The Glass Mountain (3 page)

7

On the edge of eternity the young bikie lies.

There's a spot where the wall meets the ceiling and it's here, high above the earnest activity, that he floats. Sees a surgical space-craft of lights, like ramjets, glitter white. Sees the shining chrome of control columns, the dimpling of glass. Sees the astronauts in their blue caps, bent over and murmuring. Sees the crew passing silver scalpels and bloody gauze. Sees blood, sees one turn to cry. Sees machines ticking out a life. Machmeters stuttering on screens, kids' scribble. Sees gismos pumping hieroglyphs. Sees a body, pale as paper, with tubes for a mouth and a hole in its side, primed for the big blast-off …

‘B.p. falling —.'

‘Lungs filling up —'

‘Suction —'

‘We've located the problem —'

‘B.p. continuing to fall —'

‘Clamp —'

‘What's his name?'

‘Austin.'

‘Come on, Austin, come on —'

‘His gang calls him Nom.'

‘Norm?'

‘Nom.'

‘That's not a name.'

‘That's what they call him.'

‘Okay, Nom, come on, come on —'

‘B.p. down to 19 —'

‘Come on, Kid, show a bit of fight —'

‘We're losing him —'

Suddenly everything stops, is clicked off. The ramjets, control columns, astronauts, silver scalpels, the bloody gauze, ticking machmeters, gismos, the body pale as paper … fade, metamorphose into clouds of cotton wool flecked with pink. And now, through the clouds, someone is singing down rays, fine as spiders' threads and bright as the glow of a million candles. And the young bikie, floating high up on the ceiling, hears that the singing has now become a voice. No, two voices. And the voices speak:

1st voice: He's nearly lost to them.

2nd voice: He's no loss to anyone.

1st voice: At heart he is good.

2nd voice: At heart he is evil.

1st voice: Never judge by appearances.

2nd voice: You and your homilies. But I've got one too — He who lies down with dogs will rise with fleas.

1st voice: Poverty is no sin.

‘Come on Nom. Don't leave us … Don't leave us.'

2nd voice: He's not poor. He gets by by knocking over little old ladies.'

1st voice: That doesn't make him evil.

2nd voice: Tell that to her.

‘Come on, Kid, keep fighting —'

1st voice: To err is human, to forgive, divine.

2nd voice: He's run out of time.

The voices fade. The rays begin to swing and sway, to spiral together, and in one great sweep of sound they form a tunnel, a gold and silver tunnel that rotates like a wheel, that turns on and on, that reaches beyond the cotton wool clouds, that reaches beyond everything … To the blueness that is forever …

The boy goes to lift up his arms in an embrace, but something holds him back. Pulls him …

‘That's it, Nom. Good boy, good boy …'

The image is fading. The dark is closing up …

‘Closing up …'

‘B.p. rising.'

‘B.p. rising.'

‘What are his chances?'

‘If there are no further setbacks …'

‘B.p. stable.'

‘Okay, he's all yours.' The surgeon slips off his mask and gloves and stares for a moment from the window. He sees before him the patchwork pattern of farmyard and field, of chimneys, grey slate and TV aerials, children skipping off to school, women pinning washing on the line. The secure, accountable round of the start of day …

‘Thanks everyone,' he says.

8

The manager is an inquisitive man. This is the fourth time in the past, what? five, six weeks that they've ridden by his roadhouse. First, there were two, then four, then two again. Now there's six! ‘Where are they off to?' he asks the pear-shaped urn. ‘It's the same gang. Could anyone forget those snakes? And here they come.' The man stops, cloth in hand. A flock of crows rises up screeching as they thunder past.

‘There's definitely something going on,' mumbles the manager and goes on polishing.

Outside, the crows return to their watch on the fence.

In the hospital a steady throb of footsteps has announced the visiting hour. Already Ward 7 is thick with the scent of flowers, low-slung voices and side-shifting eyes. A small child, bored with her whereabouts, wanders about, peers under beds, lifts the curtain around number 4 and scurries back to her mum.

The young bikie is wincing. His leg hurts and he bites his lip. He doesn't press the buzzer. He's had pain-killers a minute ago or was it an hour or yesterday? He doesn't know, he can't remember. He can't remember being put in this bed or how long he's been here. It could've been forever. He could be here forever. His life washed away like a stick in a stream …

God, who's hanging about on the wall over bed 2, is a bit of a joker an' a real original one if ya come to think about it. And the boy does. He thinks about God an' the Big Man up there on a little curly cloud an' the Big Man sharing a few homilies. Still going on, people are, 'bout what he said an' this an' that … the Big Man was real impressive to some. An' he's gone. An' his kid's still here.

He stretches, grabs the overhead rail and tries to pull himself up. Stifles a scream and falls back. The contraption swings left right left right and stops. It's about the same width as the pipe that he'd brought down on Thug's head.

There's laughing, swearing, boozing, there's lounging round under trees. There's frying meat. They're all there, Pres, Carver an' all. An' Thug, what belongs to Carver, that's black with yellow eyes. A slinking dog. An' now the laughing stops. An' Carver's coming from one way an' the Big Man from another … We take off, the Big Man an' me.

‘I just wanted to knock him out, Dad. He's got this little dog by the throat an' he's shaking him an' shaking him. I had to stop it. I didn't mean to kill him … Dad?'

‘I know.'

‘He says I poison everything I touch, Pres does. An' Carver …'

‘Fuck 'em. Ya just a kid. Yer gotta take no notice of all that psychology crap.'

‘I do, Dad. I do. Remember when I crashed Turk's bike?'

‘Listen Kid, that's just an inconsequential measure of bad luck. There's good luck an' there's bad luck, that's how it is. Life's not all bad, Kid, it don't work like that. There'll be real good bits here an' there an' you'll be around to see 'em. An' then what ya do with 'em's ya own affair. If ya wanna be pissed off with yaself that's ya own affair too. But I'm telling ya, Kid, when them joyous windows open — an' they will — a person'd be pretty light in the head not to snap up what's on offer to feel real good 'bout life. An' 'bout themselves while they're at it. “When one door shuts, another opens”. Yer remember that, Kid.'

Yeah, Dad. An' where was the one that opened when Mum an' Carver an' every fuckin' bastard around slammed the other in ya face?

The young bikie's sweating. He sticks to the sheets. Again he tries to move but stops. He can hear them coming. He knows their sound.

The six swagger in, loud in leather and gold clippings. Eyes from other beds slip into sheets, hands feel for buzzers.

The President sweeps back the curtain and sweat rises. The young bikie looks into pale eyes, china cold. A general knows instinctively how to instil fear, that's why he's the general. It's in the silence, the steady gaze. A nuggetty, square-shaped general this, one that demands loyalty, admires intelligence. Sees it in the boy …

He breathes closer, the voice is soft, an intimate menace … ‘Jist to remind ya, Kid, there's rules made for a fuckin' reason, an' when someone breaks them rules we don't like it. An' when we don't like it we're inclined to do something about it …'

‘He's in real bad pain, Pres. Ya can tell —'

‘I'm speaking, Turk.'

‘Ya can tell —'

‘Shut up!'

The curtain swishes open.

‘Afternoon tea?'

A nurse bringing afternoon tea?

The curtain closes …

The leader moves closer, confidential like. ‘An' don't think 'bout chucking it away neither. Ya fuckin' fingerprints are all over it. An' we both know what we're talkin' 'bout 'cos Hambone jist happened to observe ya. Ya give it back, ya hear? Ya put it right in her fuckin' hand — an' hers only.'

The plastic wall's flung back and the six stomp out.

The young bikie remains motionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breath raised in a silent howl. He opens his mouth and drives his teeth into his arm …

Again he hears the clomp of heavy boots. One's coming back.

The Turk's face appears around the curtain. Grey stubble, grey pony-tail streaked with black.

‘Don' worry, Nom, he's a bit pissed.' The face peers closer. ‘Hey Nom, ya got blood all on ya sheet.'

Joanna Murphy, charge nurse, is addressing a tangle of curls as she changes a bed. She flicks a bloody pillow slip into a bin.

‘Being angry is good. Gets lots of nonsense out of your system and you haven't been angry enough. And you, a bikie! Anger's good, crying's good. My old pop was a bikie, real he-man my grandpa, put his boot through the box because his team was losing. But listen to a soppy song and he'd blubber like a baby. Bawled his eyes out every time he heard ‘Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a BowWow' … If you're going to just stare at the ceiling at least be a bit constructive about it. Start imagining things, like ways to escape from maximum security cells, or an infallible means of spiking meat pies — work out how to get fat santas down skinny chimneys … You're grinning and I'm being serious.'

She helps her patient back into the bed. ‘Nom,' she says, ‘look at me. You've had a punctured lung, two broken ribs, a fractured arm and plates put in one leg. But bodies mend —' she pauses. ‘You were to be transferred to the Rehab Centre next week. This is your fifth month and you're not mending quickly enough. No, don't turn away. Nom, it's your body, not anyone else's and you've got to help it. It's that simple —'

‘Hello!' The curtain is thrown back and the physiotherapist stands there.

‘What did you do to your arm?'

‘A small accident,' replies the nurse. ‘It's not serious.'

‘See you down there in ten minutes,' says the woman in white and strides off.

At the back of the gym, a group is working out to an up-tempo beat. Otherwise the place is empty.

‘We'll start with the treadmill,' announces the physio.

Sister Murphy click-locks the wheelchair into position, helps the boy out and hands him his sticks.

He moves towards the machine slowly, carefully. Then suddenly he stumbles and one stick falls. He looks at the nurse who has stayed to watch for a few moments. The nurse looks back. He tries edging it closer with his foot, using the other stick to balance himself. That doesn't work. He tries bending, stoops lower and lower. He's only a centimetre or two from it when he goes over. He stares at the nurse. She stares back.

Then he speaks.

‘I can't get up,' he says.

‘Yes, you can.'

The young bikie is momentarily silent. Then he lets out a cry, the cry the lamb makes before the thrust of the knife. He reaches for the stick. Again and again and again and again he strikes and swipes and belts and bashes until, with a crack, it snaps in two …

Then all is quiet.

But for the quietness of sobbing.

Joanna Murphy bends down, pushes back dark hair.

‘It's alright,' she whispers. ‘It's alright — you're on the way now …'

9

Almost seven months have passed since the young bikie drove his machine into a tree, summer has come and gone and now the soft winds of autumn waft through the land.

It's mid-morning and he's standing outside the swing doors of the Rehabilitation Centre clutching a cracked helmet, a sandwich and a bag of bits. A newborn taking his first step into the world. He unfolds the map someone has drawn and walks into the new day, along streets heady with honeysuckle, down lanes wild with the tangle of blackberries. At Elm Avenue he stops, checks a number on a gate and continues on.

Overhead, aged elms link branches to form an arch, an avenue of honour. At a turn in the road stands number forty-five.

The cottage is white with roses. Roses the colour of honey climb walls, peek through windows, spill from a picket fence. The Gingerbread House in the woods.

Lace curtains flutter at the click of the latch, at the crunch of footfall on gravel. He knocks, hears steps approaching. A man stands at the door.

‘Yes?'

‘I want Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘Who are you?'

‘I've got her purse.'

‘Jeffrey.' The voice is shrill and close by. ‘Who's there?'

A woman appears. ‘You!'

‘I want Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘What are you doing here? Who sent you?'

‘I've got her purse.'

The woman thrusts out a hand. ‘I'll see that she gets it.'

‘I gotta give it to Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘I said I'll see that she gets it.'

‘I gotta put it right in her fuckin' hand.'

‘Oh!'

The man gives a small un-cough. ‘She's not here,' he says. ‘She's gone.'

The door slams shut.

The young bikie lifts his boot and stones skitter.

‘Fuck you too.'

He walks on, he doesn't know where. His leg is starting to ache. It didn't yesterday or the day before, but now each step's like the thrust of a knife. He's got to sit down, lie down, find somewhere close that's quiet …

‘You okay, Son?' An old man is walking his dog.

The boy swipes a hand across his eyes. ‘Yeah.'

‘Allergies, I get 'em too.' The man pulls out a tissue. ‘It's clean.'

Down silent streets he staggers. One merges into a park, a park with trees and a lake, and round about are people with dogs and prams and picnic baskets. At the water's edge children in sun-stopping hats balance on tip-toe and feed bread to black swans.

He topples onto springy grass, rips foil from a painkiller and forces it down. He should try to think, plan his next move. He will when the pain's gone and if he concentrates on something it will. It worked in the hospital. He'll describe what he's wearing, examine clothes for colour, shape and size. Start with his jeans. They're blue and though they're a bit on the hefty side, they're almost new. They call it lost property but actually it's what they heave off dead people, so lost is about it. Next the boots. They're ripped about a bit an' the studs are gone, but they're his. An' the jacket's real denim. The T-shirt, now that is new — came in a Target bag, still with the price on. Murphy'd said, what colour, an' he'd said, black. In lost property there were all colours but. Seems it's not the most popular shade for those gearing up to cark it …

It's working, there's less pain. Now it's more of a tingling feeling. He pulls himself up and unwraps the sandwich. It's cheese and pickle. A cheeky pigeon waddles by and pecks in the grass.

‘Ya hungry?'

The bird bobs its head and gobbles the crust.

‘If I had them very excellent wings of yours, Mister P, I wouldn't be hanging round here.'

From the water comes the sounds of happy play, of kids and mums together. Two kids to each mum, tossing balls, paddling, sailing boats of leaves and twigs.

‘Alexander, stop!'

Alexander splashes harder. Mums run, giggling.

He eats slowly, savours each bite, each taste, spicy and sharp.

Taste can bring back memory. The picture's of a small boy and a mum together in a kitchen. Curly hair tied with ribbons, dark eyes over coffee. A pretty mum, everybody says so.

The child, perched on a yellow bar stool, is swinging his legs. His feet don't touch the floor.

‘Mum, can I have cheese and pickle? I'm sick of vegemite. Lennie Lobster's mum gives him cheese and pickle.'

‘Who?'

‘Pleeeese.'

‘'Bout time ya made yer own sandwiches — did something for yerself.'

‘Wayne, he's only a kid.'

The man surveys my mother. His pretty woman.

‘Yer piss weak, that's ya problem.'

‘Don't you talk to my mother like that.'

David faces Goliath. Between them the jug bubbles merrily.

‘Ya shut ya fuckin' mouth, ya little turd.'

‘This is our house, not yours.'

I am head of the house. I am seven.

Silence.

The man looks towards my mother. Wayne is a large pink man, hairless and fleshy. Has his own truck. Makes heaps.

‘Alright,' he says, quiet like. ‘I'll go.'

‘Don't go, Wayne. Wayne, please!'

My mother, dressing gown spilling open, lunges after him. ‘He's only a kid. He doesn't mean it.' She hisses under her breath at me: ‘I'll kill you — you just wait.' Then louder: ‘He doesn't mean it, Wayne.'

The man shoots me a look.

Silence.

A pretty hand grabs my arm. ‘Say you're sorry.'

Silence.

‘Say you're sorry.'

‘Ow!' The pinch bites. ‘Sorry.'

‘Louder.'

‘SORRY.'

‘So.' The man smiles at me, surreptitious like. ‘Now ya can fix ya sandwich.'

‘I need ten bucks,' I reply.

My mother puts on her pretty frown. ‘What do you need ten bucks for?'

‘The circus. Everyone's going.'

‘I bet everyone's not.'

‘Everyone is.'

She drops her curls in her hands. In the hanging light they coil and wink.

‘Oh God! I've got to pay the gas, the phone —'

‘Here ya, Kid.'

A ten-dollar note is tossed towards me. It slides under the fridge with the help of a boot. I have to lie flat to fish it out.

My mother smiles. ‘Say “Thank you”, Austin.'

‘Ta.'

‘You're so good, Wayne. Isn't Wayne good, Austin?'

Silence.

‘Austin?'

‘Yeah.'

On the way to school I meet up with the Goose. Timmy Feathers, round as a pea and polished hair.

I say, ‘Ya goin' to the circus?'

‘Na.'

‘Ya wanna?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Okay, here ya.'

‘Whatcha doing? That's ten bucks. Don't ya wanna go?'

‘Na.'

‘But' — the Goose's eyes grow rounder — ‘it only costs five.'

‘Keep the rest,' I say. ‘We're loaded.'

Down at the lake a child has fallen in. He is being scrubbed dry, told off and scrubbed harder. The child is trying to explain. He points to a tiny little craft that's bobbing up and down way out in the middle. Points to a smaller child who's crying …

“To know all is to forgive all.”

The young bikie pulls himself up, reaches once again for the purse and knocks out cards. One of these'll help him find her fuckin' hand to put it fuckin' well back in.

Across the road is the library. Then the gift store, the doctor, the bank, the plumber, the electrician, in that order. Use the phone card.

An overflowing rubbish bin stands by a path to the road. He shoves in his bag of snake bits and leather. The helmet won't fit. He gives a kick. Cans and bottles tumble out.

‘Aw shit.'