Authors: Scot Gardner
With
that
he
left.
I
stood
in
the
doo
r
way
and
could
hear
the
magpie
in
the
V
elos’
paperbark,
singing
that
sweet, sad
song.
•
The
following
Saturda
y
,
Uncle
T
ed,
Auntie
Penny
and Jenelle
rolled
up
just
before
lunch.
I
scrambled
into
my
bedroom
but
Mum
brought
them
in
anywa
y
.
‘It
’
s
the
walking
wounded.
How
are
you,
W
ayne?’
Uncle
T
ed
went
to
shake
hands,
then
hesitated.
‘Oh,
e
r
.
Y
ou
can
still
shake
hands
all
right?
Good.
Sor
r
y mate.’
He
shook
my
hand
until
I
thought
that
one
was
going
to
fall
off
then
Auntie
Penny
did
the
kiss-cuddle
thing.
Jenelle
just
stood
there
with
her
mouth
part-open,
staring through her
Coke-bottle
glasses. Auntie Penny
’
s
always going
on
about
how
well
Jenelle
does
at
her
grade
three work but
I
think
she
’
s
thick.
Penny
and
T
ed
went
into
the
kitchen
but
Jenelle
sat
on
the
side
of
the
bed
and
stared
at
my
stump.
I
was
pretending
to
watch
the
telly
but
I
could
see
her
out
of
the
corner
of
my
eye,
straining
to have
a
good
look
at
it.
I
did
a
low
monster
growl
and slowly
lifted
my
stump
towards
he
r
.
Her
mouth
dropped right
open
and
the
blood
drained
from
her
face.
She
was
frozen
to
the
spot
for
a
second
in
sheer
terror
then
she burst
out
the
bedroom
door
squealing.
Mum
stomped
in and
asked
me
what
I
had
done
to
he
r
.
‘She
saw
my
stump
and
she
freaked.’
I
thought
I
did
well
not
breaking
into
screaming
fits
of
laughte
r
.
Mum
rolled
her
eyes
and
closed
the
doo
r
.
Something
in
my
head
must
have popped
in
that incident with
Jenelle.
Instead
of being ashamed
and embarrassed
about
my
stump
I
looked
at
it
and
I
thought it
was
cool.
No-one
else
had
one.
And
I
could
freak
little kids
out.
A
slightly
retarded
nine-yea
r
-old
had
set
me
free.
I
got
dressed
in
my
black
tracksuit
pants
and
an
Adidas
jacket
with pockets.
It took me
about
five
minutes
of juggling
but
it
wasn
’
t
that
hard.
But
all
of
my
shoes
had
laces.
From
my
Nikes
to
my
shitty
Doc
Martens,
I
would need
help
to
get
them
on.
Then
I
remembered
my
good
old elastic-sided
Blundstones
that live in the laund
r
y cupboard.
Mum
nearly
choked on
her
biscuit
when
I
walked
into the
kitchen
and
past
her
into
the
laund
r
y
.
Jenelle
started
a
fresh
bout
of
howling.
‘
W
ayne.
Are
you
all
right?
Where
are
you
going?’
‘I’m
fine,
Mum.
I’m
going
for
a
walk.’
I
slipped
my
boots
on
like
I’d
been
doing
it
one-handed
for
years
and
strode
out
the
back
door
like
it
was
the
end of
a
prison sentence.
W
ell
it
was,
only
I’d
locked
myself
up.
The
sunlight
was
fierce
and
it
hurt
my
eyes
as
I
walked across
the
shaggy
lawn
to
the
shed.
I
couldn
’
t find my bike.
Some
bastard
had
pinched
it.
I
ran
back
inside
and
told
Mum
that
my
bike
had
gone.
‘
Y
our
dad
’
s
got
it.
He
’
s
fixing
it,’
she
said.
‘It
wasn
’
t
busted.’
She shrugged.
I
walked
back
out
to
the
shed
and
grabbed
my
smokes
and
lighter from above
the
flimsy metal
doo
r
.
I’v
e
go
t
t
o
sa
y
tha
t
walkin
g
u
p
Merriman
s
Cree
k
hill suckin
g
o
n
m
y
firs
t
Holida
y
Extr
a
fo
r
tw
o
month
s
wa
s
not eas
y
sport
.
B
y
th
e
tim
e
I’
d
mad
e
i
t
t
o
Garriso
n
Stree
t
I
wa
s
stuffed
.
Puffin
g
an
d
panting
,
I
flicke
d
m
y
cigarette but
t
a
t
a
ca
r
turnin
g
int
o
Howar
d
A
venu
e
the
n
crossed ove
r
t
o
th
e
shop
s
an
d
dawdle
d
t
o
Gam
e
Zone
.
I
ha
d
my stum
p
stuc
k
a
littl
e
uncomfortabl
y
i
n
m
y
jacke
t
pocket.
No-on
e
eve
n
looke
d
a
t
m
e
sideways
.
Tha
t
wa
s
cool
.
I
didn
’
t
han
g
aroun
d
long
.
I
though
t
abou
t
walkin
g
u
p
to Den
’
s
plac
e
bu
t
afte
r
ou
r
las
t
littl
e
encounte
r
i
t
seemed
to
o
fa
r
t
o
walk.
I
crossed
Garrison
Street
and went down Howard
A
venue.
I
don
’
t
really
know
wh
y
,
it
was
a
shining
day
and I
didn
’
t
feel
like
going
home,
I
guess.
Howard
A
venue would
take
me
past
the
front
of
the
school.
W
ould,
but
I
didn
’
t get
there.
T
wo
doors
down
from
where
Howard
A
venue
intersects
with
Pilberton
Street,
I
met
Richo
on the
road,
washing
his
BMW
and
whistling.
At
first
I
felt
like
I
wanted
to
hide
but
he
saw
me
and
froze
like
he’d seen
a
vision
of
Jesus.
Then
his
face
cracked
into
a
huge smile
and
he
tripped
up
the
gutter
coming
over
to
shake my
hand.
‘
W
ayne,
W
ayne,
W
ayne.
V
e
r
y
good
to
see
you,’
he
said,
almost
shaking
my
wrist
apart,
his
other
hand
planted
on my
upper
arm.
He
asked
me
how
I
was
going
and looked right
at
my
stump
still
shoved
in
my
pocket.
I
nodded
but before
I
got
to
speak
he
was
talking
at
me
again.
‘Damned
horrible accident
by
all
accounts.
Not
fit
for an
old
bloke
like
me
let
alone
someone as
young
as
you. Got
time
for
a cup
of
coffee
or
lemonade?
Good.
Come
in.’
I
looked
up
and
down
the
street
and
followed
him inside.
I
chose
coffee
and
sat
at
the
table
in
his
kitchen while
he
made
it.
He
spoke
about
my
accident
like
he
was excited
about
it
in
some
morbid
wa
y
.
‘Do
you
have
much
pain
now?’
‘No.
My
stump
gets
uncomfortable
when
I
sleep
sometimes,’
I
said
looking
at
the
yellowing
dressing
Mum
had
put
on
that
morning.
‘Has
it
changed
the
way
you
think
about
your
future?’
‘Nah.
Not
reall
y
.’
The
fact
is
I
didn
’
t
think
about
my
future
much
anywa
y
.
Not
much
further
than
my
next
smoke
or
my
next
meal. Or
my
next
root.
W
ell, my
first
root.
Richo
gave
me
my
cup.
Snow
white
and two
dwa
r
fs,
he
said.
He
led
me
into
another
room
adjoining
the
kitchen
that
smelled
of
leather
and
had
books
instead
of
walls.
He motioned
that
I
sit
down
in
one
of
the
deep
black
chairs
and
I
did
so
as
politely
as
I
could
with
a
hot
coffee.
The chair
farted
and
groaned.
Richo
sat
down
then
shot
up
again
and
grabbed
a
framed
photograph
off
the
bookshelf
behind
him
and
handed
it
to
me.
‘See
if
you
can
pick
which
one
is
my
dad,’
he
said.
I
looked
at
the
photo;
yellowing
and
old
like
the
happy snaps
of
my
grandmothe
r
.
It was
a
footy
team
in
long-sleeved
black
and
white
tops
and
knee-length
shorts. It looked
like
there
were
fifty blokes
in the
photo and
I scanned
it
for
any
faces
that
resembled
Richo.
Nothing.
Maybe
one
bloke,
third
from
the
left
in
the
second
ro
w
.
‘No.
Guess
again.’
Dumb
game.
How
was
I
supposed
to
know?
I
looked
at the
photo
again
and
saw
his
dad.
The
bloke
squatting
in the
front ro
w
.
The
bloke
with
the
beard
that
made
him
look
like
a
bea
r
.
The
bloke
with
the
stump
of
his
left
arm
resting
on
the
foot
y
.
Richo
laughed
when
I
showed
him
and
nodded
until
I
thought
his
head
was
going
to
flop
off.
‘Played
one
hundred
and
eighty-seven
games
of
senior football.
Had
his
pilot
’
s
licence
until he
was
seventy-four and
died
three
years
ago
aged
ninety-one.
He
lost
his hand
in
a
flourmill
when
he
was
thirteen
and
he
always said to
me
that
if
anything
it
made
him
more determined.
He
was
ve
r
y
keen
on
showing
people
that
his
inju
r
y
was
never
much
of
a
disabilit
y
.’
He
shot
up
from
the
couch
again,
this
time
back
into
the
kitchen.
He’d
brought
in
a leathe
r
-bound
photo
album
and showed
me
a
few
more
pictures
of
his
old
man.