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L Fuller
Published by Luke Fuller at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 L Fuller
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LukeFuller
Prologue
Nought could remove
I love movies.
Just to annoy people, I call them films, but pronounce it ‘fillums’. Don’t really know why.
It’s not that I love watching fillums so much, it’s that I love making them.
At least I think I’d enjoy making them. You see, I haven’t actually made one yet.
But.
But…in my head, I’ve made heaps. You know when you’re walking along a bush track and you pretend there’s some creature off in the gums and bottlebrush and you can zoom in with the camera and then do a close up of the fear on your face and then…
Or when on those misty mornings you pretend you can see a spaceship descend slowly through the whiteness onto the river, a bit like in ET?
It’s fun. Good fun.
Actually, the real reason I like pretending I’m a director, you know, the person who sees the film, is because they can say Action. And they can say Cut.
More importantly, they can say that didn’t work out how I wanted it to, let’s shoot it again.
Imagine that power.
No. Don’t like that at all. Let’s do it again.
Every stuff up. Every dumb thing you’ve ever said. Every awkward moment with the girl of your dreams where you sneezed Fanta out your nose. Every dropped footy catch that the other team pounced upon and scored the winning try. Every knock on. Every trip up the stairs at school when the class is watching.
You could say sorry guys. Don’t like how that panned out. We’ll have to shoot that scene again.
Rewind the tape and rerecord.
Start over.
Until you had the perfect movie, or, the perfect life.
I wish my life was a movie.
If my life was a movie my dad wouldn’t still be in hospital. I wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good party. I wouldn’t have been chased by a few guys with a knife, and I wouldn’t have tried to kill someone.
And my best mate wouldn’t be in the ground.
I would have stopped and said…no no no. The lighting is all wrong, the angles are crap, I told you to zoom there buddy, not pan, and where the hell are the caterers? These canapés are awful. No, we do it again until we get it right.
Until I get it right I suppose.
Whenever I feel something not going to plan I slip into director mode and everything slows down and I step into the third person. I see through the camera.
See how everyone else looks. The scene, the set, even me, acted out like some play on a stage.
Only problem is, I don’t get to say cut.
The camera keeps rolling.
And my life plays out like a first attempt movie, no second chances.
You know Hitchcock filmed Rope with only five scenes. Each scene went for about twenty minutes. No mistakes.
Seems sometimes I can’t even go five minutes without wanting to re-shoot the whole scene.
Even if the movie wasn’t the best, the trailer would be exciting. I reckon I’d get over a billion people watching it on the Interent like Lucas’ Star Wars or Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings. Thumpin’ music, exciting scenes of the footy game and the rock climbing chase and the knife fight fading in and out with one of those dopey sounding American voice overs; …the boy…the girl…their fathers…the head high tackle…the showdown…the knife…the chase…Tagged.
I guess that’s what I’d call it.
Action
Chapter One
Too rough, too rude, too boisterous
Tag stared with satisfaction at the blood trailing down his hand. Turning has hand, he watched as the thickness found its own path snaking from the knuckles down over the meat of his thumb, to where it caught the hair and splayed across his wrist.
Just as satisfying was the hole in the wall leading into the unknown between his room and his parents. Pity I didn’t go right through he thought. At least then they’d be able to see…able to see how angry they make me…bloody furious.
But his heart wasn’t in it anymore. There was no more yelling, no more storming, no more threats and accusations. For tonight anyway.
Tag was strangely disappointed to see that the blood flow was stemming. The cut on his knuckle was not as deep as he had hoped. They won’t even notice that when I clean it up. Have to try harder next time. Go right through both sides of the wall, right through the cavity so they can see.
The fight was simple. The lead up predictable and as usual, over nothing really:
“What’s this?” she asked, putting the knife down. “Is it from school?”
“Yeh.” He had waited for the right time. Mum in the throws of dinner and Dad at another ‘late meeting’ that he staggers home from just after midnight.
She opened it, the carrots forgotten and the water starting to distort in the saucepan from the heat beneath it. Simmering.
As she read it Tag sat at the table, his back to her.
“Where are the first two warnings?” she asked. He could tell she was trying to control her voice and remembered one of the things the councillor had said to both of them on one of their many visits: be calm Mrs Speare. If you’re calm (she had looked at Tag sitting next to his mum) then Tag will be calm and things can be discussed (a know-it-all smile) rationally.
Tag knew his mum was doing that now. Trying to hold the temper he had inherited and loved.
As if prepared for the question, he pulled two more envelopes from his bag and tossed them on the bench, close to the now bubbling water.
“When did you get these?”
Tag turned to face her, his head tilted and a squint to his eyes that he’d practised in the mirror.
“Ages ago. It’s nothin’ big. I just have to do the assignment and they withdraw the…”
And so it went…like they’d rehearsed it somehow. Nothing big she had repeated, her voice raising…his voice raising…mum don’t you yell at meing and Tag standing, screaming now, competing with the rattling lid on the saucepan as the steam battled to escape…
He had sworn. Loud, strong and forcefully, and she had reacted. “You will not talk to me like that (predictable) and you won’t be going to Ben’s on Friday night (predictable too, but this one hurt).”
“You can’t stop me,” he’d screamed storming down the hall.
Then the wall had met his fist and the plaster wall had given way. A tuft of white dust, the trail of red, and Tag on a brief high.
He could hear the water boil over before his mum had got the chance to turn it down.
He knew that tomorrow or the next day he’d apologise, wracked with guilt. He knew that he’d get the assignment done and he knew he should have done it already. He also knew that when he apologised, he would ask to go to Ben’s and she would say no, and the whole scene would be performed again, like actors on a stage.
* * *
Speare dropped his case next to the stool, straightened his tie with its Windsor knot in a perfect triangle (“smart people tie a Windsor Tag…only slacko’s use that other knot. Remember Tag, clothes maketh the man boy. Clothes maketh the man”).
In a telling gesture, the barman placed a double scotch in front of Speare without being asked and, giving him 10 seconds to down that, followed that with a schooner of Globe Lager.
Speare dropped two twenties on the sodden terry towelling bar runner which he hoped would cover another ‘late meeting’.
“Thanks Dave.”
As it always did, the cliché followed; “Tough day at the office.”
It had been an easy day at the office, but Dave knew the game and played his role for the barman; Dave, and the crowd of drinkers around him.
“You know it Dave.” He pushed the empty glass back to Dave. “You know it.
Chapter Two
Children of an idle brain
“I don’t get this crap.” The book hit the desk in frustration.
“Beautifully put Mr Speare, as usual.”
Mr Laurence looked up from his text. The look that he always gives just before tearing shreds off them plastered on his face. It was a look of excitement and pleasure, and the students knew it well.
“You’ve stated two things…” he had put the text down and was counting them off on his fingers. All eyes were on Mr Laurence (Known around school as ‘The Friar’ in reference to the balding pate). Tag had only said what they were all thinking anyway. The Friar worked the room, pausing for effect, letting Tag squirm a little.
Tag played the game well, slouching even more in the awkwardly hard blue plastic chair designed for posture.
“First…” He addressed the whole class, ensuring they were on his side before proceeding. “…that this…” the book raised in his hand again “…is crap…” He let the book fall so that it was loosely held between his thumb and finger like it was crap, eliciting a laugh from the other kids. “…and second…” Here he looked directly at Tag; “…that you aren’t intelligent enough to understand it.”
Tag liked The Friar, and he expected him to come back with stuff like this. Other teachers didn’t have the guts. But The Friar, he told it like it was, and the kids respected him. Tag and all the others knew that The Friar didn’t for an instant believe that Tag was stupid.
Tag persisted. “What do these two kids and their stupid love story have to do with me?” He turned to his mate Ben for support. Ben sat across the room after The Friar had separated them for “being hooligans”. Ben Volley looked back smirking. Like everyone else, he enjoyed these stoushes and would join Tag when he needed help, but he knew The Friar would win.
“Nothing…they have nothing to do with you. The same way that parental pressure, sticking up for you mates, fighting, and getting a girl have nothing to do with you”.
Tag knew he was losing already.
“Pay a bit more attention Tag, lose yourself in the language and the words will make sense. This guy and his themes have been relevant for over 400 years…so I reckon it must be pretty good crap”.
He had them laughing, and Tag knew it was over so he joined in. Another round to The Friar.
Mr Laurence gave a private smile to Tag that showed he was not out to ridicule.
“We’ll keep going with the rest of Act I scene ii. Your line Ben”
The laughter died down and Ben struggled with his line before, thankfully, Jane Nurse took over with her long speech.
Tag liked Jane. Not in that way, because she was best friends with his girl. And he liked English because The Friar’s classroom was on the second floor and he could look out the window, over the river and up on the hill to the High School where she went. Rona High. Nothing like his school; St John’s, or so he’d been told.
The Rona High boys seemed tougher. The girls dresses were shorter. The teachers fatter. Tag knew they were just stories presented to him by his parents to ensure he didn’t want to go to Rona High. It made them look good too…Tag goes to St John’s because we value his education and don’t want him being affected by others. I’ve heard that happens at the school on the hill. That was how they referred to Rona High.
Tag didn’t care either way. It was just that at the moment, his girl was there, and if he looked real hard, he reckoned he could see her through the window.
Impossible since they were separated by a park, the river and the reserve on the other side. But they had decided that at eleven o’clock, when he had English and she had Art, they would look across the river and know that the other was looking back.
What nonsense thought Tag. But he did it anyway.
His pocket rumbled and, with one eye on The Friar, he carefully pulled out the mobile (set to silent so it didn’t end up on The Friar’s desk with his footy, Revhead mag and prized Globe Lager cap).
R u looking?
He smiled. Tag hadn’t told anyone about Julia. But he had invited her to Ben’s on Friday night, the main reason he just had to go, fight with mum or not.
His fingers worked quickly, glancing down occasionally to make sure he wasn’t making a fool of himself by stuffing words up.
Cross the river up the hill and str8 in2 ur eyes
He sat back impressed with himself.
Corny! If you want me there Friday night u’ll have 2 try harder my secret Romeo
Tag winced at the reference to Ben’s party, reminding him of the fight last night. He sighted The Friar moving to the rear of the room on the opposite side. “…try harder…” Righto Friar he thought to himself. Let’s see how good this stuff is! He found where in the text the class were up to and followed, listening to the words.
Couldn’t understand a bit of it. What language is this in? It’s definitely not bloody English that’s for sure!
So he did it. Clearing his mind, closing his eyes, he lost himself in the language. Listening to Jane and Ben and the others fumble their way through the poetic verse. The ancient English became a little clearer, and he heard the line to send.
U r saint seducing gold…he that is stricken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost
He hesitated. Then…
Sending…message sent, an instant before The Friar plucked the phone from his hands, ignored Tag’s feeble protests, exclaimed with mock glee that it was the same as the one he had and proceeded to read out the last few messages to the class “just to make sure there is nothing illegal taking place” with another trademark grin.
Even though he was still slouching, Tag slouched some more, hoping the chair would envelope him or better still, fall through to Dawson’s Science lab below.
No such luck.
He sat and endured being the class’s punching bag.
Again.
Then The Friar did something he never believed he would do, and Tag would never live it down.
* * *
He’d lost count. Six? Seven? Probably more. He knew it was at least five plus the scotches when Caps the garbo had waltzed in, stinkin of the muck he dealt with. Colin Caps ran a waste service, delivering skip bins all over Rona and collecting them for fifty dollars a pop. Truth was, Caps was earning more than Speare and was sending half as much down his throat. Caps drank every Thursday after touch footy. Speare practically had his name on his seat.
“Speare. You here again old son.”
Speare found something important to stare at on the bottom of his glass.
“Got me money yet buddy?” Friendly and genuine.
“Not today mate.”
The bathroom renovation had cost a heap and having to fork out for the skip to get rid of the old stuff was well down the list of people to pay.
“C’mon Speare” Caps reasoned. “It’s been a couple o’ months” He motioned to the bills left over on the bar. “How about you give me that thirty cash and we’ll call it quits…that’s fair enough.”
“I need that thirty cash” Speare replied, taking another mouthful. “You’ll have it next week.” Caps tilted his head and shuffled his shoes on the threadbare carpet. He was reasonably short, accentuated by the footy shorts showing off his stubby legs.
“We could just clear it up now with the thirty (you’re getting twenty off, you know as if Speare was so far gone he had to explain it to him) and we’re set.”
“Are you deaf?” Speare stiffened. “I need that thirty.”
Caps turned to join his footy mates, unable to resist a parting shot. “Gonna pour that down your throat too are ya?”
Speare couldn’t resist a parting shot either. He stood, stumbled and advanced on the retreating figure of Caps, his shirt ironed, his tie neat.
“It’s your type that throw it down their throat you filthy boong…”
And in the silence that followed, he threw a punch.
Chapter Three
Too rash, too unadvised, too sudden
Mr Dodson was cultured. Not the crazy hair and paint covered smock type of Art teacher, but the well dressed, well groomed stylish type of Art teacher.
Julia loved art, but today she was staring out the window, across the reserve, over the river and the park, into St John’s. But when Mr Dodson left the room for a few minutes, she knew that she could fire a text message off to Tag.
She smiled at the last one; a quote of some sort, very romantic. Much better than the previous one.
That’s better T. Much nicer. U r showing ur passion8 side now.
The reply from Tag was taking a little longer than the others and she returned to her artwork. A charcoal drawing of Queen Mab, the Faery Queen seemed to move across the page. Julia had placed Mab in a chariot made from an old hazlenut shell, with precise etchings showing the hardened shell, wrinkled like the weather beaten face of an old sailor. The smudged charcoal could not disguise the precise lines of spider web reins she had drawn to the insects that pulled the chariot. The scene was beautiful, but Julia had decided to obscure the path where they were heading.
The mobile buzzed on the desk and she checked for Dodson while fumbling for the button to display the message.
The words sent were stolen from an English text. Tag’s passionate side is repressed. Best of luck finding it!
Julia’s face screwed with confusion. Obviously not from Tag. Must be that mate Ben he’d talked about, she was sure. I’ll show him she thought.
Bugger off and give the phone back to Tag. If I wanted 2 talk 2 an immature turd I’d visit a Year 7 class. Tag’s passion8 side is reserved for me.
Harsh words, but she knew it would be taken lightly and not harm her relationship with Tag. She didn’t know he’d told anyone anyway aboiut them being together. From what Tag had told her about Ben, he was pretty cool and could take a joke.
Crap…turd…you two make a perfect couple. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to finish teaching. Tag will have his phone back at the end of the day.
Her eyes widened and a laugh escaped her causing the other classmates to look at her.
Julia raised an eyebrow at them, pocketed the phone and went back to the artwork.
‘…end of the day.’ When Julia would meet Tag by the river before he had to go to footy training. Then school tomorrow.
Then…The Party…where Tag and Julia would show each other off for the first time.
Wether conscious or not, Julia had modelled her drawing of Mab on herself; deep brown eyes that look straight into the heart of a person, black free hair like a waterfall across her shoulders and down her back, fingers like probes holding the reins, in control. Julia’s hands controlling the charcoal, like Mab controlling the beast that drives the chariot.
To finish, Julia added more charcoal to where the path Mab was taking led from the forest.
* * *
The punch was sloppy and ill directed as was expected from the drunk. It glanced off Caps’ jaw and smacked his shoulder with all the power of a feather duster.
Caps, incensed, grabbed great chunks of Speare’s shirt, his tie flopping wildly, and backed him against the wall. Hard.
Speare’s head whiplashed onto the brick behind him, his eyes rolled more from the drink swilling inside him than the knock to the head.
Caps brought his face close, a look of absolute fury. His neck bulging through the tight T-shirt, his eyes wide with the primitive aggression he was struggling to hold down. He brought his face even closer, nose twisted and lips tight, the breathing quick.
“Call me a boong again…” he pulled him slightly off the wall again and pushed him back, Speare’s skull cracking on the brick again, “…and I’ll bloody have you…you hear me…I’ll have you…”
Speare’s slumped to the floor as the grip on his shirt released leaving crumpled fist marks in the white fabric business shirt. His tie skewed to the right, the knot spoiled. Caps left him there, grabbed the thirty as an afterthought, and walked to the door, the crowd returning to their drinks. Only the barman saw Speare rush at Caps’ unprotected back with a glass in his hand, but he was too slow for the warning to have meaning.
Chapter Four
These violent delights have violent ends
The hug seemed to last forever. Only an hour ago he was hugging Julia. The Friar gave him his phone and a good dressing down after school but left it at that claiming that “…you’ve been embarrassed enough to warrant a detention as well…”
Tag had been gobsmacked when The Friar had replied to Julia. Didn’t really believe it until he had checked.
He and Julia had met at the river, had a good laugh over the texting, then concentrated on being together. Hugging. Kissing. Cuddling. Tickling, and some good-natured wrestling. Tomorrow night he would show her off to the world. Well, his mates anyway.
And that thought had led him to the hug that seemed to last forever. With his mum. It was the same setting but this time the water didn’t boil over, Tag’s fist remained intact, and the apology ended here. In a hug that reminded Tag of how old he was getting since he was now taller than his mum and looked down on her greying hair.
She was crying. He wanted to but didn’t.
“I’m a good kid mum. I am.”
“I know Tag.” She sniffed and he promised to try his best not to cause this much hurt again. “I know. You got a real funny way of showin’ it sometimes Tag.” She paused. “I saw the wall.”
His eyes widened. “I’ll fix it.”
“I know you will,” she enforced. “It came through a little on our side. When I looked I could see through.”
Tag gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Stronger than I thought eh?” He paused. “Did dad see it?”
She shook her head, rinsing a cloth under the tap.
“Is he workin’ late again?”
“Guess so.” She wrung the cloth out again. “He’s very busy.” She repeated it for her own benefit, Tag thought. “Very busy.”
Tag set the table for three anyway, thinking he might be home by the time footy training was finished, then took off for the field for an hours training with the rest of the Jaguars.
* * *
The arms around him were holding him tight and for a moment Tag closed his eyes and thought of Julia. Then he was thrown to the ground and jumped on, his mates whooping, Tag sucking the air back in.
“Lost your fight Tag?”
“No Coach, just my concentration,” Tag replied with a wry smile.
The tackler, Ben Volley, laughed in his ear and whispered a singsong “Someone’s got a girlfriend.”
Tag shot a sharp look toward him that demanded ‘keep your mouth shut’ without words.
“A loss of concentration on the weekend, Tag, will result in a loss of the ball, the confidence and maybe even the game.” Coach said.
The team from St John’s Jaguars circled around him, happy for the rest after a fairly heavy training run. Most of the boys, like Tag and Ben, were from their school, and this weekend, the local derby between them and the Rona High Rabbits would be a cracker. The crowd would be big, the hype bigger, the hits huge and the pressure to win massive under the threat of bragging rights until they met again.
“Let your guard down on the Rabbits for a second and they’ll make you pay,” Coach continued. “A win this weekend puts us in the finals, a loss will make it much harder to survive. This is a grudge match, this is our challenge, this is Hoosiers, Coach Carter, Bend it Like Beckham and Major League put together.”
“Wasn’t Coach Carter about basketball?” Ben asked Tag.
“Yeah…I think so…and Bend it Like Beckham was about soccer.”
“Shut up boys,” Coach interrupted. “Their about sport. All sports’re the same and all sports movies are the same. We’re the underdog, we do it tough, we fight the fight and against the odds, make the finals and win the whole damn thing.”
“Didn’t they lose in Coach Cart-?”
Ben’s smart-alec question was cut off as he was sent for lap.
“You too Tag.”
“But I didn’t say anything that time.” Tag appealed.
“You listened, that’s just as bad.”
“You’re kidding aren’t y-“
“The rest of you warm down. Tag; GO,” and Coach walked to the cars where a few parents had turned up to collect their kids.
Tag put his head down and sprinted the ten metres to catch up with Ben, and they settled into a stride for the lap of punishment.
The training lights at each corner of the field threw four shadows from both boys as they jogged around. The nights had been cooler and they both blew wisps of breath from their mouths and soft lines of warmth from the heads.
“My dad reckons the Rabbits are born athletes, naturally elusive, great acceleration. Cause they had to catch their own food only a couple hundred years ago.”
“I know they’ll be hard to beat, whatever their race. We batter take it easy at your party tomorrow night.” Tag replied. “Hey, maybe we should invite some and give ‘em a couple of beers,” Tag suggested.
“Get stuffed,” Ben replied. “I’m not having their kind at my place.”
Halfway around the field, Tag could see the rest of the team beginning their warm down stretches. Beyond them, sitting on the open stands, three figures had sat themselves down.
“You know, in the films, racist people usually end up having something bad happen to them.” Tag said.
“Like what?”
“Well,” Tag replied, “in Romper Stomper Hando gets stabbed on the beach.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Russell Crowe…Jackelyn Mackenzie…”
“Any examples from the last five years?” Ben joked.
“Who is that sitting up there?” Tag asked, nodding his head at the figures in the stand.
“Haven’t seen that one either.”
“No Ben, there.”
Ben looked to the stands and saw the three boys who had started to walk to the rest of the team.
“It’s bloody Dash and his mates.”
“You’re kidding. The nerve of ‘em, turning up here. Bad enough we have to play ‘em on the weekend but coming to our training, that’s asking for trouble.”
Tag and Ben approached the rest of their team at the same time as Dash Daley and his mates; Peach and Carn, from the Rona Rabbits did.
“Training hard boys?” Dash laughed.
“Keep walking Dash. The caravan park’s just through those trees. You live there don’t you?” Ben responded.
“Nah, he’s still saving up for a nice one with a red stripe on it,” said Thommo, who was a year below Tag at St John’s.
“You as funny without teeth Volley? Cause you better watch your head this weekend or they’ll end up sprayed against the back of your throat.”
Tag could see Coach return from the carpark with a quickened stride, obviously aware of the visitors.
“You’d resort to anything to win, wouldn’t you Dash.” Tag asked
“To see you lose Tag, I’d climb the highest cliff in Rona.” Dash saw Coach approach and started to walk across the field toward where Tag knew they lived. Where Ben knew they lived too, in nice, well looked after houses that their parents had worked hard to buy like almost everyone else in the working town. Made his caravan comment seem fairly hollow.
“See you here on Saturday boys,” Dash menaced. “Don’t forget your first aid kit…or your tissues for when you start crying.” And with a trio of laughter, they left the glare of the lights and walked off the field.
“I hate them,” Ben spat.
“The best revenge is success boys,” Coach philosophised. “Success.”
“You’d get on well with my English teacher Coach,” Tag joked.
“I doubt that Tag. Since I’ve never finished a book in my life, I doubt that very much.”
Tag smirked, nodded a goodbye to Coach and the team, and with training over, jogged home in the dark.
* * *
The glass didn’t have the desired effect. Speare drove it hard into Caps back but the drink had slurred his judgement as well as his speech. The glass shattered, splintered, and sent shards of dirty glass back into his hand. It sliced the tendon between his thumb and finger, gashed the palm and as a finale, pierced into his wrist, snicking the artery.
The alcohol dulled the pain, but not the realisation of the serious damage when he drew his hand back and surveyed the damage. His hand was spoiled.
He had about two seconds to examine it, the blood trailing down his hand. Turning has hand, he watched as the thickness found its own path snaking from the wrist down over the soft sinew of his forearm, the white ironed shirt bleeding into red. The blood had stained down to the elbow when, turning and realising what had happened, Caps introduced his fist to Speare’s mouth. His collar turned red too, his lip splayed across his face in two pieces.
Nearly unconscious, Speare noted over the threadbare carpet that Caps’ shoes were very dirty, his clothes stained, and he scoffed at his poor appearance before fading…
* * *
His dream shattered.
Tag slowed from his sleep, the phone had stopped ringing and his mum was talking, not quite loud enough for him to hear through the hole in the wall.
The phone was returned and he heard her shuffling into some clothes.
Her silhouette appeared in his door.
“Tag…it’s your father…”
He got dressed.
Chapter Five
Stabbed with a white wench’s black eye
“You want one of these big fella?”
Ben sat down next to Tag and passed over a Lion Lager twist top. Tag looked at it, shook his head, and put his head back in his hands.
“Look man, I know your dad copped it last night, but you can’t let it get you down. He’s gonna be alright…you’re allowed to be here…and it’s a friggin’ party man. My friggin’ party…so lose the morbid mood, down one of these...” he pushed the beer under his arm so that it was in front of his hidden face, “…and get happy before your new missus gets here.”
Tag had been depressed since he had got home from the hospital. His dad was gonna be alright as Ben had said. His lip was swollen and stitched from his nose down and made him look like he had a rolled up newspaper behind it. Tag’s dad’s hand was lost in a bandaged glove, with soft stains of red around the thumb. His wrist had on a compression bandage amulet ready to fend of any more attacks. A thick purple bruise spread from the inside of his elbow and disappeared into the wrappings.
Tag looked at the healing wound on his own hand.
His dad was tired when they arrived, slipping in and out of conscious and coherence. “Had a beer affer work…jus’ sittin’ there… Caps…garbo…wan’ned his money”
Mum had interrupted “We paid him though love.”
“I forgot…money lef’ in my drawer…tol’ him but…hit me.” He motioned to his hand. “lan’ned on my glass.” His eyes were closed again, from the painkillers the nurse had said.
He looked quite pitiful to Tag. Stitched and bandaged, a white robe hanging loosely around his neck. Tag had never seen him like this. Even at breakfast, Mr Speare was dressed and groomed. Must bloody sleep in a suit and tie Tag had once thought. But here; pitifully different.
They had left an hour later. His father in a deep sleep aided by drugs, his mother strangely calm and accepting. Neither spoke about the ‘late meetings’, the later nights and the smell that was always on his breath. They never had discussed it and he presumed they never would. Tag did not know wether his parents had talked of it.
Instead, the short trip home in the twilight hours had turned to school and television.
The conversation had only halted when they pulled into the driveway only to find their way blocked.
By about three ton of assorted garbage dumped in front of the garage door.
Tag remembered all this as Ben passed him another beer. He felt his shirt pocket and counted three bottle tops, knowing he should slow down because a) the party hadn’t even really started yet, b) Julia wasn’t here yet and c), he hadn’t drank any more than a couple of mouthfuls at a family barbie before and could feel his head start to float.
d) And quite an important game tomorrow.
After the late night visit to the hospital, Tag had slept through the morning and returned to the hospital with his mum, not mentioning the piled up new garden feature that he presumed Caps had left. His mum had argued that Tag should go to school but he got out of it, arguing that he needed to see his dad and he was too tired for school anyway.
His dad was a lot more lucid, nowhere near the drugged up RPM from Cuckoo’s Nest that he’d been the night before.
The room still white, the smell still acrid and his dad still pathetic. He was propped up in bed with the Herald haphazardly spread over the little rolling table.
Tag looked at it and saw some scribble on the crossword that may have been letters and words but he couldn’t be sure.
“Hi Tag,” he started. “Hello Hon,” to Tag’s mum. He motioned to the crossword, then lifted his still heavily wrapped hand in the air.
“Bit hard to write eh dad?”
“Yeah.” His dad laughed too quickly. “Yeah. How’s school going Tag?”
“Alright. Struggling a little with Shakespeare.”
“What subject does he teach you son?” he asked.
Tag paused, wondering if he was joking or not, but the little interest his dad showed in most of Tag’s life was more than evident in the sheer idiocy of the last question.
“You’ve got no idea have you dad?”
Tag expected a reprimand from his mum but it didn’t arrive.
“Technics?” He meekly suggested.
“He’s talking about the writer Dale, William Shakespeare, not a teacher.” His mum cleared up with little patience.
“Oh yeah, yeah, Shakespeare, yeah. Still a bit woozy from the drugs …yeah …Shakespeare …bit tough eh?”
Tag too, had lost patience for a lifetime of apathetic attention from his father. “I’m off to get something to drink, anyone want anything?”
“What are you getting mate?” his father asked.
“Soft drink dad, a soft drink.”
His father had tried hard when Tag returned, but the damage had been done. The conversation even degenerated into Tag filling in the crossword while his dad dictated the answers.
His mum had been quiet.
When they left late afternoon, Tag’s father had a slight tremble to his hands. When Tag mentioned it, he explained it away with a familiar excuse; “…from the drugs.”
* * *
Returning from the hospital early evening, Tag had just enough time to shower and dress for Ben’s party that night and turned up early to help Ben set up. On the way he texted Julia; Looking forward 2 2night. Meet you there. Come with Jane.
Ben had put Crazy Daze on the speaker and cranked it up, moved the speakers outside. They’d put a few streamers and balloons around, hanging off the fence and outside tables. Ben’s parents, blindly trusting, had left for a wine tour that morning and weren’t due back until late Sunday night. Unlike the American movies, Ben hadn’t miraculously provided a few kegs, flashing lights, someone to tend the free liquor and a deejay and turntable. Like most Aussie parties, it was strictly a turn up, bring what you want to drink and have fun sort of affair.
After finishing the decorations they had sat and started an early drink, and Tag had told him the story of his dad and Caps as the guests filtered through the side gate.
“I don’t believe it.” Ben had said.
“Yeh, a pretty crappy night all round.”
“Nah mate, not your story. Look who’s here,” nodding his head toward the gate.
Julia had entered with Jane and Tag had felt himself relax even more, somehow contrasted with the quickening of his heart and a renewed clarity to his sight. He quickly and subtly adjusted his hair, collar and hitched his pants up.
Clothes maketh the man.
“There’s me girl now” he smiled.
“Who, Julia?”
“D’you know her?”
“You’re kiddin’ aren’t you Tag.”
She had spotted him sitting on the back steps, smiled and waved, and change direction toward him moving nimbly through the other guests. Jeans and a simple black top Tag thought. I’ll never forget it. Look at her hair… her eyes…her slender hands…
Ben was still speaking to him, but he was sure he’d misheard.
“She’s what” Tag asked, turning to his mate to ensure he heard properly this time, dragging his eyes from her for a second.
“That’s Julia Caps…Caps’ daughter. She’s an Abo mate...she’s aboriginal”.
Chapter Six
Too early seen unknown, and known too late
The concrete was hard and the wind whipped off the river and tore through his shirt. Tag revelled in the cold and the uncomfortableness of it all.
This was what he deserved anyway, wasn’t it? To freeze. Alone. To sit and ponder mistakes just made. To run the scene through his head like a movie, then press rewind, and start it all over again, frame by frame.
Lonely, icy and dejected, Tag pressed rewind in his mind again, then play:
Tag
There’s me girl now
Close up of Tag’s face, smiling
Pan to Julia entering party
Ben
Who, Julia?
Ben nodding toward Julia, off camera
Tag
D’you know her?
Ben
You’re kiddin’ aren’t you Tag?
Camera to Julia from Tag’s position. Smiles and waves, changes direction toward him. Party extras part to let her through
Close up Tag watching. Off camera, Ben’s voice muffled. Music clears and voice becomes clear.
Tag
She’s what?
Camera from Tag, to Ben, to Julia over next line, back to Tag for shocked look on face
Ben
That’s Julia Caps
Pause for effect
Caps’ daughter. She’s an Abo mate.”
Long pause on Tag to capture disbelief. Julia reaches Tag with shot encompassing both.
Julia
Hey Tag
Tag
Is Caps your dad?
Look of puzzlement on Julia
Is he?
Julia
(still puzzled) Yeh…so what?
Tag
So what? So friggin’ what?
Obviously agitated now.
He beats the absolute crap out of my dad for no bloody reason…leaves him in hospital lookin’ like a friggin’ truck’s run over him…dumps a heap of crap on my front lawn…that’s what Julia. That’s so friggin’ what.
Cross to J’s face now upset, moving to angry
Julia
He wouldn’t do that-
Tag
So what were mum and me cleanin’ up this arvo. ‘Spose you think we’re naturally filthy do ya’.
Julia
I really don’t know what you’re on about.
It was here that in his mind, Tag pressed pause. Up until this point, he knew that all he had said, every thought he’d had, was a natural response, and if he’d stopped here, things would be fine.
It was pretty clear that Julia didn’t know about the fight or the rubbish. That he was accusing her of stuff she knew nothing about.
He looked at his feet inches from the water and the wind seemed to gain in ferocity. The moon, the only light, reflected in ripples from the water. He could see his reflection shimmering, a ghostly blurred image of a broken teen.
But he hadn’t stopped there.
The frozen image in his head started to move again:
Tag
You bloody know. You’re all in on it.
Close up of Tag’s face showing anger and guilt at the same time, knowing that what is to follow should not be said
You, your family and all your filthy boong mates.
Camera zooming away from Tag as the words leave his mouth, pan around shocked guests at party, settle on Julia, zoom in. Tear from Julia fighting to stay in control.
Back from Julia, pan and return to Tag just as Julia’s fist connects with his face.
Camera stays on Tag. No blood, just shock and a redness around the cheek where she connected. Tag turns and walks through house.
The hit had shocked him more than anything. He became aware of everyone looking at him, and turned, leaving through the house.
As he stormed through past the mirrored dresser in the hall, he caught his father’s reflection through the tear filled eyes.
High angle shot (crane) showing Tag leaving house, blending in and out of streetlights to the river where he sits alone. Wind machine to rip through his clothes, tussling hair. Camera comes down, circles Tag before resting behind him. Tag removes bottle tops from shirt pocket and flicks them into the rippling water.
Chapter Seven
I’ faith I am sorry…what says my love?
His bed had been warm and embracing but sleep had eluded him when he finally made it home early Saturday morning. Daylight, when he eventually woke to it at just after ten, brought new light to his problem
It’s all my fault.
He actually knew that last night, as soon as he’d opened his mouth. But now it seemed far more real.
“What time did you get in?”
“Bit before one.” His mum stuck her head around the doorway. Usually she woke him up with a stirring rendition of Morning has Broken by some fellow called Cat Stevens but she’d been merciful this morning and opted to let him sleep in.
“Good fun?”
He pulled the pillow over his head. “The best.”
“What time’s your game?”
Tag groaned. The last thing he felt like doing was playing footy this afternoon. Actually, he thought, might be good to let off a bit of steam.
“Need a lift love?”
“Nah.”
“I’ll come up later and watch.”
Tag hated it when his mum watched. She didn’t think he could hear her but he heard every word she screamed out: I like his head how it is thankyou very much, C’mon Tag, you’re the only one who can do it, and his favourite; Go Tag, it’s in the bag.
Problem was, she said that all the time, even when they were losing. By a lot.
“You want me to finish picking that rubbish up before I leave.”
“Leave it love. I’ll pay someone to come and get it.”
“What’d dad say.”
“He said to leave it alone.”
Tag looked confused. “What. Let him get away with it? First he beats him up and then he dumps-”
“He said leave it. We leave him alone, he’ll leave us alone now it’s out of his system.”
“That’s crap. He beat dad up. For what, huh, for what?” Anger reared to the surface again. “He beat him up and dropped a heap of-”
“Do you think so Tag?” She was yelling and it shocked him. Somehow tears had sprung to her eyes and she seemed to lose any semblance of control. “Do you think it was nothing? Maybe your dad never paid him…maybe your dad drinks himself stupid every afternoon…maybe he had a go at Caps when his back was turned with a glass…maybe rubbish on the lawn is the least he deserves…”
Tag stood watching the person his mother had become. He was used to seeing her angry but it was usually with him. It seemed wrong that here he had to console her somehow. Life seemed easier when people were angry at you he thought. At least you know how to act and react.
“Why would you say that?”
She stopped and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Because it’s true Tag. You know it is.”
He looked at the floor. There it was. Out there for everyone. Well, he and his mum anyway. Couldn’t hide from it now.
“I know he drinks-”
“And the rest Tag. He owes money everywhere because he drinks it all. He refused to pay Caps…then called him a boong or something…he went for him with a glass Tag…at his back with a glass…”
Deep inside, Tag knew it before she told him. He had smelt it on his breath. He’d tried to hide it behind his professional clothes, but Tag knew it was there.
“Dad caused it all…he’s stuffed it up”
“It’s over now Tag, done with.”
“It’s just started mum…I’ve stuffed it right up. Gotta go. See you at the game.”
He tore from the house, grabbing his phone, a certain book and footy bag on the way. The air was still and there was a warmth to the air that hadn’t been there last night. Wearing plain shorts, a Spies T-shirt, Lion Lager hat and old thongs, Tag felt relaxed. Remembering the beer reference on the hat, Tag took it off, eyed the logo and tossed it in the bin as he ran past.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket, slowed to a brisk walk with his thongs slapping beneath him. The river was as still as the class after The Friar asked a question. Over the bridge to the reserve, Tag stopped under a tree and looked up at the Caps’ house. It was on the way to the fields. Built in the seventies, the orange brick was out of place next to the gums and acacias. He sat beneath the gum by the river, about forty metres from the house, sighted Julia’s window on the second floor and typed:
All my fault. Completely wrong. Guilt is terrible and pain intense. Need 2 apologise and c U.
And he waited.
What he had written seemed so trite, so clichéd, so expected.
He leaned against the tree, the sun filtering through onto his pale legs, the river reflecting his perfect likeness back at him.
And he waited.
Worked before he shrugged, and pulled the English text from his bag, flicking through it.
Something must be suitable. Scanning the pages, he paused on a page, nodded, and reached for his phone again.
Julia, this is miscarried by my fault. Let my old life be sacrificed unto the rigour of severest law.
He had nine characters left till his limit. Tag debated with himself, won and lost at the same time, then added
I love yo
Damn limits. Correction.
I love u
And he waited.
* * *
He was consumed by players. The first to arrive, ignoring the repeated whistles from the referee, dove hard at Tag with his full body, driving him back four or five steps before he was pummelled by someone else in the other direction. His head snapped back and forwards, his mouthguard dislodged, and his grip on reality slipped as the first punch was thrown.
It was Tag against four.
He didn’t see the second punch because he was too busy dodging the first. As he deftly swivelled to his left, the impact of the unexpected cracked his cheek and light and pain tore through his eye socket and deep into his brain.
He was fighting back.
There was no room for a stance, for distance or even to line someone up. He was mashed between five of them out to beat him senseless, so he swung wildly, knowing it was having little effect. It was a good 5 seconds before he felt that he actually connected with someone, rewarded with a satisfying grunt and a bit of sunlight appearing where the person had been standing.
His eyes still open, all Tag could see were a tangle of faces swarming into one angry beast with ten fists and twice as much anger. Jostled, pummelled and pounded, his orientation was lost, his punches becoming more ineffectual, but even so the beast he was up against continued to attack him.
Again, somehow, Tag’s mind wandered from the fight.
The beast he thought. Like Lord of the Flies. The original movie, not the remake. The beast that is within us all...the beast that we must acknowledge and overpower. The beast that-
Unfortunately, for Tag, his current beast was very much alive, very much active, and very much bashing the crap out of me, he thought.
There comes a time when you are steeped in so much emotion that you can feel no more. Tag knew he was not there yet, because as the familiar face of Volley and his mates arrived, Tag felt relief.
He could almost hear the trumpet like in a John Wayne war movie announce the arrival of the Cavalry.
Chapter Eight
Tempt not a desperate man
His head collided with the bowling ball for the fifth time. Every time he packed down into the scrum Dash Daley, the opposite forward, seemed to stuff it up and come in straight at his head. And each time, the head-butt was more severe and Tag saw more stars.
The first time he was willing to believe in accidents. When you collect twelve beefy boys into a twisting, churning swarm of muscle, sweat and adolescent pigheadedness, there were always going to be collisions.
But five times! And it wasn’t even half time yet.
The confirmation came somewhere in the scrum from someone in the scrum. Feet flying like bucking deer at the ball, Tag’s vision was obscured by a hand, closing in on his face fast. With his own hand wrapped over his mate and hanging onto the Dash for greater strength, he was vulnerable. Not a punch. Just a hand rising to him, groping at his face in the chow mein of limbs.
It found his mouth, scratching and clawing at the lip, then his cheek, and finally his eye, filthy fingers probing his socket, pushing his eye deep into the side of the socket.
At the same time, a muffled voice, heaving with exhaustion and muffled by the mouthguard in his ear.
“You’re going down Tag. Dead meat”
A quick slap on the face and the scrum was dispersed, players fanning out after the ball and its capturer.
Go Tag, it’s in the bag.
Attempting to ignore his mum for the sixty seventh time, he chased the play, his eye flashing into his brain but vision slowly returning. The Rona Rabbits were again punishing the tryline. Tag lined up as another barrage stormed into them. There players seemed bigger, stronger, older. There were many jokes about the ages of the predominantly Aboriginal team. Ben often told them in class, like, Dash Daley goes home and says to his dad, ‘Hey dad, I’m the tallest, strongest and toughest kid in Year 9’ and his dad says ‘That’s because your nineteen Dash.’ That was a favourite.
And talking about favourites, the Rabbits were strengthening as Dash dummied wide, sidestepped Tag who took the dummy and strolled in for an easy try, pushing them to 18-6 in front. Tag hung his head, an instant before the ball sailed straight into it, thrown by Dash.
Almost in unison, every Rabbit cheered ‘Falcon’ as they laughed, congratulating Dash and began walking back to their half.
Seething, Tag took to Dash but the ref was quicker, stepping between them. As the ref admonished him, Dash was laughing and looking over the ref’s shoulder at Tag.
The conversion made it 20-6 and the halftime hooter went. Walking off, Tag found himself next to Dash.
“You’re an arse Daley.”
Daley’s expression turned to malice and shouldered him as they walked off.
“You messed with me cous’n Speare. You won’t make fulltime.”
“Who’s gonna stop me?” Tag asked, but the gloat was short lived. As he asked that futile question, he looked over and saw every Rabbit in a green and red huddle, their coach; Caps, in the centre, all looking directly at him.
Julia in the rickety stands behind them.
Get ‘em in the second half boys. Go you Johnny Jaguars, go Tag, it’s in the bag.
Tag tried to melt into his team mates. How come nobody else’s mum was yelling out?
The halftime speech was a blur, with Tag obsessed with the other team. They were natural athletes and he knew they didn’t train much but bloody hell they were good. It wasn’t their skill that had him obsessed though. It was the way they all wanted to kill him. Every time he looked over someone different was staring back, imitating how they would injure him. Daley performed a mock head-butt, Carn punched his fist and Watson pointed menacingly at Tag, then his foot. The laughter was gone and Tag was concerned about how serious they looked.
Behind them, through it all, sat Julia. He hoped desperately that she had not put them up to this.
The second half was due to begin and with his team mates as pallbearers, Tag walked out.
* * *
First to arrive was Ben who careened into two rabbits knocking them flying. Sammy Saviour took another one out with a cowardly but appreciated flying hook from behind that crunched into the jaw of their hooker who had been enjoying working on Tag’s stomach. Tag still had two of his own but with the numbers evening out, the fight had more pushing and less accurate punching.
From the corner of his eye, Tag could see that Ben’s jersey had been pulled over his head and he struggled through the melee to help him.
Ben’s head, hidden behind the black jersey was well protected by his arms, shielding, protecting.
Tag copped a few more blows around the head but the impact was poor. He gave a few back, but by now it was breaking into pairs of people gripping each other by ripped jerseys and torn collars.
The field was still a mass of fury brought into an eerie stoppage by the incessant blowing of the whistle.
The players seemed to have stopped, still menacingly gripping one another, but stopped. Heavy breaths filled the air drawn through clenched teeth and bulky mouthguards.
Ben still had his jersey partly over his head, the whistle had stopped, and Tag began to realise that strangely, after an appallingly messy all-in-brawl, nobody was being called out to talk to the ref, the touch judges were not even near the fight that had pushed over to the sideline, the crowd weren’t even watching them anymore.
Tag saw a growing crowd huddled around a motionless body on the field.
All the boys did.
And just as if Tag, the movie-buff, had pressed the right button, the next part played out in slow motion:
Camera start long shot. Tag and extras finished fighting all turn to point unseen by camera. Camera pushes forward, players subtly move aside, partially obscuring view. Camera moves further on the dolly, past the backs of players to reveal Caps and football authorities around body sprawled on ground.
Still slow motion.
Referee turns slowly to face unseen crowd behind camera.
Referee
[no audio, mouths] Get an ambulance
In the background, blurred, trainer waves hands above the ground signalling Watson is out cold.
Fade sound in on next line, normal speed over slow motion visuals
Referee
[yelling] We need an ambo out here now
Distraught woman (mother?) runs into shot, still unchanged.
Sound normal now.
Referee
[yelling] He’s not breathing
Close up of Tag’s face, sweaty, dirty and beaten, hands still clutching at his jersey.
Referee
[yelling] He’s not breathing
Look of anguish washes over Tag.
Chapter Nine
Who had but newly entertain’d revenge
It didn’t take them long.
The ball came straight to Tag from the kickoff. It was high and lofty, and Tag expected it to have a trail of clouds behind it as it came down. His other wish was that a passing plane would suck it through its engine and he wouldn’t have to catch it, wouldn’t have to face the pummelling that was sure to follow.
On the ball’s return from orbit, Tag could hear them running at him, snorting and stamping the earth like a herd of buffaloes, not the cute little rabbits they were supposed to be.
The impact was simultaneous. The ball fell into his arms and he fell into the marauding pack as they scraped and scrapped and scythed him to the ground.
He couldn’t breathe and pictured himself like a moray eel, his mouth opening and closing in a mute request. His chest lightened as each person took their turn in getting off him. One, two, a small breath snuck into his lungs, three, another and his eyesight cleared, four, he stood.
It was a miracle.
He still had the ball.
“Have to try harder than that, boys” he squeezed out, and like many things he said lately, instantly regretting it.
“We will Tag. We will.”
C’mon Tag, it’s in the bag
At least someone still supported him!
A different person this time;
C’mon Tag ya dirty fag
Laughter.
He pressed on.
His body began to ache as he chased a kick downfield, leading the charge.
How had it gotten to this he thought. Why was his dad a debt-ridden drunk? Why was Julia’s dad Caps? How come every fella in the Rabbits seemed to be related to Julia somehow, baying for his blood? And then the big one. The one that hurt the most. How come Julia was aboriginal? And then, as he hit the quarter line and sized the fullback, Watson, up; and does it matter?
Does it matter to him that Julia was Aboriginal? After all the jokes, all the stereotypes, all the remarks, does it matter.
Perhaps it was this thought that clouded his judgement, perhaps it was his spent muscles, perhaps it was even a deep desire to knock Dash’s block off. Unfortunately, Watson was closest, and for some reason, for the first time in his short career, Tag tackled Watson high. Real high.
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