Murray. ‘He’ll hear about it in good time. He loses just as much from this shit getting out as we do. He doesn’t need to hear about it when he’s home eating Christmas ham with Louise.’
Muzza thought about things for a moment. He bent down to my eye level.
‘You love your mum very much, don’t you, Eli?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘And you’re a bright boy aren’t you, Eli?’ he asked.
‘Not bright enough, it seems,’ I said.
Muz chuckled. ‘Yes, true shit,’ he said. ‘But you’re bright enough to know what can happen in a place like this when people make our lives difficult. You know that, right?’
I nodded.
‘All sorts of things can happen in the night in here, Eli,’ he said. ‘Real horrible things. Things you wouldn’t believe.’
I nodded.
‘So tell me how you spent your Christmas?’
‘I spent it eating canned pineapple from St Vinnies with me brother and me dad,’ I said.
Muz nodded.
‘Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Eli Bell,’ he said.
The ginger screw, whose name turned out to be Brandon, drove me home in his car, a purple 1982 Commodore. He played a cassette tape of Van Halen’s 1984 all the way home. I tried to pump my fists to the sonic thump of ‘Panama’ but my freedom of expression was hampered somewhat by my left hand being handcuffed to Brandon’s rear left armrest.
‘Rock on, Eli,’ Brandon said, uncuffing me and letting me out, as per my request, three doors down from our house on Lancelot Street.
I scurried light-footed into the house to find August asleep on the living room couch, Papillon resting open on his chest. I saw cigarette smoke down the hallway in Dad’s room. Beneath the saddest Christmas tree ever decorated was a present wrapped in newspaper, a large rectangular book, a felt pen Eli scrawled across it. I tore the paper away to find the gift inside. It was no book. It was a block of paper, maybe 500 blank pages of A4. On the first page was a brief message.
To burn this house down or set the world on fire. Up to you, Eli. Merry Christmas. Dad.
*
He gave me another block of paper for my fourteenth birthday, along with a copy of The Sound and the Fury because he noticed that my shoulders were broadening and he said any young man needs broad shoulders to read Faulkner.
It’s on one of those pieces of A4 paper that I write my list of possible occupations within bike-riding distance that would provide enough money for August and me to save for a deposit on a house in The Gap, in Brisbane’s lush western suburbs, which Mum can move into upon her release:
•Chip fryer at the Big Rooster takeaway restaurant on Barrett Street.
•Shelf stacker at the Foodstore grocery shop on Barrett Street, with the frozen food section August and I hang out in on the hottest summer days, debating which ice block is more bite for your buck out of a Hava Heart, a Bubble O’ Bill and, the unchallengeable masterpiece, the banana Paddle Pop.
•Paperboy for the mad Russians who own the Barrett Street newsagency.
•Bakery assistant for the bakery next door to the newsagency.
•Cleaning out Ol’ Bill Ogden’s pigeon loft on Playford Street (last resort).
I give this some more thought, tapping my blue Kilometrico pen on the paper. And I scribble one more potential occupation, drawing on my limited skill set:
•Drug dealer.
*
A knock on the front door. This never happens. The last time someone knocked on the front door was three months ago when a young police officer came to chase up Dad about a drink-driving incident three years ago in which several local mothers said he knocked over a stop sign outside the childcare centre on Denham Street.
‘Mr Bell?’ the young officer said.
‘Who?’ Dad said.
‘I’m looking for Robert Bell?’ the officer said.
‘Robert Bell?’ Dad pondered. ‘Nahhhh, never heard of ’im.’
‘What’s your name, sir?’ the policeman asked.
‘Me?’ Dad said. ‘I’m Tom.’
The officer took out a notepad.
‘Do you mind if I ask your surname, Tom?’ the policeman asked.
‘Joad,’ Dad said.
‘How do I spell that?’ the policeman asked.
‘Joad like toad,’ Dad said.
‘So . . . J-O-D-E?’ the officer said.
Dad shuddered.
A knock on the door always means something dramatic in this house.
August drops his Papillon – he’s read it twice already – on the living room couch and rushes to the front door. I follow close behind.
It’s Mrs Birkbeck. School guidance counsellor. Red lipstick. Red bead necklace. She holds a manila folder filled with papers.
‘Hi, August,’ she says tenderly. ‘Is your father there?’