Max (8 page)

But floating forever was a luxury he could not afford because around the next bend lay The Tunnel.

The tunnel had been like a maggot in Max's brain for a long time. At times its mouth seemed to be warm and welcoming. He had always seen it as an ultimate test of skill but now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps it was a test where skill had no place. Whatever it was, Max knew that today, there would be no turning back.

He paddled in circles watching the entrance to the tunnel, the way the water rolled in like a wave of dreams. He listened to the early roar of water as it plunged down deep into the floor of the cave, bounced back and then surged upwards into a pressure wave. He kept watch as though it would cease to exist if he turned away for a moment.

Max heard his heart pounding and his hands felt clammy, reminding him once more of Fatman. He wanted to go but something held him back. Was this a cool thing to do? Wasn't there better ways of getting the shit out of your head? What were the chances of him getting messed up in the darkness of the Tunnel? And what would Mai think about this?

Max floated, holding onto the hanging branches of a willow. His paddle rested on the deck in front of him and his left hand rested on the paddle. ‘Quite an old hand for one so young', his mother had said. He leant his head back and looked at the overcast skies, still and motionless. He put his hand into the water and felt its pull.

Releasing the branch from his grip, he wrapped his fingers around the paddle's shaft. He settled, then headed towards the Tunnel, a surge of strength in his upper body, shoulders rolling, legs pumping, as he urged the kayak into the roll of water that gulped him down like Jonah into the whale.

The mustiness of the air slapped him in the face. The kayak careered down the first rush, its nose dipping crazily into the bottom. Max pulled back, feeling like a madman, dragging the nose up and hitting the pressure waves that exploded over his craft. Water filled his eyes, blurring the darkness. The rush of water threw him along at breakneck speed. He collected his thoughts enough to remember to paddle, leaning forward, the blades ricocheting off the walls of the tunnel.

Bats screeched past his face, their sonar barely audible above the echoing crash of waves and the air sucking in through his dry mouth. The river dipped and rolled. A waiting rock lifted the boat on its side. He thrust his paddle into the rockface and pushed himself back on track, onto an even keel.

The eye at the end of the tunnel blinked lazily. For a second Max lost his concentration. In the gloomy light he pulled too hard, his kayak bouncing from one side to the other, like a pinball in a losing game. Max lost it and rolled. Rocks battered and pummelled his shoulders and face, until he managed to pull himself upright again. Blood began to stream down his face.

The sound was deafening. The speed was helter-skelter into the night as the kayak streamed through the tunnel like there was no tomorrow. Again Max lost his balance. He reached for a ledge but a rat hissed a warning and leapt away into the gloom.

The channel of water deepened and slowed for a moment in time. He could see the river falling out of the mouth, cascading through rocks and boulders. Max breathed in the rush of fresh flowing river air and then the tunnel spat him out like a bone caught in its throat. He sailed through the foam, thwacking the wall of water. It spun him sideways and backwards and flipped him over, upside down in the boiling rush of water.

He twisted his body, expecting to be released but the power of the rapid held him between water-logged branches set deep in the riverbed. His boat wanted to escape, but his head and shoulders were well and truly caught. The river kept up its terrific flow with the kayak caught in its speed.

The worst had happened and Max knew it. He was drowning.

Water streamed into his eyes and mouth. Gravel ripped at his face. It was like being in the centre of a storm –no air to breathe, no time to think. This was not what Max expected or wanted to happen. What in God's name had he gotten himself into? As he twisted and turned panic took over. Nick had been dead right. This was not a calm way to die.

In his terror Max tried to release his spray cover but to no avail. Just moving his arms was a huge effort and even though he tried to keep his mouth shut, the water still forced its way in and down his throat. As his mouth opened and shut like a dying fish on dry land, a strange dizziness began to overtake him. Max noticed how the light filtered through the swirl of pebbles and sand. He saw with remarkable clarity the smallest of things – an autumn leaf hiding behind a rock, quivering but content to lie and rot on the river floor; his arms flapping like fins; bubbles of air streaming from his mouth; and Lou's face, looking lost and forlorn. Max saw the water around him turn pink and then red as blood streamed from the gash in his head, startling him from his trance.

One last time he rolled his body, reaching for the snag that held him. He pushed against it with all his might, with what was left of his desire to stay alive. It resisted and then gave way, releasing him from his watery prison. As he broke the surface the kayak righted itself and was hurled backwards through rapids and past boulders, into the river once more.

Max collapsed on the front deck of his boat, coughing and spluttering, gasping for air and floating downstream in shadows cast by overhanging black wattle trees. In the mid-afternoon sun he found his paddle next to his boat and he began to cry – crying so hard that he started to laugh.

Dave got out his suture box. He dabbed Max's head with antiseptic, gave him a shot and put in three stitches.

‘I must be the complete parent. If you two boys were girls, I could deliver your babies as well,' he said. ‘But what did you tip on? This looks more nasty than hitting a submerged log – looks more like a bloody sharp rock.' He touched Max's head. ‘You're going to feel that for a while. You haven't been doing anything stupid, have you? This isn't from a fight, is it?'

A thought flashed across Max's brain. Maybe he should switch stories. But no. Once you started to shift your story around, they were onto you. That's why people stick to the lies they've told, no matter how absurd they might be.

‘No Dad! Christ! You think I go around getting into fights? I hate ‘em. I told you. I flipped when I was paddling! When I went over I whacked my face on this log, just under the water – you know. Jutting out from the bank.'

Dave looked doubtful. ‘Alright. Just be careful, OK? One death around the place is enough for a while. I don't want my own son's death added to the list.' He stood up. ‘By the way. I'm going out tomorrow night. Could you look after Woody for me?'

Max raised his eyes.

Dave closed the first aid kit. ‘He's not old enough to be left alone, Max.'

‘He thinks he is, don't you, Woody?'

Woody looked from one to the other but said nothing.

‘I don't ask you too often,' said Dave.

‘Who are you going out with?'

‘What business is it of yours?' Dave was beginning to rile.

Max smiled, wincing as he moved his head. ‘Oh, I don't know. Woody and me like to know who you're hanging out with. We have to watch these things, don't we, Woody?'

Woody grinned. Dave finally smiled. ‘Despina. Her name's Despina.'

‘Sounds like a fortune teller,' laughed Woody. ‘Does she like ants – or make jam?'

His father didn't answer.

‘OK. I'll do it', said Max. ‘But can we have some money for a video?'

M
AX HAD EVERY INTENTION of staying home. Every intention. It wasn't a cold night but it was cool and the moon was in full flight. He and Woody had take-away and a video. Everything was fine.

So what changed things?

Max couldn't stop thinking – about the day, Fatman, Mr. Davidson, bubbles in a pink flowing stream and a fragile autumn leaf, hiding behind a boulder. His mind wouldn't leave him alone. The ordeal had made him exhausted, but the urge to do something, anything, overpowered him.

He waited until Woody was sound asleep. Then he rode his bike to school and watched while the security guards completed their check and left. He scaled the cyclone fence at the back of the school where the high riverbanks ran down to the water. Crouching, he scampered across to the stairs of the fire escape. The moon was in full bloom, its light, silver and chilly. The sound of his sneakers echoed on the metal steps.

The time was 11:50 p.m.

Time to remember Lou.

Max clambered up onto the rails at the top of the stairs. The metal was damp from the mist that came up from the river. His fingers gripped the top of the metal doorframe. He raised himself on tiptoe till he could grab hold of the guttering. His graffiti pack felt warm and comforting on his back.

He placed his right foot on a bracket set in crumbling mortar that held the spouting in place, testing to see if it would support him. It seemed OK. Taking a quick look down, Max yanked himself up and pushed down on the bracket.

As he heaved himself over the edge of the roof, the bracket gave way. The useless piece of metal fell silently, then clattered onto the ground three storeys below. On the other side of the river a dog barked. A bus rumbled over the Wellington St bridge. Max froze, teeter-tottering, waiting for silence to return.

He swung his leg over and rolled onto the iron roof, the cans in his pack digging into his back. Up on his hands and knees, he cautiously peered into the yard and street in front of the school. On one corner of the building, fac-ing the street, there was a nice big blank wall.

Max opened his pack and pulled out blue nylon ropes, carabiners and straps. He looped part of the cord around a strong looking metal pipe that ran down into the roof, then fastened the rope around him and slung his pack over his shoulders. Taking up the slack, he eased himself off the roof and onto the face of the wall.

The harness bit into his body. Pushing himself away from the wall, Max glided out into the night, and then returned, his feet landing softly on the bricks. He repeated the movement then stopped. Looking down, legs apart, he swung in mid-air. Wind kissed his face and ruffled his hair.

The can of purple spray was in his hand again. ‘The best in the business', Max said and kissed the metal can as if it was a crucifix and he was sending up a prayer. Tiny pieces of mortar fell to the asphalt below, echoing like boulders cascading down a cliff.

Only twenty minutes left before the security car returned. He pressed his finger down on the button and heard the familiar hiss, like a python ready to strike. ‘To strike at what?' Max wondered. Sadness? School? Unfeeling arseholes? What was happening? What was going on? Walking around like the hermit on his own little island then nearly drowning himself. Where had he been? Been to London to see the Queen. Lou would've said something like that. He could be a funny bastard at times but nobody really knew how funny he could be. Nobody. Let's face it, nobody real y knew him, except Max. He knew him. He knew that Lou was a friend, quiet, quiet and fragile like an autumn leaf. Strong as a bull – Strong as an ant – perhaps. But ants didn't go around killing themselves. They sacrificed themselves – but they didn't do themselves in!