Max (7 page)

Davidson slid the card across his desk. Fatman stared at Max, his face contorted into a hate-fills-his-heart scowl.

Max looked at it. The card was his – no doubt about it. But what could he say? Whatever he was going to come out with would ring like an empty can and it would ring louder, the longer they had to wait for an answer.

‘It is my card, sir, but that doesn't mean I was down there. I mean', and then, thanks be to Dave, he plucked a sentence out of the air, ‘I mean, most nights I have to stay home and look after Woody, my little brother.' He tried to look like a neglected but responsible child and added, ‘Dad does a lot of nightshift.'

‘Maybe you were there on one of your nights off from babysitting?' said Fatman, moving his expansive bum around on the chair.

‘No, sir. I usually go to the movies or a club. And that's not many nights these days.' Again he shot a sincere smile at the Principal and continued, ‘Because I've got so much study – you know, school work.'

This was one of the worst lies he'd told in that afternoon inquisition. He often sat in front of his homework, books open, pen at the ready, but not one ounce of work would be done. Usually he sat there and dreamt his life away.

Fatman leaned towards Max.

‘Maybe it was one of those lucky nights where you didn't have babysitting and you didn't have homework. There was nothing on telly and you weren't having a dinner party!'

Max glanced up briefly, catching sight of the man who had tried to murder him, not so long ago. His mind spun back to colours of purple and green and words on cold walls.

‘Well, Max? Answer the detective. Was it you?!'

Max looked hard at the top of the desk. He contemplated leaping through the window, or breaking down and promising to be a good boy. But when he raised his head and looked at the Principal and then at Fatman, inspiration seemed to hit him between the eyes. ‘I'm glad you found my card, Detective. My bag was stolen from Claire Station. It had some books and money and my ID in there. I always travel with my ID.' Max tossed a small smile into the room. ‘Whoever took it must've taken the cash and gotten rid of the rest.'

Fatman could feel his nose thumping.

‘Did you report the theft?' Detective Gillespie hissed.

Max felt himself relax. In his head he pictured a running, mountain stream. ‘Well no. I s'pose I should have. But it wasn't much – and I know how overworked the railway police are.'

Max positively beamed.

He wasn't sure whether he only imagined it but it seemed that Fatman's nose swelled up like yeast, then exploded, a lava of bad blood running down his face.

Max was on his way home. The Principal had let him cool his heels outside his office, finally dismissing him half an hour after school had finished. It was out of character for Davidson to let him off so easily, without grilling him for another thirty minutes. Max figured it was probably due to Lou's death. But no matter what, Max knew they'd check out his story. He knew he hadn't fooled anybody but at least his alibi would give him breathing space. And in some peculiar way, he didn't care whether they knew he was lying or not.

While the Principal's reaction might have been affected by Lou, the cop had displayed no such sensitivity. As Max walked past a parked car, a door suddenly opened, slamming into his body. Max began to hurl abuse but was cut short by the sight of Fatman, getting out of the car. Gillespie leaned on the car door with the smile of a Rotweiler on his face.

‘You can fool your namby pamby teachers, mate but you can't fool me.' Max stood on the footpath, holding the arm that had taken the brunt of the impact. ‘And don't open your fuckin' mouth or say anything to anybody or your life won't be worth living.'

For a second, Max wondered what his life was worth at any rate. What could be worse than your best friend killing himself?

‘I'll get you, no matter how many stories you come up with and you know why? Because I don't give a shit about legalities when it comes to punks like you.' Then he added, ‘And I don't give a shit about how many weak-as-piss friends of yours go and neck themselves, either.'

Fatman got back in his car, did a U-turn and drove slowly away.

Max stood there, still holding his arm. What kind of world did he live in? How did people get to be such arseholes? What did Fatman mean? How was he going to get him – and what did ‘get him' actually mean? There seemed to be one thing after another. And not one part of his life seemed to offer any respite at all.

Max caught sight of Kirsty and Guy sharing a cigarette under the Bridge. Thinking he'd had enough for one day, he crossed the road and headed towards the congested traffic of Wellington St, towards the restaurants with kitchens full of sliced vegetables and chickens in steaming woks.

Max breathed in the musky incense and aromas of spice. Up ahead was the Tan Dai Grocery, his favourite piece of exotica. A young woman with her back to him, was sweeping the path. She wore a black cotton shirt, loose green pants and scuffs on her feet. The autumn afternoon sun shone weakly, saying goodbye till summer.

‘Hello', said the girl, as Max sauntered by.

He turned. And smiled a real smile. ‘Mai! What are you doing here?'

‘I live here. Up there actually!' She pointed to the windows above the grocery.

‘You mean, this is your parents' shop?' He laughed.

‘What's so funny?' asked Mai, hurt in her voice.

‘Oh – nothing. It's just that this shop is my favourite in the whole street. I was going to take some pictures of it for Photography – I was going to ask the owners – I mean, your mum and dad – for their permission.'

They stood there. An awkward silence. Trucks roared and trams clanged their bells. A young man in black jeans, flannel shirt and polar jacket with a bag hanging from his shoulder, rooted to the spot. A young woman, black hair falling loosely, almond brown eyes like a placid pool.

Mai's oval shaped face reminded him of a river stone. Her beauty held Max, like a graffiti artist captured by the sight of his own work.

‘So?' Mai prodded his feet with the bristles of her broom. ‘What happened when you were called down to the office?'

‘Oh, nothing much.' Max was having difficulty remembering the danger of the afternoon's interview in the Principal's office – not to mention the unofficial interview with Fatman later on.

It wasn't so much the fine details of Mai's face. Her beauty seemed to lie in her spirit – like the glow from a burning candle. Max smiled, as though he had an endless supply of smiles.

‘Nothing really. Davidson had a cop there. He'd found my ID near a place where somebody had belted him.'

‘How come?' Mai asked.

‘Dunno.' He didn't enjoy lying to Mai and yet a small grin hovered at the corners of his mouth.

She shot a bemused, enquiring look at him. ‘I heard it was near a big piece you did with Lou.'

Max was startled. ‘Where did you hear that?'

‘Oh, things get around. Kids were talking about it.'

Max felt vaguely proud and agitated all at once. ‘But how'd they know? I haven't heard anything.'

‘Well, you wouldn't, Max. You've been, like, on a holiday. A vacation in your mind. You've come back to school but you might as well not be there.'

Just hearing Mai say his name was enough to blot out everything else. It almost didn't matter what else she said. Her voice soothed him and he felt he could listen to her forever.

Mai touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Did you do it? I won't say anything.'

‘I'm not worried about that. It's just – ‘

He didn't mind telling her. But the events of that night seemed to float away. When he looked at Mai, he wanted to kiss her. He looked at her hands holding the broom.

‘You ever been down by The Falls? It's really beautiful. Want to go for a walk there – with me?'

Mai glanced furtively through the door of the shop. Her father was stacking shelves, keeping quiet watch.

‘They wouldn't let me.' She brushed her broom over the footpath, feeling as though she was being pulled in two different directions. ‘It's getting late. I have to go in and help my mother with the cooking.'

Max looked at the gathering light of the late afternoon. ‘Monday then? Straight after school? It's not far.'

Mai turned to walk inside, then stopped. ‘Alright. OK then. Monday after school. Bye.' And she wrapped Max in the soft web of her smile.

‘But I'll have to tell them I'm working late in the library', she thought as she walked past her father and up the stairs to the sounds of her mother preparing dinner in the kitchen.

I
T WAS SATURDAY. Max stood by the river looking at the water, the sound of picnickers behind him in the park. This part of the river flowed smoothly. The Spring water from creeks and gullies had settled, filling the river to the brim, making it fat and fast. A small boy, two or three years younger than Woody, stood at the top of the muddy grass bank. He watched Max as he waited at the water's edge, paddle in one hand and kayak hanging sideways in the other.

Max eased himself into the cockpit, pointing the boat upstream, settling, balancing then pushing off from the rocks. He pulled hard into the oncoming current, eager to push him back. Max paddled for a few metres, then leant forward and out to the left. Lifting his right arm high, perpendicular to the surface of the water, he dug his paddle in and dragged it back towards the kayak – spinning its body around and gliding off downstream, the bow sharpening its line on the steel of water.

After his run-in with Gillespie and then meeting Mai, Max's mind was in a whirl. Within a small space of time he'd been cast into hell, scared out of his wits and just as quickly he'd been raised up to heaven. That was the trouble with life. It seemed to fool you all the time. When he woke that morning he realised that there was only one thing that made any sense, only one place he wanted to be and that was the river – to be more accurate, he wanted to paddle through The Tunnel. A dangerous journey he had always wanted to do and now seemed the right time to take it on. Not that Max expected to find any answers but the sheer physical exhaustion of a hard paddle might at least get rid of the shit in his head.

And as for those words painted on the wall, well – who could make any sense of that. Had he been in a trance? Did they really come from his mind or did Lou's spirit guide his hand? It was all too much. Better to return to what he knew and bury himself in it.

The first rapid he came to was nothing more than a gravel race that picked him up and sped him on his journey. Wattlebirds gave their hacking cry and whip birds bragged in the gullies lining the steep banks. Thickets of blackberries were home to nests of coiling black snakes. Black wattle trees cast shadows, their weaker limbs broken and hanging. The sun's autumn haze was warm and shafts of light winked through high branches, making the river glint like a jewel.

Max heard the rapid coming up, felt the water's impatience. He knew this rapid – had fallen into it in the middle of winter. It was shortish, with a difficult island of rocks that you had to kick your boat around and then dig your paddle way out the back and draw it in. This centred the kayak, shooting you into a pool full of eddies and undercurrents that never saw the light of day.

Max ploughed his way through the chop and turbulence, swinging the bow in the direction of a chute. The water raced between a flat rocky expanse on the left and a small yellow cliff face on the right. He could feel his blood running. Water dripped off his face and fanned out over his spray cover.

He aimed his kayak to where it ran fastest and hit his stroke like a clock striking midnight. The river pounded along – white funnelling water, lichen, moss, rocks, mud and clay blurred into one. He arched his body back over the deck, and held his paddle aloft like a knight's lance. Max felt himself smile as he let the river take him until it was spent. Then, in the peace and tranquility, he allowed himself to float, just float.