Number 8 (26 page)

“Beretta, 9 mm, parabellum,” he says, pulling out a gun. He aims it at Badman and purses his lips, miming “
pow pow
.” He pretends to pull the trigger.

Badman freezes. I can hear his breathing stop. His face loses color so quickly, it's as if the blood has been sucked right out of him.

There's not a sound in the room. We've both got our eyes locked on Rocky. He blows on the end of his gun as if he's just nailed someone, and gives a low false baddy's laugh. What does he think he is, a cowboy in some Western cartoon?

We watch as he wipes the gun with his sleeve, giving it an affectionate last pat. “You can't beat the Eye-tyes for style and efficiency, now can you?” Swinging around, he pushes the drawer shut and locks it.

As he turns he waves the gun at us. “Berettas always get top dollars on the market. Semiautomatic. They're handy for the mugs that don't cooperate. Remember that.”

He shoves the gun in his belt and heads up the stairs.

It's still dark when I tiptoe out of the house. The sun is a golden line at the top of the hill. I glance at my watch. 5:33 A.M. Now that I have no bike I'll need an extra half hour to complete the route.

Walking up the hill, I try to think positively about the morning. You know, the fresh air and the … But I keep counting my steps. I'm counting in twos and whenever I'm not counting I see the Mustang coming down this same road and the spot where my bike was smashed. 14, 16, 18, 20 … Up ahead, there are two dark skid lines wrapping around the corner. Were they there yesterday?

I used to enjoy my challenges. You know, I'd get a kick out of seeing how many breaths I could take by the time the bus turned into St. Peter's Road or winking twice at a red light (four for green). But sometimes, like right now, I don't want my mind to do that. I want to think about something else. Something positive.

The newsdealer's is probably only about one hundred and forty-eight steps from here.

I look straight into the sun. It's popped out over the horizon like a seed. I remember a story Miss Braithwaite told us about a giant who blew up a yellow balloon and set it off with a giant pat to float up into the sky. But one
morning a blue Mustang crashed into the yellow balloon and burst it, bringing eternal darkness to the world…

No, that wasn't how the story finished but now I'm at the newsdealer's and I'm standing in the doorway. One hundred and forty-
nine
steps to the line. I can't pretend any different, it's just not right. Bummer.

Bill looks weary and I can see a crust of sleep in the corner of his eye. He's grumpy, too. “A bit early, aren't you?”

I tell him about having an accident with the bike and that I'm on foot. He grunts and gives me a half load of
Homeland Dailies
. “You'll have to come back for the rest. Do it in two lots. I don't want your mother coming here and suing me for your crooked back.” He sighs. “Kids are so careless these days. You won't last long at this job without a bike. You'll be late for school, get sick of it. Kids, they just want the big excitement and then they get bored. You can't depend on them anymore.”

I open my mouth to point out that in fact I'm early because I
want
to get the job done in time and anyway you can't just lump all kids together like that—you wouldn't say “adults, they're all the same,” would you? But he doesn't want to listen and anyway I wouldn't have the guts to say it. I must have fifty-seven weeks worth of speeches in my head that I'll never deliver.

“So much delinquency around here,” he goes on, shaking his head. “No respect for other people's rights. Something will have to be done. Take this noise pollution—what is it, cars backfiring, firecrackers, seems these young hoods will do anything for excitement. You hear that one last night? I nearly fell out of bed. Sounded like someone being shot. Then such a squeal of tires around that corner—thought they'd ram into my garden wall.”

“I was out last night—”

“Always racing each other up and down this street. Souped-up cars—revving their engines. There's no peace anymore around here.”

“What kind of cars have you—”

“Well, young fella, can't stand around jabbering all day. You'd better be on your way then, quick. Off you go!”

I turn on my heel with my bundle of papers and head off. Why don't people just talk to the wallpaper if they don't want to even hear what anyone else has to say?

I do the block in a jog. As I throw the papers I think about Bill and what a cranky old fart he is. I wonder why. Maybe he's a bit deaf. You'd go right inside yourself if you had that affliction. The whole world would seem far away, scary maybe, as if it didn't have anything much to do with you. Still, as I throw my eighteenth newspaper (house number thirty-six, perfect multiple, deserves four winks) I wonder if I should tell him about the Mustang. I keep feeling guilty about it, this dirty secret smashed up in our garage. Underneath, I think it's really my fault, because I was standing in the road doing a stupid challenge. No one would expect to see a lump of a boy in the middle of the road. By the time I finish the block I'm thinking maybe the driver was one of these young “delinquents”; he might even live around here. Maybe that Neighborhood Watch group might be interested. I've seen their posters up near the bakery.

Bill is busy unpacking stationery when I walk in. He just grunts and loads me up. Doesn't even look up. I stand there for a bit with my arms full. I can't help winking at the stack of red pens on the counter.

“What's wrong with you, kid, got a squint?” he says.

“No, I was just thinking—”

His brow clears. “Ah, you want your week's pay,” and he hands me the small yellow envelope and turns his back on me.

On the second run the morning is already warmer and the air is heavier, almost sweet. Dew hangs from the leaves like those little crystal tears Esmerelda wears on her necklace.

I'm on my way home, back down my street when I see a police car. It's parked outside Esmerelda's house. Alarm pings in my chest. How strange, at eight in the
morning
? I'm crossing the road when I remember her telling me her uncle is a policeman. He lives in another state, I think she said. Uncle Bob. So probably he's just come for a visit. As I open our gate I imagine telling him all about the blue Mustang and the bike and asking him to promise not to tell Mom. It's a good fantasy and I stretch it out to last past the garbage cans and the maple tree. I imagine drinking a Coke with Uncle Bob and suggesting maybe he could do some investigating on the quiet. Then I remember he's here on vacation and why would he want to take on some strange kid and his problems, and anyway, Mom is so phobic about the police she probably wouldn't even let me finish the Coke…

I go the long way down the garden to the porch and the back door so I don't wake her. And I'm kind of interested anyway to see how many steps it will take if I go around the azalea bush, even though I'm tired and hot and know that I should just race in and take a shower and get ready for school and totally forget about the azalea bush. I'm up to twenty-three when I see something bright red on the path beside the grass.

I pick it up. Blood pounds in my head. A Thunder, it's a firecracker—
used
. I remember Bill's words:
These explosions in the middle of the night
… The possum house—I didn't check it this morning.

I run back up to the maple tree in twelve steps and peer into it. No sign of damage. But how do I know they're okay? I can't see any possums inside. I glance at the mailbox. Everything as usual.

Badman. The
bastard
. Inside my garden. What the hell is he playing at?

I go inside and take a shower. When I come out Mom is making tea in the kitchen. She's doing everything by feel with her eyes closed. When she hears me behind her she opens her eyes. “I'm pretending to be Ray Charles,” she grins sleepily.

I don't say anything. I don't feel like joking around and anyway I'm hunting for my English book.

“You know, Ray Charles, the blind piano player?”

I'm still hunting for my English book. There are bills and shopping lists and stuff all over the kitchen table.

“Was that in bad taste? I'm sorry,” says Mom. I can feel her eyes open now, considering my back.

“I've gotta go to school,” I tell her, turning around. “You can go back to bed with your tea.”

She smiles and pats my face. “That bruise still looks nasty. Does it hurt much?”

“No, I don't think about it.”

She catches sight of the clock above the fridge. “Oh, gosh, I'll have to rush, too. I said I'd take Polly to have an X-ray for her knee. I'm picking her up at her place. All that peak hour traffic. I better fly. Have a good day, sweetheart!”

My English book has disappeared. And we're having a test today. Our homework was to give the Latin origins of ten words, like balance and benefit. What about the word
bastard
? “Badman is a bastard.” Bastard means someone whose parents aren't married, so it's actually not such a bad word or even an insult because who cares if your parents were married or not when they had you? And it's hardly the fault of their kid anyway. But I just like saying bastard. The “b” is really explosive. Like you've got a bomb in your mouth. Mom says bastard may be my favorite word because I have abandonment issues. You know, with Dad dying and all. So every now and then she sits me down and shows me her marriage certificate and tells me again I
did
have a father and little stories about him. I don't protest because I quite like the stories and anyway she seems to enjoy telling them. Her voice sounds younger and softer when she talks about him.

The English book is not under all the stuff on the table or on the floor or hidden by the TV guide. I give up and fling out the door but as I march out into the street the bus drives off.

I throw my bag down on the curb and sit on it. I take out the Thunder from my pocket and look at it. Then I think of Mrs. Bradman and her cardigan. I wonder if she knows how evil her son is. Maybe she doesn't care. I remember a program I saw once on TV where they were interviewing a mother about her son. He had murdered some guy. He was on death row, about to be executed by the state. The interviewer kept asking her different questions but the mother just kept saying, “He's my son, he's my
son
.” It was just about the saddest thing I'd ever seen.

The police car outside Esmerelda's house has gone. That
was a short visit—you'd think an uncle would stay for breakfast when he hasn't seen his family for a couple of years. When the next bus comes I head right down the back so I don't have to talk to anyone. I want to plan what I'm going to do to Badman when I see him.

Outside the school gates there are two police cars. They're parked in the bus stop zone. Has Badman gone and blown up something really important? Or maybe he's hurt someone, or himself? I feel a kind of sweet relief, like tasting chocolate on my tongue. I know it's bad, but if Badman's discovered to be a real criminal he'll be stopped, won't he? It'll all be taken out of my hands. I won't have to deal with him anymore. (And maybe I won't wake up at 3:33 A.M.)

I go up the steps to the administration block to get a late note. But the staff room next to it is filled with kids spilling into the hallway and as I look along the line to the end of the room I see two tall uniformed men. Police.

Asim spots me as he's coming out.

“Jackson, where have you been?”

“I missed the bus and—”

“Something terrible has happened. The police are interviewing everyone about Esmerelda—”

“Esmerelda?” A spurt of fear shoots into my throat.

“Yes. Ez and Badman are missing.”

“
What
?” My throat is seizing up. I start to cough.

“Come on,” says Asim, leading me back down the steps, “you can see the police later, they've got tons of kids to get through first.”

We go to sit on a bench. “It's not true,” I try to say through the coughing. “It can't be, I saw her uncle outside…” My
heart is beating like a jackhammer. Not Esmerelda, no, please! Nothing's allowed to happen to Esmerelda.

Asim touches my arm. “When both Ez and Badman's parents went to wake them this morning they weren't there. It sounds so strange, there was no sign of forced entry, except Mrs. Marx cannot understand how she came to leave the front door unlocked. She and her husband were sure they had checked the door before they went to bed—”

“She's missing, with
him
. Missing.” I'm repeating everything like a parrot. I want to say it all a hundred times so I can believe it. I wish it was printed out in a book so I could read it. Because just words in the air like this—I can't believe it.

Asim looks down at the ground. “Joe told the police this stupid thing.”

“What?”

“That Ez and Badman eloped—”

“That stupid idiot. As if Esmerelda—and anyway, eloped means running away to get married and they're too young. We had it in our novel study. What an idiot—”

Asim squeezes my arm. “Of course no one believes him.” Asim pauses a moment. “When the police talked to me I did say that I knew she was very angry with her parents for not letting her go out last night. You know, to hear Valerie.”

I look at Asim. A kind of buzzing is starting in my head like wires suddenly connecting and making sparks. “She told me on the phone she was so mad she wanted to run away.”

Asim nods. “She told me that, too.”

We sit and stare at the ground. Nothing is making any sense at all. I think of that expression, “the rug was pulled out from under me.” Mom says that a lot, particularly on the
phone to Bev. She says, “Well, I felt like the rug was pulled out from under me!” That's what this feels like. As if the ground I've always known has suddenly shifted, cracked into tiny pieces.