The Year My Life Broke (7 page)

My first lunchtime practice was embarrassing. I rocked up as soon as I could, but walked into an earthquake of laughter. ‘Ohmigod, look what's here,' was the only comment I actually heard, among all the noise. I didn't know what to say. One thing for sure, I didn't want to make a speech to every kid explaining how in one weekend I could go from someone who didn't know which end of the bat to hold to someone who could hit a ball that went vaguely where I wanted it to go.

It turned out that I didn't have to make any speeches, because I didn't have to do anything. Mr Surrey put me in the outfield, where I mooched around drawing patterns in the dust with my toe. Like Red, I couldn't wait to get onto the new oval, with its beautiful surface of fresh grass. The old oval, which we were using for practice, had a surface like the Simpson Desert.

I had to field a couple of balls, which I stopped easily enough, throwing them in without any fuss. I was pretty keen not to stand out. It was halfway through practice the next day before Mr Surrey finally decided I could come in from the dunes. Suddenly he beckoned me, and pointed to the non-striker's end. I ran over, grabbed a bat and took up my position. Rolf was at the other end. He blocked a couple of balls, then hit an easy single.

I jogged down the pitch. The ball was chucked back to the keeper and he lobbed it over my head to the bowler. I took guard. My moment of truth had arrived. Every member of the team who thought he or she had a sense of humour was enjoying a good time at my expense. You couldn't even call it sledging, because they didn't take me seriously enough to sledge me. They were just entertaining each other with comments like, ‘Get him a piano – he'd have a better chance of playing that', ‘Get a car, see if he can drive' and ‘Have a look at the back of the bat, Josh – it might have instructions.'

The only exception was Harriet, who was fielding at leg slip. When I looked around I caught her eye. She wasn't saying anything. She just had a little smile, like someone who's seen something funny that no-one else has noticed.

I turned back to face the bowler. I tried to concentrate on the ball. Lately, after a comment from Wally, I'd been working on my follow-through. I'd been trying to exaggerate it a bit, to make sure I really did follow through properly on every shot. So I thought about that as the bowler, Mike, came in. It was a medium-pace delivery, slightly outside off stump, and I wanted to prove a point, so I danced down the wicket and lifted it over Mike's head, over mid-off's head, over the fence and onto the roof of the shed of the organic garden. But the main thing for me was to make sure the bat ended up where it was meant to go, over my left shoulder. At the end of the shot I checked its position and thought, ‘Yep, happy with that, good follow-through, that's what I wanted.'

Only after that did I notice the silence. I glanced around. Kids were looking at me and at each other. They kind of looked worried, almost, like the world had just turned up the wrong way. Finally Marty said in a strange voice: ‘Have you been taking lessons?'

‘Are you on drugs, Josh?' Shelley asked.

Harriet finally piped up from leg slip. ‘Guess he's just a natural,' she said.

I grinned and turned back to face the next ball. It was a long time coming. People had gone a bit mental. They were laughing and whooping and acting like they were at a disco. The next ball was so wild that I let it go. I think Mike had lost his head. The next one was a full toss; I hit it for six and that was the end of the over.

For the rest of that day and for the next few days I was like the local freak show. Kids didn't know how to treat me. They'd put me in a box, the way everyone does, the way I did often enough to other people, and now I'd suddenly torn my way out like I was the Incredible Hulk. The whole thing made me really uncomfortable, and I was glad when a week or so passed and they gradually got used to the new me.

Red and I hung around a lot together talking about how we could improve the team. I don't think Mr Surrey liked me any better than before but he gave us room to try stuff with the other kids, and I used some good training exercises I'd learned from Mark Watley. Gradually you could see it starting to come together. Even so, and even though I didn't know how good Maxwell was, we were still a long way from being world beaters. The best thing was that as time passed you could feel a bit of spirit growing. Kids stopped laughing when someone made a mistake and started encouraging each other instead. And the fielding got pretty sharp, which is always a good sign. We played one more practice game, against Ravensburg, and it went a bit better than the one against Bromwich. Rolf got 60, Red 47, I made 39 and Shelley 31. We declared at 7 for 190, and got them all out for 180. It was a good game, I took a few wickets and we played really well in the last half-a-dozen overs, when it looked like they might make the runs.

And then it was time for the big one, the opening of the new oval, in front of all the VIPs and parents and visitors, where we had to hope that we wouldn't suffer an embarrassing pulverisation at the hands of Maxwell.

The afternoon before the game Woody came over to play again. This was the fourth time he'd been allowed into our backyard, and each time he'd been escorted by one of his bodyguards – if that's what they were. I was so confused. I had no idea. Sometimes I wondered if he'd committed a serious crime, but because he was too young to go to jail they kept him in an ordinary house. Didn't seem likely – he didn't seem much like a serial killer – but it was the best I could come up with.

Woody was always quiet, but he was OK, and ever since the first visit he'd got on quite well with Callan. That says a lot for his patience. We'd finished the tree house, so this particular afternoon we mucked around in that for a while. Then I got the bat and ball and we played cricket. The cop seemed to like cricket. He joined in, bowled for a while and then fielded. He was pretty good too!

Woody, on the other hand . . . well, he'd said he didn't like cricket, or didn't play, I couldn't remember which. We'd played twice before, not for long, and he'd gone all right, but this time he was hopeless. I was bowling really slowly, but I still got him out three times in four balls. The third time he started crying, standing at the crease holding the bat, with tears running down his face. I was used to Callan and Pippa chucking tantrums when they got out, and claiming it was unfair, but this was different. He wasn't complaining about anything; he was crying for no reason. He looked like someone who thought life was crap, had always been crap and would always be crap.

The cop was kind to him and said, ‘Maybe it's time to go home now, Woody.'

He said, in between sobs, ‘It's not home and my name's not Woody; stop calling me that.'

The cop looked at Callan and me with an expression that said, ‘You weren't meant to hear that,' and he took Woody by the arm and led him away, not over the fence like they normally did, but down our driveway and up the driveway of the house next door.

‘Sheez,' said Callan, ‘what gives with that kid? And how come he always has a cop with him?'

I was a bit shocked. ‘How do you know they're cops?'

Callan shrugged. ‘Woody told me a week ago. Anyway, it's obvious. They look like cops, they talk like cops, they act like cops. What else they gunna be?'

Trust Callan; that kid always called it like he saw it.

But I was worried that Woody had been talking so freely to Callan. I didn't know if Callan could be trusted to keep a secret for more than five minutes. I didn't mention it to Mum and Dad, which may have been a mistake, but I can't see how it would have changed anything.

Pippa and Callan went off to bed sometime between 8.30 and 9 pm, with Mum saying like she did every night: ‘It's too late for children their age; they should have been in bed an hour ago.'

I got sent off at about 9.15. It was just like any other night, except that I didn't feel a bit tired. I lay there thinking about Woody, and worrying about the game against Maxwell. Poor Woody. What was his real name? What was going on in his life? And the cricket, would I make any runs tomorrow? Or get out for a golden duck? Would Tarrawagga get humiliated or would we actually win something for once?

I stared at a book about sharks for fifteen minutes without reading more than three pages, then Dad came and turned out my light. I lay in the darkness, still wide awake. I wasn't only thinking about Woody and the game against Maxwell. It was all the stuff going on in my life, with my mum and dad and everything. Since we'd lost our money I hadn't slept too well. And tonight didn't seem like it'd be an exception.

I heard the TV go off, and Mum and Dad going to bed. More time passed. I shut my eyes for a while, then opened them again. I gazed out through the window.

I'd set up my bed to face the back lawn, because I liked the view. The moon must have been out, because I could see the trees and the tree house. I saw a possum run along the top of the fence between our place and where Woody was staying. It got almost to the end, trotting along casually, minding its own business. Then suddenly it crouched down and froze, staring into our backyard. I looked where it was looking, expecting I might see a cat maybe, or another possum.

But what I saw sent my body prickling all over. I broke out in prickles from head to foot. A man was moving from one tree to another. If he hadn't moved I wouldn't have seen him, because he was dressed in really dark clothes. When he stopped again and stood by the tree that held our cubby I had a lot of trouble making him out.

My skin kept crawling like I had goose pimples running up and down me in waves. I felt paralysed, especially in the lungs. I wanted to do something brave, something heroic, because I knew he must be there for a bad reason, but I couldn't move.

When I took my next breath, which could have been two minutes later, my mind slowly started working again too. As far as I could tell the man hadn't moved. I eased myself out of bed, shivering as soon as my feet touched the floor. It wasn't a very warm night, but I felt like I was in an igloo at the South Pole. I tiptoed out of my room and ran like a fox down the corridor to my parents' room. I raced to Dad's side of the bed and shook him by the shoulder.

‘Dad! Dad! Wake up.'

‘Grmph, hurrumph grrr whaddya want? Go away.' Then suddenly he was awake. ‘Josh! What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?'

‘No, Dad, there's a man in our garden. I think he's watching the place next door.'

‘You sure?' But already he was getting out of bed, much faster than I had. He went into the kitchen, towards the window, me following, but he stopped at a safe distance. ‘Where exactly did you see him?' he whispered.

‘Under the tree house.'

‘Can't see anything. Wait a minute, they gave me a number.'

He went to the fridge, and felt around for something. The light was about the same as in my bedroom.

‘Got it,' he said. ‘Come on.'

We went down the corridor to the phone. He lifted it like it was a hand grenade, but he was just trying to be super-quiet. Mum came out of their room.

‘What's going on?'

‘Josh thinks he saw a man in our backyard, watching the place next door.'

‘I did see him,' I said, a bit indignant. We were talking in whispers, and my dad was pressing the numbers on the phone, but I think he got the wrong ones, because he muttered, ‘Bugger,' and started again. This time it seemed to work. He only had to wait a moment and someone answered. I was surprised that it was so quick, in the middle of the night. I could hear the voice clearly; it was a man.

‘Sergeant Munro.'

‘It's Cameron Smith, from next door. My son is pretty sure he just saw someone in our backyard, watching the house . . . your place.'

There was no answer. It sounded like the phone had been put down. I could hear some people murmuring, then suddenly the sergeant was back on the line. This time he sounded like he was whispering too, but he had a big hoarse voice so it was a pretty loud whisper.

‘Dial triple-O for us, would you, mate? Just tell them the address and what your boy saw.'

Then the phone was hung up.

My dad was starting to shake now. He looked like he did the night we found out we'd lost all our money. Something in Sergeant Munro's voice was pretty scary. Me, I'd been shaking for about four minutes. Plus I had an extra worry all to myself. What if I'd been wrong? What if I'd imagined it? I was causing a major crisis here, and it might just have been me having a bad dream.

My father rang triple-O and asked for the police. When a woman answered he said as fast as he could: ‘My name's Cameron Smith; I live at 22 Brisbane Street, Tarrawagga, and I've been asked by Sergeant Munro to call you and tell you there's a problem at number 24.'

‘So, number 24 Brisbane Street? Sergeant Munro? Just a sec.'

It took way, way long before she came back on again. Must have been at least thirty seconds.

‘What sort of problem?' I could hear her say.

‘We've seen a man in our backyard, watching the place.'

‘Just a minute.'

I was grateful to my father for saying that ‘we' had seen a man. It was like we were in this together.

We stood waiting for the woman on the phone again. I felt so helpless. Mum put her arm around me. A moment later there was a sound like a firecracker going off, except it was louder. It seemed to come from just one spot – not like thunder – but then it spread around the back of our house. It had to be from next door. I'd never heard a gunshot, except in movies, but I was pretty sure I'd heard one now. My mother screamed but cut herself off after about a half-second. The Great Danes across the street started woofing so loudly that our windows shook. I came out in goose pimples all over again. My father stared at me. I heard the woman on the other end of the phone start to say something but my father interrupted her, saying, ‘We just heard a shot.'

I could hear the woman yelling at someone. I could guess what it was: ‘Get the hell over to Brisbane Street, Tarrawagga.'

Suddenly there were more shots, at least three, maybe four. They seemed to come from a couple of different places this time. Now my mother really did scream. My father yelled ‘More shots' into the phone, threw it to Mum and said, ‘I'm going over there.'

‘What, are you crazy?' Mum screamed.

‘They've got a kid there.'

I realised he meant Woody. Or whatever his name was.

The next thing Dad had left the house.

‘Oh, God,' Mum moaned. ‘How I hate this place. Why'd we ever move here?'

I could have said, ‘Come on, Mum, just get to know some people, then it won't be so bad.' But I didn't. Maybe I was getting smarter as I was getting older.