Ironbark (19 page)

‘Can I try?'

I nearly fall over.

‘Granddad, dude,' I say. ‘You serious?'

‘Sure,' he says. ‘I used to dance, way back when. I can't have forgotten everything. And it looks like fun.'

‘Fun, it sure is,' I say. ‘Come on. I'll sort you out a slow song on Light mode.' I scroll through the music, but there's nothing here he would recognise. I find this slow Irish sounding track and that'll have to do. It's got plenty of tap-tap stuff, but nothing too tricky. I run through the instructions again and step back as he starts.

I tell ya. He might be a grumpy old geezer most of the time, but he's got cojones of pure brass. He stuffs up a few times – jeez, who wouldn't on their first go? – but he's got natural rhythm. He gets a few perfects as well. It sounds really dumb, but I'm proud as hell watching him. I've never seen an adult give it a go, let alone someone of his age. I try to imagine Dad getting up on it, but it doesn't work. He wouldn't put down his laptop to have a bowel movement, and the image of his Armani suit flapping around while he dances is just too much.

Granddad is busting some serious moves, all traces of his dodgy joints a dim memory, when I notice our audience has a fit of the giggles. I turn to face them.

‘Got a problem here, or what?' I say.

The dude in the jacket makes like he's trying hard to keep a straight face.

‘Nah, mate,' he says. ‘Just enjoying the show.'

The girl gives another high-pitched giggle and I feel a twitch at the corner of my eye. There might even be the whooshing noise, but I can't be sure. It could be coming from another arcade game. I should leave right here and now. I know I should. But I don't. Instead, I give an additional hard stare and they seem to settle down.

Granddad finishes and mops at his face with a handkerchief. I didn't know people still carried handkerchiefs. This one's got polka dots all over it. The real old-fashioned sort. Granddad is smiling, though.

‘How did I do?' he says.

I check his score. For an absolute beginner, it's spectacular. In fact, if memory serves me, he's done way better than I did on my first attempt.

‘Awesome,' I say. ‘You kicked serious butt, Granddad.'

‘Set me on a more difficult level.'

‘Well . . .'

‘C'mon. I'm having a good time here.'

‘You are
bad
,' I say, sorting through my change. ‘Okay. I know just the thing.' It's a good one, too. Even on Light mode, it's doable, but it does have some tricky stuff. It might not look tricky, but it can catch you out. It's energetic as well, but not crazy. I don't want Granddad needing a hip replacement or keeling over with a heart attack halfway through. Any way through, come to think of it.

He's all geed up this time, his feet twitching and his eyes glued to the screen. I recognise the signs. I've seen it plenty of times with beginners.
This guy will get seriously hooked
, I think, as the music kicks in. I step back and watch him go. I'm grinning like a lunatic. I can't help it. I'm even going through the steps with him. What an idiot. And I tell ya, I'm impressed, big time. He's giving it his all. When he screws up, he gets right back into it – just a couple of beats and he's back with the program. He's three-quarters of the way through when I notice them. The audience.

The guy in the leather jacket is hopping around, impersonating Granddad. He's doing all this stiff-legged action and holding his back, like he's got rheumatism. The others are cracking up. He's the funniest guy in the universe. A twitch in the corner of my eye jumps and suddenly I have a sense of something prowling inside me. It's pacing back and forth. I should be checking the locks, forcing it back into the corner. Instead, I'm opening a door.

I stand in front of the group. I'm aware of rolling up my sleeves.

‘What's so funny?' I say.

Leather jacket stops jumping around and holds his hands up in front of him. He doesn't stop grinning, though.

‘Whoa, mate,' he says. ‘He's awesome. I mean, what is he? A hundred and ten?'

One of the girls – I'm not sure if it's the one who was laughing before – spits out this insane giggle and I turn to her.

‘I suggest you shut the hell up,' I say. ‘I'm talking to the organ-grinder here, not his monkey.'

That shuts them up. Leather jacket stops grinning and takes a step closer.

‘Hey, f—head. Did you call her a monkey, or what, mate?'

I smile. His words echo, but that's cool.

‘You need to watch your language,
mate
,' I say. ‘Ladies present. And at least one monkey, as far as I can tell.'

The guy's face drains of blood and he rocks backwards.

I'm screaming. My throat is sore and I'm screaming. The stupid, wrinkled face is right up there in front of mine. I want to punch it. I
need
to punch it. I need to put my fist right into that purple, pitted nose, feel the bones crunching. Those goddamn watery eyes bore into mine, pools of moisture in a bed of wrinkles. I'm still screaming. I spray foam into his face. My hand is cocked back behind my right shoulder. The fist is so tight I can feel nails digging into flesh. His breath, sour with the faint memory of popcorn, puffs into my face. I don't know who he is. I don't care.

‘Go on,' he says, and though his voice is real quiet, it pierces through my screaming. I can see his yellow teeth. ‘Go on. Hit me. That's what you want, isn't it? Hell, you've just put those two down. Shouldn't be a problem with a guy my age, should it? Come on. What you waiting for?'

Suddenly, I'm panting like crazy. I'm aware of other sounds, girls sobbing, mostly, groaning from behind me, music coming from one of the machines. My left hand is bunched up and twisted in Granddad's shirt. I've pulled him to me. His face is pressed up close. The screaming chokes and dies. I force my fist to uncurl and he drops a centimetre or two. But he doesn't back off. In fact, he puts both hands up and pushes me in the chest. I stumble back a few paces.

‘Go on,' he says again.

Only then does my right hand uncurl. I stare down at my palm, dumbly. Four small crescents, bright purple against my skin, scored like fresh brands. There are all these noises in my head, like a radio that isn't tuned properly, caught between stations. I shake my head, but it doesn't do any good. Suddenly I feel weak. I want to lie down. I just want to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. I look around. A part of me knows exactly what I'm going to see.

The guy in the leather jacket is sprawled against the wall, tangled up in a mess of machinery. His face is covered in blood, his nose mashed. One eye looks up at me. The other is closed and puffing up. The one eye is filled with fear. His legs twitch frantically as he tries to push himself back into the corner. The other guy is on the floor off to my right with his head in his hands. Blood is dripping from his skull, pooling between his feet. He groans. My hands ache. My knuckles are scraped. One or two beads of blood glisten. The girls scream when I turn to them. I put up a hand, palm forward. I don't know why. Tell them it's cool. I guess. Even though it isn't. It's anything but cool. But it doesn't work. One of the girls just screams louder and buries her head in the other girl's shoulder. There is broken glass on the floor. It's like someone pulls a plug somewhere inside me. The strength floods out, and my knees buckle.

Granddad grabs me by the shirt, wheels me around and we stumble out the door. I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. As we go, I see a guy behind a counter and he's on the phone. His eyes are big and filled with white and terror. He speaks urgently, but I can't make out the words. Then the doorframe sweeps across my vision and he's gone. I have a strange taste in my mouth and my head is throbbing. I want to sit down, but Granddad keeps me staggering along somehow. Outside, the sunlight is a blade. I stand for a moment, swaying, eyes screwed up. But Granddad wraps his arm around my shoulder and we half-run, half-stumble down the street. A police siren wails, closing in.

I can't open the door of the ute. Granddad has to do it for me, and he helps me into the seat. I automatically reach for the seatbelt. I even try to get it to fasten before I remember. Then the engine is running and we are travelling. I start to wind the window down. When it suddenly drops into the frame I jump in my seat and the pounding in my head increases. I put my hand outside, redirect the air onto my face. It doesn't do any good. But it doesn't do any harm either.

The journey home is lost. I think I sleep through most of it. I remember only one thing. Granddad suddenly pulls over. It might be before we leave Milton, because I have a dim memory of cars and buildings all around. He scoots across the road to a parked car. The car looks familiar, for some reason. I watch him as if from a great distance. I have no idea why he's wrestling with the car and I don't care. Finally, he comes back and drops something down into the well at my feet. I pick it up.

It's a side mirror, sleek and aerodynamic. The kind you get on sports cars. A sudden image of a car overtaking us on a bend comes to me. I drop the mirror back into the well.

I become aware that we've stopped moving. I lift my head up and my neck is speared with pain, a sharp jabbing from being in one position for too long. I rotate my head in a gentle circle. It's dark. We've parked by the waterfront. There are lights strung up and a few picnic tables scattered around. A couple of boats bob on dark water. Flashes of light ride the swells. It takes me some time to get my bearings. Then I recognise the main strip of Granddad's town.

The lights of the supermarket sparkle in the distance. My head is still thumping. Granddad's little more than a dark shadow behind the wheel.

‘I guess neither of us is gonna be in the mood for cooking tonight,' he says. He jerks his head to the left. ‘Best fish and chips in Tassie. Maybe in Australia.'

I stare at the collection of tables. There's a small, brightly lit cabin, off to one side. It's got one of those folding noticeboards outside it, all chalked up. I can't read it. One thing I know. I don't want to eat. I can't imagine keeping anything down, but I open the ute door anyway. I feel weak, but I can walk. Granddad ushers me to a table near the water. The air is chill, but my face feels hot and flushed.

‘I'll order for you, okay?' he says and I nod.

While he's gone I watch the water and the way the shapes of the lights change in the swell. I pull out my packet of smokes, but it's empty. I can't remember smoking the last one. I crumple the pack and drop it onto the table. Then I notice the dog curled up at my feet. I can't remember Granddad untying him from the tray. When tears come, it's with the energy of suddenly released pressure. I sit in the dark and tears course down my cheeks, gather at the point of my chin and drip down, become lost in darkness.
I don't sob. I don't move. But the tears keep flowing.

Granddad has his hand on my shoulder. He keeps it there the longest time. I hadn't even heard him approaching.

‘There's a well,' he says. ‘More of a bore hole, really. Back of the house. Drops way down into very cold water. Put the beers in a bucket. Even in midsummer they stay chilled.'

I want to laugh, but I don't trust myself. Granddad lets go of my shoulder and ambles round the other side of the bench. He puts a sixpack of beer on the table, splits open the plastic covering and unscrews the caps of two. Pushes one towards me. He sits, taking his time to ease his body onto the bench seat. I hear his joints crack.

‘Food's coming,' he says. ‘They cook it fresh. And it's worth the wait. Oh, another thing. Here.' He pulls a pouch of rolling tobacco from his pocket and a couple of packets of papers, a bag of filters. ‘Figured you'd need these.'

It takes me a long time to roll one. By the time I'm finished, my hands have stopped trembling. Granddad slides his lighter to me and I twist it around in my fingers for a while. Then I crumple the cigarette up and drop it onto the ground.

‘I've quit,' I say.

‘Good for you,' says Granddad. He takes a swig from his bottle.

‘You shouldn't have got me out of there,' I say. ‘I can't take this anymore, Granddad. You should have let the police take me, lock me up. I'm a danger. To everyone. You included.' This sudden sharp image of Granddad's face in close-up comes to me. I can see the individual pores. I feel again that urge to break and destroy. I try to bury the image. ‘And sooner or later, I'm going to hurt someone I care about. Physically, I mean. I know I've already hurt people. But one time, it's gonna be Kris, or you or a teacher at school who looks at me the wrong way, says the wrong thing. Sooner or later I'm gonna kill someone. I shouldn't be
allowed to wander around freely. I need to be behind bars.'

I know it's true. I can feel it. All that mumbo-jumbo in the courtroom, all that talk and money to prove a lie. That I'm a fit and responsible person. That I can be trusted, that I can keep the demon under control. The simple truth is, I can't. It controls me. And I'm stupid to think it can be any other way. That court hearing. A farce. Lock me up and everyone can sleep easier. Better still if I was dead. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a parasite is to kill the host. Better all round. Better for everyone.