Happy as Larry (23 page)

It crept up on Larry. His father had bought him a petrol-powered radio-controlled car – in kit form – for Christmas, and after a sombre seafood lunch for a compact family of three, they retired to the garage for the distraction of assembling it. Just after 4 p.m., with his conscious mind focused like a laser on the task in front of him, Larry sighed.

The thought just bubbled up from inside him. Soft images of the old man blended with memories of his own death at Pincher Point – that sense of tranquillity, the rolling curtains of colour and light, the ultimate release – and he knew: Vince was at peace. There was nothing spectacular about Vince's death. There was no gunfire or fanfare, no mystique or hint of unresolved crime. It was as if Vince had quietly boarded a bus.

Larry stopped what he was doing, just dropped the little spanner he'd been using and found the short length of rope they'd run with. He felt its weathered softness, smelled its faint but familiar road-tar tang and curled it in his hand. He stuffed it behind the boxes at the back of the garage; looped it with Gilligan's collar and lead and bowl.

It was then that the sadness swamped him. Tears fogged his vision and his limbs felt suddenly heavy. Mal, a spectator to this strange ritual of grief until this point, wrapped his arms around his son and held him gently. Larry hugged him back and they sobbed and sniffed together for a long moment. When they broke from their embrace, they wiped their eyes at the same time. Without a word, they picked up their tools and continued where they'd left off.

While Larry and Mal worked and grieved in the garage, Denise sat alone at the kitchen table and remembered her friend: his kind and fearless eyes, his warmth, his mandarins and apricots. The memories filled her to overflowing. It came in a wave that washed through her, but it only lasted three tissues. She looked at the tissues adrift on the table and realised she had changed. Not that long ago, Vince's death would have flattened her. Now, she felt the loss, plucked and sniffed, and then caught herself thinking about dinner. She screwed the tissues into a single tight ball and tossed them at the bin. Perfect shot.

She smiled, and sighed. ‘Life goes on,' she whispered at the walls.

On Boxing Day, an earthquake deep in the Indian Ocean gave birth to a tsunami that crushed and drowned more than two hundred thousand souls in Asia.

Denise watched the news footage open-mouthed, and felt poised as though she was about to sneeze pure grief. But the sneeze never came. She felt the raw horror in her joints, but didn't shed a tear.

Mal sipped beer and watched Denise watching the television. Inside, he had his arms extended again, ready to catch her as she fell. She was bound to fall. She put her fingers over her mouth and he knew she was teetering. He put his hand on her thigh just as she stood up.

‘Sorry,' she said, clear-eyed. ‘I have to phone Anita.'

He watched the news but listened to his wife on the phone to her friend, and felt lost.

Denise was no longer a wounded bird.

Vince's funeral was a work of art. His wish was to be cremated, and the carpark at the crematorium was almost full. It was New Year's Eve and smoke from distant bush-fi res had turned the afternoon sun in Villea an eerie red. The strange light slanted through the windows and coloured the vases of fragrant lilies in the chapel. The open lid of the silk-lined coffin seemed to glow and, to Larry, the dead man's skin looked healthy.

Denise had bought Larry a black suit and white shirt for the occasion.

Guillermo wore a suit, too. It was dark grey and too big for him. The jacket sleeves hung past his wrists and the pant legs bunched on top of his school shoes.

They hugged, cramped between the rows of seats.

‘I'm sorry,' Guillermo said, and nodded towards the coffin.

‘You hardly knew him,' Larry whispered.

Guillermo shrugged. ‘I'm here for you.'

It was supposed to be Vince's final chapter, but Larry knew enough of the story to feel it wasn't over yet. He noticed the middle-aged woman standing with Muriel. He noticed her angular face, her tanned skin and her blue, blue eyes. She had broad shoulders and short hair. Larry knew – even before they sat together in the front pew, and before she took Muriel's hand – that this was Hannah. This was Vince and Muriel's daughter and, for the moment at least, their pain was in a box in front of them.

Back at the Hammersmiths' house after the service, Hannah introduced herself.

‘You must be Larry,' she said, and shook his hand.

Larry blinked. ‘That's right. How did you . . .'

‘Mum told me all about your reading and running with Dad. You're a special young man, Larry.' She hugged him and he patted her back. ‘Thank you,' she said.

Larry felt proud but awkward. ‘What will your mum do now?'

Hannah shrugged. ‘I suggested she could come back north with me. She's still thinking about it.'

Three days later, Larry saw them both piling into a taxi. Muriel had a smile on her face and offered Larry a three-fingered wave as they drove away.

Vince's letter had worked, but like Larry's phone call to his grandmother, his timing was awry and there was no sunny Hollywood ending with laughter all round. This was the real world where happiness and sadness blurred and merged, and endings and beginnings weren't defined by the cut of an editor's knife.

ALL FALL
DOWN

L
ARRY STARTED SHAVING
in 2005, but nobody really noticed. He'd played with the five hairs that had sprouted on his chin until Kyle Elliot sat next to him in English and pointed out his obsession.

‘Leave your facial fluff alone, Larry. It's annoying me just watching you.'

He was only going to shave his chin, but with the bathroom door closed and his face soapy, he just kept raking with his father's razor – his cheeks, his neck, his upper lip – until his face was smooth and clean. No blood. A week later, he caught himself playing with the new stubble of a sideburn and was drawn to shave again. He bought his own shaver and nicked his chin the first time he used it, but still his parents didn't notice.

Mal and Denise watched television in the same room and asked each other for the sauce at dinnertime, but that was it. They watched the ads calling for donations to the tsunami appeal but never opened their wallets. Denise went to bed late; Mal got up early. They both gave Larry jobs to do, and in his most frustrated moments, when he felt like their personal slave, Larry caught himself wondering why they were together at all. He wished he had the courage to tell them that if they were staying together for his benefit, they were wasting their time. He wished they'd let go and find some happiness elsewhere.

Guillermo was right about terrorist action against the countries involved in the Iraq War. A week before Larry's fifteenth birthday, bombs shredded buses and trains in London. Seven hundred people were injured, fifty-two were killed and the Western world was back on high alert.

On Tuesday 12 July 2005 – one day before Larry's fifteenth birthday – Mal and his work motorbike were run down by a bus carrying disabled people to a picnic at the weir. With a fractured ankle, a few scratches and mild concussion, Mal had his first ride in an ambulance.

Denise and a taxi were waiting when Larry got home from school.

‘Get in. Your father's in hospital. He was knocked off his bike today.'

‘Is he okay?'

Denise nodded, but she seemed to be in pain.

Mal was propped up on three white pillows watching tele -vision. His left elbow was bandaged. A policeman sat in a chair beside the bed, his hat perched on one knee. As Larry and his mother arrived, the policeman donned his hat and left.

Larry noticed his father's eyes. Something wasn't right.

‘What did he want?' Denise whispered.

‘Oh, just a statement about the accident.'

‘Are you okay?' Larry asked.

Mal shrugged. There were tears in his eyes. ‘A few cuts and bruises. I'll live.'

‘What's the matter, Dad?' Larry asked, and took his father's hand.

Mal rubbed his eyes and shook his head. ‘They breath-alysed me. Took a blood sample.'

Denise tutted. ‘And?'

‘I was over.'

‘Over what? They what?' Larry said.

Denise crossed her arms. ‘By much?'

‘Point one two.'

Denise threw up her hands. There were tears in her eyes. Her face grew tight. ‘How could you?'

‘How could you what?' Larry asked.

‘I'm sorry,' Mal said.

She shook her head, moved from foot to foot, released an exasperated sigh and strode from the room.

‘Denise, wait!'

‘Mum? What's going on?' Larry said, and yanked his father's hand.

‘I still had alcohol in my blood.'

‘So?'

‘Nearly three times the legal limit. My bike's a write-off.'

‘They can get another bike.'

‘I broke the law,' Mal said through his teeth. ‘I won't be allowed to ride.' He snatched back his hand, ostensibly to scratch his nose. ‘If I can't ride, I can't work.'

Suddenly Larry was on the edge of the hole with his father. He could see what had made him cry. He understood why his mother had walked out. Work was a big thing in Mal's life. Sometimes it was the biggest thing. Take it away and the hole left behind was huge. A hole big enough for Mal to fall in. A hole big enough to swallow their whole family.

‘It's okay, Dad, we'll sort it out. I'll talk to Mum. You'll find other work. It'll be okay.'

Mal squeezed his son's knuckles and forced a smile. Larry kissed his stubbly cheek and hugged his head.

‘You know the saddest thing?' Mal said.

‘What?'

‘I hadn't had a drink since last night.'

Denise had left the hospital. Mal had to stay in overnight for observation, so Larry ended up walking the half-hour to Condon Street by himself.

The house was empty. He called for his mother but there was no answer. She wasn't in her room. He opened the refrigerator in search of something to fill his gut and heard activity. Banging and thumping. He traced the noise to the middle of the lounge and realised someone was under the house.

It was Denise, with a torch, dismantling Mal's under-floor beer supply.

‘Mum?'

She turned the torch on her son, blinding him momentarily, and then turned to the task at hand.

‘There was just no evidence,' she said, as if continuing a conversation. ‘No hard proof. No stacks of bottles or bins full of bottle tops. He only ever had one beer. There was only ever one dirty glass. Maybe he re-filled it twenty times a night but there was only ever one glass.'

The keg and the gas bottle were a tight fit in the fridge and after a short series of yanks trying to extract them, Denise slammed the door and shoved it with her shoulder. The whole thing rocked. The fridge toppled with a crunch, the bars on the back ringing like a fisted chord on a toy piano.

Denise dusted her hands.

The war had begun.

Larry didn't know what to expect on the way home from school on his birthday. His mother had kissed his cheek and wished him many happy returns – whatever that meant – as she left for work that morning. Mal was due home from the hospital some time that day.

His parents were both in the lounge. Mal was on the couch with his bandaged foot stretched out in front of him. The air bristled.

Denise had bought fifteen presents for Larry's fifteenth. Some of the gifts were bigger than others. A pair of camou-flage cargo pants only cost her ten dollars, while the Nintendo DS and four games came in a tad shy of three hundred. There was a DVD –
Pirates of the Caribbean:
The Curse of the Black Pearl
. Larry held the box aloft triumphantly.

‘Good choice?'

‘I love this movie.'

‘You can keep it with . . . oh, my God.'

Her video shelf was empty. Her entire collection was gone.

She turned on her husband. ‘Where are my movies?'

‘What movies?' Mal said, a little too quickly. A little too smugly.

She stormed through the house, opened the bins, found nothing. ‘Where are they?' she snarled.

Mal shrugged, petulant.

Denise forced her way through the back door, heading for the garage.

‘Oh . . . my . . .' she said.

Larry looked from the kitchen window. The back lawn was littered with DVDs and cases.

‘Here,' Mal said, brandishing a small wrapped box. ‘Better have this before she gets back.'

Larry felt a lump in his throat. Had his father done that? The man was suddenly unrecognisable.

‘Here!' Mal growled.

Larry took the gift and ripped the paper off.

A watch. A heavy sports watch, TAG Heuer. It was a thing of beauty.

‘Do you like it?'

‘Of course. It's awesome.'

‘You'd better look after it,' Mal said flatly. ‘Happy birthday.'

Larry retreated to his room, confused and shaken. He piled his gifts on his desk and climbed into his bunk. He listened, his heart beating in his neck, as his parents fought. They shouted and screamed until Larry could take no more. He donned a jacket, opened the flywire and slipped through his bedroom window. He ran into the night.

He found his rhythm and his breath chugged out in clouds of steam. He ran through the back streets of Villea and eventually down to the water and past the jetty. A group of young people crowded around a streetlight on the breakwater, and he crossed the road to avoid them. He could smell beer and cigarettes.

‘Larry?' came a familiar girl's voice. ‘Larry Rainbow? Is that you?'

Larry froze.

It was Jemma. She jogged over and wrapped her arms around him. She smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke. ‘I was just thinking about you. My god, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?'

Larry hugged her back. Her breath was a heady cocktail of tobacco and something sweet and alcoholic.