Into the River (15 page)

“It’s only your Uncle Frank,” said John, turning to Mitch. “He threatened to drop over last night. He told me he’s had a windfall.”

Mitch laughed and said to Devon, “That usually means he’s come across a swag of stuff and you can be sure of one thing: he hasn’t paid a cent for it.”

Sure enough, as they approached the house through the canyon of cars, two men appeared on the front veranda.

“Oh no, he’s brought Baz along,” said Big John.

“Baz McCurdy, that is. Dad calls him Blow Hard.”

“Try hard,” Big John muttered as they climbed out.

“What are you two bastards up to? Drinking all my beer? Come and help me turn off this friggin’ Legacy. It’s starting to give me a headache.”

Baz got some blue packing tape and a screwdriver from inside the house and soon levered open the window and lassoed the door lock button. Devon was impressed. It must have taken less than fifteen seconds. Next he popped the bonnet and found the alarm relay. Peace descended, along with a sense of relief.

Baz turned to the two boys. “Pretty slick, huh? You can see why Subs are the most stolen car in New Zealand. So, John, how’ve you
been, you old bastard?”

“Not bad, you old bastard.”

“Keeping straight?”

“Straight as a sheila’s hair clip.” He wandered over to where the other man was lighting a smoke. “Hey, Frank, where’s this so-called windfall?”

Frank looked coy. “That’s why I’ve come to see youse. Share it about.” He looked pleased with his comment, then turned to Mitch. “How’s the boy? Playing footie?”

“No, we have to play rugby at Barwell’s.”

“Rugby poofs, huh? Rugby and cricket. Cucumber sandwiches in the pavilion.” He turned up his nose and put on a toff accent. Mitch and Devon giggled. Baz McCurdy went inside with Big John and they closed the door behind them. Uncle Frank sunk into the old car seat on the veranda.

“And who’s our friend?”

“Oh, sorry, Frank, this is Devon. He’s here for the weekend. He’s in my pen at school.”

“Out on parole, Devon? Time off for good behaviour?”

“I guess,” said Devon. “My folks live down on the East Coast so I don’t get out that often.”

“The East Coast. What’s your surname?”

“Santos.”

“Any relation to the Santos in the Warriors?”

“We’re all warriors down on the Coast.”

Frank looked at Mitch. “Oh. He’s a smarty. Watch out for that one, but make sure you sit next to him in the exams.”

“I wish. I’m in 3K; he’s in 3B. I’m in with the retards and the crap teachers.”

“They still do that stuff do they? I thought it was year nine and year ten. That sort of thing. All mix and match.”

“Not at Barwell’s; it’s traditional. They got this saying in the fourth form how the school goes all the way from 4A for Asian, through to 4J for genius, right down to 4Q for asking.” Mitch
paused to fire a spit off the veranda then added, “It’s like we all got ‘dumb cunt’ stamped on our heads.” Mitch had never said anything like this to Devon. The bitterness came as a shock.

Frank laughed. “No kidding? Well, out here in the junkyard things are a bit different. Come with me, boys, I might have something for you.” They went inside where Big John and Baz were talking over cans of beer.

“… I won’t fucken wear it. End of story.” Big John sounded heated but it all disappeared when Mitch and Devon entered.

Uncle Frank went into a back room and dragged out a big plastic bag full of brightly coloured jackets. He fussed around looking at the labels and then finally pulled out two jackets and threw one to each of the boys.

“There you go. It’s always Christmas when Uncle Frank comes around. These two should fit youse. S.M. That your size?”

The jackets were Holden HDT Team jackets. Red and white, covered in badges. Devon looked at his in disbelief. A few of the older boys wore these at Barwell’s: they were highly prized. Really expensive and these were the newest models.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking, put them on!” Frank had fixed himself another drink and was pretty pleased with his gifts.

“Thanks, Uncle,” said Mitch. “Now if Dad can score me an HDT Holden I’ll be the real deal. All the girls will want to be with me, and all the guys will want to be like me.”

Devon didn’t know what to say. His clothes were so ‘East Coast Maori’ that he preferred to stay in his uniform, even during the weekends. Better that, than copping all the snarky comments. In a jacket like this he could go anywhere. Be anything.

Baz McCurdy made to leave. “You guys are lucky that Frank just happened to have fifty jackets on him.” Then he said to John, “I’ll take the Legacy now, since I’m going that way. Save you towing it tomorrow.”

“There’s no key,” said John.

“I’ll manage,” said McCurdy, pulling a short length of wire
and a screwdriver from his pocket. “I just happen to be carrying my own.”

They all went outside and watched John drop the Legacy and unhitch it. McCurdy clambered in and had the car running moments later.

That night the boys slept in a room out the back that they shared with boxes of spares. Everything had the brand and year painted in white on the side. The walls were covered in porno calendars going way back and there was little to show that it was Mitch’s room. It was a noisy house. Big John and Uncle Frank were up, talking and drinking for hours. Then the two dogs that slept on the veranda kept hearing things in the yard and jumped up, barking their heads off. Finally, when Devon got up some time in the middle of the night for a pee, he heard the unmistakeable sound of rats gnawing in the walls. Even that didn’t dampen the prospect of his new jacket, which had made his world seem alive with possibilities.

In the morning Mitch got up early. He wanted to show Devon the car his father had given him. It was cold but Devon wouldn’t wear his jacket in the yard because there was too much oil. Too much opportunity to soil it.

The yard, by daylight, was large, maybe half the size of a football field. It had heaps of car corpses all around the perimeter, stacked higher than the eight-foot fence that contained them. There was a circular road that began behind the little house and wound its way through the teetering stacks. To call Mitch’s vehicle a car was an exaggeration: so much of it had been cut away with a blow torch that it was not much more than an engine with wheels and a seat.

“Seems to be a bit missing, Mitch.” Devon stared at the remaining two panels “Mmm. What was it? The body says eighties Laser.”

“You’re wrong there, bud, it’s my own take on a Mazda, the
Madaz Formula 1 series. Stripped back. Now, it’s just nothing but go.” He took his place behind the wheel. “Climb aboard. I’ll put this little mutha through its paces.”

The battery was a bit unwilling at first, but after a few tries it fired and then there was no stopping it. The sound of the engine roared straight from the manifold, colouring the sleepy Sunday morning. No further talk was possible. Devon held on tightly to the seat as they raced around and around the yard. Mitch drove like his father, but without the pin-point accuracy. He tended to clip things and Devon made sure he kept his arms tucked in as they flashed by the jagged, rusty stacks. As they were passing the house, a grapefruit exploded over the windshield. It had been chucked by Big John, who stood on the veranda wearing just a pair of tiny purple underpants.

“Hey, Rod Dixon! Knock it on the head! There are people sleeping in here.”

They switched off and went inside.

“Real cruel on guys with hangovers. You two are on breakfast duty for that.”

There was an old pan that seemed to live on the stove top. Devon noted that the contents showed bite marks: from last night’s rats, he supposed; their feet and teeth had clearly scribed prints into the congealed fat. Mitch didn’t say anything, just lit the gas and rummaged around in the fridge for bacon and eggs.

Uncle Frank had slipped away during the night, John told them; he had a few deliveries to make.

“You two did all right out of him. There you go, Devon, remember that: a life lesson. Success is just luck and timing. He’s usually a bit of a tight bastard but you happened to be here when he was feeling flush.”

After breakfast John went off somewhere and Mitch and Devon were left to tinker with the cars.

“He’s been at me to take out the headlights so he can sell them on. Want to help?”

For the next few hours they were clambering over the tilting stacks with a screw driver and Twink pen, and loading headlights onto the back of Mitch’s car. By the time Big John came back they had prised free about fifty sets. Next they labelled and arranged them by make and model. Big John appeared to be impressed and stood next to the box with his hands on his hips.

“Must be Devon, I can’t see Mitch being that organised.”

That night they went out to Onehunga to watch the Warriors play the Parramatta Eels. Devon was not really into this sort of thing, or he thought he wasn’t, but sitting on the terraces, wearing his new jacket, he felt relaxed and accepted. He was content, almost. The crowd was more interesting than the game. The people in front of him, Mitch and his father, people they bumped into, were all part of something. A shared hope. That their team would win, or at least lose bravely.

As it happened, The Warriors did lose. It was their seventh consecutive loss, Big John said with a shake of his head. But no one seemed downhearted. It was as though they all knew that not today maybe, not tomorrow, but some day, the Warriors would rise again. They’d fill the hearts of their fans with wonder. Faith rewarded. And everything in the world would be okay for another week or three.

It was one of those things, Devon thought, like believing in God. They weren’t spectators, these people on the stands, they were a congregation. They belonged.

At that moment, more than anything else in the world, Devon wished he could join them. Wished that he could shed his prickly, unbelieving skin and become one of the many.

They threaded their way out of the stadium. All around them were family groups, subdued but accepting, their faith unshaken, their loyalty beyond question.

By the time John dropped him and Mitch back at school, Devon felt he had been away for two weeks, not just two days.

For the final term the focus became study and Devon was determined this time to prove to the headmaster, and everybody else, just what he was capable of. He stayed in on the weekends and gave chess away because it drained too much of his energy and attention. The Latin was largely a matter of memorising and recitation. It became a routine of his to run through sets of declensions and cases until they were so familiar he could chant them out to a rhythm like a rap. Later, he added the extra inducement of stroking himself at the same time.

When the exams finally arrived, Devon was looking forward to them. He was sick of the practice and now desired only to be tested. There were a number of personal scores he was going to settle here and, at worst, he risked not being promoted. As it happened, it wasn’t the two firsts (English and Latin) that got him the promotion, it was the seventh in Maths and the recommendation for Most Improved (or as it was known by the boys, the “Try Hard” award.)

A week later Mr Hockly, the fruity Social Studies teacher, was given a note by the messenger.

“Santos. Here, please.” Then he added in a soft voice, “The headmaster wants you in his office now.”

For Devon, this time there was no nervousness. He knew he had made it.

The headmaster’s secretary scrutinised him closely and had him sit down. A minute or two later the door opened and Rajendra walked out. He looked very subdued.

“He wants you now,” he said, and left quickly.

Inside the office the headmaster was not writing busily on a sheet of paper but sitting back and waiting for him.

“So we meet again, Santos, this time, I believe under happier circumstances.”

Devon waited. It didn’t seem to warrant an answer.

“Do you know why you are here?” the headmaster seemed a bit bemused.

“No sir.”

“Well, do you recall our last meeting?”

“Yes sir.”

“Yes sir. No sir. Don’t be coy, Santos. It’s not attractive. I think modesty is an over-rated virtue, and false modesty is craven, to say the least. You earned your place in the school. You’ve earned your appointment here in my office. And you have earned your place in 4A next year.”

These were the words he had longed to hear, had worked so hard for, and now they clattered out into the headmaster’s study like dropped coins. Surely they deserved a flourish of trumpets or at least a round of applause. But never mind; the glittering prize was his.

“Be advised, Santos, there are costs that go with every triumph. In order to make room for you in class, we had to remove a boy. Patel has only been in the class for half a year, hardly long enough to find his feet, but already he is going back to the B stream. Don’t imagine that this couldn’t happen to you. He was not the bottom but he never made enough progress to cement his place.”

Devon suddenly felt a pang for Raj. He knew what the move had meant to him, how ambitious his parents were for him, and now he had to wear the humiliation of demotion.

“You are joining the best of the best. This is the stream that produces the leaders. The movers and shakers. The people you read about in the paper. I hope you are up to it. I believe you are. Please don’t disappoint me.”

On the last night before the end of term, as Devon and his three room-mates were getting ready for bed, Steph suggested they sneak out for a midnight ramble. It would need to be very late, when they were sure there would be no housemasters prowling about.

Next to the bathroom door was the fire escape, seemingly installed for the sole purpose of allowing boys to sneak out undetected. They headed for the chapel which stood in its own little grove of trees near the gate. Steph had his chorister’s key, which allowed entry to one of the unused cloister doors.

Devon, who normally relished this sort of adventure, nevertheless felt uneasy being in the chapel in the middle of the night. Although silent and deserted, it seemed that it was full of invisible people. He could sense them pressing in on him. Even in the dark there was a soft glow from the stained glass windows, and he could see the faint outline of Jesus with finger raised above the altar. High above them, mouldy old flags hung; a decaying reminder of “the sacrifices made by those who came before”. Then there was the special seat where the chaplain perched, and the headmaster’s seat with his hymn book placed neatly awaiting the next service. The forbidden territory around the altar was now trampled over willy-nilly by their irreverent feet. Devon’s heart suddenly travelled to other spaces; to the wharenui, and the ruined hut in Goldsmith’s Bush where he encountered the taniwha. To the other boys it was just a space, to Devon it was a realm, their games a transgression.

At last, Steph revealed the reason he had brought them there. He had a joint.

“Where’d you get it?” Wingnut asked in a hushed whisper.

Steph reached over and gave Wingnut’s nose a little tug. He got the message and clammed up.

Steph produced a lighter and played it expertly over this end of the joint. He had a little puff and then coughed vigorously and
puffed again. This time he was more successful and was able to keep the smoke down for a moment or two before it all came spluttering out. He passed the joint to Mitch who looked at it curiously and then passed it on to Wingnut. Wingnut stared at the glowing tip. The other three watched for moment or so before Devon, impatient for his turn, snatched the joint and had a decent sort of pull. Mitch gave an “Oh what the hell” gesture and then demonstrated a major toke. This was too much for Wingnut; he grabbed the stub and inhaled powerfully before simultaneously burning his fingers and exploding into an endless coughing fit. He let out a loud “Youch!” and flicked the glowing roach several rows back into the body of the church. Steph laughed and Devon and Mitch went off to find where it had landed. Before long everyone was on their hands and knees crawling rapidly up and down the rows. Wingnut made a bleating sheep noise. Mitch came up behind him barking and bit him on the bum. Steph’s laugh turned into a witchy cackle. Soon everything was funny; nothing was important.

‘You guys hide and I’ll find you.’ It was as though Steph had planned this all along. He disappeared into the sacristy and began counting loudly. The others hid in various parts of the nave. When Steph re-emerged he looked different. Bulkier and glowing. As he stepped into the diffuse moonlight by the altar it was clear why. He was wearing the chaplain’s communion robes and carrying a decanter of wine in one hand and a shepherd’s staff in the other.

“Come forth. Come forth, you sinners. Time to repent.” He took a major slug from the decanter and proceeded down into the body of the church, hunting out his prey. One by one each of the others failed to contain his giggles and was flushed out with the crook. Devon was the last. He felt the pressure of repressed laughter welling up. Just when he was sure he had it under control it defeated him in the form of a fart: one of the trumpet-blast variety.

“I smell thee, Satan. I smell thy sulfurish breath …”

“Rank one!” said Mitch. “It’s got to be straight to hell for you. Farting in church … it’s one of the deadly sins. I know for a fact it
really pisses God off …”

“Devon Santos!” Steph’s voice attempted the godly tone. “Up with this … I will not put!”

Wingnut jumped on Devon’s back. “I got him … I got him.”

After this the four of them went up to the altar and lay about on the carpeted area where a few days earlier, they had kneeled to receive communion. The decanter only made one and a half rounds before it was empty.

Steph then wanted to propose a toast so they had to do this with imaginary glasses.

“To the survivors!”

“The survivors!”

Mitch held up his hand. After a moment or two, all noise died. There were torch beams flashing around the main doors.

“They’re coming,” Mitch said.

“Exit! Stage left.”

Steph led the others out the side door just as the caretaker got the main doors open. In bright moonlight they sprinted through the copse of trees back to the silent dorm. There was a warmth to the air: the winter, which once seemed endless, had finally gone.

The last day of the school year began like any other. Being a Saturday without sporting commitments, there were those who tried to sleep in. Others were up early, organising their things and readying themselves for an early pick-up. Mitch had already gone home because Big John collected him on Friday night; and
Wingnut
had everything packed and waiting in reception by 7.30 a.m. When Devon and Steph came back from breakfast he was looking for them to say goodbye.

“My dad’s here, I’d better be off. You guys have a great holiday.”

Neither Steph nor Devon were looking forward to the holidays. For Steph it would mean being holed up in his father’s apartment in a city where he knew nobody. A marathon of books, the internet and TV. For Devon the last few forays down to Whareiti had
become increasingly difficult. In the long weekends or mid-term breaks he found it a real struggle to fit back into his old skin, and he would arrive back at school tainted by guilt and failure.

They helped Wingnut carry his bags down to the car park where his father was rearranging the back seat purchases to fit everything. There was another round of “what a great year it’s been” and “how fun it’s going to be, back home at last”. Steph’s “jolly hockey sticks” version bordered on sarcasm but the farmer didn’t seem to notice. Devon found himself irritated by the farm boy’s obvious desire to hurry home to ‘Mum and Grandpop’. They watched the white Fairmont roll out the school gates and thread itself into the busy Saturday morning traffic.

As they walked back to the boarding house, two seniors emerged, laughing and pushing each other, looking back over their shoulders furtively.

“… I wouldn’t even go there, man. Not that desperate.”

“Coupla bush pigs …”

In the foyer Paikea and Rawinia stood looking into the glass cases filled with trophies. Devon felt ill. He paused, not wanting to go in. Steph looked at him, puzzled.

“You go on, Steph, I’ll be up in a minute.”

Steph looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“It’s okay, it’s not you, I just … I just need a moment.”

He slumped on a bench out of sight of the foyer. Steph stood waiting, wondering what was wrong.

“Go on. Go on. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Steph looked at Devon once more and then looked in at the two figures in the foyer before shrugging and moving off.

Devon felt as though his stomach had been ripped out. He could feel beads of sweat prickling at his forehead and neck. He was breathless and giddy, like when he’d been kicked in the balls during PE. Maybe it was the surprise, the fact that he’d dropped his defences … he’d allowed himself to think the struggle was over
now at Barwell’s and that everything was okay.

When he finally made himself visible to the pair, it was
Rawinia
who spotted him first and charged forward, wrapping her arms around him. She had got bigger but she was still really just a baby. Mr Simmonds appeared.

“I wondered where you had got to. I was about to send out a search party.” He said something quietly to Paikea and sat at the duty desk where he had laid out the morning
Herald.

“So big. So many boys.” Rawinia was overwhelmed. There was nothing about Whareiti to prepare her for this.

“She insisted on coming up. I’ve been putting her off all year but this time she wouldn’t wear it.” Paikea came over and kissed him on the cheek and Devon flashed a self-conscious glance around the foyer.

“What? Embarrassed to kiss your cousin? Te Arepa!” Then she laughed.

Devon knew he had to leave as quickly as possible.

“You wait here, I’ll get my stuff.” And he ran up the stairs to their pen.

Steph was lying on the bed reading, his gear waiting beside him on the floor.

He looked at Devon, who stood for a moment indecisively, his hand resting on his old suitcase. Steph jumped up and wrapped him in a hug. He felt Steph’s head resting on his shoulder. For a moment he was pulled between tearing himself away from this forbidden affection and drinking it in. It was too much, too sudden.

Steph took a step back and said, “What’s this?” He reached out and carefully caught a tear from Devon’s cheek on his fingertip.

Devon stood there, not knowing what to say.

Steph put it in his mouth. “Salty.” Then, in a softer tone he said, “It won’t be long … but I know it
will
be long.” Then he went back to his book on the bed.

“Bye, Steph.”

There was no response from the other boy and his eyes never left the page.