Spinner (27 page)

David rested his palm on the wooden railing that ran along the racetrack straight, pushing gently against the edge, testing beneath. A sharp pain made him snatch his hand back from the rail. It wasn't his injury, but a splinter. A big one, stuck in his palm. Blood was seeping out around the piece of wood.

‘What's that?'

Blackie was behind him. He grabbed David's hand, and pulled, spinning David around.

‘Let go,' said David.

‘Hang on. Hurt does it?'

Blackie held his wrist, and put his other hand on David's arm, so he couldn't pull away.

‘God, you are a freak. These fingers are longer than bloody octopus tentacles.'

‘Just a splinter,' said David, trying to pull his hand back again. ‘Let go.'

‘Hold still.' He twisted David's hand until his wrist was being twisted too. David tightened his wrist, so the man couldn't keep twisting. Blackie stopped and looked at him. Then he sneered, meanly and started to twist again. As he kept twisting, David had to kneel down to stop the pain.

‘See, this hand is worth a bit. Good or bad, it's worth something either way.' The man reached into his jacket
pocket with his now free hand.

‘I'll call out,' said David, kneeling in the dirt by the racetrack.

Blackie's hand came out of his pocket holding a razor. ‘If you do, I'll cut yer.' He flicked the razor outwards, and the blade flashed out from its hinged protector. ‘The thing about a razor cut is how much it hurts, even when it's not deep.'

David looked at the razor blade raised above his hand. He was helpless, held still by his wrist. All he could do was try to spread his fingers so the splinter didn't dig deeper.

Blackie looked down at David and smiled at something he saw in David's eyes that he liked the look of. He looked back to David's hand. ‘How about I just take one finger off, how'd you like that?'

David looked at the razor blade, then at a movement behind Blackie. ‘How about we don't?' There was the double click of a gun hammer cocking. Squinty Tyler stood just behind Blackie with a revolver pointing at the blond man's head. ‘Tell me why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head.'

David's hand was free. He pulled it back, grabbing himself around the wrist.

‘Relax, Squinty. Kid's got a splinter.'

‘Is that right?' said Squinty, his drooping eyelid aimed down at David. He pushed his pistol until it touched Blackie's head, just under where the piece of his ear was missing.

David could see the revolver load, a bullet in each chamber.

‘Look Squinty, sorry for putting the wind up little lord Frontenroy here. No harm.'

David tested his wrist. It felt stiff.

‘If you've damaged the...'

‘If I've damaged the merchandise then at least you know, for sure.' Blackie turned with difficulty, turning through where the pistol was pointing until he was looking at Squinty past the barrel, which was now pushing into his scarred cheek.

Squinty seemed to be deciding whether he'd shoot him.

‘Nothing like betting on a sure thing,' said Blackie, as though there were not a gun pointing into his face.

David got up and ran.

‘Hey, stay here,' ordered Squinty.

David didn't turn around. Still holding his wrist, he ran around the pavilion and up the steps. His uncle was coming out the door as he reached the top.

‘Thought you got lost.'

‘I want to go home,' panted David.

‘Not yet mate. Got these blokes for you to meet.'

‘Now.'

‘What's wrong with your hand?' said Mrs O'Locklan coming out too.

‘I got a splinter.' David didn't know why he didn't tell them what had just happened. He wanted to be away from here, but he didn't want to say anything. Not here. ‘We have to go now,' he said, looking at Mrs O'Locklan.

She put her hand up on David's shoulder, and said, ‘Very well. Let's go then, David.'

‘We're just getting started,' said Michael.

‘Let me see,' she said.

David held his hand. She peered and reached towards the splinter. Her nails weren't long, and weren't painted either. They touched the edge of the wood and for a moment he felt the start of the sharp wood digging deeper, but then it left. She was turning it in the air, so he could see. ‘Wow, that's a
beauty. About an inch,' she said.

‘We still have to go.'

‘We gotta meet these people. It's all set up.'

‘We'll walk,' said Mrs O'Locklan, heading down the stairs. ‘Don't know why we drove in the first place, it's so close.'

David followed her, looking out for Blackie and Squinty. The drivers watched them but not with much interest. The sprinkler spat its water on the straight.

‘All right.' Michael had come after them. ‘Not a problem. Let's get outta here.'

David nursed his hand as they drove out of the racecourse. There was a big old building across a park and a cricket ground.

‘I want to go to training.'

‘I thought you wanted to go home,' said his uncle dully, without turning round.

‘I want to train.'

‘How's your hand?' said Mrs O'Locklan. She was having trouble turning round in the front seat.

‘That man Blackie. He had a razor and said he'd cut one of my fingers off.'

The car slewed sideways, scaring a fellow on a bicycle, before coming back to the left of the road, and stopping. Mrs O'Locklan had been flung back towards the windshield, Uncle Mike shooting out his arm in time to hold her.

‘Blackie Cutmore?'

‘The blond man with half his ear gone.'

‘Bitten off,' said his uncle.

Mrs O'Locklan looked at him. ‘Gangsters and shylocks.'

‘Mr Squinty stopped him by pointing a gun at him. A black pistol.'

‘Were they joking?'

‘They didn't smile and wink or...'

‘For goodness sake, Michael! They're killers and drug dealers and ... You had no business putting us in with them.'

‘They wanted to meet David. They—'

‘They give you hop.'

‘Yeah, well they don't sell that at the grog shop.'

‘It isn't always about you.' Mrs O'Locklan grabbed Michael by the chin, her fingers squeezing so hard he couldn't speak. ‘Is David safe?'

His uncle mumbled nonsense, making a joke of her squeezing his mouth. She let him go, not laughing. ‘What do they want?'

Michael turned to David. ‘What did Blackie say?'

David had trouble thinking what was said. He had been too busy with his twisted wrist and the cut-throat razor. Finally he said, ‘My hand is worth something. Either way. And then about a sure thing.'

‘All right. Good.' Michael put the car in gear again and pulled back out onto the road. After they'd gone a little way, his uncle asked, ‘How
is
your hand?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know?'

‘He needs another week to be sure,' said Mrs O'Locklan, watching Michael.

‘The Blackie man twisted my wrist.'

‘Not forgetting the splinter too! That hand's a bit of a lightning rod isn't it?'

David had to smile at that. His hand was held in his other, palm up. There was a little hole in the centre now where the splinter had been. Since that train accident in
the desert all kinds of things had been happening to his hand. It was true.

Michael pulled up outside Mrs O'Locklan's house. Some kids were playing cricket with a dustbin further up. Mothers were talking over fences. There were men too, mostly solitary and on verandas, home too early from no work. They were all watching the car.

‘I'll have a chat to Squinty. Sort it out. All very sensible and proper, and then ... we can get back to having some fun eh?' David's uncle sounded flat, in spite of his words.

Mrs O'Locklan got out of the car and went in without looking back. David squeezed past the front seat. His uncle said, ‘Rest your hand. The next Test starts the day after tomorrow.'

‘What?'

‘When'd you think?'

‘But we just finished the last one.'

‘It's been over a week.'

The car pulled away, scattering kids from their cricket game. The car horn seemed to give a jaunty kind of beep that for some reason made David wonder how safe his uncle would be ‘reasoning' with Blackie and Squinty.

A man yelled, ‘Good on yer, David. Bore it up those Poms!'

David looked around the street. There was movement, like water coming down the river in a rush, grabbing up all the summer branches and leaves and lifting them, only this time it was the people in the street, as they started moving out of their yards and coming towards him. The kids, who'd been playing cricket ran ahead, and reached him first.

‘David Donald, aren't ya?' said a boy with black clumps of
hair jutting all over his head.

‘Yeah,' said David.

‘You gunna get them Poms?' said a lady in a floral dress that looked like it was holding pillows.

‘Um, I hope so missus. If my hand's all right.'

‘So, it's true,' said a man, ‘what Freddy said.'

‘Yes sir. Mrs O'Locklan's been getting it right.'

‘And Freddy,' said a thin lady in a cloth hat.

‘Yes, missus.'

David turned to see Mrs O'Locklan, but she'd gone inside.

‘Ya gunna bowl a googly?' asked a little girl with skinned knees.

‘Course he's gunna bowl a googly. Get Windsor with that,' said a male voice.

‘Naw, off break and catch. Like the first innings,' came another.

‘O'Malley's his bunny though. No one else can touch 'im, 'cept The Kid.'

‘Have ya got a cap?' asked a boy.

‘Not yet,' said David.

‘You didn't have a hat in that last Test.'

‘Naw, I forgot.'

They laughed, but David didn't mind.

‘Play cricket with us,' said the girl with the skinned knees.

‘Oi,' said a man. ‘Leave him alone.'

‘He's got a Test coming, love,' said a lady who had a bowl of peas in her hand.

David looked back to Mrs O'Locklan's house for a moment.

Some kids were already dragging the rubbish bin up,
scraping it along the road. Two boys were wrestling over the bat.

A boy came up, ‘Show us yer big fingers.'

‘Hush Billy!'

‘Naw, it's all right,' said David. ‘Big as sausages some reckon.'

More laughter.

‘That's why I keep getten 'em caught up in things.'

Someone gave him the ball. It was a well-worn tennis ball. He looked at it, not sure he could do much, but a man in a singlet pushed through. ‘Here. It's a real one from my club.'

‘Thanks, mister,' said David.

They laughed again. All of them. But then they went quiet, stepping back and waiting. David looked to the rubbish bin, down a corridor of people. An old man edged up, and said, ‘Well, is he as good as Grimmet? Eh?'

David stepped up and he bowled. He bowled leggies and offies and shooters and skidders and loopies. He played with flight and he sorted through some gentle spin and some that he really ripped. He played with line and length, dropping some short and pushing others through to hit the rubbish bin. No one laid bat on ball that afternoon, and everyone in the street, and many more from connecting streets turned up to have a go at David Donald. No one seemed to mind. In fact, thought David later, it became increasingly important to all, including David, that he be absolutely invincible that afternoon.

It only ended when Mrs O'Locklan yelled, ‘Time to come home for dinner, David.'

And it was like David waking, to see it was twilight and dim, and to hear their voices again. ‘Good luck, David.'

‘Um thanks,' said David. And he turned to go to Mrs O'Locklan's.

They started clapping. It was silly really, clapping like that in the street, thought David as he kept going to Mrs O'Locklan's house. But when he opened the gate, he looked and the people were gathered there, and they stopped clapping when they saw him look, and when he got to the veranda he turned and they were still there and he couldn't think what to do, so he waved, and all of them, the men and the kids and ... they all gave a wave back.

David's hand had swollen again and Mrs O'Locklan put it into the bowl of her magic goop.

‘I don't think its swole up nearly as much as before,' said David.

‘Does it hurt?' They were eating lamb chops with vegies. Mrs O'Locklan had said he was allowed to eat the chops with his hand as he only had one free. He could feel the fat running down his chin.

‘Not as much.'

‘How about where you got the splinter?'

‘It was nothing. Will you read the cables again?' He gestured to the telegrams in front of him. There had been two, waiting for him inside. Grandad and Nell.

‘You should practise your reading.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

She picked up the cables ignoring what she'd told him, letting him get away with it. She looked at the cable and back at him before she read. ‘No more offies STOP Bowl leggies STOP Use your field STOP Grandad.'

David nodded. He was right, but didn't understand about his hurt hand. ‘He doesn't know they won't always put the
field where I want.'

She read the other. ‘Master David Donald comma bonzer stuff stop Best wishes stop Nell Parker.'

‘She doesn't talk like that,' said David a little embarrassed because he wanted Mrs O'Locklan to think well of Nell.

‘It's telegram talk.'

‘She doesn't talk that much. You know. She's more a doing person. But no airs and graces.' David put down his chop bone and picked up his fork again. It was greasy from his hand. He pushed at the peas. ‘But she talks about cricket and droughts and peas and has a laugh. She's cheeky about the Pringles, but not so they hear.'