this universe,’ she says. ‘When you were born . . .’
‘Yeah, I know, I know.’
‘. . . he watched over you so carefully, guarded your crib like all of human life depended on it. I couldn’t drag him away from you. He’s the best friend you will ever have.’
She stands and turns to the mirror.
‘How do I look?’
‘You look beautiful, Mum.’
Keeper of lightning. Goddess of fire and war and wisdom and Winfield Reds.
‘Mutton dressed up as lamb,’ she says.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m an old mutton dressing up as a young lamb.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I say, frustrated.
She sees my mood in the mirror.
‘Hey, I’m just joking,’ she says, fixing her earrings in.
I hate it when she puts herself down, self-worth being, I believe, a fairly major root cause of everything from our living in this street to my outfit tonight, a yellow polo shirt and a pair of black slacks all purchased from the St Vincent de Paul Society opportunity shop in the neighbouring suburb of Oxley.
‘You’re too good for this place, you know,’ I say.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re too good for this house. You’re too smart for this town. You’re too good for Lyle. What are we doing here in this shithole? We shouldn’t even fucking be here.’
‘All right, thanks for the heads-up, matey. I think you can go finish getting ready now, huh?’
‘All those arseholes got the lamb because she always thought she was mutton.’
‘That’s enough now, Eli.’
‘You know you should have been a lawyer. You should have been a doctor. Not a fucking drug dealer.’
Her hard slap hits my shoulder before she’s even turned around.
‘Get out of my room,’ she barks. Another slap on my shoulder with her right hand, then another with her left on the other shoulder.
‘Get the hell out of my room, Eli!’ she screams. Her teeth are gritted so tight I see the creases in her top lip, breathing hard, breathing deep.
‘Who are we kidding?’ I shout. ‘Watch my language? Watch my language? We’re fucking drug dealers. Drug dealers fucking swear. I’m sick of all these bullshit airs and graces you and Lyle go on with. Do your homework, Eli. Eat your fuckin’ broccoli, Eli. Tidy this kitchen, Eli. Study hard, Eli. Like we’re the fucking Brady Bunch or somethin’ and not just a dirty bunch of smack pushers. Give me a fucking bre—’
Then I’m flying. Two hands grip my underarms from behind and I’m flying, hurled off Mum and Lyle’s bed, shoulders first, head second, into their bedroom door. I bounce off the door and drop to the polished wooden floorboards in a bone heap. Lyle looms above me and kicks me in the arse so hard with his Dunlop Volleys – his going-out shoes, one step up from his rubber flip-flops – that I belly slide two metres across the hallway floor to the bare feet of August who gives a curious This again? So soon? look to Lyle.
‘Fuck you, druggo cunt,’ I scream, rabid and groggy, trying to get to my feet.
He kicks me in the arse again and I dive this time across the living room floor.
Lyle’s got the red-mist rage I’ve had the misfortune of encountering thrice before. Once when I ran away from home and slept a night in an empty bus in a wrecker’s yard in Redlands. Another time when I stuck six cane toads in the freezer to die a humane death and those hardy and uneasy-on-the-eye amphibians survived in that sub-zero coffin all the way through to Lyle’s after-work rum and Coke and he opened the freezer to find two toads blinking on his ice tray. A third time when I joined a schoolmate, Jock Whitney, on a neighbourhood doorknock fundraising drive for the Salvation Army, except we were really fundraising to buy ET the Extra Terrestrial on Atari – I still feel rotten about that, the game was a piece of shit.
August, dear, pure-of-heart August, stands in front of Lyle as he approaches for a third arse punt. He shakes his head, holding Lyle’s shoulders.
‘It’s all right, mate,’ Lyle says. ‘It’s time Eli and I had a little talk.’
Lyle brushes past August and he hauls me up by the collar of my opportunity shop polo, then pushes me out the front door. He hauls me down the front stairs and along the path, through the gate, still holding my collar, his big streetfightin’ fists pushing against the back of my neck. ‘Keep walkin’, smartarse,’ he