Gravity (12 page)

There had been moments in my life when I'd realised that I wasn't as big as I'd thought. The first time I played with the under-nineteens was like that.

Then, when they shifted me up to the seniors as an uncoordinated sixteen-year-old and I did an interview with the sports reporter from the
Highland Times
, I knew I'd hit the big time. But the paper came out and they'd spelled my name with two d's and the interview said that I was playing with the seniors because they were so down on numbers. Dad read the article and told me not to worry about it.

‘Don't listen to them, Adam. You don't have to be the best player in the whole world, just do the best you can. They might think they're Goliaths, but you have the determination of David. You'll get on.'

On the train back to Mum's flat, I saw the city skyline afire with sunset. So many people, hidden away like ants. And Melbourne isn't even a big city by world standards.

Suddenly my thoughts were flying out the window and looking down on me sitting with my chin resting on my fist
until I was lost in the silver streak of the train. Higher my thoughts climbed until the rail network was an erratic cobweb laid over the sprawl of the suburbs. Higher still, until the shadow of sunset was no longer a smear but a cut on the face of the planet – one side day, the other night. Up where the earth isn't a distant horizon but a sphere. A ball, then a blue-green disc, then a pinpoint of light, then gone altogether. Lost in the mess of pinpoints that make up our universe, and still my thoughts flew. Higher until the pinpoints were no longer distinguishable from each other, until they were as small as atoms. Tiny atoms, drawn together by distance until they began to have form – an arc of mottled grey-white, flashing orange in the last rays of sunlight – and I found myself staring at my thumbnail.

If you were small enough, the atoms that made up the cells of my thumbnail might seem as big as stars.

If you were big enough, our whole planet might seem smaller than an atom.

I stepped onto the platform and had to shake my head. My flight of fancy hung with me and left me feeling strange. A tiny speck in the universe, but in command of the armies of atoms at my disposal, I realised I knew my place in the world. I knew where my home was and it wasn't that place. If there had ever been a shadow of doubt about the things that would make me feel whole, it vanished on the platform. It disappeared on the back of that trippy waking dream.

I could hear the hills calling me.

And the ute hadn't magically fixed itself.

I tried to be logical and methodical about my investigations under the bonnet. It didn't help. One per cent knowledge
and ninety-nine per cent good attitude still amount to one per cent knowledge. Dave's car park was still empty. The likelihood of finding a mechanic on a Sunday evening would have been better if I had been part of an auto club, but those sorts of things didn't exist in Splitters Creek.

I rested against the door of Mum's Corolla. She hardly drove it in the city. She caught the train to and from work. To the best of my knowledge, she only took it shopping. There was a glow behind the curtains in her flat window but the thought of going up there and asking her for a loan of her vehicle was too daunting. It was the needful side of my personality – and of Simon's personality and probably Dad's, too – that Mum found most burdensome. That conversation would be another nail in the coffin of our relating.

For a full minute, I actually considered stealing it, but that plan fell over when I realised I knew less about hot-wiring a car than I did about fixing broken ones.

Besides, that wasn't the bloke I wanted to be.

Own up. Fess up. Take responsibility.

I knocked on the security door and, when Mum realised I was alone, she let me in without a word. I sat at the kitchen table and she made us cups of tea. She stomped the cup a little dramatically on the table in front of me. The tea slopped and she pretended not to notice. Pretended to watch the TV.

‘Have you eaten?'

I nodded a lie. The mere mention of food got my guts going, but I wasn't about to burden her with that.

‘What would it take for you to pack up and move home? What could I say to you to convince you that things will be different?'

‘Nothing.'

I knew that was a lie. I knew that was her anger talking, stuff bubbling around that black hole in her.

‘I'm going home,' I said.

She didn't blink.

‘As soon as I can. As soon as the ute's fixed. I think I've found what I was looking for.'

‘Oh? And what was that, exactly?'

‘I'm not sure how to put it into words. A sense of direction. Hope. Family. All that stuff.'

‘Well, good for you,' she said, with more sarcasm than I thought was humanly possible.

I finished my tea, showered and went to the ute to grab my swag, but the air seemed warm and I could actually see the stars.

I stuck my head back inside the flat and told Mum that I'd decided to camp out.

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘I'm not. It's lovely outside.'

‘Lovely night to be murdered. Or raped.'

I smiled. ‘I should be so lucky.'

She shook her head. ‘I'll be locking the door,' she threatened. ‘And keeping the key.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Good night.'

And I lay there, naked in the swag in the back of the ute with the cloudless and light-polluted sky staring down at me. Cars came and went, aircraft blinked across my limited field of view and the night was certainly my friend. I woke to voices passing on the street and later to a catfight that sounded as if it was going on under the ute. Just as quickly
as I woke, I slept again. The ringing of the level crossing was more musical with only air between us. The layers of noise went on forever and I was okay with that. I could live in this world if I had to, just knew where I'd rather be.

It wasn't properly light when I blinked awake for the last time that night. I rolled on my back for a minute, my hands clasped behind my head. The night was dying but I could still see stars. I dressed in jeans and a flannelette shirt, my old baseball cap with sunglasses on top. I grabbed the plastic bag with all my Hardware House uniform in it and walked the life back into my bones along Mungo Road. Delivery vans and garbage trucks. The bakers were already open and I found a coffee shop with three sleepy-eyed patrons, but I didn't go in.

I bought breakfast at the golden arches but couldn't eat it. It felt like a crime to toss it in the bin, so I trashed the wrapper and left the food in the gutter for the early birds. I bought grapes and an orange from a man with bed hair and a leather apron. By the time I'd eaten them and found a clock, it was time to go to work.

For the last time.

Take responsibility.

Tony was waiting at the front door.

‘Could I have a word?'

I chuckled. ‘I was just going to ask you the same thing.'

He led me up to his office and closed the door.

‘Your services are no longer required here, mate. I'm sorry, you'll have to find yourself another job.'

He had his arms crossed, his fists pressed under his biceps like a security guard; only Tony was a quarter of the size. He
wouldn't last long on the footy field, which was a pity. I would have enjoyed mowing him down.

‘Don't make a fuss and you'll get what you're owed.'

‘Don't make a fuss? How could I
not
make a fuss?'

His pupils dilated. I let him stew in the sense that I was fighting the urge to punch the fuck out of him. Why would I want to do that? I'd come in to quit and got the sack. A far bigger part of me wanted to pat him on the back and underneath all that I felt sorry for him. Such a big fish in such a rank little pond.

‘Your pay will be deposited to your account on Wednesday,' Tony said.

I nodded, handed him the bag of uniform, wished him luck and walked.

But my feet were slapping on the pavement and something didn't feel right. It was like I'd hung up before I'd said everything I needed to say. What about Harry? What about Debbie?

With my sunglasses on and my old baseball cap pulled hard on my head, I cruised into The Hardware House like any other hapless customer. I made a bee-line for the timber shed and gave Harry the card I'd written for him before he even recognised me. I took my glasses off.

‘Chainsaw! You legend. Tony said you'd left town.'

I smiled. ‘He would. He sacked me.'

His mouth hung open. ‘Sacked? What for?'

I shrugged. ‘I think he
is
having an affair with Debbie.'

‘So? What's that got to do with you?'

‘Well, I asked Debbie if there was any truth in the rumour . . .'

‘That's certainly playing with fire. You should have known better.' He tore into the envelope. ‘What's this?'

‘Just a little thankyou note. You've been really kind to me. I hope you have a fantastic life.'

He read the card in silence and was obviously touched. He held out his hand. I dragged him into a stiff, back-thumping hug. His face flushed.

‘So you
are
leaving town?'

I nodded. ‘Give my love to Bonnie, hey?'

‘You're just chucking it in? You're not going to kick up a fuss? He shouldn't have sacked you for that.'

I shrugged. ‘Time to move on. I have a bit of unfinished business, though.'

‘I guess that means the flowers are for somebody else, you big tease.'

I donned my sunglasses again and headed for paint.

Debbie backed away from the counter. She'd seen straight through my disguise. She looked startled. ‘What do you want?'

I hung my sunglasses in the front of my shirt and handed her the roses. ‘I just wanted to say sorry,' I said. ‘And thank you.'

‘What for?'

‘Sorry for the gossip-mongering the other day, and thank you for everything you did for me.'

Debbie's lips disappeared inside her mouth.

Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you.

I smiled, put my glasses on and left.

There was a proper spring in my step heading back to the flat. I had my sunnies on top of my hat and I met the eyes of
shoppers. Eyes from a hundred nations, all ages, all sizes. Some said hello, some just nodded, some averted their eyes.

Dave was already under the bonnet of the ute, poking with one hand and talking on his mobile phone. He acknowledged me with a nod.

‘Yep. Tried that. Uh huh. Okay.'

He bent and rattled in the toolbox beside the front wheel. He stood again, wielding a hammer.

I backed away and covered my eyes theatrically.

‘It's all right, mate, I'm not going to kill it. This is advice from Ricky Tan, the high master of older Holdens. Here, hold my phone.'

Dave arranged himself around the engine and had a couple of practice swings at the starter motor. I clenched my jaw and he smacked it. One solid, irreverent peal rang for a full second.

‘Give that a go.'

‘Serious?'

He nodded and took the phone.

It started first try. I revved it and smiled.

Dave was laughing and waving the hammer above his head like a trophy.

‘Can you hear it?' he shouted, and held his phone in the engine bay.

I turned the engine off and started it again. I shook Dave's hand and thanked him. He handed me his phone and I thanked Ricky Tan, the high master of older Holdens.

Mum was there.

She appeared out of nowhere and I knew something was wrong. She wasn't wearing her uniform. Her cheeks were
flushed and her eyelashes were matted together. For the first time in years, her face wasn't pruned up with the anger that aged her.

She was sad.

Dave bundled his tools and left in a hurry.

‘What?'

Her lip twitched. ‘Your dad phoned this morning. Simon's gone.'

It hit me like a flying tackle, but I remained upright. ‘What do you mean gone?'

‘Somewhere between the pub and home yesterday afternoon, he got lost.'

‘Fuck.'

‘They looked all night . . .'

She rested her forehead in her hand, then rubbed furiously at her eyes. ‘I don't know what to do. I . . .'

I was in the ute by then, gingerly backing out of the parking spot. ‘Bullshit, Mum. That's bullshit. You know what to do.'

I drove the morning in silence towards my home. The place I was born. I stopped for the toilet, petrol and food at the Billabong roadhouse near Bairnsdale and the bush-scented air made my stomach flip.

My thoughts were grey through a malaise of blame.

I blamed my way back through time. I blamed myself for running away. I blamed Mum for leaving, too, and blamed Dad for not doing enough. Then I was back to blaming the accident and Simon for being a bastard and then I was blaming God for everything.

The accident wasn't God's fault. It wasn't my fault either. It wasn't Dad's fault or Simon's fault or anybody's fault. It just happened. None of it changed the fact that Simon was missing.

I caught the ABC radio news just outside Orbost.

‘Police are appealing to motorists who may have seen missing Splitters Creek man Simon Prince, absent from his home in Victoria's East Gippsland since Sunday night. Mr Prince is described as one hundred and eighty centimetres
tall, with blond hair, of heavy build and is intellectually impaired. He was last seen near the Splitters Creek Hotel around three p.m. on Sunday.'

It was just after one p.m. when I made it home.

Splitters Creek was a circus. A bass-baritone diesel generator hummed from Nigel Fenton Reserve. Two marquees had been erected and people in orange overalls were milling about. I spotted Squid Hegarty talking with Cappo and I knew it was time to face the music.

Fess up.

I parked the ute.

Squid saw me coming and had to look twice. ‘Ho! Look out, here comes trouble.'

I crossed my arms and they laughed.

‘Cappo? Can I have a word?' I asked.

‘Certainly, Adam.'

Squid vanished into a tent. A helicopter took a low pass over the centre of town.

‘I'm . . . I'm not really happy with what I did. I'm ashamed that I did a runner. I'm really sorry and wish I'd done it differently. I . . .'

‘Listen, Adam, I don't have time for this right now. We'll sort it out later, hey?'

I looked at my feet.

‘Now, if you want something to do, you can go down to that house there.' He pointed to our place. ‘Say hello to the bloke who lives there. He said he was going to be here by now. He must be having a long lunch.'

I nodded and thanked him.

The porch light was a weak glow against the afternoon sun. Roasted insects were sprinkled on the verandah and I stood there, thinking about knocking. My knuckles hung in the air for a full second, then I grabbed the doorknob.

The door burst open.

Dad and I both jumped.

He stared at me, his face awash with emotion. A scowl, fading to a frown and finally settling on a look of relief.

He hugged me. Wrapped his arms around me and caught me by surprise. My body stiffened and I patted his shoulder. His body started to shake and inside me something melted. I was five years old again. My body softened and folded into his familiar warmth. Whatever it was that had melted came leaking from my eyes.

‘Sorry, Dad.'

He shook his head against my neck.

‘Where is he?' I asked.

‘I don't know,' Dad breathed, and hung on tight.

I rubbed his back again. ‘I'll find him, Dad. We'll find him. He'll be okay.'

A sleepy currawong chortled from a shining gum beside the creek, its call softened by the distance.

I was suddenly aware of home. It washed over me and through me and my skin prickled.

Back at the marquees, the generator hummed, powering the racks of communications equipment in the tent. Desk lamps lit maps taped to trestle tables, greetings were exchanged – some shocked and delighted, some puzzled, some seemingly indifferent – and a bloke I didn't recognise asked for a bit
of shush. He outlined the rest of the day's activities. The searchers were divided into four teams, one for each point of the compass. The road search had been completed the night before. Every walking track, every logging road, every siding and coop within a fifty-kilometre radius of town had been spotlighted. If Simon had walked out of town, he'd wandered off the track. The teams were to check the verges and drains along the major tracks on foot. Team leaders were to radio in every half an hour and report anything significant immediately.

I went with the north group, as instructed. Dad was group leader of the east. We pored over the maps and, while the SES bloke's outline of the activities seemed hopeful, one look at the vast patches of green on the map and it hit me.

Simon could be anywhere.

Up here, the mountains roll on forever and if Simon had become disoriented and left the track as they were suggesting, a hundred sniffer dogs might not find him in a hundred years.

My sense of futility grew as the afternoon yawned on. Our crew of six spread through the bush on either side of the road. We walked, slashed and stomped in a line as the fire truck idled and kept pace with us. Squid had the coloured lights on. They looked pathetic through the sunshine and they only added to my sense of hopelessness. There was the hopelessness and there was an embarrassing sense of relief in the thought that Simon might never be found. That his story might finally be over, that his final chapters might read like an unsolved mystery. I tucked those thoughts under the mattress in my mind and kept searching.

But when the crew sat down to rest at four p.m. and I thanked them with all the sincerity I could muster, the words sounded false, even to my own ears. I didn't believe that we'd find him this way. I excused myself and ran towards town. I could do that. I was allowed to run. It was my brother they were looking for and they knew the situation would be breaking my poor little heart. But every footfall added clarity to my conviction. My chest was tight and my lungs burned, but my head was working fine. I understood why the bush search seemed futile.

Simon never left the track.

Ever.

Even before the accident, his habits and rituals and routines were the things that allowed him a Splitters Creek sort of greatness.

Something or somebody had fucked with his routine. It wouldn't take much. Last time it happened, Simon wrapped his car around a tree. This time, I realised as I reached the outskirts of town, was more serious.