Smashed (6 page)

The thick, greasy steam inside the place sticks inside
my nostrils, cutting the air. I’m so light-headed now I have to hold on to the countertop to stop the sway. And by the time the pimply guy across the counter shoves my burger and chips at me, the thought of eating any of it turns my stomach. Jesus, I know this feeling
way
too well. I have to grab the food and run for it, barely making it to the gutter before I spew my guts out on the street.

The crowd peels off around me to side-step the puke. It’s like I’m totally invisible, till I hear old Blanket Man behind me call, ‘Hey kid. You alright?’

I spit the last of the phlegm out into the gutter and turn to face him. He grins at me again, like I’ve done something really good, and offers me a swig from a bottle in a paper bag. I shuffle over and plonk myself down beside him — swapping him his bottle for my bag of chips. There’s no way I can eat them now.

I can smell the wine — sugary and fruity — before it even hits my lips, but I’m not expecting the bubbles and I have to swallow quickly to flush down more bile. ‘Thanks, man. Sweet.’ And before I know it, I’m telling him about Don and Rita, and the wine’s disappearing from the bottle faster than a speeding bullet … though
why
people say this is ridiculous — it’s not like a bullet’s ever going to come out slow, kind of dripping out of the barrel like a leaking tap. And what’s with
speeding
anyway? Who
decides the speed limit? Is there a different limit for a bullet fired inside a town, compared to on the open range?

I’m feeling kind of guilty for drinking all Blanket Man’s booze, so I offer him my burger too. He wolfs it down, the grease dripping from his chin and pooling in his ratty beard. He’s not really listening to me; he’s plugged into an iPod and jiggles to some music that I can’t hear.

Talking about Don has made me start to jiggle too. It’s just past eight when I hand my good mate Blanket Man his empty bottle and wobble off up Majoribanks Street towards the reservoir. It’s a bitch of a hill and I have to sit down three times before I make it to the top. It looks as though some creep has nicked my whisky. I’m kicking at the bushes like it’s their fault when I spot the bottle just before it connects with my boot. Lucky save. I snatch it up and hug it to my chest like a hot-water bottle, only it’s cold and full of booze, and I can’t exactly see my mum filling it up for me on winter nights. But it’s reassuring to have it here, my new-found friend, and I hunker down to wait for 10 p.m. There’s nothing like pouring down a little pure alcohol on alcohol to beat the cold and make you bold.
I’m a poet, pissed on Moët, and I know it.
Ha! Just as well the lame-joke police aren’t here …

Hard to think. I must’ve dozed off — there’s a stinking blob of vomit next to me and a sticky trail of it all down my front. Gross. The whole world’s hot and heavy, pressing down on me, but I have to get myself back down there now — by 10 p.m. — or I’ll miss the bastard. Can’t risk that.

The track’s slapping at me, clawing. Have to kick out at the thorny undergrowth, slash at it — practise,
practise
how I’m going to fight. With fists? With boots? I’ve never had to face this sort of thing before … a geek’s reward for being lame. But he’s going to be damn sorry when I’m through with him. It’s not just Rita who he’s raped, it’s Mum and Dad. It’s his
best friend
.

The crumbling rotten rock gives way, spraying off into the darkness as I’m thrown back and slide a good three metres down the hill.
This sucks!
I’m bruised and grazed from head to butt and all of it is
his
fault. I mean, I’ve let that mongrel drivel on for hours ’bout his stupid car, put up with his arsehole father, been polite to his tragic mum. I’ve done homework for the prick, lied to teachers, swapped my lunch. I even nicked things for the useless loser once to prove how much I liked him. Creep. S’over now. All friendship gone.

I have to steady myself against a signpost, retching out long strings of saliva that weave themselves with the
cry-baby snot that’s pouring from my nose and collect as glistening jellyfish on my shoes. I’ve never felt this crook before. Want to lie down here and … No! Have to see it through now, even if I end up being pulverised — and probably will. No more Mr Nice Guy — Toby-woby — useless nerd. Have to break free from the ant’s nest and let him know just what his selfish, slimy act has done.

The city’s seething, now, with people, cars. I take the path around the waterfront, and nearly get bowled as I try to cross the street down by the flash New World. I’m really feeling crappy; my tongue has swollen like dead meat inside my mouth, and every step’s a struggle. The closer to my rendezvous with Don, the worse I feel. The only thing I seem to have going for me is the element of surprise. If he’s expecting fun and games with Carl, he’s sure in for one big shock.

The outline of the rowing club takes shape against the neon city skyline. Any moment now and we’ll be face to face. I lean against the corner of a building just to catch my breath and close my eyes, but the world starts spinning off into dizzy sickness and I’m forced back to reality with a panicked groan. I’d run for it, if it wasn’t for the picture that keeps flashing through my head of Rita’s eyes. It hurts, it
hurts
to see her look like that.

The next thing I know, I’m charging up towards the
meeting spot, blubbing and stumbling, and all I want is for it to be over — for the world to end. I can’t quite focus on my watch but I think by now it’s after ten.

The shadows duck and dive around me as I cross the rubbish-strewn car park. And now I’m turning the corner by the rowing club, pitching straight towards the darkest corner of the lot. My heart is slamming up against my ribs. There’s no one here but me and a shrieking voice of vengeance that builds into a raging hurricane inside me.

And then I see him …

The light filters through my eyelids and gradually drags me back into the real world. The night before is lost to me; all I know is that I’ll never,
ever
drink again. The dried crust of puke that’s splattered down my front and the sledgehammer performance in my brain are more than enough to convince me of this. The sandpapered feel of my tongue, the seasickness in my stomach, and the awful taste of rotting fish are just sadistic overkill. In case I’m being punished by some cosmic god-like entity whom I’ve ignored, I croak through dry, cracked lips, ‘I get the point.’

When I finally get up the strength to open my eyes, I realise I’m back up in the greenbelt of Mount Vic.
That’s really weird. I remember leaving here to meet with Don, weaving down the waterfront … and, now that I’m focused on it, have the vaguest memory of curling tight into a ball of misery back on this hill … but the details of what went on in between are lost.

It’s terrifying not being able to remember — how is it even possible? I’ve heard plenty of guys boasting about how wasted they’ve become at parties — whole nights blanked forever from their minds — but never,
never
thought it would happen to me. I can’t even imagine what all that alcohol will have done to my brain cells. Or what the hell kind of alcoholic ramblings I fired at Don.

My pounding head makes the light almost unbearable, and as I shield my eyes I notice something dark and sticky on my hand. More puke? Or mud? Did I fall? Did I slither down some muddy bank? Did I — oh. My. God. It’s blood. There, beneath my fingernails. Definitely dark-red blood.

Frantically I start to check myself, feeling for some kind of gaping sore — anything to find the source of the blood and reassure the rising panic screaming inside me. Maybe I just fell? Or tripped? I feel around my nose, but the only thing I find is more encrusted spew. I’m starting to sweat now, the booze escaping through the pores of my skin and sticking to me like flies to meat. There’s this
big foreboding shadow seeping into the empty thought-space in my head, chilling my extremities, tingling my conscience. Something’s gone down I ought to know about, but the harder I try to force my mind back to last night, the more it slides and slips away. Rita’s face I can conjure up no sweat; no worries, either, picturing the lunatic behind Carl’s crazy grin. But Don … was he smiling as I lurched out of the darkness at him? Did the light leach from his eyes in fear?

Again I can feel my guts flip-flop (how many times can one idiot spew?) and I stagger up and away from my shameful resting place as though I can outrun the urge. The effort of moving, of breathing harder, makes it recede slightly, so I take advantage of the reprieve and make my way across the greenbelt towards home. I can’t look at my hands. Can’t push my mind back to last night. Just plod like a zombie from a splatter movie, with one thought on my mind:
home.

I
rinse my hands under the hot tap in the kitchen, using the pot scrub to work the dried blood out from underneath my fingernails. It must’ve concentrated when it dried, and now there are pinkish water droplets spraying out onto the clean white countertop.

Mum’s left a note in the middle of the breakfast bar just to harass me.
Where were you last night? Ring me
. I hate to think how crazy she’ll go when she comes home — I’ve never stayed out all night without her knowing where I’m at. On top of Rita’s drama, she’s bound to go psycho. But if she thinks I’m going to phone her up and get a preview of her lecture she must be mad.

I
do
want to call up Carl, though. Maybe he knows something more about last night.

His mother answers in a wavery voice. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, Mrs Sissons, it’s Toby Young here. Is Carl home?’ I always find myself speaking really formally to her. It’s not that she’s particularly posh or up herself or anything — in fact, she’s pretty nice to me. I guess it’s just that she’s so
old. She was close to fifty when she had Carl — bad luck when he turned out to have ADHD and drove them not-so-slowly around the bend.

‘Sorry Toby. He left bright and early — I don’t know where he is.’

I try Carl on his mobile, but it switches straight to answerphone. There’s no point leaving him a message. He never has enough credit left to check it.

My stomach’s grumbling like a sore-toothed bear but I’m not sure if it’s hunger or just hangover. Mum’s left my dinner on a plate in the fridge — some casseroled concoction that probably tasted fine last night but now looks totally like diarrhoea. Looking at it nearly wipes out my hunger pangs but, now I’ve started thinking ‘food’, my watering mouth reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. I bypass the diarrhoea and grab a hunk of cheese to mash inside some bread — an awkward manoeuvre, as I’m also trying to keep my arms clamped firmly to the sides of my body. The sweaty, spewy, alcoholic stench that’s pouring off me doesn’t help my appetite to overcome the sick reaction to the booze that’s still fermenting deep inside my gut.

It’s only when I’ve finished eating and I’m ditching my clothes on the bathroom floor, that I notice blood smeared up my sleeves as well. How could I have missed
this? The sight of it batters at my memory and I know something’s happened but I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s like when you know the answer to a problem in a tutorial, and everyone’s staring at you and waiting for you to answer, and you know that you know it really well but it just won’t come. I hate that.

The shower, however, is a tribute to the genius of the human mind. How amazing to belong to a species that can harness enough brainpower to heat water and to run it, fully pressurised, through walls until it spouts out at the perfect strength and velocity to feel like
this
. Pure luxury. I don’t even try to wash myself; just stand there with my eyes shut and let the water stream down my body like tropical rain. Since no one’s home I stay until the water starts to cool. I figure Mum and Dad’ll never know — besides, it’s working like a tranquilliser to calm me.

I’m just putting on my socks when there’s a sharp rapping on the front door. I hop along the hallway, wrenching at one stupid sock that’s stuck because my foot’s still wet — only to trip on the floor rug in the lounge, taking out the phone and an empty coffee cup. I make it to the door with another stumbling lurch, swing off the door handle — and nearly slam straight into the two men who are standing there. Two policemen. Bloody hell! Heat shoots up my neck and face, until I guarantee I’m redder
than a baboon’s butt. This isn’t good. This really isn’t good at all.

‘Yes?’

One of the cops, a middle-aged guy with dark stubble shadows, holds out some kind of police ID. ‘Gidday.’ He pauses, and it’s like he’s trying to look around me to see who else might be inside. ‘I’m Sergeant DeVinnie and this is Constable Gordon. We’re wanting to speak to Mr Paul Young.’

Thank god. It’s not me they’re after.
Why did I think it would be?
‘He’s at work.’

The policeman takes out a notebook and checks it. ‘Young and Associates. Accountants. In Johnson Street?’

Hang on. Why on earth do they want Dad? ‘Yeah.’

‘We’ve already been to Johnson Street. He’s not there.’

‘He isn’t?’ Dad never takes time off work. ‘What’s going on?’

They look at each other, like they’re carrying on some psychic conversation. The other cop, younger, with the jaw of an American football player, says, ‘You’re Toby Young?’

The fermenting cheese sandwich slams against the pit of my stomach. I nod.

‘Can we come in?’ They take a step forward, as if I’ve already invited them inside. ‘We’d like to ask you
a few questions.’

If I had a choice, I’d slam the door and run for it. But they’re already pushing past me, eyeing up the kitchen as they make their way through to the lounge. They lower themselves onto our old sofa, and the sergeant guy flips his notebook open in a movement slick from practice.

I’m thinking of telling him that I have the right to remain silent, or whatever it is you’re supposed to say. That I want my one phone call. That I want my lawyer, if I had one. That I want my mum. But they don’t give me time to pull my thoughts together.

‘Have you heard about your friend Donald Donaldson?’ the older cop asks. He’s watching me really closely. I can see him mentally scribbling pages full of evidence against me, cos I can’t stop myself from swaying and slumping into the nearest chair.

When I answer him, my voice comes out in the world’s most pathetic squeak. ‘No.’

He keeps eyeballing me and I can’t stand the intensity of it. I stare down at my hands, picking the last of the crusted blood out from underneath one fingernail. ‘He was found in the central city last night with serious head injuries … it looks like someone did a dance right on his head.’

‘Jesus!’ I look up at that, not believing what I’m
hearing. The guy’s staring at my hands as well, flinching as I flick away the flake of blood.
Is this what I’ve done to
him?
I’m scrabbling through the jumble of images inside my head.
Wouldn’t I remember that?
‘Is he … going to be alright?’

‘We’re not sure, son. It’s early days.’ He sounds almost tearful, which makes me kind of teary too. ‘You’re looking pretty bad yourself. What happened to your face?’

For a moment I can’t think what he’s on about. I run my hands over my face and feel the rough, scabby grazes. ‘It’s not what you think,’ I say defensively. ‘I did this to myself.’

Now he’s looking at me like I’m a psycho. The other guy, Square-jaw, is up and wandering around the room. He leans across the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the lounge and reads Mum’s note. He picks it up, which I reckon is a damn cheek, and hands it over to the sergeant. ‘Who’s this to?’

I’m not going to rush into answering this. I’ve seen enough cop shows on TV to know that it’s the stupid guys who open up their mouths and talk before they think who walk right into trouble. Besides, I can hear a car pulling into the drive, the door slam and the sound of hurried footsteps slapping across the yard and up the front steps.

Mum flies in, her face pale as she takes in the
policemen, but it’s
me
she’s searching for. I rise to greet her, so relieved to see her that I don’t even care when she hugs me right in front of them. ‘Jesus, Toby, are you alright?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, patting her back and peeling her off me. Her hair’s all over the place and she looks pretty rugged — like she hasn’t slept for about a week. I jerk my head towards the cops. ‘They’re looking for Dad.’

She turns to them now, totally confused. But I’ve gotta give her credit; she pulls herself together, holding out her hand to the sergeant guy who has risen to greet her as though she knows he’s the important one to schmooze. ‘I’m Maeve Young. What’s this about?’

‘Sergeant Gavin DeVinnie,’ he replies. ‘And this is Constable Mark Gordon.’ He indicates for her to sit, and waits before he follows suit. ‘Do you happen to know your husband’s whereabouts?’

‘Yes, he’s at work.’

He frowns ever so slightly, a v-shaped crease forming between his brows. ‘It appears not. We’ve just come from there.’

Mum laughs a little unconvincingly. I can tell she wants to grab him by the throat and shake the crap out of him until he tells her what’s going on, but outwardly she’s playing it cool. Ever since her uni days, when she
protested against the Springbok rugby tour and got locked up for sitting in the middle of the motorway, she’s had a kind of love–hate relationship with the police. It’s like she wants us to know that the police are there to help us but she’s never quite forgiven them for what they did. ‘Well, he
is
there now. We’ve been to an appointment together. I just dropped him back.’

‘That’s fine then. We’ll pop back down.’

He rises, about to leave, but Mum’s not going to have a bar of that. She’s told him what he wanted and now
she
wants info in return. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Don,’ I blurt. ‘Someone’s beaten him up real bad.’ The whole thing is totally surreal. Here I am acting like I haven’t just got home from a night I can’t remember, washing the blood of someone I may or may not know off my hands. Yet these stupid cops here seem to think there’s some connection to my dad.

Mum’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh my god. Poor Carol … Is Don alright?’

Sergeant DeVinnie answers. ‘It’s early days. He’s still in a coma, and that’s probably the best thing for him at this point. His head is swollen to the size of a football and there’s an enormous amount of bleeding in his brain.’

A picture, stark and real as a lightning bolt, flashes through my mind. I can see Don lying there, in the darkest
corner of the parking lot, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. He’s squinting up at me with the most pathetic, pleading eyes. It’s such a terrible image — so clear — that my breakfast just presses the eject button and starts to fly. All I can do is run, hand across my mouth, before I lose it in the kitchen sink. It’s as if my gut’s chosen puking as default mode, and any little thing (okay, quite big thing) can set it off.

Constable Gordon is up and at my side. I’m splashing my face with water as I hear Mum’s rising panic. ‘What’s this got to do with Paul?’ She’s standing in the middle of the room, stuck between wanting to help me and baling up Sergeant DeVinnie.

‘The boy’s father indicated that your husband recently made some threats …’

‘Oh, for god’s sake!’ All Mum’s calm has disappeared. ‘Show me a father who wouldn’t say something like that in the heat of the moment when his daughter’s just been raped.’ She spits the word out like a curse, and Sergeant DeVinnie reels backwards like she’s slapped him.

I’m still over by the sink, shaking like a leaf, when Constable Gordon starts showing an uncomfortable amount of interest in the blood-speckled bench. No way. I twist the cold tap full on and sweep my puke straight down the plughole, taking the dishcloth and scrubbing all
the surfaces before he thinks to make me stop.

Meanwhile, Sergeant DeVinnie is working hard at calming Mum. ‘Hang on a mo — let’s go back a step. What do you mean?’

At this very moment, as if things couldn’t get any crazier, Dad bursts in. ‘My god, Toby, are you alright?’ He’s scanning the room, taking in the cops and Mum while he speaks. ‘Shirley said some police had been. I tried to ring …’ His gaze rests on the phone that’s lying on the floor where I knocked it over.

Everyone freezes, staring at the stupid phone like it’s a criminal offence or something. ‘It was me! I did it!’ They all spin towards me and I realise how I’ve made it sound. ‘The phone. I mean I knocked the phone.’ I can’t help but start giggling — a nervous, freaked-out little sound that’s more like squeezing air through the neck of a balloon. And that’s kind of what it is, I guess — a release of all the tension that’s bouncing around between us.

Dad is the first to switch back on. ‘I think we’d better all sit down.’ He puts a protective arm around my shoulders and steers me over to the sofa. He sits me down next to Mum, taking up a position on the other side of me. This forces Sergeant DeVinnie to move over to the old green chair, the one that Mum keeps promising to fix because its springs are stuffed.

‘Mr Young,’ Sergeant DeVinnie starts. He flicks his notebook open yet again, and I’m beginning to get the feeling it’s his favourite move. ‘Last night, a friend of your son’s — Donald Donaldson — was violently assaulted down by the waterfront. An anonymous caller phoned for assistance at —’ he checks the notebook, ‘— twenty-two thirty-two … ten thirty-two p.m.’ He looks up straight into Dad’s eyes. ‘They found Donaldson near the rowing club with severe head injuries.’

Dad shoots a horrified sideways glance at me, and I can see the doubt that’s hiding there. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

‘Not sure.’ DeVinnie’s watching all three of us for our reactions, and I can tell by the way he slightly straightens up in his seat that the fact Dad has reached over and taken Mum’s hand will go down in his little notebook for future use. ‘Of course it’s still early in our enquiries, and we’re interviewing anyone who may have had some contact with Donaldson. His father —’ Notebook again. ‘— Sidney Donaldson — seems to think you might be an obvious place to start.’

‘Does he just.’ Dad’s slowly nodding his head, like he’s weighing things up. ‘Look, sergeant, my wife can verify the fact that we were both home last night. All night.’ He fires another barbed shot at me. ‘Sidney’s absolutely right
that I told the boy I’d hospitalise him if he made contact with either of my children ever again but, Lord knows, I didn’t assault him.’

Dad told Don that? Wow! It seems so out of character it’s kind of cool. But now I get that flash again of Don’s pulped face. This is something that I’ve
seen
, in real life. And if I’ve seen it, then it means …

‘Sidney is hardly someone you should rely on for a sober response.’ Mum can’t stand it when people think badly of Dad: she fights back like a bull terrier defending its pups.