking and let the rustling of leaves, the distant cackle of kookaburras and the peace of the forest work their spell.
Robert bit his lip and looked up nervously. Desperate to believe. ‘I was sure you’d hate me - be frightened of what I… ’
‘Hate you? Not possible!’
‘It makes me as bad as Lance.’
‘That’s utter crap! Lance is a vigilante. He makes bigoted, unprovoked attacks on people who pose no threat. You are a man defending his right to live a full and free life.’
‘But…’
‘Remember Sanjay telling us how Nikelseer quoted Onward Christian Soldiers, marching as to war? The headmaster was at war, and we were the enemy. At this very minute, dozens, if not hundreds of young men are being killed, maimed, imprisoned and tortured in some war or other, somewhere on the planet. That is the nature of humans. Killing is only a crime if it is done for personal gain in peacetime, against a fellow citizen who has the same rights and privileges of citizenship as you. We live in a country that does not extend to us the same rights and privileges as heterosexuals, but demands the same responsibilities. All gays are in a constant state of skirmishing, fending off mental and physical attacks, in a state of readiness to conceal, hide or defend their right to exist. It is totally unfair, unjustified and unethical, but the state permits this. Those who deny us the right to live freely, abrogate their own rights and must be prepared to accept the consequences. We are at war, against mindless bigotry, and you did the only thing possible.’
‘I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t put up a fight.’
‘I know, and now you think you can’t live with the result. But you can, and we’ll live happily ever after.’
Robert’s attempt at a smile was painful. ‘But we don’t tell Mum and Dad.’
‘Of course not.’
‘The police suspect me. The old one nearly caught me out. He guessed nearly exactly right!’ The panic was back.
‘They have no proof. None at all! You’ve been too clever for them. The only thing that will betray you is self-doubt. If the cops’d seen you half an hour ago they’d have strung you up - no questions asked.’
‘And now?’
‘They’ll lock up Lance, the true culprit.’
‘I did it for us.’
‘I know.’
‘I wasn’t strong enough on my own, though.’
‘I would be frightened of you if you were.’
The atmosphere during the meal had been more relaxed than at any time during the previous two days. Bart had just finished explaining why it would be foolish to mention Nikelseer’s threats on the morning of his death.
‘But - surely you don’t think the police would suspect Robert?’
‘From what I can gather, they are ninety-nine percent certain it was Lance, but it is suspiciously obvious. They have to check out anyone who might have the slightest motive, so we had better not give them one.’
Monique nodded her head doubtfully. Sanjay grunted his assent.
‘Robert was out at the time of the murder,’ Bart continued, ‘and Lance has been bending their ears for two days with the best lawyers money can buy. I’ve a feeling Inspector Kareltin suspects we’re gay, and it would be convenient if he could accuse us. Pupil-Lover of gay teacher brutally murders his Christian Headmaster! Can’t you see the headlines? He’d get instant promotion. Much better than prosecuting the heterosexual son of a local business man who employs lots of people.’
‘Surely not!’ Monique was horrified, and had gone quite pale. Sanjay just nodded sad agreement, placing his hand over his wife’s.
‘My alibi with you is automatically suspect because I’m a friend of the family and an employee. Robert’s is suspicious and not foolproof. There’s no point in creating further suspicion. Agree Sanjay?’
‘Absolutely. And so does Monique.’
She nodded her head.
A knock at the door disturbed their thoughts. Sanjay answered.
The two policemen followed Sanjay into the lounge.
‘Monique, this is Inspector Kareltin and this is Detective Constable Jurgenz.’
Monique nodded coolly, then sat on the couch between Robert and Bart. Kareltin sat in the easy chair beside the fire, Sanjay brought up another chair for the constable before taking his seat opposite the inspector.
‘I hope you are getting overtime?’ Sanjay smiled.
Ignoring the attempted pleasantry, Kareltin spoke brusquely. ‘Some new information has come to light.’ He peered at Bart. ‘It is convenient that you’re here, Mr Vaselly, I can now kill two birds with the one visit, so to speak.’ He smiled thinly, cleared his throat and turned back to Sanjay. ‘We have almost concluded our investigation into the murder of your son’s headmaster, but a few points need clarifying. He gave a humourless smile and opened his briefcase. ‘Nice place you have here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This won’t take long. How upset were you at the headmaster’s letter criticising Robert?’
‘We thought it was pathetic.’ Monique did not bother to hide her contempt. ‘My husband went to school the next day to clear everything up.’
‘And was it all cleared up?’ He addressed this question to Robert.
‘Yes.’
‘It was an unpleasant letter. You must have a very forgiving nature.’
‘Not particularly.’
‘But you had an argument with the headmaster on the morning of his death, I believe.’
Robert's look of surprise was real. ‘No,’ he said as though shocked at the idea.
The inspector raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and turned to Sanjay. ‘What is the work Mr Vaselly does for you?’
He was told. They were each asked to re-confirm their whereabouts on the night of the murder.
‘And why were you here, Mr Vaselly?’
‘For dinner.’
‘Without Robert?’
‘I’m a friend of the family.’
‘Of course. Did you know Mr Vaselly was coming that evening, Robert?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why the- ah - impromptu truancy?’
‘I felt like being on my own.’
‘Had you had an argument?’
‘With whom?’
‘Mr Vaselly.’
‘No. Why?’
‘How long have you two been having an affair?’
Robert gazed at the inspector blankly.
‘An expressive word, affair,’ broke in Sanjay. ‘It conjures up libidinous and secret arrangements. What did you mean by it, Inspector?’
The inspector hesitated.
‘Robert and I are not having an affair,’ Bart stated bluntly.
‘OK. If you want to split hairs, how long have you two been on together?’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’
Monique laughed. ‘You use bizarre words for friendship, Inspector.’
The inspector blushed. This was not going as intended. His shock questions hadn’t shocked. The parents obviously had no idea their son was screwing his teacher. He was uncomfortable with these self-satisfied, well-heeled couples so secure in themselves and their place in the world. Even if the parents did know, he wasn’t sure they’d care. Bloody intellectuals.
His audience sat looking at him, faces politely expressionless. Constable Jurgenz buried his head in his notes to stop himself from grinning. This was the family he dreamed of having. A charming, cosy house, inhabited by intelligent, attractive people contented to be themselves, and comfortable with each other. There and then, he decided Osbairne was the culprit.
The inspector was irritated. These people were supposed to be nervous, not blatantly at ease. Kareltin felt that he, and by extension the law, was being treated with disrespect. He wanted to pin something on these up-themselves, educated shits. The beautiful people. God how he hated them! But what could you expect? A Wog, a Frog and their Poofy-Mongrel. He was pleased with his joke. Christ he’d like to nail that pair of faggots.
Like all successful law workers, the inspector understood that the aim of our judicial system is not to punish the bad and reward the good; it is concerned solely with interpreting laws, many of which are ineptly written, fostering injustice. As for finding ‘the truth’; what’s the point? In an adversarial system, lawyers need only seek weaknesses in the law, and all the intuition in the world is of no avail, without proof.
Understanding, however, does not make for happy policemen. Two recent cases had left him angry. A fraudulent investment manager whose bankrupted client had suicided, received a fine he could well afford; and a housebreaker had successfully sued the poor old bloke who had only been protecting his own property with a shot-gun, for grievous bodily harm. Discarding his usual prudence, Detective Inspector Kareltin stood.
‘Robert Karim,’ he said solemnly, ‘I accuse you of the murder of Ian Nikelseer.'
Silence.
‘And planting evidence to incriminate Lance Osbairne.’
Still no reaction.
Aggression replaced conviction. ‘And I will not relax until you are brought to justice!’ He was starting to sweat, knew he was sounding melodramatic, and wished he hadn’t stood up.
Sanjay’s quiet voice broke the silence.
‘You are tired, Detective Inspector. I suggest you go home, get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning if you are certain your accusation is correct, do something about it.’
Kareltin lowered his eyes and his mouth drooped.
Sanjay went for the throat. ‘You are obviously an intelligent and hard-working officer, and have achieved a position of great responsibility. It would be a pity to risk humiliation by pursuing a gut feeling when you’re tired.’
The inspector looked around the room warily. No one seemed perturbed, no one looked ready to confess.
‘If we haven’t heard from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we will forget this conversation took place.’ Sanjay sat back and gazed at his three loved ones.
Inspector Kareltin stuffed his papers into a briefcase, grunted something incomprehensible and stomped out. Jurgenz turned to Sanjay and Monique, shook their hands, and followed.
Monique shook herself, brushed at her dress as though to dislodge an offensive object, then sat on the arm of Sanjay’s chair and blew softly onto his bald spot. ‘What an unpleasant man,’ she whispered.
‘It’s an unpleasant job.’ He looked across at the two young men who had moved together as though for support, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Cheer up.’ He smiled softly. ‘Go for a long hard run. Sweat the last few days out of your systems.’
Robert turned at the door. The concern on his parents’ faces sent a surge of guilt deep into his guts.
‘Thanks,’ he said seriously, biting his lip to stop the quiver. ‘Thanks for… for everything!’