Thrill Seekers (2 page)

I couldn’t see Douggie anywhere. Then I glimpsed him hiding under the kitchen table, curled into a ball sucking his thumb. Mum had made him stop doing that ages ago. I got down on my hands and knees on the lino and crawled between the wall of stockinged legs to join him. When I got close I heard him making a funny whimpering sound, like a dog that’s been locked out.

‘Douggie,’ I whispered. ‘Doug?’

He didn’t take the thumb out of his mouth, but he looked at me. He looked so scared that it made me feel brave and I put my hand on his back and patted him a bit.
He uncurled then and came to me, tried to bury himself in my puny wet chest.

I’m going to have to look after him. But I don’t know how.

Douggie’s not here today. They said he was too upset to come, too young. Not me though. I’m thirteen. Old enough for a funeral. Old enough to look after everyone. Douggie, and Mum too.

So I can’t jump in after Dad, no matter how much I want to.

Anyway, you never know what might happen. Remember Jesus? He died, but He wasn’t really dead. So I’ll wait.

I’ll wait three days.

I waited three days; I’ve waited three bloody years. God sucks.

I hear them talking in the dark. I hear Douggie sobbing, telling Mum everything, things mothers aren’t supposed to know. And I’m angry with him for being so weak. Angry with him for breaking the rules, for telling and getting us all into trouble.

We’ve been at the local park together, the Oxley Creek boys, wearing footy jerseys and jeans against the cold of a Brisbane winter night. My little brother Douggie, his best mate Steve, Russ from down the road, Jacko and me, have been drinking all day, the usual casks of moselle. It’s Saturday so we’ve had time on our hands. No bloody
school. Some of the others dribbled in after footy and work at the garage and tried to catch up. Jacko drove his heap of shit bomb to the pub and bought spirits – bottles of vodka and rum and scotch, and litres of coke to mix with it. It was going to be a big night. No special reason, just Saturday.

We scored an ounce of dope from school yesterday and there’s still most of it left, despite us smoking a dent in it last night, bonging on in the cubby-house down the back of our place. It’s on the banks of the creek, camouflaged by mangroves and overgrown bamboo, an old chook shed we’ve fixed up and turned into the best cubby in the street. We’ve got cushions and carpet, and even electricity to plug in the CD player and the heater on cold nights – the perfect place for endless weekend sessions.

But tonight the party got too big for the cubby. Fellas we didn’t even know that well turned up hoping for a smoke, waving bottles of rum and pretending we were best mates. It was getting way too crowded and
noisy and Mum was freaking, so we moved to the park.

We scrambled under the barbed wire fence at the end of the street, cut through the paddock and spooked the skittish white horse that lived there. It chased after Douggie, almost biting him on the arse, and we all cracked up. As we crossed the field to the park, streetlights lit up the fog floating in the gullies, like smoke machine effects in a rock video. We sat on benches in the black shadow of fig trees near the creek and partied on.

It was a dark night, no moon, and
finger-burning
cold. The booze warmed us but not enough, so we made a bonfire, first with fallen branches and rubbish from bins, then with the bench we were sitting on. It was heavy, weighted down with cement blocks buried in the earth, but with all of us rocking it forward and back, heaving and falling, we managed to drag it onto the flames. Sparks flew up into the sky, spraying high firework orange against the night.

We laughed, and sang stupid songs, boasted about girls we’d had, played air guitar, and clapped sticks together. We pretended we were Abos and danced around the fire, swivelling our feet on the slippery grass, acting like crazy birds and hunters. The dope made us laugh. Well, usually it did. But we weren’t laughing much tonight. A bad mood hung in the air, hovering over each of us, but mainly over Douggie.

I’ve noticed it happening to him over the last few weeks, especially when we’ve been smoking the really strong heads. He hasn’t been able to keep up. His eyes get that stupid glazed-over half-crossed look and he starts speaking bullshit. Hearing stuff that no one says, getting paranoid. We all noticed.

Even so, Steve couldn’t understand it when suddenly Douggie said, ‘Fucken shut up, Steve. I know what you’ve been saying about me. What you’ve been doing, you bastard!’

‘I haven’t been doing nothing. What’re you on about?’

I was sitting between them, my arse cold and wet on the dewy grass, my face roasting in the fire. Steve hadn’t said anything about Douggie.

‘Don’t bloody lie to me. I can hear you.’

Really, Steve hadn’t said a thing.

‘Keep your shirt on, Doug. You’re my best mate. Why would I say something?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Douggie shook his head, then started getting all teary, choking up. Everyone else had gone quiet. The screech of fruit bats echoed in the dark.

‘Fuck you, you arsehole!’ Douggie yelled. ‘Don’t pretend. Don’t lie to me!’

He leapt up and started laying into Steve, his small fists hard and pointy. Steve’s much bigger than Douggie, all rugby
player, no neck, and he didn’t want to fight. They’ve been best mates since grade three. But Douggie was hurting him, drawing blood. So he struck back. Holding onto each other they punched at close range,
fight-dancing
too close to the fire. The fellas we didn’t know made a circle and started the chant.

‘Fight, fight, fight.’

‘Douggie! Stop it!’ I yelled. ‘He didn’t say anything.’

I tried to pull them apart but only got whacked for my efforts, punched from both sides. Jacko and Russ came running to give me a hand. We were mates,
blood-brothers
, the Oxley Creek boys. We fought other people, not each other. Russ held Steve back while Jacko grabbed Douggie’s arms and helped me pull him off. He was throwing wild punches and swearing, his face distorted and ugly in the firelight, saliva and blood spraying as he screamed.

‘You bastard! You fucken bastard! You’re supposed to be my friend. How could you do that to me? How could you say that?’

‘Shit Douggie, I haven’t said anything. You’re crazy, bloody crazy!’

‘Fuck youse!’ roared Douggie and wrestled free of our arms, wriggling out of his jersey, leaving us holding only its emptiness, the shell of the boy that once was. He ran off into the foggy night, running from the demons that were chasing him.

He’s my little brother but I didn’t run after him. I sat there with the others, consoling Steve, drinking more, rolling another joint, shaking my head over Douggie losing it. I stayed on with our mates while he ran off into the darkness alone. Because I was afraid. I was afraid of the voices he heard that were so real to him, afraid that if I listened hard enough I’d hear them too. And if I heard them then everyone would
be shaking their heads over me, and calling me a ‘fucken mad bastard’ too.

The fire died down and everyone but our gang went home. We didn’t have the strength left to move another bench, so we pissed on the embers till they were soaked and headed back to the cubby. We went back the secret way, scrambling along the
creek-bank
, sliding and falling into the mud.

Back at home I went to get some water from the laundry under the house. It was late, after three, Mum was asleep for sure. With any luck Douggie would’ve found his way to bed to sleep it off. There was no Dad to wake up. No Dad to come waving his belt as a threat, roaring at me about looking after my brother. Maybe Douggie would’ve been able to keep it together if Dad was still around. He was always Dad’s favourite. Douggie’s never been the same since Dad died. He’s too soft. It doesn’t pay to be soft. It’s different for me. I’m older. I’m hard.

I’m at the back of the house, the unmown grass wetting my jeans, when I hear them.
The voices. I hear Douggie crying, telling Mum everything, about the fight and the drugs and the booze. Then I hear Mum, but it doesn’t sound like her. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t even sound angry. Her voice is soft and low, coming from Douggie’s room, a gentle rumble, comforting him, telling him that everything’s going to be all right – that he’s going to be all right.

And I’m angry. Angry with Douggie for being so weak, for running and telling, for dobbing and getting us all into trouble. I’m angry and guilty and sad. A groan escapes the back of my throat. He’s my little brother and I didn’t even stand by him. I should’ve stopped him smoking when he first started hearing shit. I should’ve taken the bong away, stopped him drinking, listened and tried to understand. But I didn’t do anything.

I stand cemented to the grass, listening and hating myself. The sound of Douggie’s pathetic whimpers, and my mother comforting him, cuts me deeper than I can bear.

Forcing my legs to move I take the three extra steps to the laundry and pick up one of Mum’s empty vodka bottles from the floor. I turn on the cold tap over the grimy cement tub, but it squeals and sings in its rusty pipes. I turn it off in a hurry but it’s too late. There’s quiet, then…

‘Brian?’ Mum calls. ‘Brian is that you? Come here, love.’

I don’t answer. I have no voice.

I drop the bottle, smashing it into the tub, and run, my heart thumping, back down the hill to the cubby. Almost there I retch and heave, vomiting violently,
black-red
like old blood. I wipe my mouth and my eyes on my jersey and go back in to the fellas.

Everyone’s asleep but Steve. He’s holding the bong close to his battered lips and crying.

‘Shut up,’ I say and snatch the bong away.

I grab the whisky and drain the last of it in a couple of burning swigs. I pack and pull three huge cones in a row, till I can’t feel the ache in my guts anymore.

I’m sixteen. Douggie’s fifteen.

He isn’t all right. He’ll never be all right again.

I’m better looking than Justin Timberlake. And a better dancer. He knows it too. Jealous as hell. They all are. You can’t be this good looking and not put a few noses out of joint.

Ever noticed how much your face changes? It does. I’ve been watching mine in the mirror. My nose is getting longer every day. I hope it doesn’t get too big and ruin my career. My cheekbones are lifting too. Sometimes they move up while I’m watching. It’s a bit freaky really, but I’m used to it now. You’d probably notice yours moving too, if you looked for long enough.

I love taking off all my clothes and wanking in front of the mirror. Watching myself come. I’m so fucking hot. Just ask any of the girls in the hospital, they can’t get enough of me. Even the nurses. They’re all after a piece of my perfect arse and huge banana dick. I had some pretty good times in there. You’ve gotta make the best of a bad situation. Still, I won’t be going back in a hurry.

The price of fame is getting pretty bloody high. If they’re not after your body, they’re burning up with jealousy and plotting against you. It’s not easy to stay positive.

They’ve stashed all the money from my modelling assignments and films in some Swiss bank account, so I’m stuck trying to survive, buy clothes and makeup and stuff, on Mum’s measly pocket money.

Then there’s the Paparazzi, always snapping me when I least expect it. Like before, when I was in the shower. Someone sneaked in and took photos of me through the glass, nude. That’s the shot they all
want. My gorgeous arse plastered across the front page would sell a lot of papers. But still, if they want to photograph me naked they should at least ask first. I’d come up much better with proper lighting and some oil and a workout beforehand. But no, they’ve got to do it on the sly, creep around and snap me when I’m not looking my best, so they don’t have to pay. I’m owed millions.

I don’t know how they get into the house. Mum and Brian must be in on it. Trying to make some extra money from my fame. They probably take a cut of the fee and let the bastards in. I can’t trust anyone round here. They’re nice as pie to my face but the moment my back is turned they’re whispering against me, scheming and plotting ways to take me down, steal my money. And I love these people. I’d never do anything like that to them. Is money enough to betray your own flesh and blood? I try not to think about it. Stay positive. I don’t know why they do it, but it hurts.

‘Doug, are you almost finished in there? I’ve got to go.’ That’s Mum. She doesn’t like it when I’m in here too long.

‘I’m shaving.’

‘Oh, all right then. Just hurry would you?’ Then something else I can’t quite make out, something about body or bloody and money.

That’d be right, she’s probably organising stuff with the Paparazzi right now. I wrap a towel around my waist. They’re going to have to pay if they want a photo of the best cock on the planet.

‘Where were you last night?’ she asks through the door.

‘Out.’ She’s trying to trace my movements. Is it only for the Paparazzi? Maybe she’s got something to do with my Swiss bank.

‘I knew that. Where did you go?’

‘None of your business.’ I was out partying, picking up girls, showing them all a few new moves. But I wasn’t going to tell Mum that.

‘I was very worried, you know. You shouldn’t be going out at all. Remember what the doctor said.’

‘Why not?’ See, what did I tell you? It’s like being under house arrest. Fame. I’m glad I’m a star and that, but it sure has some serious drawbacks. Like a forty-year old woman telling me what I can and can’t do.

‘I was going to call the police.’

That’d be right. Anything to get me out of the way. Locked up.

‘Doug?’ I don’t answer, so she stomps away.

I splash the shaving cream off my face, put on my eyeliner, and start getting
dressed. I’m putting on the new silk shirt I nicked when I hear them. Men’s voices. The Paparazzi. Or is it? They’ve got some sort of accent. Swiss?

I bust open the door. But there’s no one there, just Mum in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher. She jumps at the bang of the door, looks up like I’ve caught her doing something wrong.

Was it her? It sounded like men but it could’ve been Mum disguising her voice.

‘About time,’ she says, heading for the toilet.

‘Where are they?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I know someone’s here.’

‘There’s no one here. You must be hearing voices again. Did you take your pills this morning?’ She comes over with
her hand stretched out to my forehead like she’s going to take my temperature.

‘Don’t try that shit with me,’ I say knocking her hand away. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh Douggie,’ she sighs, turning. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go to the toilet. What do you do in there for so long anyway?’

I give her a dirty look. She can roll her eyes and play dumb all she wants. I know what she’s up to, and it isn’t good. I know there was someone here. I heard them. I’m not an idiot. I know what’s going on. They think I’m crazy but I know what’s real and what’s not, what I see and hear. I don’t believe in God anymore because I can’t hear or see Him, but I sure as hell can hear these bastards plotting against me. I rush down the hallway to my room and slam the door shut. I wish there was someone I could trust. I wish Dad was here.

But I’m not going to let the bastards get to me. Not today. Got to stay focused, stay
positive. I had a great night and I’m going to have a good weekend. I scored last night so I’m going to smoke a joint and be normal, like in the old days, write some songs and learn a few more chords on my guitar.

I sit down on my bed and roll a
two-paper
joint. Perfect. My brother Brian’s always up for a smoke. I’ll give him a ring over at Jacko’s and see if they want to meet me in the cubby for a session. It hasn’t been the same around here lately. Brian’s always over at Jacko’s, practically lives there though he’s still got his room here next to mine. Some nights he comes home for dinner. Most of the time it’s just me and the old lady rattling around.

I go out to the lounge to dial his number. Mum is watching some romance DVD, a tumbler of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks over her shoulder.

‘Ringing Brian if that’s okay with you, or do I have to ask permission to ring my own brother these days?’

She grunts and turns back to the TV.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Brian. Not since my sixteenth birthday a couple of months ago, just before they put me in hospital. I’d told him to get the old gang together for the party to end all parties. I was putting on a keg. I sold my bike to buy it. I made lots of cool party tapes, hung streamers, blew up balloons, got ready and waited.

No one came. Not one of the bastards. Not even Steve. Jealous. Can’t hack the pace because I’m famous now and they’re all nobodies. But I didn’t let it get to me. I showed them. I sat in the decorated cubby and drank that whole keg by myself. Took a few days, but I did it. Brian came and had a couple, but he didn’t stay long, said he was busy over at Jacko’s. Mum kept coming down, trying to make me stop and come to bed, looking at me with a stupid pitying
look in her eyes. I hate that look. It makes me angry.

Brian answers the phone.

‘Gidday Brian.’

‘Douggie, how’s it hangin?’

‘Good. Got out yesterday. Want to come round for a smoke?’

‘What, a joint?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You know you’re not supposed to smoke anymore.’

‘Do you always do what you’re told?’

‘That’s different.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not crazy.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Face facts, you’re fucked in the head.’

‘Who says?’

‘You’re sick, mate. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s schizophrenia.’

‘What would you know? You’re the fucking crazy one. You’re the one who can’t stop drinking, even for a day.’

‘I don’t have time for this. There are people here.’

‘I’ll come over there then.’

‘No. You can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s just not on, all right.’

‘Why?’

‘There are girls and stuff, no one you know.’

‘Girls love me, can’t get enough of me.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘What?’

‘All your bullshit.’

‘Jealous are you?’

‘Yeah right. Look, I’ve gotta go. How about I come see you tomorrow? We can watch the footy together.’

‘Don’t you want a joint with your own brother?’

‘No, Douggie, I don’t. I’m busy. I’ve got things to do.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘See you tomorrow then?’

I hang up. I’m not going to cry. I run back to my room and slam the door. Brian was a real mate once. Now he’s just another enemy, telling lies, saying I’m crazy, trapping me. I’m not bloody crazy. It’s them, all of them plotting against me. They’re the crazy ones. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? They can all just go fuck themselves.

Sometimes, if I let myself believe them, I feel like I could throw myself off a bridge or something. If I believe their bullshit then I know what’s ahead. I’m not stupid. I’ll end up like the old guys in hospital, the ones who live on the streets between visits. I’ll never get a job, no girl will ever want me, I’ll never have kids – and I’d be a great dad too. There’d be nothing. So I can’t believe them. I won’t.

Still, sometimes it gets to me, and I give up. I’ve tried to top myself a couple of times, but it’s harder to kill a body than you think. I jumped off the back verandah with the hose around my neck, but it stretched and I bounced halfway back up again, more bungee jump than noose. I tried leaping up
and hitting my head into the ceiling fan to knock my brains out, but that didn’t work either. I lay on the railway tracks and waited as a train approached, but then it rushed past on the other line, blowing train fart all over me.

When they start laying all the bloody crazy talk on me, telling me I’m a schizo, a fucking loon, it’s enough to drive anyone to a bottle of pills. That’s how I ended up in hospital this last time, after my birthday party. Pills.

I didn’t take enough.

Anyway, that was before. I’ve got too much to live for now – my music, my movies, the fans, sex. I won’t let the bastards get to me. I won’t believe their lies. I’ll show them all. There’ll be a way through all this shit.

I’m going to sing a happy song.