Golden Boys (19 page)

They ride side-by-side through the streets, keeping to the middle of the road. They pass people in their gardens and a small boy pedalling a tricycle along the footpath who shouts at them furiously, ‘Hiawatha!' A brown dog, investigating a naturestrip, lifts its ears as they pass. An old man is trimming a hedge with shears, a portable radio at his feet. A cricket match is being played somewhere, and the pleasing
thock
of the ball against the willow carries across the hills of the suburb. Colt's racer travels well, soundless but for the steady burr of its wheels on the bitumen. He is amazed by how reconciled he feels toward what is coming. He isn't afraid. He is willing.

Garrick says something, and Colt looks at him. The boy's cheeks are burnished by the wind, his fringe blown back from his forehead like black grass on a sandy dune. Garrick's bike does not have gears, and he has to stand on the pedals to force it up the hills. Out of courtesy, Colt does the same. He wants it this way: polite. When this day is over, he'll never speak of it again. ‘I didn't hear you,' he tells Garrick, swooping the red racer closer, and Garrick says, ‘I heard your dad was a tough guy at the Kileys' the other night.'

His tone is snide. ‘Did Declan say that?' Colt asks.

‘Avery.'

‘That's not what happened,' Colt tells him.

They pass house after house, wide gateless front gardens, cars parked on the street. A striped cat gallops across the road in front of them and Garrick curses it on its way. Colt knows where they are going, he could take the lead, but that isn't how it should be and he's careful not to hurry. For now, what they're doing is something like a game. ‘So how did you find the bike?' he asks Garrick, because the boy is playing too.

‘Dunno. Just found it.'

‘Just lying there?'

‘Yep.' He throws a testy glance, and Colt settles into silence.

The wasteland along the creek is very green – outrageously green, to Colt's eye, the green from a child's finger-painting. Expanses of weed rise waist-high on either side of the path, forming dense fields of blinding emerald. It's almost impossible to walk through these fields; they see dents where exuberant dogs have romped, but otherwise the tangled swathes are thick and unbroken. Anything could be buried in the depths, woven into the roots, feeding the grass and becoming part of it. Midges hover above the tips of the weeds, striking Colt's face like fairies. Garrick pedals fast along the dusty track, but not so fast that Colt could not outride him. As soon as they put the bikes down, he could outrun him. But he doesn't stop or turn the racer around even though what's coming is suddenly much closer now they're here, and he feels an apprehension at the edge of his mind: he keeps riding, concentrating on the stones which burst away from Garrick's tyre and shoot off into the grass.

The weeds, as the breeze moves over them, make a rushing, heralding noise. The wind in the scrappy heads of the trees also whispers secrets. He cannot hear the water, the creek being almost soundless from even the smallest distance. A stranger to this place might never know it was flowing there.

He expects they are going to the drain, which is Garrick's lair, but they ride past the dark mouth of the pipe without stopping, and Colt corrects himself: of course it won't be here, because this is Garrick's lair. Garrick isn't silly. He is lazy, however, and unadventurous and unimaginative, so when they find the BMX it's not far from the pipe after all – looking back, Colt can see the top lip of the concrete mouth. He kicks down the stand of the racer and steps forward to investigate.

The BMX lies on its side in the weeds, two or three steps off the path. Its left handgrip and serrated pedal are its highest peaks. Weeds pike between its spokes and splay around the saddle. At a glance it seems undamaged: dry and clean, it hasn't lain in this place for long. Colt puts his hands on his hips, considering it. He remembers the evening his father brought the bike home, the hateful guessing-game they'd played. Not much more than a month has passed since then, but it has seemed to take longer, this final downhill run. ‘What colour do you reckon this bike is?' he asks Garrick.

The boy is standing on the path behind him, having thrown his own bicycle into the dust. Colt can smell him, a not unpleasant stink. Flammable, like petrol. ‘I dunno. Black?'

Colt smiles. A swarm of midges sweeps past, waltzing on the breeze, and he waves them away from his face. ‘I hate this bike,' he tells Garrick.

‘What? Are you crazy? That's a quality bike. There's nothing wrong with that bike.'

‘Maybe.' Colt treads out of the grass to stand before Garrick. The sun is not deep into its afternoon descent, and the boys' shadows bunch to their feet. There is no one around, as far as Colt can see. No dogs poking about, no people to protest. He has perplexed and bothered Garrick by insulting the BMX, even hurt his feelings. ‘I'd let you keep it,' he explains, ‘but I need it back.'

Garrick lifts his gaze and studies him, his eyes moving lightlessly. He chews on something, his thoughts or memories, and his sights move, return, shift away. He frowns and cracks a knuckle. ‘I know it's not your fault,' he says. ‘But he can't just . . . get away with it, and nothing ever happens.'

‘No, I know.' Colt catches the boy's eye. ‘It's all right, Garrick. You should do it.'

Garrick's lip jerks, he makes a resentful sound. ‘I don't want to,' he says. ‘I like you, Colt. But you
knew
. You knew, and you didn't tell us. You let him.'

Colt says, ‘I'm sorry —'

Garrick's face instantly curdles. ‘Piss off being sorry. Sorry is full of shit. You know what's the worst part? We could have been friends. I like you, you're a good guy. But now look what has to happen. What else can I do?'

‘I don't know,' says Colt, and truly he doesn't. Maybe this is the first of a life's worth of strange deals he will make, atoning any way he can because his mother and father will not, and Bastian should not have to. If this is how it must be, it is much better than nothing. He's ready to do what he can. ‘It's OK,' he says. ‘Do it. You should. I want you to.'

Garrick regards him suspiciously, unaccustomed to compliant victims. ‘I will,' he says. ‘When I'm ready. Don't tell me what to do.' He shuffles back and rolls his shoulders, wipes his nose on a wrist. He hefts his hands, bloats his cheeks and blows out air. He peers into the distance, looks behind to see if anyone is there; he scuffs toeholds into the path, scoops his fringe behind an ear. They might be here, Colt thinks, all day. He could provoke him by running, but the danger is he will accidentally escape. So he stays where he is, his shadow a dry pool at his feet, his face turned, politely waiting: yet when Garrick hits him the blow is shocking, a force which throws him almost off his feet. Garrick says nothing and makes no sound – either he's been taught to fight or has a natural talent or simply enjoys it, for he steps forward and delivers a second efficient punch which catches Colt under the ribs and drops him to his knees, palms skidding on the path and swilling up a witch of white dust. He glimpses Garrick's face – set now, doubt erased – as the boy swings a foot intent on bringing his adversary completely down. Colt's chin and elbow smack the path and a crisp sheet of pain cracks through his body, as well as a stringy, unstringing sense of panic. It is possible to die.

And then Garrick is on him, having resolved that the mighty fall with reason and that the weak invite their punishment and that anything, once begun, should continue wholeheartedly to the end: he drops onto Colt's chest, slamming the air from his lungs, arches back an arm and punches the boy as hard as he can. His fist rams first into Colt's cheekbone and, drawn back again like a piston, into his right eye; before Colt's hands can come up to protect him Garrick has landed another blow, this time to Colt's fine nose, the bone of which Colt feels splinter: blood splashes his face and Garrick's knuckles as if a pipe has burst. Blood does not frighten Garrick Greene: it strengthens him. He is snarling and heaving, swearing with each breath, remembering why he is here now, and burning with a kind of glory. He grips the collar of Colt's t-shirt and hoists the boy out of the dust, and with his blood-smeared fist drives a hideous blow into Colt's jaw. Blood bursts free from Colt's mouth and hits the path, and Colt hits the path also, no longer even trying to save himself.

It is difficult to decide when enough is enough. There is always a feeling that the next moment might be the great one, the one relived for a lifetime. Garrick's swearing blurs into frustrated babble. He doesn't know if he is done. He shakes Colt, knees him, afraid to make a mistake. He jabs Colt in the ribs and stomach, cuffs him around the ears, and finally flops on Colt's chest, shaking his fighting hand, which is throbbing, while he waits for his head to decide. Beneath his bullish weight, Colt struggles to breathe. His mouth and throat are soupy with blood. Blood bubbles from his nose and oozes out his mouth. It has run down his throat into his t-shirt, and through the tangles of his torn hair. It is a brazenly red, protesting colour. Garrick shakes his head, squeezing his hand. He looks at the boy pinned between his knees: ‘Hey!' he says. ‘Hey! Is that enough?' The answer is evidently important because he asks again more loudly, staring into Colt's wincing eyes. ‘Hey! Is it enough? Is it?' And his victim's hoarse breathing must mean it is not enough, because Garrick makes a sound – a predator's noise, something between a growl and a hiss – and slams his fist against Colt's skull, into the place where the vulnerable points are. It seems blissfully easy to do it, he's unhampered by hesitation or care: but when it is done there's a sense of finality that drapes like a heavy curtain over their heads. He is spent and bleak now, it is as good as finished.

He slumps a while on Colt's ribcage, panting, head hanging. Then he clambers to his feet and stares down at his victim, clutching his hurting hand. Dust has smudged his hair, jeans and runners; attached on his chin is a pasty gob of spit. He swipes his mouth, shakes his hand. He tells Colt, ‘You asked for that.'

Colt blinks and coughs and grimaces, sprinkling the air with blood. When he's gathered sufficient strength he twists onto his side, turning his back on his assailant. His body is being compressed by a peculiar pain, as if a cannon is rolling across it. His face feels made of glass ground underneath a heel. He does not want to hear Garrick's voice, even less the voice inside his own head. At this moment there is nothing that can make any of this all right. The path is coarse against his cheek, uncomfortable enough to assure him he is still alive. Beyond the odour of his own blood he smells crushed stone and chalk. But his breathing is ragged, as if he's dragging a cart uphill, and the air that is pulled past his leaking lips tastes of spit and blood. His teeth are wrapped in a pulp of gore, his spine is a burning wick. His hands have been stomped, the skin slewed from the bones, and he hugs them to his shallowly lifting chest. Already his pounded eye is puffing closed. He knows he is vulnerable lying here, and he feels Garrick looming, tempted, but there is nothing he can do. He is smashed in a hundred places, hardly brave enough to breathe. Maybe his mind drifts in these moments, because he sees himself as the universe, or sees a universe that is inside him: a trillion microscopic pieces spinning in a colourless space, each piece glowing like an orb of honey, a galaxy of golden fireflies. He feels the presence of Garrick Greene behind him and he nurses his aching body waiting for the world to decide if anything has been righted, but part of him glides painlessly through a gold-flecked universe, having left the dust behind.

Eventually he hears Garrick say, ‘I'll tell Declan you're here.' The weeds make a ripping sound as the bike is pulled from among them. Air puffs from the padded seat, cogs squeak as they turn. The ground itself rumbles as the boy rides away.

When he thinks he can bear it, Colt opens his unharmed eye. The afternoon is aggressively bright and he closes his eye, draws a breath, cautiously looks again. He is lying by the path's edge, and the weeds are very near. This close, he sees all kinds of details, the fuzz that coats each green spike, the precise cleave down the centre of each blade, the network of roots grappling the earth, the intricate bed of rot. Tiny stones rise hugely, waxy pink, blue and green. There are scarlet plates on the path that he recognises as blood. The sun feels hot – scalding – against his face, yet his body is cold, and he drags his knees to his chest, tucks his skinned palms between his thighs. He lets his teeth chatter but only for an instant, because their collision is pain.

He is covered in grit and blood; tears stream from his eyes, and he doesn't know why. He's badly hurt, but pain has never made him cry. He's crying, he supposes, for another reason; but he will stop. By the time Declan finds him he will be sitting up, smiling woozily, able to talk without spraying ruby beads. The thought alone makes him feel somewhat repaired.

A microscopic insect, lesser than a flea, is moving down a string of weed. When it reaches a break in the stem it hesitates, spins a circle, trundles back the way it has come. Colt breathes in as deeply as he's able, then lets his chest carefully fall. He feels the spangling universe inside him, the embrace of the warm air around him, the reliable stone underneath. Tomorrow, if the weather is fine, he will run, swim, ride.

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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2014

Text copyright © Sonya Hartnett, 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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Cover design by John Canty © Penguin Group (Australia)

Cover photography by Thinkstock Images/Getty Images (boy/bike); Kevin Dodge/ Getty Images (background); AlexandraR/Getty Images (sky)

Author photograph by Greg Beyer

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ISBN: 978-1-74348-462-3