Gravity (10 page)

I heard the ute arrive. Mum had made me a cup of tea and we were sitting in a waiting-room silence, the TV chattering with adverts. The familiar engine was revving hard and it sounded like Bully was riding the clutch, easing the beast into a parking spot below the flat.

‘What?' Mum asked, as I sprang from my chair.

I left the door open and rested casually on the balcony. In the gloom, I could make out the crew-cut profile of Bullant's head and hear him talking to himself. Mum appeared at my elbow.

‘Nice parking,' I called.

It took a frantic few seconds for him to spot me, then he smiled and stretched like a cat. ‘Like berthing the
Titanic
.'

The passenger door slammed and I was suddenly aware that Bullant wasn't alone. Mum swore as the figures came into view.

It was a woman. A woman carrying a child. My throat tightened and I stopped breathing.

‘Tori?'

A muffled sleepy kid's voice replied, ‘Hi, Adam.'

The door behind me slammed like the blast from a shotgun as Mum retreated.

And I didn't care.

The slam was like a starter's pistol and I was off, down the stairs four at a stride until I stood in the security-lit car park with my smiling friends.

Bullant hugged me. A bristly, back-thumping bear hug that felt as good as it felt weird. We hadn't hugged – off the footy field – since primary school and it was so damned good to see him.

Before the hug could feel totally gay and awkward, Bully chuckled and held me at arm's length. ‘You look like a city boy.'

I heard Tori mumbling to her son,‘You want to give Adam a hug?'

In reply, the boy squirmed in his mother's grip and reached out. I stepped up and his arms locked around my neck. He squeezed and squeezed until his kiddie muscles shook, and he wrapped his legs around my waist before smearing a wet kiss on my jaw. I kissed his forehead, and then, over his shoulder, kissed his mum. Tori tucked herself under my arm and we had a three-way hug that threatened to crush the boy.

Or drown him in tears.

It had only been a week.

One of the longest weeks in my life.

‘Was that your mum?' Bully asked, sheepishly.

Our hug eventually broke and Francis dropped to his feet. I nodded.

‘What's with the slamming door?'

‘That was for me,' Tori whispered.

‘Bullshit, she's still . . . ?'

Tori and I nodded.

Bully mouthed ‘fuck' and shook his head.

I fished the Subaru keys from my pocket and handed them to Bully. ‘Thank you, mate. Thanks so much for everything.'

‘No sweat.'

We stood there for an awkward minute while I battled with myself.

Tori must have sensed the tension in me. ‘It's okay. We've got all our gear. We can sleep in the car.'

I shook my head. ‘I know a place. I'll just give them a call.'

‘It's fine, Adam. Seriously,' Tori said.

I waved her off and called Bonnie on my mobile, asked if a couple of other friends could camp at their place, too.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘The more the merrier. Bring everybody. We'll see you soon.'

We piled all their gear from the ute into the back of the Subaru and drove to Bonnie and Harry's.

Francis tightened his grip around my neck as Felix growled from the other side of the gate. The shed looked to be in darkness and the porch light flicked on as I reached for the knocker beside the front security door.

The door flung open.

‘What do you want?' Bonnie growled, and all four of us on the porch jumped.

She laughed. ‘Oh, hello, little man,' she said to Francis,
and stroked his cheek with the back of a finger. ‘Did I scare you?'

Francis smiled and shook his head.

‘Hi,' Tori said.

Bonnie waved and sort-of-smiled as she looked over Tori's shoulder. ‘How many of you are there?'

I made the introductions. Bully shook Bonnie's hand for three seconds longer than he should have. She was in the boots and skirt she'd worn the night before and the top she had on created an eye-magnet of cleavage. She eventually led us into the lounge.

She seemed bewildered. ‘Harry's just in the shower. We were getting ready . . .'

‘Oh, sorry,' I said. ‘We won't stay.'

‘No, I didn't mean it like that,' Bonnie back-pedalled. ‘You can all come with us, if you want. We're just going up to The Britain. It's a pub. Just up the road. The meals are good and there's a band tonight.'

‘Sounds awesome,' Bully squeaked. He hadn't taken his eyes off Bonnie. ‘What do you guys reckon?'

Tori shrugged and stroked the head of the boy lolling in my arms. ‘Francis should have been in bed an hour ago.'

They looked at me.

My decision was already made. It was a no-brainer. Or maybe I'd made the decision years ago and was only now – after a week in a foreign land – able to catch the thoughts.

‘Is it okay if we set Francis up on a bed of cushions in the lounge?' I asked.

‘Of course,' Bonnie sang. ‘Do you want sheets and stuff? Have you got an eiderdown?'

Tori nodded, and forced a smile. ‘We've got everything in the car. Brought Francis's little swag. We can set up a bed in the car.'

‘Don't be stupid!' Bonnie barked. ‘There's plenty of room. Help yourself in the kitchen. Towels for the bathroom are in the cupboard in the hallway. Anything you need, just help yourself. Go for it.'

She was doing hospitality – country hospitality – and there was genuine compassion in her voice. I felt like a dick again for hitting on her. In my search for oblivion, I'd wanted to use her.

And Debbie.

And almost every other woman in my life.

Almost.

With my mind squirming at the awkwardness of it all, I knew that I'd die if Tori found out that I'd hit on Bonnie at the pub. I'd be mortified if Tori heard about my lust for Debbie.

I had a conscience. A young bloke's not supposed to have a conscience like that.

The dick is all-powerful. The dick must be obeyed.

But that wasn't the man I wanted to be.

Unlike Bully.

Bonnie left the room and he sidled up to me.

‘Mate, she's HOT!' he growled in my ear.

There was no denying that.

‘Who's Harry?'

‘Her brother.'

His eyes lit up. ‘Would you be totally pissed off if I hung with them for a while? Just a couple of drinks?'

‘Devastated,' I lied.

‘I thought you and Tori might like to catch up and that and I wouldn't . . .'

He caught my smile.

‘You don't need my permission, Bully.'

‘No. I
know
that. We can catch up tomorrow, hey?'

‘Tomorrow.'

He let himself out the front door.

With an exaggerated groan of effort, I lowered Francis onto the couch. The boy flopped on his side and pretended to go to sleep.

‘What do you need from the car?' I asked.

Tori waved me off. ‘Don't worry about it, Adam. You go. We'll be fine.'

‘The old nappy bag,' I said, and left.

Bully stood bare-chested at the back of the car, dosing his rusty-haired armpits with roll-on. He punched his hands into some new shirtsleeves and buttoned in a hurry.

I found Francis's swag and the old nappy bag. It had been more than a year since it contained nappies. Now there was a pair of pyjamas, a little sleeping bag and a pillow.

‘You'd say, wouldn't you, mate?' Bully asked.

‘Hey?'

‘If I was being a prick by going out. You'd tell me, wouldn't you?'

‘Have I ever missed an opportunity to call you a prick?'

‘Heh, heh, I guess not.'

‘Prick.'

He slapped my head as I left.

‘Here, Adam, take this.'

He loaded me up with a slab of Bundy cans. ‘Happy birthday.'

I had to cut my way back inside through a fog of cologne. Harry was sitting next to Francis and talking to Tori.

‘I didn't realise you'd be bringing home the whole tribe, Chainsaw. I should have organised a pig on a spit or something.'

Tori laughed nervously. He'd said it as a joke, but it still made me squirm.

Harry tickled Francis. The boy wriggled but didn't make a noise. They both smiled and the feeling of abusing their welcome softened. In that one gesture, it seemed that there wasn't much difference between country and city hospitality.

‘We bring our own pig,' I said, and dumped the swag and the gear on the floor. ‘He's out in the car. We call him Bullant.'

Tori snorted.

‘What?' Bullant called from the doorway. He'd put gel in his spiky hair and it glistened. It was a nice shirt. A striped black city shirt.

I introduced the boys and they shook hands.

‘Bullant's an interesting name,' Harry said.

Bullant laughed. It was the first time he'd heard Harry speak and he thought the effeminate lisp was a joke. He looked at me. When he realised I wasn't smiling, he straightened and took half a step back.

‘Yes. It's not my real name. Obviously. Dad gave it to me when I was little. I used to grab on to his leg when he came home from work. I wouldn't let go. The name stuck.'

‘What's your real name?' Harry asked, and I laughed.

‘If I tell you, you promise you won't use it? Everyone calls me Bullant. Even my mum.'

Harry licked his finger and made a cross over his heart. ‘Is it really that bad?'

Bully shook his head. ‘Bruce.'

‘Bruce is a nice name,' Harry said.

I laughed again. ‘Very nice name.'

Bully punched my thigh and I yelped.

Bonnie had put make-up on. ‘We right?' she asked her brother.

‘Would you guys mind if I tagged along?' Bully asked in his sweetest, most civilised tone.

‘Not at all,' Harry sang. ‘What about you, Chainsaw?'

‘I . . . I'll stay.'

‘We can go in my car,' Bully offered.

‘Thanks. No need,' Harry said. ‘It's a walk there and a stagger or . . . I'd better grab some cash for the taxi home.'

Bonnie crossed her arms and tapped her foot theatrically. ‘Get a move on, then.'

I followed Bully to the car and grabbed my swag.

‘Chainsaw?' he said.

‘Don't ask.'

‘Harry's gay,' Bully said, under his breath.

‘No, mate.'

‘Bullshit,' he said. ‘The way he walks and talks and all that. He's a fag for sure.'

‘The women love him.'

‘That doesn't mean anything. Women love gays.'

‘No, I mean they lerrrve him.'

‘Probably a smokescreen. Maybe he's bi?'

I shrugged. ‘What does it matter? He's a good bloke.'

‘Yeah,' Bully said. ‘As long as he doesn't try anything with me. I'd smash his fucken face in, I swear.'

I shook my head.

He would.

Everybody in Splitters Creek knew there was only one thing sicker than a greenie: a poofter. Sometimes they came wrapped up as one – the greenie poofter. They didn't last long.

‘This isn't Splitters Creek,' I said.

Francis found his voice and came to life after the guys left. He wanted to watch the TV. Tori said she was starving and I realised I was too. I offered to order take-away Thai, but Tori wasn't impressed.

‘I brought some bits to make dinner. I didn't know how many would be eating, so there'll be plenty to go round. You can have Thai if you want.'

‘Can I help?'

‘If you must,' she said, but she was smiling.

She let me cut up the onion, laughed at my teary eyes, then kicked me out of the kitchen while she whipped up a vegetarian feast. The boy sat on my lap and we watched TV for three minutes until he got bored and rubbed at the stubble on my face. He stuck his finger up my nose and I rolled him onto the floor and tickled him until he squealed.

‘Ooh. Have you noticed that, Tori? Francis can squeal like a little baby. Can't you, Francis?'

He set his jaw then and tried as hard as he could to shove me off. I rolled onto my back and he jumped on me and
punched me in the chest. He pulled his punches like the play-fighting master that he was and grinned a clean-toothed smile.

‘Help, Tori, help! Your son's beating me to a pulp.'

‘Oh is he?' came the voice from the kitchen. ‘Can't fight your own battles yet, Adam?'

I rallied and threw him on the carpet. I grabbed an arm and a leg as he tried to scramble away, span him through the air and dumped him on the lounge. The leather farted and he squealed with laughter and asked me to do it again. And again. And again until a curl stuck to his sweaty forehead and his mum called us for dinner. I doubted that those walls and that lounge had ever had so much fun.

‘Sweet potato and mushroom risotto,' our chef said as I sat down.

Francis ate like Felix with a fork and I could understand why. I doubted I could make food that lovely.

Tori asked if it would be okay to give Francis a bath before bed. I told her that I was sure it'd be fine. I washed the dishes and ate the last of the risotto from the pot as the splashing and voices echoed from the bathroom.

‘Adam, could we have a towel, please?' Tori said.

I took a fluffy bath sheet from the cupboard in the hall.

‘Better make it two towels,' she said.

‘Right.'

The bathroom door was wide open. Two glossy wet bodies stood shivering in the bath.

Tori shook the water from her outstretched fingers.

‘Oh, sorry,' I said, and they both laughed.

‘What for?' Francis asked.

I tried to look the other way, but they were there in the mirror as well. I chucked the towels and backed into the hallway, along the passage and into a lounge chair.

Naked. She had no shame.

She had nothing to be ashamed of.

The curve of her breast, the angle of dark hair . . .

The damp Francis barrelled through the room and face-planted into the leather couch, his little bottom pointing at the ceiling. I was frightened to look when Tori arrived, but she was wrapped in the bath sheet. I had seen with my own eyes that Tori's beauty wasn't just heart-deep.

‘Oi! Francis!' she shouted. ‘Show some dignity, please.'

He wiggled his bum.

She slapped his cheek and he squealed into the couch.

Tori dressed in the bathroom – grey tracksuit pants and an old white cotton shirt. Francis eventually dressed himself in his Hulk pyjamas and I could feel him winding down. Tori and I set up his swag.

‘Teeth, toilet, bed. Let's go,' she said.

He groaned, but dragged himself to the bathroom. I collected his discarded towel and, on the way to the laundry, found Tori sitting on the toilet.

She saw me jump.

‘Sorry, Adam.'

‘No worries,' I said, but I waited in the laundry until I heard the toilet flush. We met in the hallway.

‘Sorry. It's only been in the last six months that Francis has been okay with me closing the door while I'm in the loo. I thought you were still in the lounge. Sorry.'

‘Yeah, no worries,' I said again and, for once in my life,
I meant it. There
were
no worries if Tori peed with the toilet door open.

Francis fell asleep in five minutes and, to my delight, Tori said yes to rum. We cracked our cans as quietly as we could and the little bloke let out a sweet singsong breath. We toasted to that.

‘He's growing up quick,' I said.

Tori nodded emphatically.

‘He's a good kid. You've done a great job with him.'

She scoffed. ‘I haven't done anything. He's just a great kid.'

She raised her can to her lips, then added, ‘With a big mouth.'

I laughed and settled into the couch.

‘I wasn't surprised that he hugged you when we got here. He asks about you. He misses you.'

‘Misses me? Why would he miss me?'

She thought for a minute and slurped as she drank. ‘You talk his language and you play with him.'

We'd finished our first and were halfway through our second when Tori started the interrogation.

‘So, what are you doing here, Adam?'

‘Drinking rum.'

She sighed and shook her head. ‘It's a nice house.'

‘Yeah, I suppose.'

‘Nice, but it's not you.'

‘Yeah, well I don't exactly live here.'

‘Where exactly
do
you live?'

I shrugged. ‘I've been sleeping in the car. I stayed at Mum's flat, but that wasn't much fun.'

‘So, it's no fixed address.'

I had to raise my can to that. ‘I was sick of Splitters Creek. I needed a life. Had to get off my arse and . . . I dunno . . . find myself.'

‘Did you?'

I lifted a shoulder. ‘Sort of. In some ways.'

‘Bonnie's hot. Is she
the one
?'

I frowned at her.

‘So, what
did
you find?'

I wet the insides of my neck again and pondered the question. My head was a little bit fuzzy but that only meant I had to take my time to collect my thoughts.

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Everything. Nothing. That's like asking what colour water is.'

‘Fine. You don't want to talk about it. I understand.'

‘But I
do
. You know more of the story than anyone and I feel like we can talk about anything.'

She grabbed another can each and got comfortable. I gave her the full family pizza of my week since leaving Splitters Creek. The story went backwards and forwards and I filled in a new level of detail with each can. With each can Tori asked more probing and personal questions, shed light in the dark places and unfolded things I'd tried to stuff down the back of the couch in my mind.

I was thankful for Harry and Bonnie and my job. I was thankful for her and Francis, Bully and my old ute. I got angry at Dad and Mum and Simon and Debbie.

‘I couldn't believe it when your dad told me you'd done a runner. Ya wuss.'

I was about to protest, but somehow when the words
came out of Tori's mouth – even playfully, as they had – they were sharp with honesty. They tore right through me and I felt myself die a little.

‘You have no idea. It's a mess. My life's a mess. I didn't ask for all this shit.'

‘Listen to yourself, you drama queen.
It wasn't me. I didn't do it.
Life is messy. Get over it.'

She held out her hand and I took it.

She rattled my fingers. ‘Finish . . . all . . . unfinished . . . business.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' I said to her back, as she performed a drunken sashay along the hall to the toilet.

‘Fess up. Own up. Take responsibility.'

My throat grew tight and, if the rum hadn't kneecapped me, I would have tried to run again. I could feel it in my guts. How exactly do I take responsibility for my wasted brother and my fractured family? And why should I?

Because they're family.

Then my head was swimming with ugly thoughts and sadness. It was a shit decision to get in the car and drive while I was pissed. It was a shit decision to keep driving after I fell asleep at the wheel. It was stupid to try and bullshit Cappo and to run. And to drag Bully into it and to leave without saying goodbye.

Tori crouched in front of me and closed her hand over mine. ‘You been cutting onions again?'

I tried to laugh, but the sadness had me. Tori sat and rubbed my back while my body pitched and shook. The waves of grief slashed against me for a long time. My nose ran and my chest ached and I prayed that I wouldn't wake
Francis. And the whole while Tori rocked with me and whispered comfort. When the storm eventually passed, I thanked her and we hugged – a tight, almost desperate embrace normally reserved for lost children found and the banishing of nightmares.

Later, with a foot propped against the toilet wall for balance and my stream musical in the bowl, I felt ashamed of my blubbering. It did feel like the outpourings of a drama queen and that most certainly wasn't the man I wanted to be.

Tori had fashioned a bed from the leather couch cushions and one of Francis's spare blankets. The blanket was way too small and even with her body curled in a foetal position, her socked feet poked from the bottom.

I gently unrolled my swag beside her. ‘You can have this,' I whispered.

‘No, I'm fine. This is fine.'

I found a proper pillow and an extra blanket in the hall cupboard and tucked Tori in. She thanked me.

I thanked her and kissed her cheek. I flicked off the light and undressed in the dark.

Something woke me at one twenty-six a.m. A nagging metallic clunk. I thought it was the guys coming home, but then I heard a whisper and realised it was the letterbox. Rattling.

I crawled out of my swag and opened the front door, quick and quiet. There were two hooded figures at the end of the drive and one of them had just torn the letterbox from the ground.

I bolted at them. The porch light flicked on behind me and
one of the characters swore. The letterbox clattered onto the footpath. I saw a boy's frightened eyes under his hood. In his panic, he ran into the other dude. They righted themselves quickly and fled across the street. I charged after them.

I closed the gap quickly, my bare feet drubbing on the tar, the nature strip, the pavement. They split up and I followed the dude who'd had the letterbox. I could hear his nylon jacket rubbing frantically as his arms pumped. He was panting like a cattle dog. I was close enough to smell his breath, sour with cigarettes. He hurdled a pine log rail and entered a small grassy park. I cleared the log and gained another foot.

Under the lone streetlight at the other end of the park, I dived. Perfect flying tackle. The air was punched from letterbox boy and I rode him to the ground. He covered his head and whimpered.

I got to my feet and dusted the grass from my bare knees.

My naked knees.

Letterbox boy swore and sat up.

I stood there under the streetlight, with the breeze welcome in my pubic hair, and gave the boy some advice I knew he'd take.

‘Don't do it again.'