Max (2 page)

Max sprayed. He was possessed, floating and swirling in front of the wall. In the barrel of the wave he swept the can over and into Lou's name. In the depth of that bleak night Max saw Lou's eyes staring out at his mate, a melancholy gaze that asked for nothing but to be complete.

‘I was your friend, Lou. I was your mate. You're supposed to talk to y'mates. You know – talk to them. Not pretend that everything's OK – she'll be jake mate. Why the hell... What the hell were you doing?! Saying nothing. Did you say anything?? Did you say something I missed? I know you had worries – maybe even big worries but not so bad that you had to walk away from us and leave a bloody gaping hole in our life. My life's got a great fucking hole, Lou. I'm down here on a night that looks like a banshee and you're-not-here! I know you're looking at me, mate, and maybe from where you are, I'm freaking about nothing. But I don't just want your eyes, mate. I want you. Not a place where you used to be.'

Lost in his dream, Max didn't hear the crunch of the car rolling down the street. Torchlights searched their way in the darkness. Criss-crossing beams tried to find their quarry.

Max lay in a ditch of scotch thistles. He could hear the mutter of two railway cops, debating whether to walk up the tracks. He closed his mouth to silence the noise of his pounding blood. Raising himself on his elbows, he could just make out the two men in suits, flicking their torch lights along the wall.

The cops moved towards his hiding place. At the same time the crossing bells began to clang. He could feel the rumble of the coming train in his body, and he prayed that the cops would turn back.

The train pulled out of the station, past the bells and the red flashing lights. Distracted by noise and glare, the cops switched off their torches. Max saw his chance. Crouching low, he bounded across the track in front of the train. The driver blared his horn as a black shape rolled into the bushes on the other side.

Max jumped up and ran towards the bridge. Too late. The silhouette of the train flashed past, forcing him to scurry to the shadow of a tree. With the light from the street behind them, Max could see the two men, one as fat as his Uncle Sid, the other round-shouldered and thin faced.

‘Abbott and Costello', thought Max.

‘What's this?' The ferret faced cop flicked his light up at the piece on the wall.

‘What's what?'

‘There. Up there. Right at the top. Long way up – on the left. See the letters. Wet as a baby's arse. He must still be around.'

‘What's it say?' Fatman asked, crunching over the thistles and dry grass to take a closer look.

Max could just make out his work. Forgetting the danger for a minute, he admired the flow of his strokes, the deep purple of Lou's name.

But the cops weren't focussing on the night's work. Their torches were trained on the bare wall next to it.

‘Jesus, Frank, it's a long way up. How'd he get up there? He'd have to have a ladder somewhere – hidden maybe.'

There was a clank as one of them stumbled over the fallen metal drum. Fatman cursed.

‘Here it is, Frank. Here's his ladder,' he cried, raising the barrel like a trophy.

‘Think again, moron. Have a look at that writing. Must be fifteen foot up.'

‘Well, what'd he do? Float? And where is the little bastard? Must be close by.'

He waved his torch aimlessly at the scrub on the other side of the track. Max pressed close to the tree, his cheek against the bark.

‘What's it say, anyway?' asked Fatman.

Torch beams slid up the wall past the purple of Lou's name and came to rest on two clear lines of words, beautifully painted, outside the borders of the main piece.

You should have talked to me
I'm supposed to be your friend

‘What the fuck's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means the kid who wrote it must be around here somewhere', said Frank. ‘Look! It's dripping. The paint's dripping.'

‘It's a fucking long way up, Frank. Let's go. The little arsehole's probably at home by now.'

Max found himself standing up, his eyes held by Frank's light on the wall, drawn by words he did not recognise.

‘You should have talked to me', he said. ‘I'm supposed to be your friend.'

‘What's that?! Who's there?' Frank's torch beam whipped around.

‘There's the bastard, Frank', shouted Fatman, rushing towards the line.

The light held Max like a rabbit. For a second. For a minute. For an hour. Then he was off, scrambling and falling, pounding his way towards the one-track bridge. Fatman bayed like a hound while Frank jogged along behind, laughing and whooping Fatman on, turning Max into their prize.

The bridge stretched out across the gully, fifty feet above the creek below. Max hit the bridge, Fatman lumbering and cursing behind him, both of them with adrenalin surging through their bodies. One desperate to escape, the other to capture. Sharp stones cut into Max's runners, making him stumble just as he began to pull ahead. Fatman lunged at him and Frank, some way behind, bellowed, ‘That's it, mate. You got him now. Hold him until I get there!'

Max was scrabbling on all fours, stones slipping underneath him. He could hear Fatman's laboured breathing. It was all over. If he didn't do something, he was gone.

He stumbled to his feet, with the cop still at his heels, puffing short bursts of hot air into the cold. Max didn't know how the rock came to be in his hand. But he was holding a piece of rock the size of a grenade.

The big cop was gaining on him again. Max could feel fear pulling at his legs, weighing his body down. He faltered, turned and flung the rock in the direction of Fatman.

A howl came out of the darkness, like the noise of a cat with its back legs broken.

‘Jesus H Christ!' Fatman cried. ‘Jesus, you little arsehole. C'm here, you little prick! I'll get you, mate, and then we'll give you a hiding.'

Frank had picked up pace, but Fatman was running again, shrugging off Frank and his words, charging along the track like a wounded bull elephant. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Max had hoped that the rock would give him time. Time to reach the end of the bridge, dive through the wire fence and sprint over the soccer field and across the highway.

But the rock had only spurred Fatman on. And now there was an even greater danger.

Two eyes flashed at him from the opposite end of the bridge.

‘Train', screamed Frank. He spun on his heels and raced back to the safety of the scrub.

But Max ran at the oncoming train. Ran faster. Ran straight at the thundering metal giant as it reached the start of the bridge.

Max thought he could do it. In some mad part of his brain he thought he could beat both the train and Fatman. If he could keep on running, he might just do it. But the train continued to bear down on him and his chances were getting slimmer. Max tried to think as hard as his body was working, which was no small feat with a big bastard behind him and an even bigger one in front. The light from the train blinded him, its horn bellowed like a wild beast. And incredibly, Fatman was gaining on him. He had to get out of there. He had to stop playing chicken with this train. As Max stumbled for what seemed like the hundredth time, he thought for a moment of giving up and jumping off the bridge. Then he saw his real chance and went for it.

As the train blared its horn at him for the second time that night, sparks from the screeching wheels lit up the night. The brakes clamped and bit. Without a second to spare, Max hurled himself onto the floor of a safety cage Another body crashed into the cage, onto Max. The train squealed along the rails past Max and Fatman, uniting them in a crazy dance of shadow and golden light. Then it came to a halt.

Passengers gawked into the darkness. The train driver clambered down from his cabin. Frank was screaming for his lost partner.

Max and Fatman sprawled together on the metal grate. Fatman was the first to recover. He grabbed Max by his jacket and climbed to his feet, twisting the jacket tighter, lifting Max up onto his toes, pressing his balled fists into Max's windpipe. His face was so close that Max could have read his mind. A two centimetre gash dribbled blood, just under his cheekbone, and his nose was swollen. Anger and exhaustion distorted his words.

‘We're going to take you back with us, mate. You won't believe what we're going to do with you, you little fucker!!'

The last words sprayed into Max's face. He could taste the spittle on his lips. Fatman let go with one hand and smacked the side of his head.

‘That's just the smallest taste, mate. Our little graffiti friend. Our little fucking vandal. You nearly killed me. What'd you think you were doing, running at the train? D'you want to kill yourself?! If you're so fucking keen, why don't you jump off? Here! I'll give you a bit of help!'

He pushed Max against the metal rail, bending him backwards, out over the gully. His hands bunched at Max's throat. Max wanted air. He needed air. He needed to gulp it down like water. Blood spots danced in his eyes; the metal rail bit into his spine; his temples pounded like a voodoo drum.

He heard voices, running feet, more voices. His head was as heavy as a load of bricks but his body was lighter than angel wings.

‘Oh Christ, mate. You're alive. I thought you were gone for all money,' Frank panted, holding onto the rail of the bridge. ‘At least you got the little cocksucker. What're you trying to do? Kill him?' He gave a laugh that ended in a hacking cough.

Max felt like his life wanted to jump out of his head. Just wanted to jump out and run away. He could see Fatman's face, redder than any paint, his bulbous nose, blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

‘That's what I'm going to do, Frank. Help him do what he wants to do. Isn't that right my little graffiti writer?'

He edged Max further over the railing. Frank grabbed Fatman's arm. ‘C'mon, mate. You can't do this. You can't just shove him over. He's only a kid.'

That gave Max the split second he needed. He pushed down with his legs and vaulted backwards, away from Fatman's grip, flipped himself over the railing and out into the darkness.

‘Jesus Christ', yelled Frank. ‘He's gone! Jesus Christ, mate, what've you done?!! You mad bastard.'

Fatman stood with his hands outstretched, gripping thin air, tasting his own blood curling into his mouth. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

‘You better get down there'. The train driver came up behind them, flashing his torch on the bushes and silent creek below. ‘It's a long way down there – a long way down.'

Max hung in mid-air like a river eel on a line, gripping the rung as if it was life itself. It felt icy cold. His left hand was becoming clammy as he writhed and twisted, trying to bring his feet noiselessly to the rungs of the ladder. There were voices above him, a light swinging past and then feet walking back along the line. He heard a match strike. He smelt a cigarette.

The crossing bells were still clanging and the train hissed patiently on the bridge. Max's foot grabbed a rung. He eased the weight of his body onto the ladder and sucked air into his lungs, filling them to the brim.

Clinging there, he felt a strange sense of elation sweep over him. ‘Fantastic', Max thought. ‘Unbelievable!' He heard the cops at the end of the bridge, trying to find a path down the slope of the gully. ‘Better get moving or else they'll be down here with their torch lights up my arse.'

He let go the top rung and began to swing down the hundred-or-so rungs that lead to the gully floor. He'd done it with Lou many times before but never at night. Never after having been nearly throttled by a bleeding cop.

The voices spurred him on. The men were stumbling through the bushes, their torches trained on the path, allowing Max a few minutes of darkness. His throat was sore and his temples ached. All he could think of was getting down the ladder and stealing away.

Near the bottom his hand slipped but he grabbed the rung and dropped lightly onto the river rocks strewn along the bank. He bounded across the creek, slipped on the mossy rocks, and clawed his way up the bank and across a gravel path. Then he climbed the other side of the gully, until he reached the low branches of a stunted tree, leaving the ladder, the creek and Fatman far below.

He watched for some time as they poked their torch beams here and there, fossicking for the body of a dead boy.

Max was exhausted and scared but he knew he had to get out of there. So he crawled up the rest of the slope, without feeling the sharp stones or the broken glass embedded in the dirt. He knew it was only a matter of time before they found him. But he couldn't resist another look back at the train on the bridge. Its lights shone along the line, catching the thousands of fine metal shavings flecked in the grime and dust of the track. Finally they came to rest on a painted wall:

You should've talked to me
I'm supposed to be your friend