Wild Cat Falling (10 page)

Stop running. What's the hurry? No place to go anyway. Just walk on. Not to somewhere, to anywhere.

The lights of the milk-bar draw me across the road. In the doorway, I hesitate. At the end of one dark journey, why start on another?

Two short steps into this place and where will they end? Who will I meet in there and where will the meeting lead? . . . “Boys, boys learn to avoid the occasions of sin. Keep away from bad company as you would keep out of an all-consuming fire.”

While mind draws back, body takes the fatal step.

No sign of Denise or anyone else I know much. I sit at a table by myself and watch the make-believe- they-are-alive kids moving like zombies to the jukebox will.

I look around the familiar whitewashed walls as though for the first time — names scribbled in chalk or lipstick, lovers' names encircled by diseased hearts. Over there a red wine stain like a misshapen cross, red drops streaming from the arms. Blurred vision of agony. Bitter taste of defeat, the vinegar of futility.

This bloody place, the occasion of discovery. This table, the one where the youth that was me sat that afternoon on his seventeenth birthday, sucking up coke, relaxed, not expecting anything. . . .

“Hi, man, where'd you get those sharp new shoes?”

“Father Christmas put them in my stocking.”

The door opens and a man comes in. He stands thick-set, hard eyes taking in the room, moving from table to table, face to face. The attendant puts down his paper, talk drops to a murmur and the juke-box stops dead.

The youth sucks and slouches, playing it cool. He glances out the door. Rain splashing in the street, swirling down the gutters, bouncing off a big black car beside the kerb. . . . The cop could be after anyone in here. It wouldn't, be him, he hasn't skited to a soul about the bust. Nothing else they could have on him — unless they found the cosh.

He gets to his feet, like bored, fumbles for a coin and drifts over to the music box. Rainbow lights flash as he touches the switch. He scans the song list casually. . . That stolen stuff in his room, nice and ready for them to find. Good job he's spent most of the money.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and he swings round. The big man turns the collar of his coat and flashes a badge.

“I'm a police officer. Come along with me, please.”

The youth shrugs violently, but the clasp is firm.

“How about one last little number like, before we go?”

“Come on. Get moving. I haven't got all day.”

He answers with a what-the-hell gesture to the crowd, and goes out, joined hand to shoulder with the cop.

The rain has ceased but a few big drops hit hard and cold as they cross the footpath to the waiting car. The detective pushes in after ham in the front seat and the driver cop starts up. The rain pours down again in an angry burst. Windscreen wipers swish-swish, click-click, clearing two watery arcs through which the road curves like a black monster rearing out of the sea. Swish-swish, clicketty-click, juke-box baby seventeen.

The theme clicks over in his head through the long days before the trial. He sits at last waiting his turn on a bench against a passage wall, fat policeman at the exit, barred window at the other end.

Juke-box baby seventeen, graduated and got that twist. Seventeen, seventeen. Juke-box baby seventeen.

Real grouse birthday this. First time he's had a party. Crazy celebration. Big thrill. Going to get what he deserves — a real big present at last. . . . Payment for the cosh they found in the lane, the things in his room, the knife under his pillow. . . . Gone, man, real gone. . . . And may they rot in hell!

Seventeen, seventeen, graduated and stood his trial. Real big kicks at seventeen. . . .

“Right, boy. Your turn.”

Gee, that fat old square Robinson's turned up again. Thought he'd be content with the statement, but no, here he is in court. Dear old guardian angel probation officer. What a trouble the youth's been to him since he chucked that nice job, and started flitting from hostel to rented room, from rented room to rented room.

“Now listen to me,” he says. “Don't get smart with the magistrate. No lip, understand? No talking unless you're spoken to. Remember to answer his questions politely with a ‘Sir' and you should be all right. I'll be behind you all the time.”

They go in and the cop plonks himself down inside the door. The defendant sits at a table beside old Robinson, long-haired youth and pudgy man. . . . The youth wishes they'd let him sit alone so he could be the centre of attention. Like Marlon Brando, real tough bodgie mumbling out the side of his mouth.

The special Juvenile Magistrate trots in, trying to stride importantly. No good. He hasn't the height to command respect. The court rises, the youth rises and towers over the lot of them. The magistrate moves to the bench and sits on a stool that is raised by two fat legal tomes. He sits. The court sits.

Impressive silence broken by a snigger. Jehovah glares. Guardian angel's wing digs defendant in the ribs. Business begins.

The cop who arrested him takes the oath. Exhibits — cosh, knife, stolen clothes — to be examined later by the Magistrate. Detective sits. Guardian angel is summoned and flaps to his feet.

“Your Honour, the Child Welfare Department has had trouble with the defendant ever since he left Swanview, where he was sent at the age of nine, after being charged and found guilty of breaking and entering. There he received a fair education and the annual reports showed him to be not unintelligent. You have the Department's report on this matter, sir. At the beginning of last year, he was released and placed under my guidance. The Department found him a good position in a reputable firm and accommodation in a boys' hostel. Unfortunately, even with these advantages, he failed to make good. He moved from the hostel and left his job without my knowledge. I lost contact with him until I was notified by the police that he had been picked up on a car stealing charge. He was committed to the juvenile section of the jail for a term of six months. After his release, I again found him a job and respectable lodgings, but he again eluded me. I understand that then he went to live in a Native Settlement where he consorted with some of the most undesirable elements. He is of part aboriginal descent and this appears to have made him acceptable there. After some weeks, he left the camp and rented a room in the city, but he did not reform or try to find a job. Instead, he frequented a milk-bar, which is known to the police as a breeding place of crime. I have stated that he is intelligent and could quite easily find work if he wanted to, but he spurns all efforts to help him and I honestly believe him to be one of the most difficult types to deal with. Sir, may I hand you the statement which he dictated to me at the Receiving Home?”

He passes up two typewritten sheets of paper. The Magistrate adjusts his glasses and puts on an expression of deep concentration. Traffic noises filter into the room. A cop shuffles his heavy feet. Coughs echo intermittently. Asthmatic breathings wheeze about.

The Magistrate relaxes his brow and looks up. “Will the defendant take the stand, please.”

There is no stand. It means he must stand out in front.

“You say in your statement that you do not believe in God?”

“Yeah.”

A nudge from the probation officer.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you do not want to be sworn in on the Bible?”

“No, I don't.”

“Will you give your word of honour then, to speak the truth?”

“How can I?”

A nudge from Mr Robinson.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's better. Why did you commit the crime?”

The youth clutches wildly at a thread of hope. “Couldn't get a job and had no money. I needed the dough for food and rent.”

“Did you try to find work?”

“No.”

“And why did you steal the clothes?”

“All mine were shabby and out of date so I couldn't mix with the mob. You know they look down on you if you don't look sharp.”

“I hope you will answer this question correctly now. Do you feel any guilt for what you have done?”

“No. I was starving and my rent was due. That square had what I wanted and more than I did. Those people lived in luxury.”

“What does the word ‘square' mean?”

“Oh, ordinary people, them that like work and that.”

“You mean decent people, I presume.” He consults the file again. “Your probation officer and the detective both state that you had in your room a large collection of lurid paper-backs — crime stories and so forth. Do you like reading this type of literature?”

“Before, I used to think they were terrif. But now they bore me. I don't read anything now.”

“You frequent a certain milk-bar, I understand.”

“Only place I could go after the camp, sir. It was tough there, always drinking and fighting. But at the milk-bar I could listen to the juke-box and talk.”

“I understand that a certain class of youth known as ‘bodgies' gather there. Do you call yourself a bodgie?”

I try to-find an answer to that one.

“Do you?”

“No . . . sir.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“A progressive dresser, I guess, sir.”

“Oh, is there a difference?”

“I think so, sir. I mean. . . .”

“Perhaps the difference is that a bodgie carries a bike chain and a so-called progressive dresser carries a knife and cosh.”

The Magistrate looks pointedly at the exhibits. It's a joke, and hollow laughter echoes through the court. “You may step down now. The Court will be in recess for ten minutes. Mr Robinson, will you come into my chambers, please.”

Seventeen, seventeen, graduated and got that twist. Juke-box king ain't no square. Seventeen and second trial. . . .

The Magistrate returns.

“I have discussed the case with the defendant's probation officer and can see no mitigating circumstances. So far as I can make out there are no other matters to be taken into consideration and I feel it my duty to commit this youth to a further term of imprisonment. I sincerely hope it will be a lesson to him and to others.”

He turns his pale blank face to the defendant. “I sentence you to eighteen months imprisonment with hard labour. While in the place of detention you will be given a psychological examination and treated if necessary.”

Shrug it off, man. Big present. Eighteen lovely months, all found and plenty of good company. Old school mates complete with old school ties. . . . “Boys, boys, avoid the occasion of sin. Above all bad company!” Eighteen lovely, lousy months ... all lost. May the dirty bastards burn in hell.

The defendant looks up as they take him outside. Racing clouds pile up over the last small patch of sky. He goes to the lavatory and vomits. His guardian angel offers him a cigarette. . . .

Someone claps me on the back.

“Hi, man!”

“Hi, man!” I parrot back. “How're you going?”

“Still out, anyway,” he says.

I turn and see that it is Jeff, my prison-redeemed friend.

“Hi, man,” I say again. “How's that swell big doll of yours?”

“She won't have a bar of me,” he says. “She wants big money now.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. They get that way.”

“But I want her like hell,” he says.

“So what? You've got nothing coming to you. Nothing to confess.”

He looks away. “I want her like hell.”

“Yeah. Like leaves. Like spring.”

“Eh, man?”

“Like hell. Like fire. Like life.”

“Hey! You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. You want this big doll. She wants big money. You ain't got her. You ain't got big money. So what?”

He sits down beside me, takes a rum bottle from his hip pocket and divides the remains of the grog into two cups.

“I don't know what to do, man,” he says. “All the things we argued about in jail, God or no God. Christ- God, or phoney, or plain duped. Remember?”

“Yeah.” I take a swig of the rum and look at the wine stain on the wall. “So what?”

“You've got more brains than me,” he says. “More than anyone I get a chance of talking to. If you were dinkum — if you still reckon it's just a yam they put over us so they can keep on top. . . .”

I look at him. That's what he wants me to tell him because he wants this big doll and he wants to get hold of the money to pay for her.

I toss off the last of the rum and get up from the chair.

“You work that out for yourself. I got problems of my own.”

“You mean you've changed your mind? You're going straight?”

I say nothing.

“I reckoned you might of had something once,” he says. “But I guess you're just scared like the rest of us.”

“Who said I was scared?”

“Or maybe reformed,” he says sadly.

“Like hell,” I say.

There's no more grog so we wander over to the counter, order a coke, and sit down at our table again. “Had any fun since?” Jeff asks.

“No,” I say. “The usual drag. I ran into a University mob, thought they might be O.K. but they were a worse fake than the bodgie gang — only rich enough to get away with it.”

“Got any ideas?” he asks.

“Plenty,” I lie. “Getting out of this city for a start. It gives me the shits.”

“Me too,” he says. “I'd like to get out and forget about this doll, but I don't know where. They reckon there's some work going in the wheatbelt over harvest, but I don't know about those parts.”

I ask him where exactly and he says my home town. “Yeah,” I say. “It'd be swell to do a job there. Just swell.”

“You'd know a few people there, I suppose?” “Sure,” I say. “Kindest, best meaning folks in the world, and all those lovely kids who bashed me up at school. Guess they'll be big men now. Big dumb farmers with dials like sheep and bellies full of wheat.” I feel the old hate rise up in me like a fanned fire.