a day at the races


Matt Dray

The Flea envied Doom Not for what he had or what he was. Just his vision. He knew what he wanted to do and he was on his way. Perhaps it was more admiration than envy
Doom, Tragic, Scoop and The Flea treat their whole lives like a day at the races -- only in it for the ride When it really matters, they just can't help mucking up the opportunities life gives them
But Doom wants to break the mould and escape his small town existence, where chasing girls getting drunk and picking fights is the best a Saturday night has to offer. He's got visions of greatness, and it's time to take a chance
A Day at the Races is a highly original Australian novel about best mates and big dreams


Penguin Books
a day at the races
Matt Dray is thirty-three and lives in Queensland. He started this novel in Adelaide in 1995, wrote most of it in Perth and finished it in Mackay in 1999. He currently works on Daydream Island.
MATT DRAY
a day at the races
PENGUIN BOOKS


The Pink Floyd song lyrics from 'Wish You Were Here' on page 19 were reproduced by permission of Warner/Chappell Music Australia Pty Ltd Unauthorised reproduction is illegal
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To Anthea a day at the races
The Crown Hotel was doing its usual trade for a Saturday afternoon. There were about forty or so patrons in the main bar, drinking, smoking, playing pool and following the horses on Sky channel. The Crown was basically a blue-collar pub. Most of the drinkers there got dirt under their fingernails during the week.
Doom sat at the bar studying the form guide. It was hard for him to turn the pages because he only had one hand. He was fair-haired and broad-shouldered but not eye-catchingly so, and had a goatee beard.
His friend sitting next to him was called Scoop. Scoop was a journalist, hence the nickname. He was similar to Doom physically, except he was clean-shaven and had two hands. Scoop liked to think he was one step ahead of everyone else and usually was.
The Flea sat on the other side of Scoop. He was quite small, no bigger than a jockey, in fact. The Flea had long brown hair which he wore in a plait. The Flea loved a good time. He could have fun in a Turkish prison.'Whaddya reckon, Doom?' asked Scoop, folding the paper and laying it on the bar.
'I dunno. Nothin' really grabs me. What about you, Flea?'
'Good day to leave it alone,' said The Flea.
'Yeah, fair enough,' announced Scoop. 'Might just have a quiet beer, hey? Maybe a couple of trifectas.'
'Yeah,' said Doom. The Flea nodded in agreement.
The barmaid approached them, fixing her attention on Scoop.
'You all right, Brad?' she asked.
'Yeah. Three more thanks, Wendy.'
Doom and The Flea followed Wendy's progress for a few seconds. Scoop turned around and saw the door open. 'Look out. Here it is. Any money he wants a lift.'
Tragic came into the bar wearing his usual lost-lamb expression. He was a stocky little bloke, shorter than Doom and Scoop but taller than The Flea. Tragic was the sort of person everyone would like to have as a mate but are just as thankful they haven't. When his eyes found what they were looking for, they lit up.
'G'day, Tragic,' said Doom.
'G'day, Doom. Flea.'
'G'day, Tragic.'
'Hey, Scoop, are you busy?' asked Tragic.
'What! Don't I get a g'day?'
Tragic screwed his face up. 'G'day, Scoop.'
'Hello, Tragic.'
'Are you busy?'
'I might be,' answered Scoop. 'It depends.'
'Ohhh. Well. . . could you give me a lift?'
'I'm busy.'
'Aw c'mon, mate.'
'Where to?'
'The races.'
'I'm very busy.'
'Whaddya wanna go to the races for?' asked The Flea.
'Whaddya think? To pat the bloody horsies?' said Tragic.
'Have you got a tip, mate?' asked Doom.
'Shit-yeah.'
'What is it?'
'Not here, Doom,' said Tragic, lowering his voice and looking furtively around the room. 'Loose lips . . . sink ships.'
'There's a TAB across the road,' suggested Scoop.
'Mate! This thing will come in like a cow out of the cold when the connections put their money on it. We can get twenty to one with a bookie at the track.'
'Twenty to one?' echoed Doom.
'And it's a cert. Can't lose.'
'Bullshit!'
'I'm telling ya, Scoop. He'll get up. I could've just got a cab and gone on my own but I'd enjoy the experience so much more if I shared the wealth with three friends.'
'Well, go and get 'em then.'
'Ha! Smart arse! Five seconds and I'm out the door.'
The other three made no move to comply with this deadline. This was the hundredth time Tragic had used such a threat to further his own interests. Ten seconds passed in silence. Wendy came back with the beers, three mid-strengths and a heavy for Tragic. She'd seen Tragic come in and poured a fourth without asking.
'Aw c'mon, Scoop,' whined Tragic.
Scoop looked at Tragic. 'Is it really a cert?'
'Mate! If this nag doesn't win, I will run down the home straight nude. Backwards even!'
'I'll hold you to that.'
'You can hold me anywhere you like.' Scoop turned to face Doom. 'Whaddya think?' 'Beats sittin' in here all day,' said Doom. He looked at The Flea for confirmation. The Flea nodded.
They downed their beers and left the bar. Scoop's metallic-green BMW stood in the shade of an adjoining building in the car park at the back of the pub. He and Doom sat in the front. The Flea and Tragic got in the back and leaned forward into the gap between the two front seats.
'Okay, Tragic!' said Doom, as Scoop eased the car into Lutwyche Road and headed for Eagle Farm. 'What's the crack?' 'I dunno, Doom,' said Tragic slowly. 'Is it safe to talk here?' 'Why? What's wrong?' 'The car could be bugged.' 'Ohhh for fuck's sake,' said Scoop.
'Well. You never know, Scoop. I saw that Four Corners report where that cop got caught on tape.'
'I'm not taking you anywhere if you keep this up.' 'Okay. I know the trainer.' 'You know the trainer,' repeated Doom. 'So?' 'So? So there's a certain horse in a certain race that hasn't been . . . extending himself of late.'
'And today's the day?' asked The Flea. 'Too right. They said if he drew an inside barrier, they'd let him go. He's drawn number two.'
'Are you sure about this?' asked Scoop. 'Maaate. I know the trainer.' 'How well do you know this trainer?' 'Well enough to know that this little champion is going to piss it in and I'm gunna have a thousand bucks on him.' 'At twenty to one?' asked Doom.
'Bloody oath at twenty to one. No half measures for this little black duck.'
'Where'd you get hold of a grand?' asked Scoop.
'Ohhh, I rang the old man. Told him I needed some bond
money.'
'And he just gave it to ya?'
'Yeah. It's either that or I move back home.'
The other three nodded sagely in agreement with Tragic's father's wise actions. 'Well, Flea. How much are you puttin' on it?' asked Tragic.
'I dunno yet.'
'Put the house on it. Hey, Scoop! Why don't we pull into a car yard and get what we can for the Beemer and stick it all on this bastard? I'd do it if I was you.'
'Well, you're not me. That's why I've got a car that runs. Not like your heap of shit.'
Scoop turned right at the Albion Five-Ways and went up Crosby Road into Ascot. He took a left and then followed his nose through a few suburban streets and in less than five minutes they were turning into the front entrance of Eagle Farm racecourse. The two old men on the gate recognised Scoop's car and waved him through, as did the teenager at the car park. He didn't bother charging Scoop. There was a fair chance of a fiver coming from him on the way out.
'Keep an eye on the car for me, Jason,' said Scoop.
'No worries, Mr Daley.'
The four of them made their way to the Members' stand, passing through the betting ring as they did so. Tragic fronted the first bookmaker available and asked if he could peek inside his Gladstone bag to see whether he had enough money. 'Mate! Just one look. A cheque's not gunna do. I need cash.' The bookie ignored him. 'You got your car keys on ya?' continued Tragic. 'I'll probably be taking them too. And what's your wife doin' tonight?' 'Piss off, idiot.'
They reached the entrance to the Members' bar, of which Scoop and The Flea were associates. They signed the other two in. A tie was compulsory as well as slacks. None of them was correctly attired. Scoop had the right trousers but he was wearing a polo shirt. The Flea was the same. Doom had jeans and a T-shirt but it didn't look too bad thanks to his black sports jacket, which he wore because he was self-conscious about not having a right hand. He always kept the stump inside his pocket. Tragic wore board shorts and a T-shirt featuring a cow with sunglasses and the words 'Cool as Fuck' underneath. The doorman knew Scoop and The Flea and knew all about the other two. He waved them through when they said they'd be in and out in half an hour.
The Members' bar overlooked the home straight and a glass wall gave all those inside a panoramic view of the track. Not as much as a cigarette butt blemished the deep-green plush of the carpet and the airconditioning kept everyone looking their best. Groups of stylish-stylish people were scattered around the spacious room and the general murmur was interspersed with the tinkling of women's laughter.
The four grabbed a vacant table and The Flea bought the first round of drinks, three Fourex Golds and a Fourex heavy. The heavy was for Tragic. Tragic had no idea. He always thought he was drinking Gold like the rest of them, but Scoop had started this up six months ago. The other two had cottoned on early and they stitched him up whenever the opportunity arose. Tragic had a fast metabolism. As a consequence, he got drunk quickly and often, and was fast becoming a borderline alcoholic. Scoop took his Gold off The Flea, then leaned over and looked at Tragic.
'Right! What's the name of this donkey?'
'High-school Loser.'
'That'd be right,' muttered Doom.
'Yeah. Pretty apt name for us. Bit of an omen I reckon.'
'Speak for yourself,' said Scoop. 'When's it run?'
'About twenty minutes.'
'What's his form like?'
'Don't worry about form, Scoop. That's irrevelant.'
'You mean irrelevant,' corrected The Flea.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Tragic. 'Anyway, I'm putting a bet on. Who's next shout?'
'You are,' they said in unison.
'Ohhh. Well, when I get back, then.'
'I'm gonna cash a cheque,' said Scoop. 'We might as well all go down and put our money on.' They drained their glasses and went their separate ways. It was an unspoken rule amongst them not to use the same bookie if they could help it. Tragic went back to the same one he'd spoken to before and told him he was going to wish he'd stayed in bed today. He bought his shout and was bringing it back to the table when The Flea and Doom returned.
'Where's Scoop?' asked Tragic, putting the beers down.
'Don't know,' replied Doom, flicking beer that Tragic had spilt off the table with a coaster. 'I think he's putting a fair bit on this one.'
'How much did you put on, Flea?' asked Tragic.
'A hundred.'
'A hundred? Mate! This thing's gunna get up. Two thousand's good but it could be better.'
'Two grand'll do me, mate. Little fish are sweet.'
'Fair enough. What about you, Doom?'
'A hundred.'
'Bugger me. I want us all to go ballistic when this thing wins. Two thousand bucks is not a big enough reason to go ballistic. Don't you two trust me?'
'I can't afford a grand, Tragic,' pointed out Doom.
'Then you can't afford to miss this opportunity. It's money in the bank. It's deadset money in the bank.'
'Yeah, well, banks get robbed,' said Doom, which shut Tragic up for a while.
The three of them stood around quietly and spent the next few minutes indulging in one of their favourite pastimes, girl-watching. There were a couple of real stunners in the place but, as always, they had blokes on their arms already. The tote odds were displayed on high television screens in various corners of the room. High-school Loser had come in to twelves.
'Did Tragic just shout?' asked Scoop, approaching the table.
'Yeah,' said The Flea.
'Thought so. Why don't you take two trips, Tragic? You know you can't carry four beers.'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah. How much did you put on it?'
'Five grand.'
'Five grand? Ohhh shit. Don't you think you went a bit overboard?'
'Hang on. You told me '
'Yeah. Okay. No worries.'
'No! Wait! Don't fuckin' "no worries" me,' said Scoop, raising his voice. 'You said it was a cert. You told me you knew the trainer.'
A group of pseudo-beautiful people standing nearby looked over at the commotion. Scoop didn't notice them and wouldn't have cared if he had.
'Well, I don't actually know the trainer,' admitted Tragic.
'Ohhh fuckin' what? Who do you know then?'
'Well, I know this bloke who's friends with the brother of the girl who lives next door to his cousin.'
'The trainer's cousin?'
'Well, no. The trainer's best mate's cousin.' 'Hey? You're fuckin' kidding me, aren't ya? Aren'tya?' 'It's his first cousin.'
'I knew this'd happen,' said Scoop. 'Geez you're a fuckhead.' 'Hey, don't get up me. It's not my fault you put five grand on it.'
'Yes it is.'
'Well, it's not like I held a gun to your head.' 'I wish I had a gun now.'
'So it's the trainer's best mate's cousin's . . . how does it go again?' asked The Flea.
'No! I don't wanna hear it again. Fuck me drunk! I'm gunna be sick,' announced Scoop.
He belted Tragic once around the head and went to the toilets.
'Bloody hell!' said Tragic as soon as Scoop was out of earshot. 'What's up his arse?'
'Something about a wife and two kids to feed, I guess,' answered Doom.
'Well, I think he went a bridge too far with the five grand just quietly,' replied Tragic.
'You were whingeing a moment ago about no one trusting you,' said The Flea.
'There's trust and there's stupidity.' 'Well, why did you keep on about it being a cert?' 'Yeah, Tragic,' added Doom. 'Scoop's gunna kill you. I'm not helping you out this time.' 'He won't kill me if it wins.'
'If?' said The Flea. 'It was more like when a minute ago.' 'Hey!' Tragic pulled out his stub and threw it on the table. 'I've got a thousand bucks on it. That's how confident I am.'The other two didn't bother arguing. They sipped their beers and an unhealthy silence fell over them.
'Hey,' said The Flea. 'Guess who I ran into the other day?'
'Who?' said the other two, grateful for the distraction.
'Paula.'
'Paula Banks?' asked Doom.
'Yep. She asked how youse were goin'.'
'What'd you say?'
'Said youse were goin' okay. She's up the stick, hey.'
'What!' said Doom. 'Fair dinkum?'
'Yep. Big as a house already.'
Tragic grunted noncommittally. But he was gutted. The last time he'd seen Paula was on a Friday night three months ago. He hadn't noticed her condition and she hadn't told him. She'd asked him to write down his phone number and Tragic had got his hopes up and waited in vain for her to call him since then. He couldn't care less whether this horse got up now or not.
'Who to?' asked Doom.
'Fucked if I know.'
'Well, there ya go,' surmised Doom.
They looked out onto the track as the field came out of the mounting yard and cantered around to the starting gate. High-school Loser was now paying nine dollars seventy on the tote.
'What are youse doing?' asked Scoop, returning from being sick.
'We're looking for the horse,' replied The Flea.
'What's the fuckin' point?'
'Take it easy, Scoop,' suggested Tragic meekly.
'Take it easy? Tragic, if this nag doesn't get home, I'm gunna cut your balls out and feed 'em to your dog.'
The four stood up against the glass wall. Tragic and The Flea were allowed in front so they could see. Doom stood behind The Flea. Scoop stood behind Tragic, looking very pissed off. The Flea pointed over at the sixteen-hundred-metre mark.
'He's just going in now.'
'And what a bag of shit it looks too,' moaned Scoop.
A commentator began the call over the PA system. '. . . Star Attack the last to go in. They're all set now.'
People began taking up vantage points. '. . . Starter's ready.'
Nearly all the talk around the bar had ceased and the odds on the screen for High-school Loser blinked and plummeted to four dollars twenty. A light started flashing on the barrier. The stalls opened and a wall of horses appeared.1983

December
A large percentage of males have been in a fight at least once in their lives for various reasons and in differing circumstances. Some idiots can't do without having a stoush at least once or twice a week. Others don't go looking for trouble but if trouble finds them, they're happy about it. There are some who don't get in too many situations but if push comes to shove, they won't back down.
And then there are the type who see trouble a long way off and take steps to avoid it. If things get nasty they would rather talk their way out of it, maybe even swallow a bit of pride. These blokes will only face the music when all other avenues are exhausted. Surprisingly, these can sometimes be the worst people to come across because a lot of them know how to handle themselves and are smart enough to know they don't have to prove it.
But there are also blokes who won't fight because they can't fight. Luke Dumasis was one of these blokes and he was finding out what he already knew, courtesy of Adam Bartlo, in frontof a small crowd behind the Rosetta State High School science block.
To say that Dumasis was doing it tough would be a gross understatement. He was on the wrong end of a deadset flogging. His left eye was closed and blood was coursing down his face and neck from a dozen pimples that had burst after the first few punches he'd taken. All Adam Bartlo had to show for his troubles was a sore right fist. He ducked under another air swing from Dumasis and smashed that same fist into the swollen left eye again.
Bartlo was a tough, good-looking little Italian-Australian. He was little only in respect of height. With a barrel chest and thick shoulders and arms to match, at the age of sixteen, Adam was already a man. This was his third fight for the year and by far his easiest. When he finished up here, he was going to walk his girlfriend, Teresa Waterson, back to her place and screw her brains out before her mother came home from work. His fights had always been over her and one look at Teresa told you why. He watched Dumasis pick himself up off the ground and come after him again.
Adam's best mate, Travis Ovens, stood at the front of the ring of spectators and saw Bartlo get in close, throw two vicious body shots to the guts and another right hook into the eye. Travis was a big guy. A funny guy. A great guy to have around. As long as he got everything his own way. Dumasis went down again. Although an inch taller than Bartlo, Dumasis was still below average height for his age and still in the midst of the ugly duckling stage, with tomato-sauce-bottle shoulders and skinny arms.
Most schoolyard fights aren't fights at all. They usually consist of several shoves, a few salvos fired in anger and maybe a wrestle on the ground until both combatants' friends step in and break it up. A couple of 'fuck you's' are exchanged and it's all over in a few minutes. But this blue was nearing a quarter of an hour. Dumasis had no friends to step in for him. None of the mob watching had left yet because they'd never seen anyone cop this much of a belting. Some had already missed their buses home. It was the highlight of their year. Dumasis apparently hadn't had enough yet either, but no matter how many times he got up, it wouldn't change everyone's opinion that he was a deadshit.
All of those watching were part of Bartlo and Ovens' crowd, or wannabes. Dumasis had hovered on the outer edges of that circle trying to get accepted but he'd had no chance. He was one of those nonentities with good grades and bad acne. He was a cat; and a suck. He was doing his senior at boarding school next year and thought he was better than everyone else, and he was so far up the deputy headmaster's arse it wasn't funny. Valerie Thomas, one of the more experienced girls of grade eleven, who wasn't averse to giving the odd hand job during class, nicknamed him 'Pus-head' at the start of the year and the name had stuck. He'd even tried to hang around younger kids but they cottoned on early and flicked him as well.
Pus-head got up off the ground again.
The two swapped punches for a few long seconds. It was mostly one-way traffic. Dumasis felt his head being slammed three or four times. Then the bad sting as the right hand found the left eye once more and he fell to the ground for the seventh time. He couldn't get a fix on any object to give himself a perception of his bearings and consequently wasn't sure which direction was up. The ground seemed to be spinning, there was a loud ringing in his ears and the realisation that he was beaten was finally sinking in.
He fixed his tunnel vision on Bartlo and decided he'd had enough. 'C'mon, cunt. Get up.' Adam was breathing heavily, trying to recover his wind. His own left eye was watering and wouldn't stay open but what he'd said was just a front. He was sick of hitting the poor bastard and had there not been anyone else there he would've helped him up off the ground himself.
'Weak as piss.' He shoved Dumasis with his foot and walked away.
Travis Ovens followed at the head of the entourage. Their friendship was based on Travis's acceptance of Adam's superiority, despite Ovens being far bigger and heavier.
'Y'okay?'
Bartlo grunted an affirmative and grabbed Teresa's hand. He walked around to the front of the school. The rest of the throng followed and news of the result, which was never in doubt, swept through the rest of Rosetta High's student population within minutes.
Andrew Warren overheard snatches of animated descriptions by those who'd witnessed it to those who hadn't as he followed with the other hangers-on a couple of steps behind. Teresa met up with her girlfriends and touched Adam's face in a show of possession as much as sympathy. Her doll face was flushed from the excitement.
Andrew saw the look she gave Adam, one of promise of things to come. She'd conned Luke Dumasis with one of those same looks. Andrew had tried to warn him a week ago that it was a set-up but Dumasis was too dumb to listen. They had been friends up until about grade ten but Andrew had outgrown him. Luke just didn't fit in. The only reason Andrew still talked to him was because he liked his little sister.
Andrew spied the back view of Vanessa Dumasis now, walking along the street from the school gates: a long blonde ponytail and legs. She was fifteen and flat-chested but shit she
was beautiful. He might have gone as far as standing up for her brother this afternoon if she'd wanted someone to. But that wasn't the case, so he hadn't had to. Thank his lucky stars.
Vanessa turned suddenly and looked in Andrew's general direction. She caught him looking at her, then smiled and turned away. He wasn't sure but he reckoned she liked him. Life was good.

Dale Dumasis sat brooding in the front of his Holden ute, his mood becoming darker by the minute. Fifteen minutes ago he was all smiles. There were worse places to be than out the front of the high school. The young chickie-babes in their uniforms were more than enough to keep him occupied. He'd eyed Teresa Waterson off and she'd returned his smile as she walked across the street with her boyfriend in tow. The short skirt which swished in time with the pert little cheeks of her arse as she walked made Dale almost take a bite out of the steering wheel. What a bloke wouldn't do for a piece of that in a couple of years' time. Bugger the couple of years, he added as an afterthought.
She wasn't the only one who acknowledged him. Dale was a bit of a local identity, known by all, loved by almost all. There wasn't much in the way of entertainment in Rosetta. Blowing your pay on beer and Bundy rum and trying to pull a girl or a fight at either of the two pubs that stayed open after ten on a Friday night were the major pastimes. Dale excelled at both.
Standing just over six foot and a strapping fifteen stone, with a cocky self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, Dale Dumasis was the epitome of what almost every young man-child aspired to be when they turned nineteen. Especially Luke Dumasis. Cool car, hot girlfriend, plenty of mates and able to drink most of them under the table. In the small rural pond that was Rosetta - where if you didn't know someone, you knew someone who did - Dale Dumasis was a sizeable up-and-coming fish.
But he was becoming a very pissed-off fish as he waited at the front of the now almost deserted high school for his younger brother. 'What in flick's name is taking him so long?'
The other two occupants in the front of the ute knew better than to volunteer an answer. They listened to the rumblings and hoped the storm wouldn't break on them.
Vanessa Dumasis absently put the end of her blonde pony-tail in her mouth and sucked. Vanessa was a year younger than Luke but much higher on the social scale. And probably would have been higher still had she not been related to him - at least in her view. She knew how to turn that to her advantage, though, and enjoyed the sympathy her friends gave her whenever she lamented the fact out loud.
She hoped Dale would give it to Luke when he finally showed up but guessed there probably wouldn't be much left after Adam Bartlo had finished with him. Vanessa knew about the fight and had been busting to see it. She wanted Adam badly but if she was there it wouldn't do to be barracking against your brother, no matter how much of a dead loss he was. Vanessa had a notion that Adam was interested by the looks he gave her from time to time. She'd probably be going out with him now instead of that other bitch if Luke wasn't such a reject, and her mother such a prude, she reflected.
Samuel Dumasis, the youngest of the brood, counted his fingers and fretted. Like Dale, he was unaware of Luke's after-school encounter. He was also unaware of his brother's social standing or lack of. To Sam, Luke was just Luke.
He stole a glance at Dale staring malevolently through the windscreen and made sure he didn't make a sound, lest he take
the brunt of Dale's wrath. As families went, theirs was pretty normal, with the usual amount of bickering, teasing and fighting amongst the siblings. Luke and Sam had forged an alliance out of pure necessity. No one else had any time for them. Dale had no time for Luke on a good day and he could see no reason why today was especially good.
'Fuck this,' he growled. He turned the key and the V8 burbled, then rumbled as he gave the throttle a stab. He was just about to pull away when he caught sight of his brother walking around the corner of the school building. 'Hurry up, dickhead! Fuckin' move it!' Dale was incensed when Luke made no effort to comply. He decided to show a bit of leniency and let it be but marked it down in his mental notebook.
Luke crossed the street and threw his bag in the back, then climbed in after it. Dale wasn't paying him any attention and didn't notice his injuries. The other two stared straight ahead in silence.
The tyres squealed briefly as the HQ pulled away. They drove past houses and a couple of panel-beating shops before approaching the main street. Dale cursed as he halted at the stop sign to give way to three cars. Bloody peak-hour traffic. He cruised slowly by Rosetta's six pubs, two cafes, hair salon, supermarket, shopping arcade, newsagent and dozen other places of business. The sugar mill was situated a couple of blocks away. It backed onto the Rosetta River and dominated the skyline with its huge storage bins and three towering steel chimney stacks. A small council park buffered it from the business district.
When they reached the outskirts of town, Dale floored the accelerator pedal and the Holden responded in kind, eating up a straight stretch with little effort. Men At Work's 'Down Under', a song which had become the national anthem over the past few months since Australia II had won the America's Cup, was on the radio and belting out of the speakers.
Dale drove with nonchalant ease and the ute flicked through the corners like a grey metal shark. Sugarcane sandwiched the narrow bitumen strip and stretched monotonously towards the distant blue hills in the west and the not so distant coast in the east.
The Dumasis farm was less than ten minutes from town, five if Dale was driving. The speedo touched one hundred and fifty more than once before they pulled up sharply at the turn-off to their home. A gravel drive led up to the house about five hundred yards away. It was a five-bedroomed white weatherboard Queenslander on stilts. Most farmhouses in the community were above ground to contend with the wet season. Three gigantic mango trees stood near the old shed behind the house and another was in the front yard. They'd been planted by the children's grandfather nearly half a century ago when the shed was first built and their canopies blotted most of the house from view. The river was another hundred yards beyond the shed.
'Get out! I have to get back and give the old man a hand,' said Dale.
Luke was out and walking before the sentence was finished. He doubted whether the minute spent driving up to the house and back would have serious repercussions on the future of the family holdings but Dale liked to think he was indispensable.
Samuel ran until he'd caught up with Luke and saw the damage. Luke's mood seemed even darker than Dale's, and Sam, showing wisdom beyond his ten years, decided to keep his mouth shut and tried not to stare. Sam kept his ear to the ground and knew much more than people thought he did. He'd find out soon enough what happened. He spent the rest of the walk trying to maintain an air of sobriety which seemed the appropriate attitude for the situation and snuck the odd glance every five or six steps. Mum would have a fit.

The kettle was on the boil and Kate Dumasis was setting the remaining half of the sponge cake she'd baked two days ago on the kitchen table next to a plate of Sao biscuits topped with cheese and tomato. She was pleasantly dowdy in the way that country life agreed with some women. Her hair, blonde like her daughter's, was cropped short, accentuating the intelligent eyes, and she wore a simple faded cotton dress which hid the swollen blue veins behind her knees. No make-up concealed the lines in her cornflour complexion. Kate was forty-four.
At eighteen, the then Kate Nemeth was described by those who knew her as 'a breath of fresh air'. Around the same time, a cocksure and, she despised the fact, handsome young farmer's son began calling around the Nemeth household, in the hope that she would accompany him to one of the bush dances that were held around the district every second Saturday night. After two months of shyly declining his invitations, she finally agreed to go, but only if, and her father stressed the point, she was home by eleven that evening. Nodding emphatically in agreement with those terms and doing his best to portray nothing less than the best of intentions, the young Romeo took Kate out on her first unchaperoned evening.
She arrived home at two the next morning, courtesy of the local vet who had to deliver a foal two miles further down the road, her date lying in a drunken coma underneath the verandah of the Marbey Creek dance hall. Joe Nemeth swore blue murder and vowed that the 'good-time Charlie' would never set foot on his land again, let alone go near the youngest of his five daughters.He spent four years trying to redeem himself and pining for Kate whilst she enjoyed the company of a string of beaus, being engaged to one before calling it off at the last minute, before Kate decided to give him another chance. A year later, when they announced their engagement, Joe buried his head in his hands and said resignedly, 'At least he's a bloody Catholic.'
Kate smiled as she heard footsteps coming up the back stairs and saw the miniature version of the good-time Charlie come into the kitchen. He immediately began to tell her how wonderful it was to come home to such a beautiful woman, before wrapping himself around her waist and pecking her on the cheek.
As he sat down and tucked into the food, Sam congratulated himself on a job well done. Just as he was about to bestow the tide of unsung-hero-of-the-day upon himself, Vanessa walked in and grabbed the chance to be the first to inform her mother about Luke's misdemeanours. The details were pretty sketchy but she wasn't going to let the facts get in the way of her version of a good story.
Sam denied all charges against Luke and proceeded to discredit the witness. The fact that she wasn't even in the vicinity of the alleged fracas when it transpired had to be taken into account. Plus she had the hots for Luke's assailant.
'What would you know, Samuel?'
'Don't call me Samuel, cow.'
The baby of the family only permitted his parents to call him by his full name. To others, it was Sam, or there was trouble. Vanessa tried to choke the little rat but Samuel ducked behind his mother for cover.
Luke wearily climbed the stairs, the commotion inside plainly heard from the yard. He hadn't even set foot inside the house and already the shit had hit the fan. He was tempted to avoid the whole scene but his left eye needed tending to and he
didn't want to be brooding all afternoon on what potential trouble he might be in.
He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, silently observing the goings on. Kate noticed her daughter suddenly go quiet. Vanessa hadn't actually seen Luke before this moment. Kate turned around to see what had caught her attention.
For a brief half-second, she didn't recognise the person standing in the doorway looking down at the floor. Fresh blood was weeping from the burst sores and contusions on his face. His lips and nose were puffy and bleeding as well. But the eye was what scared her. The left side of his face was grossly swollen and already black. The only evidence to suggest the semblance of an eye was a tiny movement deep inside the slit which appeared when he attempted to meet her stare.
Luke and Vanessa were the only two who had inherited Kate's looks. However, unlike Vanessa, he was extremely sullen and terribly vague about whatever was going on around him, to the point of apathy. It got on Kate's goat at times and was a constant source of irritation in a family where the louder you talked the more chance you had of being heard.
Despite her attempts to reach him in the limited time available to a mother of five, Kate was still no closer to understanding why he seemed to be so dark on the world. The barriers he put up didn't help matters. She had decided it would be best if she gave him time to take them down himself.
'What happened?'
'Cricket ball.'
'Vanessa says you've been in a fight.'
'What would she know?'
And that was that. She knew he was lying and he knew she knew.
'You'll need something on that,' Kate said finally. 'Yeah. Thanks.' His speech was furry due to his bitten tongue. She hadn't made a fuss and he loved her for that.
Luke sat down at the table, the other two following suit, their quarrel forgotten. He was hungry but it was too painful to eat. He watched his mother take a steak out of the fridge and almost told her to get some ice instead but didn't have the energy. He felt like shit though at the same time better than he had in a long while.
The conversation around the table was stilted and awkward, with Luke taking no part in it at all as he sipped tentatively at a warm cup of tea. The steak provided some relief, surprisingly, more so because it was cold rather than anything else. He excused himself after ten minutes and went to his and Sam's room.
He stepped into the bathroom on the way and flicked on the single bulb that hung naked from the ceiling, giving off an eerie yellow glow. Luke looked in the cabinet mirror. The stop was initially just to check on his eye but he soon began staring at the blemishes that covered his face and wondered for the thousandth time, Why?
He went to his bed and lay down, his head still throbbing. He thought about what Bartlo and his girlfriend were probably doing at that very moment. He lashed out at the wall with the back of his fist. What'd they say? The best days of your life?

Frank Cavanagh watched the boy come out of the turn and into the last hundred metres. There were two very gifted young athletes in this town that Cavanagh was aware of and this kid wasn't one of them. As far as running technique was concerned he still had a lot of rough edges but his present form was a big improvement on what he'd been blessed with by nature.
When the deputy headmaster began these coaching sessions, there were thirty eager faces looking up at him. That was eighteen months ago. As their enthusiasm waned, the thirty slowly dwindled down to one, and Cavanagh never dreamed the last one standing would be the one who reminded him of a duck incapable of flight every time he came out of the blocks.
Although the boy showed some raw ability, Frank still thought he was wasting his time, though he didn't have the heart to tell him. For a while he'd hoped this last pupil would miss one afternoon, just one. Then he could wind up the whole thing through lack of interest. But each Monday and Wednesday around three-fifteen, Cavanagh would curse as he looked out the window of his office to see the boy warming up, even though it was another fifteen minutes before the session was due to begin.
He then tried to curb the boy's zeal by giving him difficult drills in the hope that he would be disheartened by failure, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. He started improving and slowly began to grasp the importance of sacrificing speed for style in the quest for more speed. It was then that Cavanagh thought he might be onto something.
He crossed the line and the deputy head clicked his stopwatch off. The boy walked back to where Frank stood, his breathing already back to normal. Cavanagh scratched his balding pate. 'How did that feel?'
'Not bad.'
'Were you going flat out?'
'Not really.'
Frank looked down at the stopwatch again and shook his head slowly. The blue eyes sparkled against the ruddy features and reflected a zest for life that belied his sixty-two years. He was onto something all right, no doubt about it.
'Did that eye trouble you at all?'
'A little bit.' Cavanagh studied the upper-left side of Luke's face. It was completely black. A dirty-clay yellow was appearing at the edges of the swelling.
'What's the other bloke look like?'
'Wouldn't know, Cav,' said Luke. 'I wagged school.'
'Hmmm,' mused Frank. 'Do a couple of run-throughs and we'll call it quits.'
He watched Luke trot over to the hundred and fifty metre mark and started him off by raising his hand and bringing it down.
Cavanagh had already seen first-hand how Adam Bartlo had ended up. He didn't look as bad as Dumasis but he sure didn't look pretty either.
'Keep those Moody elbows in!'
Luke nodded and went back to start the second run.
Frank knew, or at least half knew, what was going on. He often wondered why people, at that age especially, singled out one of their own and turned on them. The nature of the beast, he supposed. There wasn't much anyone could do about it. The boy seemed to be handling it pretty well anyway.
Cavanagh handed Luke his tracksuit top when he finished his second run and they walked across the grass lanes marked with sump oil. Luke still had to jog home so there was no point stretching down.
'Are you still going to boarding school next year?' 'Yeah.'
'You better come to school tomorrow then.' 'Why?'
'Well, if you don't, they're all going to say he kicked your arse and you didn't show your face again.'
They walked on in silence, both pondering that last statement. Frank changed the subject. 'If we put some good work in
over the holidays and you keep it up while you're at college, you'll give next year's state titles a real shake.'
'You think so?'
'I know so.'
Luke shrugged his shoulders.
'What's that supposed to mean?' asked Frank.
'I dunno, Cav. Not all that fussed about it.'
'Then why the bloody hell do you keep turning up here then?'
'Nothin' better to do.' He trotted off home.

Luke darted across Main Street and followed a lane until it ended in a T-junction. On the right, only a couple of hundred yards away, was the main highway. On his left, about twice that distance, was the Rosetta sugar mill.
Luke turned left and climbed a high chain-link fence when he reached the mill. The harvesting season was a week from finishing. He picked his way across the loco grounds, threading a path through the dirty yards, leaping train lines and dodging piles of rubble and scrap metal. A workman yelled something at him from a distance but Luke couldn't hear him over the constant roar of the mill, punctuated by blasts of steam and the shunting bins and trucks. He guessed it was something about trespassing. As if it made a difference.
He reached another fence, climbed it and then followed a culvert dug into the south bank of the river that passed behind the mill. His house was only two miles away if he followed the riverbed instead of the road. Running in the loose sand was good exercise, so long as he kept his head up and lifted his knees high.
Stands of young bamboo and scrub littered the riverbed, a testament to the fact that it hadn't been in flood for almostthree years. Luke passed a huge Leichhardt tree that stood alone on the bank. He'd almost tried to hang himself from it a fortnight ago but didn't have the guts in the end.
He did his high-stepping run for a hundred metres or so, walked for a minute to recover, then repeated the drill. He could We run the whole distance quite easily but he was wary of not turning it into an endurance exercise. This was for speed. About a mile away from home, he climbed the bank and jogged along the headland that ran parallel to the river. He could see the house from there, across a sea of green paddocks.
His comment to Cavanagh about having nothing better to do was half true. It was a fact that he'd be spending his time bored senseless if he wasn't training. He had no friends to hang out with and he was sick of being yelled at by his two older brothers about being a useless prick every time he went to help out on the farm. Even Big John, his father, reckoned he was mechanically dormant and told him so in no uncertain terms. There didn't seem to be any margin for error and Luke did not possess a personality that shrugged off criticism. So instead of sitting in front of the TV or pulling himself silly, an activity he was beginning to engage in far too often for his own liking, he did sprint training.
Athletics training was a loner's paradise. You didn't need anyone else and it gave you plenty of time to think. Or not think, if you felt that way inclined. As much as he liked it though, Luke wasn't focused on becoming a great sprinter. He had more on his mind than just the state titles.
He didn't go back to school the next day, the last for the year. He didn't care what they thought.
1984 January
Kate Dumasis went over her mental checklist as the Sunlander pulled in alongside the platform. It was a twenty-five-hour journey to Brisbane by train from Rosetta and she fretted over the myriad problems that might present themselves to her son during the trip. She told herself again that this was for the best. It was only a year. He'd be back for the Easter holidays anyway. Hopefully it would be the making of him.
'Remember to ask the conductor to tell you when you get to Northgate, dear. Aunty Beryl will be waiting for you.'
Luke looked down the almost deserted platform, a gusting breeze blowing the drizzling rain in under the roof adding to the dismal atmosphere. The only other travellers boarding the train were a couple of backpackers.
When his two older brothers had left for college it had been a family affair. His oldest brother, Joe, would let him carry one of his bags and Luke would struggle alongside him, stubbornly refusing any help, while Vanessa and Sam would battle for Dale's attention. He remembered the almost carnival atmosphere as the other families mingled on the platform waiting for the train in the early dawn, seeing their own children off. What struck him most was the way his father shook hands with Joe and Dale just before they got on.
The times being what they were, most farming families no longer sent their children away to college. Joe and Dale had gone when they were thirteen but both had left before graduating, by choice, to work on the farm. Only one other person, to Luke's knowledge, was attending boarding school from here and she'd left two days earlier.
John Dumasis and his three other sons had taken the opportunity of a strong northerly change to head out to Kingsley Beach and drag for prawns, in spite of the inclement weather, and Vanessa had smirked at the idea of getting out of a warm bed to see her loser brother off.
Big John had given Luke his farewell spiel the night before. The two-minute, one-way conversation was the most his father had spoken to him since the day Luke reversed a tractor into the side of the chookhouse.
He looked at his mother, knowing she sensed his disappointment, and felt ashamed for making her feel that her company wasn't adequate. She always seemed to be stuck with him, trying to fill that vacant space as best she could.
The two of them walked down to carriage number twelve and talked about anything that didn't have relevance to what was transpiring. This was how they communicated most of the time, these days. They reached the door and he put his bags on the step.
'All the best, darling.'
'Yeah. See you, Mum.'
A peck on the cheek and then he boarded the train. Luke checked his ticket and carried his bags down to the corresponding
compartment. He went inside and found he had it to himself. He opened the blind on the window and saw her standing on the platform, waving.
The train started moving and he waved back unenthusiastically. She looked so forlorn standing there by herself. He wanted his father to be there now, more for her sake than for his. He wished he was more of a man himself and could guard her from pain forever. Then she was gone. He watched his home town pass slowly by the windows, then he sat down and
cried.

Dexy's Midnight Runners broke the early morning silence and the figure lying under the sheet immediately shot out an arm and hit the snooze button. He rolled over on his side for another nine minutes of slumber.
'Danny!' Brad Daley poked his head through the curtained doorway and was astounded at the mess. They'd only been back two days. 'Are you coming or what?' Daley hissed. It was more an ultimatum than a question.
'Yeah, yeah. No worries.'
'Hurry up then.'
Danny Miller struggled to a half-lying, half-sitting position and blinked owlishly as he came to terms with the fact that the world had not yet ended and he would have to take up his yoke tor another twenty-four hours. With the arms race in overdrive, thanks to an ex-movie-star President and a bunch of communists with an average age of seventy-five, who didn't look as if they enjoyed living anyway, he was pretty certain that Armageddon wasn't on the doorstep, it was at least coming UP the driveway. Miller was a pessimist but he did his best to hide the fact.
Posters of Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Lee, Bon Scott, John F. Kennedy, Jim Morrison and several other no-longer-living legends stared back at him silently in the half-darkness of the pre-dawn. He focused his attention on a black and white picture of a laughing Marilyn Monroe on the wall next to him. At the foot of his bed sat a desk and chair. A built-in wardrobe, sink, window and twenty-eight square feet of floor space, no longer visible under a pile of textbooks, clothes and magazines made up the remainder of Room 38. It was one of over a hundred that housed the senior boarders of Banyo College.
All things being equal, Miller should not have been waking up in Room 38 this late January morning. His four other former school friends' parents had all been notified by mail of their sons' behaviour patterns and the suggestion that they find other educational institutions to round off their schooling careers was acted upon.
Miller had intercepted a similar letter to his own parents and decided to take action himself. He persuaded a window glazier working next door to ring the headmaster, under the pretence of being his father, and ask that his son be given another chance. The headmaster, Brother Kiernan, expressed grave doubts over whether the same leopard, who'd been in his office more times than any other person on campus, could change his spots so readily.
Miller told the glazier to tell Kiernan that after a stern heart-to-heart he was certain the boy would be far more cooperative in his final year. After another twenty minutes of persistent imploring, via his newfound father, he finally convinced Kiernan to relent. It was made quite clear, however, that the slightest infraction of any college rule by young Daniel, regardless of the circumstances, would mean instant expulsion. Bill, the glazier, passed this warning on to 'his son', who, after some thought, agreed to these terms. He instructed 'his father' to tell Kiernan that he was delighted to see the college was being run by someone with such an open mind and that he hoped to visit Kiernan some time in the near future to thank him personally. Upon hanging up the phone, Bill was offered a beer from the bar fridge and, seeing as his mother wasn't home, young Daniel decided to have one as well.
Miller now contemplated whether another two hours' sleep would be more beneficial to him than trekking into the scrub at the back of the college to water the marijuana plants he and Daley had planted in mid-November. Miller was not a morning person by any standard but he'd read the tale of the little red hen more than once and decided it was best to get up and help Daley, lest Daley smoke all of it himself when their labour came to fruition.
He rubbed his eyes, scratched his head and then himself as he rose from his bunk and began looking about the floor for something to wear.
Daley was waiting for him at the main entrance to the senior residence. Like Miller, he was dressed in a T-shirt, shorts and running shoes to give the impression he was going for a morning jog. 'Where's the watering can?' he asked as Danny approached.
'I left it under the grandstand.'
'What? Geez you're an idiot.'
'Yeah. I know. Sorry.'
'You're always sorry. Sorry doesn't count.' Daley began walking in the direction of the Benn Oval grandstand, the opposite way he'd been intending to go. He'd given Danny explicit instructions to hide the watering can down on the Flats, a wide expanse of level ground that consisted of ten minimally maintained rugby fields. They could've retrieved the can and filled it on their way, as the Flats lay next to the scrub separated only by a barbed-wire fence which kept the fifty head of cattle the college owned from straying onto the playing fields. Benn Oval was more than a bit out of the way. Miller's incompetence was pretty much normal behaviour. Daley wondered why he bothered sometimes.
The two walked up the concrete steps towards the junior part of the college. Unlike the senior section of the campus, an uninspiring construction of concrete, glass and brick of the seventies, the junior classrooms and dorms were far more picturesque. Built around the turn of the century, the creamy-white facade of the three-storey Renaissance-style buildings stood out amongst the immaculate lawns, gardens and ovals, and imbued almost everyone with a sense of old-world charm and permanence. The stained-glass windows and intricately patterned columns and archways were reminiscent of a time when aesthetics and workmanship outweighed the importance of balance sheets.
The original part of the college was on higher ground and dominated the modern extensions. Daley thought this was how it should be. Although he'd never disclose it to anyone, he entertained a sizeable amount of school pride. Now a prefect, the present Brad Daley was a far cry from the scrawny, homesick twelve-year-old who had wet his bed twice in his first week here.
Tall and lean, with short back and sides dirty blond hair and a perfectly symmetrical face, complemented by a pair of bedroom eyes, Daley looked like a walking advertisement for the finished product of private-school tutorialship. His main gift was that he knew how to play the game. Daley bent the rules but was careful no one had their noses put out of joint by his actions. If he took a risk, he made sure there was an escape route should things get too hot and, consequently, he never committed the cardinal sin of getting caught. He toed the line
with regards to neatness, promptness and application to his studies and was seen by the powers that be as a shining example of a young Christian gentleman.
His accomplice was not blessed with such an attitude. The same line that Brad Daley toed was merely the starting line for Danny Miller. Miller rarely planned anything, most of his actions being very spontaneous and, unlike most good generals, he retreated only when disaster was staring him in the face, which was usually too late. He only came up to Daley's shoulder and the face underneath the thick mop of dark hair looked as if it belonged to someone five years younger. Miller had two main expressions, one of total confusion and one of complete innocence. The latter was usually displayed whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn't and was probably the only reason he hadn't been kicked out years ago. The look on his face now seemed to be a mixture of the two. He was also extremely lazy and rarely produced more than the barest of minimum effort in any areas outside of sport or unwarranted activity. Twelve months ago, he'd emptied a dozen cartons of Condy's crystals into the new pool the night before the school swimming carnival. When the swimming master was greeted by a fifty-metre expanse of purple water the next morning, a witch-hunt was orchestrated to find the perpetrators. Miller's defence for not owning up was that he shouldn't take the brunt for something that would give everyone a laugh in five years' time - if they hadn't perished in a nuclear holocaust by then. The swimming carnival went ahead anyway and there wasn't any harm done, save for the entire student body having purple skin for a couple of days.
Daley and Miller made their way past the laundry and crossed the main quadrangle. They went through an archway and came out onto a scenic promenade that ran alongside Benn Oval and the two of them paused to observe the setting created by the grand old buildings that stood like white fortresses overlooking the field. The promenade was dotted with palm trees that had been planted at the end of the Second World War. A timber grandstand punctuated a line of beech trees on the opposite side of the field, its blue and white paintwork contrasting strongly with the foliage and the lush green playing surface. The picket fence that served as the boundary during cricket season glistened white and wet as the dew settled upon it.
Banyo College was a Catholic school but the main religion was rugby union. If there was one thing that any Banyo student wished to achieve, apart from nailing Loni Sanders, the art teacher, it was to play in the first fifteen on this ground, in front of that grandstand. Daley had more than an even chance of fulfilling this dream. Miller was a rank outsider. They would soon have to forgo this morning ritual to attend preseason training with over a hundred other hopefuls down on the athletics oval five days a week.
They were tempted to walk across the oval but decided instead to stroll around the circumference out of superstitious respect. Daley retrieved the watering can from underneath the seating and the two made a beeline for the big slope that led down to the Flats. As they walked across the secondary field, Stuart Oval, Miller noticed a figure at the far end warming up for some sort of training. 'Who's that?'
'Dunno,' replied Daley. 'Must be new.' 'Bloody keen, isn't he?' observed Miller. Daley didn't comment. They walked down to the Flats, filled the can from a tap near the bottom of the slope, then strolled across the row of fields to the barbed-wire fence. After climbing it, they hiked through knee-high wet grass before turning into a shallow
gully. They followed this for almost ten minutes, then came to a small clearing dominated by a large eucalyptus tree.
At the base of the tree stood a forty-four-gallon drum. This was Miller's brainchild and was the sole reason the plants were still alive. The need for daily watering during the summer holidays when they wouldn't be there prompted Danny to devise a slow-drip irrigation system. It consisted of two lengths of garden hose inserted into two holes that had been punched into the base of the drum. The holes were then sealed with solastic and the drum was painstakingly filled with water, using two five-gallon buckets carried down from the Flats. The other ends of the hose were stoppered with muslin, allowing the water to seep out slowly. Only two of the plants were given the luxury of irrigation, though, as the water supply was limited. The rest were left to the mercy of the elements.
Upon returning to school two days ago, Miller and Daly had discovered a sorrowful collection of brown, withered specimens except for the two taken under special care which were very much alive and well. Both plants were almost three feet high and beginning to head. Daley was amazed. It was more than a little perplexing dealing with someone who was quite ingenious whenever he felt the urge to be so, yet so infuriatingly hopeless the other ninety percent of the time.
The first thing they did once they reached the clearing was to go straight for the insect repellent sitting on top of the drum. Their backs were black with mosquitoes and they both slapped themselves around the head, chest and legs before the Aerogard did its work. Even so, it wasn't sufficient to completely phase the insects and they constantly flicked their ears as the parasites whined and buzzed around them.
After about half an hour of tending and watering, Daley was satisfied their toil was complete. Miller was ready to leave twenty minutes ago but refused to grumble and did his best to make it look like he was contributing to the work effort.
Now that they were back at school, Brad wanted to cease the drum's services. It was empty anyway and only made the risk of detection that much greater. Miller suggested they toss it into the mangroves that lay alongside the saltwater creek nearby. Daley seconded the motion and they agreed to do it the following morning.
They walked back the way they'd come, up the slope to Stuart Oval. The new kid was sprinting the length of the field, starting from the cricket nets at the far end.
Daley checked his watch. Whoever it was had been going at it for the best part of an hour. 'He's keen all right, Danny.'
'He's no slouch either,' added Miller.
The two of them walked back to the senior residence and hung the watering can in the branches of a mango tree nearby. They both showered and changed, then headed off for breakfast.
As they walked back to the junior college, where the dining hall was located, the new kid approached from the opposite direction. No one made an attempt at a greeting but Miller turned and watched him as he walked past.
'What time is it?'
'Twenty past seven,' answered Daley.
'He's definitely no slouch.'
'And definitely looks like a pizza.'
'Ha!'

Luke showered, then went to his room and lay down for ten minutes. Tomorrow would be his last day of hard training. He'd taper off after that and within two weeks he'd only be running for an hour every second day. Frank had written out a schedule for him which outlined his routine until Easter.
So far his experience of boarding school had been uneventful, and that translated to good in Luke's book. He was in no particular hurry to make new friends. The seniors had their own designated area in the dining hall and Luke would wait until just before the doors closed before going to breakfast or dinner, so that he would miss the crowds and have a table to himself. He did his best not to meet anyone's eyes, spoke briefly only when spoken to and never volunteered an answer in class. He enjoyed being anonymous. Being alone amongst strangers was far better than being alone amongst those you knew.
His books were neatly piled on his desk ready for class. The room was tidy and his homework was complete. The seniors had to perform three hours of compulsory study each week-night. He'd deliberately miscalculated some of the more difficult problems in his maths and chemistry assignments so as not to bring attention to himself should he be one of only a few to solve them correctly.
He changed into his uniform, checked his face in the mirror, didn't like what he saw, then headed off for breakfast.
February
The chapel was filled to capacity and stifling hot in the late-summer evening as the Senior Induction Service took place. The school captain, vice-captains and prefects were about to take their oath in front of some eleven hundred students and parents. Danny Miller was bored shitless. He'd considered hiding in his room and then going down to the common room after everyone had gone, to watch the one-day cricket final being telecast from Sydney. But Brother Kiernan would be searching for his face in the congregation so he went against his own principles and decided to go with the flow, at least for now. He found it hard to take all the reverence and formalities seriously though. When the school captain began his speech by relating the pride he felt at being a student of Banyo College, Miller turned off straight away. This joint was no better than anywhere else. Why did they carry on with such bullshit?
Sebastian Capilano pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. This was his second Senior Induction. He was repeating grade twelve and fervently hoped this year would not be as traumatic as the last with regards to him being singled out as the resident faggot. Capilano wasn't gay but his long eyelashes made him look effeminate, and at Banyo, just having a taste for Duran Duran was enough to convince most people you were a closet homosexual.
It was a popular weekly pastime amongst Capilano's former classmates to dangle him over a two-storey ledge, tied up in a bed sheet. Sometimes three of four of them would burst into his room, hold him down and ram a carrot up his anus. But the signs were already out that he'd be getting more of the same. He felt his right ear being flicked again by the middle finger of the person seated behind him and he didn't need to turn around to know it belonged to Shane Gordon.
Gordon was doing his best to follow the example his older brother had set the year before, poofter harassment being a major part of it.
He flicked the ear again and grinned as Capilano's glasses fell forward once more. Though Capilano seemed to be ignoring
him, Gordon could tell he was distressed. The two seniors seated either side of Shane Gordon pretended not to notice. Capilano was a harmless little guy but it wasn't like Shane was really hurting him. And getting on Gordon's bad side was just asking for trouble.
Brother Robert Kiernan sat at the back of the congregation feeling tired and drawn. The symptoms of Ross River fever were beginning to take hold and Kiernan guessed this would probably be the last function he'd be presiding over as headmaster for quite a while. He looked across the aisle at his successor, Brother David Logan. Kiernan had selected Logan for the job himself. It was a surprising choice to say the least. Logan was just thirty-eight years of age and had taken his vows only three years ago. His appointment had raised more than a few eyebrows but Kiernan reckoned he could've done much worse.
He listened as the school choir broke into song at the end of the school captain's prayer for the year ahead and hoped Brother Collins wouldn't drag out the hymn too long. Australia was chasing two hundred and thirty-six against the West Indies and Kiernan was hoping to catch the last of it.

Brad Daley walked around the clearing in utter disbelief, oblivious to the mosquitoes. Miller stood at the base of the gum tree, frantically trying to squeeze the last drop of repellent from the can. 'Bugger this.' He soon realised the effort was futile and threw it away in disgust. Miller began slapping himself for all he was worth. 'Geez these things give me the shits,' he wailed. 'Fuck off, you bastards.'
Daley didn't seem to hear him. He continued walking slowly around the clearing. The plants had been stripped clean, the main stems remained, standing bare in the ground. Daley continued to look for clues to the identity of the thieves or other remnants of the plants. He found none. The realisation that all their work had been for nothing began to sink in and Brad started to curse violently. Miller, who had quite an extensive four-letter-word vocabulary himself, was wholly impressed. Even the Pope got a mention. He waited for Daley to pause for breath.
'Does this mean we get to sleep in tomorrow?'
'Shut up.'
'Sorry.'
They trudged back to the college, abandoning the watering can along the way. Daley's mood was not good. Miller was upset as well but he'd never smoked dope before and thus didn't comprehend the loss. The whole thing had just been something to do, basically, but he was still calculating the prospect of revenge should they discover the thief.
'Who do you think it was?' he asked Daley.
'I dunno. But they've been watching us for a while.'
'You reckon?'
'Yeah. It's just too much of a coincidence them finding the patch yesterday when the heads were so full. They probably saw the drum weeks ago.'
'Bastards!'
'Yes,' agreed Daley. 'Look! Don't act upset or anything when we get back. If we fly off the handle we'll never find them. And if word gets around that someone's got pot in the joint, there's no point having anything to do with it. There's that many big mouths in the place. It's gone now. That's it.'
'Right,' said Miller.
They climbed the slope to Stuart Oval. The new kid was doing fifty-metre bursts. He was pretty quiet; no one knew much about him. Miller gave him a bit of a wave when he
slowed down. It seemed the thing to do. He waved back, turned around and jogged back to his starting position.
'He's okay,' stated Miller.
'We should've picked them yesterday,' replied Daley.
'Brother Logan will see you now,' said the receptionist.
'Thank you.' Shae Louise rose from her chair, then hesitated.
'Down the corridor, turn right, then it's the first door on your left, dear,' smiled the older woman. Shae thanked her, then followed her instructions. She told herself there was no need to be nervous, they'd already given her the job, but it didn't help.
Since graduating from teachers' college two years ago, she'd been turned down for work on over a dozen occasions, this school being one of them. During that period, she'd marked time as a checkout operator in Woolworths but the prospect of lingering on there for another year was not a comforting thought. She recalled the little chat the assistant manager had given her after cornering her in his office last month, outlining how she could be promoted to supervisor, if she played her cards right.
The last card she had in her hand was resubmitting her application here when she learnt of a teacher leaving for a working holiday in Europe. She'd only just managed to voice a thank you to the headmaster after he'd rung to say she'd been accepted for the position. The dam burst after she put the phone down and her mother came into the living room thinking she'd been passed over again.
David Logan sat behind the desk bearing his name. He was due in the city for a meeting in less than an hour. Later that afternoon he had to confer with the maintenance staff about the problem boiler in the school laundry and he was still not up to scratch with the academic department's proposals concerning the new computer maths curriculum. He preferred to leave his office door open and she caught him off-guard for half a second.
'Hello?'
'Good morning.' He stood and offered her his right hand.
'It's Shae, isn't it?'
'Yes, Brother,' she replied, taking the hand briefly.
'Please, David will be fine, when students aren't present.'
He offered her a seat, then took his own. She sat and crossed her bare legs underneath her skirt. She wasn't ugly. The almond eyes creased slightly at the corners in time with her genuine smile and her teeth flashed white against flawless skin. Her shoulder-length light-brown hair was swept back off her face and he could detect no make-up, except for lipstick.
'I'm sorry I won't be able to spend much time here with you this morning, Shae.' He emphasised the apology with a palms-up gesture. 'But I hope you don't have too much trouble getting into the swing of things.' He turned his hands and placed them flat on the desk.
'Thank you. I hope so too,' she replied. He wasn't what she expected. He seemed bohemian, despite the white collar. Hooded eyes and jet-black hair.
'It might be a good idea to take a look around the college today if you're not familiar with the place. It'll save you some anguish tomorrow. You'll have enough on your plate by then,' he suggested. 'I could arrange a prefect to help you.'
'Thank you.' She did her best not to smile too much and told herself to go easy on the thank yous. He asked her about herself and let her carry the conversation. The ten minutes passed quickly.
He escorted her back to the reception desk and introduced her to the secretary, Marge Hansen. He asked Marge to organise a prefect to show Shae around. He apologised once again for not staying longer and she watched him as he strolled out of the building to his car. She was glad the dozen previous schools had all turned her down.

Brad Daley sat at a table in a corner of the senior section of the dining hall. It was Wednesday night, stew night. A grey, lumpy slop stared up at him from his plate. He picked at it for half a minute, then gave it up as a bad joke. Like most boarders, Daley was perpetually hungry, but not that hungry. He spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred.
'I know who did it,' he said quietly to the only other occupant at his table.
'Fair dinkum? Who?' asked Miller.
'Keep your voice down. Gordon.'
'What? Bloody Shane Gordon?'
'Shhh,' hissed Daley. 'Yeah. Shane Gordon.'
'That'd be right. The low prick. What are you gunna do?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'Shit, Danny. You want everyone to hear? No. Nothing. Not yet anyway.'
'Why not?' pressed Miller.
'Ohhh right, what am I supposed to do? Excuse me, Gordo, but would you mind giving us our grass back? How far's that gunna get us?'
'Fair enough. But aren't you gunna belt him?'
'Turn it up.'
'Why not? You're as big as him . . . nearly.'
'What's that gunna achieve?' argued Daley.
'It'll make me feel a lot better for starters.''I don't give a stuff how you feel. Let's just forget about it.'
'I'll sort the bastard out,' announced Miller.
'Sure you will.'
'Don't worry. I mean it.'
'How're you gunna do it?'
'I dunno yet. Something'll come to me.'
'And pigs will fly,' grunted Daley. 'You can't fight.'
'Hey! Just because you're gutless doesn't mean I am. You were the one who threw a fit the other morning. I can't believe you're gunna just let him get away with it.'
'Well, there's not a lot else I can do, is there.'
'There's plenty you can do, Brad. You just don't want to
do it.'
'Well, that's where you and I are different.'
Miller decided not to press the issue any further but he was very annoyed at his friend's easy acceptance of all that had happened. He saw this as another example of Daley not putting his arse on the line when it was needed. There were plenty of others here just like him. They were all sheep. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir. As for Shane Gordon, if ever a turd was sitting in a penthouse, it was him. And Miller wouldn't be getting any sleep until he put him back in the shithouse where he belonged.
March
Andrew Warren was celebrating his seventeenth birthday. The downstairs patio and adjoining playroom were filled with teenagers of both sexes, standing around in groups. Clouds of moths and beetles orbited the ceiling lights and cane toads pounced on the dazed insects that had crash-landed after colliding into the long fluorescent bulbs. Every now and then someone would display his manliness by kicking one of the toads conversion-style back into the darkness of the front yard. This would be accompanied by raucous cheering from his friends in a manner associated with all young males amongst a crowd of their own kind.
Andrew's mother was doing her best to ensure his guests were enjoying themselves. She smiled dutifully, returning some of the kids' greetings, although most of them ignored her, and tried to suppress the headache she felt coming on. Kim Wilde at full volume didn't help her condition and the record needle jumped and scratched at regular intervals as a couple of girls danced near the stereo to 'Kids in America'.
Vanessa Dumasis glanced over and caught Adam Bartlo's eye for the second time. She noticed the way he had his back to his girlfriend and how Teresa's attempts to hold his attention for any length of time were becoming futile. Vanessa half listened to Jodie Pringle and Linda Walsh sniping about the other girls, who, with Teresa, were standing just apart from Adam's group of friends. Arctic glances were exchanged between the two sets of females. Vanessa pulled at the hem of her miniskirt and snuck another glance at Adam. He was still looking at her.
Teresa Waterson's mind was elsewhere while she listened to Denise Evans elaborate on how Linda Walsh and Vanessa Dumasis looked like a pair of skinny little tarts completely out of their depth and how they shouldn't have even been invited. Teresa and Adam had had sex that afternoon. He'd got dressed and left soon afterwards. The last time he'd taken her for granted like this she'd reacted by giving someone else thecome-on. Adam had beaten the shit out of him and become far more attentive. She'd tried the same strategy a week ago but he hadn't become jealous this time. He seemed to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude now and it frightened her.
As the party wore on, Andrew Warren conversed with Vanessa at length about school, the curse of younger brothers and how good her hair looked. And it looked great. Long and wild and swishing around her. She was long blonde hair personified. He resorted to asking how Luke was when the conversation started bogging down.
'I couldn't care less,' Vanessa laughed, relieved that an opportunity to extricate herself had finally arrived. She didn't want to be rude to Andrew. It was his party after all and he'd invited her especially but she didn't want everyone, least of all Adam, thinking Andrew had exclusive rights to her company. She stuck by Jodie's side for a while and made certain no one monopolised her time like that again.
Linda watched as Vanessa moved away from Andrew and was glad that her friend had no interest in him. She'd approach him later on, perhaps when a good song was being played. Travis Ovens was also comforted by the sight of Vanessa moving away from Andrew. They seemed to be enjoying each other's company quite a bit at one stage.
Travis cast his eye over Vanessa once more. He'd heard she wasn't as innocent as she made out to be. He wished his girlfriend, Denise, wasn't here but there wasn't much chance of that, she being best friends with Teresa.
Ryan Oakley half emptied six Coke cans, then refilled them with Johnnie Walker and handed them out amongst the group, making sure Adam was given his first. Ryan and his cousin had consumed half a bottle of Captain Morgan between themselves earlier that evening. They were now trying to backdoor Wayne O'Brien. His girlfriend, Samantha Ferris, was as drunk as they were.
Wayne was talking to Teresa, trying to allay her fears regarding Adam's indifference. Samantha was also worried about Teresa. She followed Adam out to the backyard and told him what a beautiful couple he and Teresa were and how awful it would be if they broke up, all the while rubbing herself against his upper arm and tracing a finger up and down his inner thigh.
Wayne was relieved when he saw Samantha return on her own after a few minutes. She came over to his side, brushing Ryan Oakley out of her way in the process. Vanessa also noticed her return. Her chance came when Jodie and Linda went to the toilet to discuss a serious matter. She declined Jodie's invitation to join them, and that suited Linda down to the ground. Vanessa slipped out to the front yard and meandered there for a while. She noticed Billy Nugent's friends passing round a bottle with a couple of girls near the front gate. There was a half-moon out and she walked hesitantly around the side of the house. The fear of bumping into anyone besides Adam made her jumpy but she relished the experience all the same.
A silhouette appeared in front of her and she pretended not to notice.
'Is that you?'
Hopeful as she was, Vanessa still wasn't certain that she was the 'you' Adam was waiting for. 'Who's that?' she asked, trying to sound startled.
The. Is that you, Vanessa?'
'Yeah. What are you doing here?'
Nothing. It was just a bit boring inside.'
Yeah. That's why I came out too.' Over the next twentyminutes, the cliches like 'I don't want to be used', 'What will your friends say?' and 'You're so different from anyone else' were parried and the appropriate replies delivered. They tongue kissed and groped until she called a halt.
When they rejoined the party holding hands the dominoes fell. Teresa asked Adam what was going on. He shrugged his shoulders. She headed for the toilets, followed by Denise Evans, who later had to be restrained from scratching Vanessa's eyes out. Samantha Ferris told Teresa she was better off without the shithead, while her boyfriend Wayne gave Teresa a shoulder to cry on and got an erection as her breasts rubbed against him. Andrew Warren tried to take it with a grain of salt. In the back of his mind he'd always thought something like this would happen.
This was the best night of Vanessa's short life. She was glad she'd taken her star sign advice in Dolly magazine to heart and couldn't wait to get to school on Monday.
Adam Bartlo felt sorry for Teresa but the prospect of getting into Vanessa's pants over the next few weeks overrode it. The only other people enjoying themselves were Billy Nugent and his mates. They were lining up to take turns with Valerie Thomas in a corner of the yard, not far from where Ryan Oakley and his cousin lay comatose, next to their own vomit.
*
Luke walked to his room and dumped his books on his desk. He drew his curtain shut and lay on the bed waiting for the residence to empty out. It was his turn on the roster to empty the litter bins. He waited and listened as the others changed out of their uniforms and took off outside to squander the rest of the afternoon.
After about twenty minutes it was quiet. He left his room and emptied the bins on the first floor. The residence was a two-storey L-shaped building. He went upstairs and turned right. The corridor was deserted except for two people having a discussion up ahead of him. He knew both their names but wasn't on greeting terms with either of them. He got the feeling all was not well between them. The smaller of the two seemed distressed. Dumasis kept his eyes averted and gave them a wide berth as he passed. 'I never touched your plants.'
''Bullshit, Gordon. You're a fuckin' thief.'
The sound of a scuffle started and then Dumasis heard a dull thud.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he turned briefly and saw the smaller one being held against the wall, his feet just touching the floor. The big guy had his left forearm planted firmly under his chin and he was twisting an ear with his free hand.
Dumasis hesitated for a second and went out the door. He checked the bin. It was already empty. He descended the stairs and kept walking. After a few seconds he stopped, cursed and then ran back up to the second floor. He found the pair as he'd left them. Neither of the two noticed him approach and he startled them when he spoke.
'Why don't you leave him alone?'
Shane Gordon spun round in alarm but soon recovered when he saw the size of Dumasis.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'No one. Just leave him alone.' Dumasis tried to sound calm but he didn't think he was doing too good a job.
'Why? Is he your little bum buddy?' asked Gordon.
'Whatever you reckon, mate. Just let him go.'
Gordon released the kid from the wall but held him by the shirt front and leaned up against the wall with his left shoulder. There was a stand-off for several seconds and Shane realised he was in control of the situation once more.'Do you know who I am?' 'No,' lied Dumasis.
'I'm your worst nightmare,' answered Gordon, looking straight at him.
'How many times did you practise that line in the mirror, wanker?' said the short kid. Dumasis looked at him. The stupid little bastard obviously had a death wish. Gordon punched him once, Luke intervened and Shane released his grip and took a step towards Dumasis. Dumasis held Gordon's stare but before either of them could throw a punch, a swinging right arm came out from behind Gordon and king hit the big guy just forward of his right ear. It smashed into the skull with a wet crunch and slammed his head into the wall. The whites of Gordon's eyes fluttered briefly and then the lights went out. He slumped to the floor in a heap.
The assailant stood above him, his right hand still clutching the cue ball that had done the damage. He kicked Gordon in the guts twice, adjusted his glasses and looked at the result of his handiwork, the aftershock going through him like a jolt of electricity. He was amazed. This was too easy. He'd expected the other two would have to pitch in after his little surprise.
'Geez, ya took ya fuckin' time,' complained Miller. 'I thought you were never gunna belt him.'
'Get fucked, Danny,' said Capilano. 'You said you were gunna start a fight.'
'I did.'
'Ohh, yeah. Some fight. He woulda seen me comin' a fuckin' mile away.'
There was a period of uncomfortable silence, as the three of them contemplated their next move.
'I'm Luke Dumasis,' said Dumasis, extending his right hand.
'Yeah, I know. I'm Sebastian,' said Capilano, shaking it. 'Thanks for that.'
'Yeah,' said Miller, looking to Capilano for confirmation. Capilano nodded in agreement towards Miller, then Dumasis and they exchanged getting-to-know-you pleasantries for another two minutes over the unconscious figure lying in a crumpled mess on the floor.
Sebastian suggested they leave him where he was and lay Garry Marshal's skateboard, whose room was only two curtains away, upside-down somewhere nearby. Gordon was discovered by two other seniors returning from cricket practice a short time later. His skull was fractured and an ambulance summoned. Shane spent the next twenty-four hours in intensive care and another two weeks in hospital. He had a few visitors during his stay but couldn't recall any of the incident.
A meeting of all senior boarders was convened in the common room the night of the accident and they were told that skateboarding on campus was henceforth banned. Danny Miller voiced his strong disapproval, asking why everyone had to be punished because of the stupidity of one individual who seemed to be getting his just desserts after taking someone else's property without permission anyway. He was ignored by both Brother Collins and Brother Logan, who weren't in the mood for any arguments.
Shane Gordon hadn't had the slightest notion that two cannabis plants had been growing on school property, let alone taken advantage of the fact and harvested them, but that was no longer an issue.

The morning bell rang and Shae Louise hugged her books to her chest as she waited outside the door. Despite having been here for over a month, she was still nervous, albeit much less nervous than her first week. She wore a white, short-sleeved stretch top which clung to her upper body, the wide neckline revealing a trace of cleavage, but in this heat nothing else she had was appropriate. The black leather belt around her pants matched her hair band and flat-soled shoes. She wanted to appear conservative yet approachable.
As she walked into the classroom, thirty jaws dropped. The art teacher, Loni Sanders, had fallen to number two in the ratings four weeks ago.
'Good morning,' she said coolly.
'Good morning, Miss Louiiise,' they sang back.
Have a look at you, thought Miller, seated one row from the front of the class. How she could come in here looking like that and expect him to learn anything had him buggered. He half listened as she began the lesson and opened his book to page ninety-three like the rest of the class. Miller had read To Kill a Mockingbird twice already, the first time when he was ten. He didn't mind it but he preferred The Great Gatsby when it came to American classics. It appealed to his romantic streak.
Someone was reading aloud from the back of the class. Miller stared vacantly ahead, occasionally giving himself the pleasure of looking at his English teacher. He soon became bored and began counting the number of semitrailers going past the college by the sound of their exhaust brakes. He often wondered what it would be like to be a truckie. The concept appealed to him far more than being a solicitor like his father and older brother. Miller then began wondering, not for the first time, why he'd been stuck with such a crook name, whilst his older sibling, a deadset big girl's blouse in Danny's eyes, was endowed with the title of Steve Miller. He began singing 'Take the Money and Run' to himself and was up to the part where Bobby-Sue split and got away and Billy Joe caught up with her the very next day, when he realised he was being asked a question. He looked up and saw her leaning over with her hands on the vacant desk in front of him. She didn't look happy.
'Excuse me,' Shae asked the boy in front of her. She still couldn't put a name to the face. 'Why aren't you writing anything down?'
Miller had obviously missed something. He couldn't see why it warranted such a scowl from her though. Bugger it. She'd been here long enough. It was time to start breaking her in.
'Sorry, Miss. I was too busy undressing you with my eyes to do anything else.'
The room grew tense. If one of the toughs at the back had said it there would've been peals of laughter. Shae straightened up. She didn't look beautiful when she was angry.
'What did you say?'
The answer of 'Nothing, Miss' came into Miller's head but he then resolved, in for a penny in for a pound.
'Well, Miss Louise,' he began, 'you're an attractive woman and I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't wondering what you looked like underneath those clothes.' He gave her his best smile. She didn't return it.
'No disrespect or anything,' he said, trying to dig himself out of the hole. 'I'm sure the rest of the class all feel the same way.' Miller looked around the room for the solidarity that he thought would be forthcoming. It wasn't. Gutless bastards.
'You blokes are kidding,' said Miller, standing up. 'You mean to tell me that I'm the only person in this room who finds this woman physically attractive?' The silence was uncomfortably long. Miller realised he was doing a David Bowie, putting out the fire with gasoline.
A chair rasped in the far corner of the room as someone rose from their desk.'Yes?' asked Shae, hoping this would diffuse the situation.
'Miss Louise,' said Dumasis slowly, though it pained him to do so, 'I've gotta be honest. I was thinking along those lines too.'
The two of them stood alone. The others shifted in their seats. Miller knew what they were thinking and decided to throw it back on them before she decided what to do with him.
'Well, sweetheart, it looks like two red-blooded males and a bunch of gay apple polishers make up this class. You'll be safe here.'
'Well, would you two red-blooded males leave the room so that the rest of the - ... class can continue their work,' ordered Shae, trying to sound annoyed. 'I'll speak to you after the period.'
They left and sat on the grass watching the traffic roll down Sandgate Road. 'Bloody hell,' said Dumasis. 'The most beautiful thing I've ever seen and she hates my guts now.'
'Hate and love are so close together you couldn't split a match,' replied Miller. 'Anyway, at least she'll remember us.'
They spent the rest of the period talking about more important matters, such as St George's chances in the Sydney Rugby League. David Logan walked from the library to the senior classroom block. He was taking a class for a religious lesson next period. It was one of the few occasions he had any contact with the students these days. He noticed the pair lying on the grass.
'You two!' he shouted from the parapet above them. 'What are you doing?'
'Shit,' said Miller under his breath. Turning to Logan, he assumed the expression that was his trademark escape clause as they walked over towards him. 'Yes, Brother?' he asked innocently.
'I said, "What are you two doing there?"' Logan repeated, looking straight down at them now.
'There? You mean what are we doing here?' Miller had decided to use the baffle-them-with-bullshit strategy.
'Shut up, Miller.' Logan was having none of it. 'You! Would you mind telling me why you are not in class at this time?'
'We were asked to leave, Brother,' said Dumasis.
'Whose class is it?'
'Miss Louise's.'
'Right! Come with me.' Already a couple of smart arses had pushed their luck with her. He might have known one of them would have been Danny bloody Miller.
Shae watched the class file out of the room. After a less than auspicious start, things had gone smoothly. The two she had banished entered, looking very sorry for themselves. She glanced at the one who had started it all and began to wonder if it had really happened. He was looking up at her now with such sad eyes and seemed so bereft it was hard to stay angry at him. She wasn't going to make a big deal out of it anyway.
Logan came through the door. She felt his distemper. 'Have these two been giving you some trouble?' he asked.
'Oh, it was nothing really, Brother. The boys had a disagreement with the rest of the class and tempers were fraying so I decided it would be best if they cooled off outside.' She held up the novel as she spoke.
'Miller, where's your senior badge?' Logan seemed satisfied with the explanation but his mood hadn't lightened.
'I lost it, Brother.'
'Lost it? For Pete's sake, boy. They were given out less than two weeks ago.'
'I know, Brother.'
'How could you lose it in that amount of time?' 'Made in Taiwan, Brother. Could've fallen off anywhere.' 'No one else has lost theirs.' 'I must've got a dud . . . Brother.'
Logan breathed outwards loudly and studied him. He knew there was more behind this than just a debate over a school text but if she didn't want to involve him in it, he figured it best not to intervene. Miller was back to his old ways, however, and Logan saw a source of many headaches in the near future if he didn't clip his wings. He recalled his conversation with Bob Kiernan when the former headmaster mentioned to him that Miller would be given one last chance at the college. Kiernan theorised that if he could put up with the boy for another twelve months, then surely the Good Lord in all his wisdom would reward him a hundredfold come his day of reckoning. Logan thought the best way to keep the boy out of trouble was to keep him occupied. No pair of idle hands was more willing to do the devil's work.
He regarded the other boy. He couldn't recall him ever causing any trouble before and he seemed quiet and studious from all accounts. But he knew the trouble someone like Shae would come across trying to control classes of hormone-imbalanced juveniles and decided to make an example of them. 'I want you both in my office after school. You know where, Miller. Miss Louise.' He exchanged glances with her and left. She watched him go and then turned to both of them, feeling almost apologetic.
'Miss Louise,' said the one called Miller, 'I'm really sorry about telling you how good-looking you are. I hope I didn't embarrass you or anything.'
'Yeah, Miss Louise,' the one with the bad skin added, 'I'm very sorry too.' He attempted a smile but she saw something in his eyes that bothered her.
'That's all right,' she said. 'Look, I'd really appreciate it if you'd help me out by ... not being quite so open about your feelings for me in the future.'
They weren't sulking and that was a positive. She asked each of them their names and they excused themselves for their next class. Luke turned just before leaving. 'Don't worry, Miss. You won't have any more trouble out of us.'
She heard Danny say something to him further down the corridor which sounded like 'Speak for yourself, Dumasis'. She grimaced slightly, then smiled. Gay apple polishers. That was original.

'So, Danny,' drawled Daley out of the side of his mouth. 'Tell me about this new girlfriend of yours.'
Miller grunted as he carried the bucket of water around to the other side of the car.
'I must remember that pick-up line of yours,' continued Daley. 'I can't believe this idiot was stupid enough to stand up with you.' He turned to Luke. 'Don't back this bloke up, Dumasis. He's more trouble than he's worth.'
Luke grunted and continued wiping Logan's car down with a cloth.
'What have you got to say for yourself, Daniel?'
'It was worth it.'
'Hah!' snorted Daley. 'Making a dickhead of yourself was worth a week of washing cars?'
'You had to be there.'
'No. That's just it. I'm glad I wasn't there.'
'Would you have stood up?' asked Miller.
'Not on your life.'
'Why doesn't that surprise me?'
'Hey! I'm taking a big enough chance just being here. I'm considering not talking to you ever again in case she thinks I'm your mate.'
'Well, piss off then,' offered Miller and Brad did just that.
'Geez, I'm sick of this already,' moaned Dumasis, trying to get the dead insects off the headlights.
'Don't worry, champ,' said Miller brightly. 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'
'Bloody big cloud.'
Miller moved around to the front passenger door and opened it. He tried the glove box. It was unlocked. He took out the owner's manual and flicked through a few pages until he found what he was looking for.
'See that?' he asked, pointing to a series of letters and numbers.
'Yeah. So?' said Luke.
'This is the combination key cutters use if you need another set of keys made up. If we haven't got the keys to every car the crows own by the end of the week, then I guess all we're doing right now is just washing a car.'
'Ohhh. Geez, I dunno, Dan.'
'Come on, Pizza-head,' teased Miller. He knew Dumasis would go along with it. He just needed a little push.
Luke contemplated the proposal. 'Yeah okay. Just don't call me Pizza-head any more.'
'No worries,' replied Miller, barely able to contain himself. At last he'd bumped into someone else who didn't mind swimming against the current.

The large group of girls chattered amongst themselves as they waited around the noticeboard for the mail delivery. The cacophony subsided as Sister Francis arrived, the girls knowing no names would be read out until there was absolute silence.
They restrained themselves and stood demurely as she cleared her throat, adjusted her spectacles and looked around the room, purposely taking her time. When she was certain their anticipation was nearing boiling point, Sister Francis began reading surnames out in alphabetical order.
Paula Banks stood silently at the back of the group, waiting for her name to be called. She was a plain girl, in the sense that she hadn't yet grown into her looks and didn't really care about them anyway. Her dark-brown hair was parted in the middle and hung lifelessly down her back and shoulders, hiding a face that reflected no youthful vibrancy for life. She was one of the tallest students at Lourdes Hill College and had put on a considerable amount of weight in the last year. Frumpy was the impression most people got when they first saw her.
Her seventeenth birthday had come and gone three days ago and she'd celebrated alone with a large Coke and a whole cheesecake, then brought it all back up with the aid of her right middle and index fingers ten minutes later. Her room-mate, Tracey Churchill, had gone out that day with an older guy whom she'd managed to sneak onto her visitors' list. He had a Ford Cobra, always wore sleeveless shirts and was as skinny as a rake. All of Tracey's friends thought he was gorgeous.
Paula doubted whether Tracey would have shown much interest had she been there anyway. No one else knew about her birthday or if they did they elected to show no enthusiasm about it. She was hoping her father might have sent her a card and that it had been late in arriving. She'd dropped a few subtle hints in her letters home over the past month but so far hadn't received word from him. He hadn't written to her once since she'd started boarding school four years ago. Paula had fantasised about him showing up at the school gates last weekend to takeher out somewhere. Maybe he'd even take her out to dinner in the city where she and her mother had gone once.
'Agnew.' A girl put up her hand and received her letter. 'Arnold . . . Bell . . . Cairns.' Perhaps it was mixed up at the bottom. 'Flynn . . . Hardy.' Maybe it was a parcel and she was saving it for last. 'McKay . . . Reeves . . . Russell.' Please. 'Shepherd . . . Sparkes . . . Taylor.' Just a card, please. 'Tully . . . Veale . . . Walker . . . Where's Tully?'
'Here, Sister.'
'Pay attention, girl. I've got better things to do than chase
after you.'
'Yes, Sister.'
The crowd began to scatter and when Sister Francis was a safe distance the chattering began again, louder than before. Paula watched as girls ran to their rooms where they would lie on their beds and read. Some would share the news with their room-mates and friends, especially if the letter was from a boy.
Paula made her way up the stairs and sat on the bed. She took the photograph displayed on top of her bedside cabinet and held it in her lap. It was Paula's best photo of herself but that wasn't the main reason she liked it. Her mother was truly radiant. They shared the same olive skin and eyes and looked like sisters when they smiled. It was taken at a barbecue nearly twelve months ago. Her throat hurt and she lay down and stared at the ceiling until the bell rang for classes to resume.

'How's this?' said Miller, leaning slightly to his left and balancing on his toes. 'Colour shot, eyes on the receiver, bit of dirt on the jersey, ball about here.' He held a football with both hands about waist height. 'Huge crowd. Wayne Pearce trying to tackle me round the legs. Hair's perfect.' He froze for a couple of seconds in an imaginary pose for the cover of Rugby League Week.
Miller was ignored by the other two occupants of the room. Dumasis was helping Capilano with his chemistry homework. Miller was showing scant interest in Capilano's plight and continued an imaginary game with himself. 'The ball goes to Miller.' Miller shook the ball in his hands and drifted across the room, looking for runners. 'He throws a dummy, steps inside ... OHHH, SHUT THE GATE. THEY WON'T CATCH HIM.' Miller ran around the room before diving onto Sebastian's bed and jamming the ball down at one end. 'Try! This game's not over. The Saints are back in it.' He immediately stood up and took the congratulatory handshakes from his imaginary teammates. 'Thanks, Youngey.' Then he did a couple of slow-motion replays. Why do they continue to give this man so much space? He is far too dangerous. Watch how he spots the gap. Genius.' Finally, much to the others' relief, Miller became tired of leading St George to yet another amazing comeback, sat down quietly and shuffled his cards.
He had hoped the other two would join him in a game of canasta and was growing impatient. To be caught in someone else's room during study time would earn the trespasser a black mark. Two black marks in one week meant loss of leave for the following weekend. Miller had seven already and it was only Wednesday.
'Seb, you're a dumb prick,' griped Miller. 'How much longer are youse gonna take?'
'Shut up. We're nearly finished.'
'Give it up. You're never gunna be a doctor. This mosquito's got more chance of passing than you.'
Brother Vincent Collins pushed his thin frame through the curtained partition. The fluorescent lights reflected off hishairless head, and he let the silence drag out, sensing their discomfort. At just a shade over six feet in height, he could make those under his charge very uneasy in his presence with little effort and played on it heavily.
'Master Miller, your voice can be heard clearly at the other end of the hall. Explain to me please why you are not in your
room.'
'I was just borrowing a book, Brother.' Miller was still holding the cards.
Brother Collins nodded slowly and didn't speak for another short duration. He looked at the other two staring down at the floor with bovine deference. 'Master Dumasis, would you mind telling me why you are not in a room which is your own?' 'I was helping Sebastian, Brother.'
'The Lord helps those who help themselves.' He smiled at his own joke. Dumasis smiled back. It seemed the thing to do. Brother Collins smiled wider. Nice boy. Pity he was so ugly. His eyes moved to a poster of Samantha Fox clad in a wet cotton shirt straddling a chair. 'Is that yours, Sebastian?' 'Yes, Brother.'
'Take it down at once and bring it and yourselves to my office.' The office was actually Collins' room but he preferred to call it as such. 'Wait for me there until I decide on an appropriate form of punishment.'
They waited for two hours before Brother Collins arrived just before lights out, having forgotten about them. Due to a lack of imagination, Vincent Collins simply extended Miller and Dumasis's car-washing duties until the end of the term. Master Capilano could join them as well. They were to clean not only the Christian Brothers' vehicles but the entire faculty's as well. He also confiscated the poster but did not destroy it.
Phil Louise did not let the morning traffic ruffle him. He rarely let anything ruffle him and the stress of peak hour was no match for his good nature especially when he had his daughter's company while he drove her to work. He looked across at Shae sitting in the passenger seat. Phil had always wanted a son but Shae was an only child. He hoped she would have car trouble again in the not too distant future so he could drop her off at work more often. The back end of Shae's old Kingswood had been damaged two days ago but she was pretty vague about the incident.
'Will Glen be coming tomorrow night? We'd love to see him.' 'I don't know,' answered Shae, looking out the window. She'd been going out with Glen for nearly three months. Her parents thought the sun shone out of his arse. Shae had gone over to his flat earlier in the week to ask him if he'd like to spend Saturday night at a barbecue to celebrate her mother's fiftieth birthday. She'd found him naked on his lounge, his clothes strewn about the living room, going ten to the dozen with a girl who was a teller at the same branch of the bank he worked in. Shae saw his expression turn from that of a dog having his belly scratched to one of absolute panic when he realised he'd been caught with his pants down, so to speak.
She'd turned around and walked out of the flat, ignoring his attempts at an explanation. Shae then got in her car, put on her seatbelt and reversed her two thousand dollar secondhand vehicle into his Mazda RX7 as hard as she could. She wasn't certain she'd caused enough damage the first time so she repeated the effort. The second charge brought the neighbours out of their houses. She didn't care. She had third party.
Phil drove through the lower entrance and parked near the teachers' lounge.
'Well, he's more than welcome to join us. Did your mother tell you he rang last night?''Yes she did.'
'I think she'd appreciate having him there. You can both leave early if you've got other plans. We understand.'
'We'll see. See you, Dad.'
'See you, Lambchop.'
Shae winced when he turned to reverse out of the car park. He'd called her that since she was five and she'd never really liked it even then. When the Easter vacation began next week she was going to move into a place of her own.
'Hey, Lambchop!'
She spun around and saw Miller sporting a wicked grin. Over the past term he and Shae had developed a love-hate relationship - he loved to irritate her and she hated the fact that he could do it so easily. Miller disrupted her train of thought whenever he felt like it without actually stepping out of line and he flirted with her outrageously.
Some days weren't so bad. He'd once greeted her as she walked into class with the words, 'I don't normally pray in public but God I want you.' English with 12B was an infuriating experience at times but it was never dull. Right now, though, she knew if she didn't handle this properly, Miller would play on this information for all it was worth.
'How are you this morning, Danny?' she asked sweetly. Too sweetly, thought Miller. 'Not bad thanks, Lambchop.
How's yourself?'
'Fine,' she answered. 'Have you studied for your English test?' 'Nah. But I'll pass anyway. See ya later, Lambchop.' Arrogant little smart arse, she thought, as she watched him
walk away. He was so smug. Nothing ever bothered him.
Fucking men.
April
Dumasis stepped down off the train and thought, The old home town looks the same. His father was standing at the end of the platform and Luke lugged his suitcase towards him.
'G'day, Dad,' he said, half offering his right hand.
'Luke,' replied Big John, taking up the invitation.
They both walked to the car. 'How's school?'
'Good.'
'That's good.' There didn't seem to be any opportunity to extend on that. They drove through town and then upriver towards the farm. Luke looked at the paddocks. There was a fallow thirty-acre block that had been planted with pumpkins. He guessed he would be helping his grandfather pick and bag them all holidays. It didn't take much know-how.
'How's the cane going?'
'Not bad. Been a bit dry.'
'Right.' Luke rounded off the conversation and promised himself he wouldn't speak again unless he genuinely had a good reason. Talk was cheap, small talk even more so.
His father dropped him off at the house and drove straight back into town. It was Saturday afternoon and the session at the Railway Hotel would be in full swing. Luke took his bags up the back stairs, went inside and found his mother at her sewing machine. He watched her work before she looked up and saw him standing there.
'Hello, Mum.'
'Hello, darling.' She got up and gently hugged him. 'I didn't hear you come in. Where's your father?'
'Oh,' said Kate. 'Are you hungry?'
'A little bit.'
She went into the kitchen and fussed over him for the better part of an hour. The two eldest boys were in town. Vanessa was out with her boyfriend and Sam was at a birthday party. Kate asked him about school and he told her it was okay and that he'd made friends with two people so far. Kate didn't know he didn't have any friends before that and didn't realise that was what he was trying to tell her. She told him about the fruit trees, how the new rooster had died and asked how Aunty Beryl was getting on. They talked and listened and then Kate began to get dinner ready.
Luke went to his room and unpacked. Sam was going to stay over at his friend's house tonight. He'd get to see him tomorrow. He went into the living room and switched on the TV. It was the first time he'd watched it in three weeks. He was bored after ten minutes. Returning to his room, he grabbed the football from under Sam's bed and went out into the front yard. It was around half an acre in size and a bugger to mow. Shrubs and rose bushes dotted the lawn but there was still enough room for a game of cricket when the relatives came over.
Luke lined up ten yards in front of a hibiscus tree growing a small distance away from the rest of the hazards. It stood just over head height and was ideal for his purposes. He ran straight at it with the ball in both hands. Two strides before impact, he dropped the ball onto his right foot and chip-kicked over, then swerved around the tree, chasing after it. The ball took a bad bounce and Luke just got his fingers to it before fumbling. He picked the ball up and went back to the start. He did a hundred attempts that afternoon and regathered successfully less than ten times.
Over the next fourteen days, he put in fifty hours' of practice, attempting the same drill over and over again. There was nothing better to do. But in his mind he wasn't in his parents' front yard. He was at the Sydney Cricket Ground on Grand Final day. Parramatta versus St George. Sell-out crowd. The Dragons leading twelve-ten. Sixty seconds left on the clock. Danny Miller was having a blinder for St George but Luke Dumasis, the Parramatta whiz kid stroke enigma stroke legend (and a bit of a ladies man as well just quietly), was going to spoil the party.

Danny Miller sat in the back seat of the family car next to his older brother's girlfriend, Selena. She was attractive, he guessed, if you liked peroxided blondes who couldn't string six words together unless they were talking about themselves. His parents sat in the front, waiting for their other son, Steven. Danny's father sounded the horn a second time to hurry him along but he still didn't appear. They had less than ten minutes to get to church for the Easter Sunday service.
Jean Miller hummed quietly, trying to act as if it was no problem. Her husband drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Selena studied her nails and gave Danny a weary smile, which he read accurately as 'I have no time for you but I'm being nice anyway'. Danny stuck his head out of the back window. 'YOU BETTER NOT BE PULLING YOURSELF IN THERE, STEVEN!'
'Shut your mouth, Vernon,' said his father through clenched teeth, not turning around. His mother did, though, and gave Danny, whose real name was Vernon, a look that conveyed the message that if he knew what was good for him he'd say nothing more.
'Well, bloody hell, Dad,' whined Miller. 'He's always on the job. Fair dinkum he'll go blind at this rate.'
'He went back into town.''Right! That's it!' Noel Miller reached over and backhanded his son as hard as he could. 'Now, shut up!' Noel was a big bear of a man but his bark was worse than his bite.
'Hey! Don't get up me,' said Danny for what was close to the thousandth time since he'd been capable of speech, which was long before he could crawl. 'Tell pretty boy to get a move
on.'
'So help me, boy. If you don't shut your mouth right now, I'm going to get out of this car and really go to town on you.'
'Does that mean I get out of going to church?'
'No,' both parents answered.
Steven finally appeared with his disco haircut perfectly blowdried and the pimple on his forehead hidden with concealer. Danny thought his older brother looked like a deadset wanker in his calf-length cowboy boots and suede jacket. Who was he kidding? He'd never set foot on a farm, much less chased a cow, and here he was trying to look like something out of a fuckin' western. And they were just going to church.
'Geez you look lovely,' Danny told him. 'It was worth the wait.'
'Dad.'
'Shut up, Vernon. That's your last warning.'
That's it, Stevie, thought Danny. Run to the old man like the sook you are.
And with that the Miller family and young Selena went to celebrate the resurrection of Christ. Selena broke up with Steve the next day. He was devastated.

'HEY, PUS-HEAD!' Dumasis looked around and saw a carload of his former classmates ducking beneath the windows as they drove past him in the opposite direction. He recognised the voice. It belonged to Travis Ovens. He also caught a glimpse of his sister in the back seat laughing with them. In four days he would be heading back to Brisbane and it couldn't come soon enough.
He and Frank Cavanagh had trained on the afternoons he could get away from the pumpkins. A small gym had opened next to the supermarket and he frequented it after sprint training before the rush started. The owner, Garry Marks, was a former reserve-grade prop for the Balmain Tigers and he spun the wildest yarns.
Dumasis was in town to book his return train ticket. Miller had stressed he had to be back at Banyo by ten o'clock on Anzac Day morning or else the day was shot. It was to be their first outing in one of the college vehicles. Miller's plan in that regard had met with unqualified success. They had made sure every car they cleaned during the first week looked immaculate. After seeing the college cars leaving the quadrangle in showroom condition, most of the teaching staff jumped at the chance to have their own cleaned in such a fashion for nothing. Capilano even suggested they leave their keys with him so he could drive their cars back to wherever they wished when they'd finished. Dumasis would be despatched with the keys and could run to the Boondal shopping district, less than half a mile away, get a duplicate set made and be back in less than twenty minutes. He once did it in ten and a half by Miller's count.
By the end of the term, they had over thirty sets of keys stored in a padlocked box at the bottom of Capilano's cupboard. Miller wouldn't say where they were headed on Anzac Day but he promised a good time would be had by all. Daley was in on it too, seeing as he had a driver's licence.
Dumasis went inside the Main Street cafe for a steak burger. A girl being served at the counter seemed familiar but he couldn't remember her name.'Hello, Luke,' she said as he approached.
'Hi,' he replied, still drawing a blank.
'How's school?' she asked.
'Okay.'
'Are you leaving on the twenty-fourth?'
'Yeah.'
'So am I.'
'Ohhh! Right! Yeah!' He remembered her now. Paula
Banks. She'd put on some weight.
'Have you seen Travis around?'
'Nuh.' It wasn't a total lie. He'd only heard him.
'Oh. Okay. See you.' She walked out of the cafe with two salad rolls, two small cakes and two cans of Coke.
'See ya.'
Half an hour later he saw her eating on her own at a picnic table in the park. Luke was used to eating by himself but he hated seeing other people having to do it. From this angle, sitting down with her hair swept back behind her shoulder, he saw her best feature, her eyes. Sad, dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. She reminded him of Mrs Banks, who used to teach at the primary school and was the loveliest lady in town. She hadn't noticed him. He stood on the footpath but knew misery didn't always love company, at least not in his case, so he kept on walking.

Sebastian Capilano loitered in the empty quadrangle with five sets of keys jangling in his breast pocket. His eyes scanned the area for any vehicle that matched one of them. He was trying his best not to look conspicuous but that was a difficult task as the college was still basically deserted. Most of the boarders wouldn't be returning from vacation for several hours at least. He checked his watch. It was a quarter past eleven. They were behind schedule already and he still hadn't found a car.
Dumasis, Miller and Daley were waiting for him just outside the main gate. He'd told them he'd only be five minutes but it was now close to thirty.
He saw Miller standing in the shadows of the tenth-grade classroom block, frantically waving at him. Sebastian resisted the temptation to jog straight over and kept walking in his original direction until he reached the seclusion of the junior dorms. He changed tack and raced over to Miller, who had the look of a man with things to do, people to meet, all packed up and raring to go.
'What's goin' on, Flea?' asked Miller.
'There's no cars around.'
'What about the Mazda near the library?'
'Crowley just parked it there a minute ago. He'll know it's gone.'
'Fuckin' hell!' Miller stood and thought for a minute. 'Right. Don't worry about it. Go out to the gate and tell those other two to wait.'
The Flea walked out to the main gate, slightly chagrined. He spied Brad and Luke nearby, looking decidedly edgy.
'What's the crack, Flea?' Daley asked, doing his best to sound casual. He couldn't believe he'd let Miller talk him into this scheme in the first place and was quietly relieved to see Capilano turning up empty-handed.
'I don't think we can get a car. They're all taken.'
Daley breathed easier. Perhaps they'd all see sense now and just take a bus into town to see a movie.
'Where's Danny?' asked Dumasis.
'Dunno. I think he's still looking.'
'Well, if he's not here in two minutes, I'm going into town. Bugger this for a game of soldiers,' announced Daley.
'Steady on,' said Dumasis.'Hey! You've only known him two months. I've had to put up with him for four years. He's all talk.'
'Fair enough,' replied Luke. 'If you want to go, go. 'Don't worry, I will. He's got ninety seconds. How about
you, Flea?' .
'Ohhh. Geez, Brad,' implored The Flea. 'Give him a
chance.' ,..
'You blokes are kidding,' said Daley. 'There's no way we'll pull this off.'
A horn tooted behind them and they turned to see Miller sitting behind the wheel of the school minibus. Daley swore under his breath and climbed into the back with Dumasis. Miller moved into the passenger seat and let The Flea take the
wheel.
'Get onto Gympie Road, Flea, and then take the Bruce Highway to Pomona,' instructed Miller. He adjusted his sunglasses and put a U2 cassette in the tape deck.
'Pomona? Where's that?' asked Daley, not really wanting to
know the answer.
'Ohhh, about a hundred and fifty clicks away.'
'What? You're bullshitting me, aren't ya?'
'Hey! Hear me out. There's an RSL there that just goes oft on Anzac Day. Everyone goes there and they hold the biggest two-up game you've ever seen out the back.'
'I've never been to a two-up game,' argued Daley.
'Well, you'll love this then.' _
'Bloody hell, Danny. We'll stick out like a greyhound with three nuts in this rig. You're just asking for trouble. Were stealing a bus. Don't you realise that?'
'Listen!' said Miller, turning around to face Daley. 'If I knew you were going to turn into Jimmy fuckin' Cricket the moment we got out the gate, I would've left you behind. Now, we have slaved our guts out to get this little venture off the ground and I don't wanna hear about all the bad things that just might happen. There's a good chance we just might enjoy ourselves. Think about it.'
'We should've brought Crusty along,' said Dumasis, referring to Mick Warner, an old retired Brother who rarely went out much.
'Listen to this, Flea,' said Miller, his patience wearing thin. 'We've got Mahatma Ghandi riding with us. Bugger me dead, Dumasis. You think Crusty didn't get up to this sort of thing when he was our age? Stop thinking about everyone else for once. If you want to worry about someone, worry about me. You think my life's a bed of fucking roses?'
'Actually I do.'
'Ohhh, leave me alone. What would you know? Just once I'd like to have a good time on my own terms. Last thing I need is you bastards whingeing and whining.'
'Do you want me to pull in for petrol?' asked The Flea. 'We've only got a third of a tank.'
'She takes diesel, Flea, and no, I don't wanna pull in. We're late already. We'll fill up on the way home.'
'Have you got enough money?' asked Daley.
'Don't worry yourself, Jiminy. I've covered every emergency. You all owe the kitty ten bucks. And that's another thing. When we get to this joint, don't start drinking like there's no tomorrow. We've all had sheltered lives, it's nothing to be ashamed of, so don't start getting pissed to prove yourselves. A few beers and that's it. Agreed?'
'Yes, Dad,' they answered.

The Returned Services League in the heart of the small town of Pomona was a rustic old building that rarely saw more thana dozen patrons at its bar at any one time. Except on its one day of the year when ex-servicemen came from all over the southeastern corner of Queensland to commemorate one of the biggest military cock-ups in the nation's history.
The crowd that swarmed around the front and back bars was ninety-nine percent male. As well as ex-diggers, there were also others there from all walks of life. Bikies rubbed shoulders with cattlemen and farmers who'd come in for the day. Football players from a local club slowly made their way through the crush, selling tickets in a meat raffle, and the next raffle to go off was to be run by the surf lifesavers. Cigarette smoke hung in a thick haze above the heads of the mob, the ceiling fans making no impression on it whatsoever, and although no music was being played, everyone had to raise their voice to be heard when they spoke.
Miller sidled up to Dumasis and gave him a mischievous grin. 'Well, you can . . .' he threw four pelvic thrusts into Daley's backside '. . . me if I'm not havin' a good time. What about you, big fella?'
'Yeah, Dan, you've done well,' said Dumasis, not wanting to burst Miller's bubble. He wasn't enjoying it as much as Danny obviously was.
'I'll get the next shout,' announced Miller. 'The two-up's about to start.'
'Hey, Danny, be careful,' warned The Flea. 'The barmaids are asking for ID.'
'I don't need ID while I've got a tongue in my head,' replied Miller as he pushed his way through the throng. He bumped into a nineteen-stone bikie who was completely bald, causing him to spill his beer. 'Sorry, Kojak.'
Dumasis prodded Daley in the small of his back. 'Has he been drinking the same stuff as us?'
Daley turned to face him. His eyes were like road maps. 'Yeah, I think so. I should never have let him have that smoke with me.' 'Well, how do you feel?'
'I'm good,' answered Daley calmly. 'Glad I came.'
Shelley Brease worked as a casual barmaid at the Pomona Hotel and occasionally, like today, came over to give the RSL a hand. Shelley was thirty-eight years old and her bust size matched her age.
She saw a young boy come up to the bar with a dimpled smile and a look about him as if he owned the place. If he asked for anything more than a glass of water, he was going to get thrown out on his arse. She went over and served him.
'What would you like, honey?'
'You with your clothes off for a start, sweetheart.'
The head barman raised an eyebrow. 'Nah. Just jokin'. My dad wants four beers.'
'Where is he?'
'He's over in the corner. He's only got one leg.'
Shelley studied the face.
'And I'll have a sarsaparilla for myself, thanks,' added Miller.
She began pouring the beers. 'Do you want a tray to carry them with?' she asked.
'That'd be great. You're not only a good sort but you're a lady as well.' Miller took the tray back to the boys. Luke drank the soft drink. The Flea drank Luke's beer.
The two-up ring chalked on the floor behind the back bar was surrounded by a five-deep circle of punters. An eighty-seven-year-old veteran of both World Wars flicked two pennies, with white crosses on the tails sides, with a short flat stick high into the air. The noise level rose and fell in time with the coins and then exploded aloud again as they landed on the concrete floor, both showing heads.The Flea and Miller squatted next to each other at the edge of the ring with almost four hundred dollars in a square marked with an H in front of them.
'Whaddya think, Flea? Beats jumping out of a trench and charging a machine-gun nest.'
'What?'
'This is why fifty thousand blokes bit the dust. So we could enjoy ourselves on days like this.'
'What'd you say?'
'Never mind.'
'Are we backing heads again?'
'Whatever you want, mate. I'm just happy being' here.'
Miller felt a tap on his shoulder.
'Y'want another beer?' asked Daley.
'I won't say no,' said Miller, who'd gone well past his self-imposed limit in the last three hours, as had the others.
'What about you, Flea?' asked Daley.
'Yeah, mate.'
'I need some more vouchers,' said Daley.
Miller picked up a five-dollar note from the pile in front of him and handed it to Daley.
Daley went to the bar and bought a round. He'd bought every round since the two-up had begun. Dumasis couldn't get served, not that Daley minded. The barmaid had seemed extra friendly and he was taking every opportunity to talk with her. He didn't take his eyes off her cleavage once while she served him and Shelley didn't mind that one bit.
'There you go, handsome.'
'Thanks, Shelley,' replied Daley, handing the money over, a big grin spreading across his face. He hoped no one would notice the lump in his pants as he walked back to the two-up ring. Dumasis walked past him and was being chased by Miller.
'Mate! What's wrong? Where're you goin'?' asked Miller incredulously, grabbing Luke by the arm as he walked out the door.
'Nothin'. I'm just getting some fresh air.'
'You're sure you're having a good time? 'Cause we'll all leave if you're not.'
Dumasis looked at Miller and smiled. He knew the offer was an empty one; at least Miller would be hoping it was.
'No, mate. This is great. I'm just gunna take it easy. Remember what you said about going easy on the piss?'
'Ohhh. Yeah. Fair enough, mate. We'll only be another half-hour anyway. It's getting close to five o'clock.'
'I'll wait outside then.'
'Okay, big fella. I better get out the back. The Flea's braining 'em.'
Dumasis walked out the door. Miller returned to the two-up to resume the story he'd been telling a group of drinkers about how his father had been killed flying choppers in Vietnam fourteen years ago.
Luke went down the street, feeling a little melancholy, and then sat on a park bench. Although it was autumn, the sun was still warm and he felt comfortable in the board shorts and singlet he wore. He thought about the real reason he'd left. The barman had told him to go home and wait until his pimples had dried up before coming back without any identification. He'd wanted to try buying a round, seeing as the other three had done so without any trouble, and now he had to swallow another helping of humble pie for his troubles. It was a petty little incident, one that he knew he should just throw off, and the fact that he couldn't made him even more annoyed with himself.
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and watched life passing him by. A car cruised slowly past and Luke saw the profile of a young girl in the back seat. She couldn't have been any older than nine or ten but she still struck him as breathtaking. As he watched, she turned around and looked back at him. His eyes followed the car as it travelled down the street, then turned off and went out of sight.
The Flea stood in the middle of the two-up ring and pushed his glasses back onto his nose with trembling fingers. He'd thrown heads twice and he and Miller stood to win close to three thousand dollars if he could repeat the feat once more. He looked on in an almost dreamlike state as the rouseabout placed the two coins onto the small paddle and handed it to him. The noise reverberating in the huge room from well over two hundred revellers was almost deafening but he could still hear Miller shouting at him from the edge of the ring.
'Flea! Flea! Gold Coast! Escort girls! You are a champion! You can do this!'
The Flea trembled and tried to wipe the grin off his face but it wouldn't budge. He flicked the pennies and the crowd noise rose again as they twirled in the air and then hit the ground. The first coin hit the floor and showed heads. The other bounced across the ring and then rolled on its edge. It made a wide circuit and fell over. A white cross faced upwards. A re-throw would be needed. All bets froze.
'That's okay, Flea. You can do it, maaate,' encouraged Miller.
The Flea wiped his palms on his shirt as he waited for the stick to be loaded and given back to him. He looked over to his right and could just see Daley at the bar talking to the barmaid. The rouseabout handed him the stick and The Flea threw the pennies. Daley couldn't see what had happened from where he stood and didn't very much care. Miller watched as the coins bounced briefly and came to a stop in front of him. He and The Flea hadn't lost all day but two white crosses were staring up at them now.
Miller screwed his face up and spat out a couple of four-letter words. But he wasn't too upset. They'd drawn well over their quota of luck getting this far and not just with regards to the gambling. The Flea looked absolutely gutted.
'Don't worry about it,' consoled Miller. 'We've had a good time. What more could you want?'
'A dirty weekend at the Gold Coast,' answered The Flea.
'There'll be other days. Come on. We've gotta get home.'
They squirmed their way through the crush. 'C'mon, Brad. We're goin',' said The Flea.
'Hey?' asked Daley. 'Hang on. I'm doin' all right here.'
'Please yourself but we're leaving now.'
Shit, thought Daley. He watched them leave.
'Hey, Shelley,' he said as she walked past. 'Do you work on weekends?'
'Sometimes.'
'I might see you round then.'
'You might,' she smiled.
Too right I might, thought Daley. He left the bar and walked to the door. Pomona hadn't seen the last of him. 'Oi! You two!' he called as he stepped out into the street.
Dumasis was eating a bacon and egg burger on the step of the bus when they arrived.
'Are you up to driving, Flea? You look like the Knight Rider after his car's been stolen,' observed Miller. The Flea did not reply.
'I'll drive,' offered Daley.
'Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Brad,' said The Flea vaguely. Five minutes ago he'd been on top of the world. Now the world was a terrible place. He had the head spins and his mouth was filling up with saliva.
'Can I have a bite?' said Miller.
Luke offered up his burger. 'You want to buy a few more for the trip?' he asked as Miller crammed as much of it into his mouth as he could before biting.
'I'm broke,' said Daley. 'How much money have you got, Danny?'
Miller was incapable of speech. He raised his palms outwards to indicate he had nothing.
'Flea?' asked Daley. The Flea was on his hands and knees throwing up round the back of the bus. He looked up and shook his head.
'What about you?' 'Twenty cents,' replied Dumasis.
'Well, we'll just have to go hungry then,' said Miller as he swallowed the last of his mouthful.
Daley drove the bus down a couple of streets before reaching the highway. He checked the fuel gauge. It was just above empty.
'Have you still got money for petrol?' 'Diesel, Bradley. Diesel.'
'Okay then. Diesel. You've still got money for diesel?' There was a long pause as Miller searched for the nicest possible answer. 'Not exactly.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' 'It means no, I guess.'
'Ohhh fuckin' hell, Danny. Geez you give me the shits at times.'
'Hey! Don't get up me. We could've hired a plane home if The Flea had thrown heads, the useless bastard.'
'Leave The Flea out of it. You said you'd set aside some money. Where is it?'
'Don't worry yourself. I've got a plan. Just keep driving.' Miller's plan involved his grandmother, Ruby. She lived on
88
the outskirts of Nambour and he hadn't seen her in five years. He hoped she remembered what he looked like.
Daley parked the bus about a hundred metres down the street from her house and the three of them watched as Miller entered the front yard and knocked on the door. They saw him give them the thumbs-up just before he went inside.
'We'll be flat out getting home in time,' said Daley. 'He'd better not be long.'
'Fuck it. I should've thrown heads,' said The Flea.
It was almost an hour before Miller rejoined them.
'What've you been doing?' demanded Daley. 'It's half past six.'
'Having a cup of tea.'
'Did you get any money?'
'No.'
'What? What the fuck have you been doing in there then?'
'Ohhh, mate. It was her wedding anniversary yesterday. I haven't seen her in years and she thought I'd remembered,' explained Miller. 'I couldn't ask her for money.'
'Get fucked, Danny. You go back and ask her or I will.'
'Ohhh, mate, I can't.'
'You bloody can.'
'Take it easy, Brad,' said Luke. 'He can't do that.'
'Hey?' replied Daley. 'What's wrong with you pair? Don't you realise the trouble we'll be in?'
'Think of her. He's made her day. Don't spoil it.'
'Ohhh, turn it up, Dumasis. We're in deep shit here. Surely you can see that.'
'Something'll come up, mate. Don't worry about it,' soothed Luke. 'Just drive.'
'Yeah, Bradster,' echoed Miller, gently touching Daley's arm. 'Something'll come up.'
GO 'Don't touch me! Don't you ever fuckin' touch me again,' seethed Daley. He started the bus and drove off.
The service station was about as decrepit as any building could possibly be without actually being abandoned. The windows that were still intact were opaque with dust and cobwebs, and the bowsers looked as ancient as the little old man seated in the canvas chair under the awning, quietly dozing. No lights were on and the occupants of the bus had a sneaking feeling that trading was finished for the day.
Daley brought the bus to a halt next to the diesel bowser, which was padlocked, and drummed his fingers on the wheel.
'That bloke looks like Danny DeVito,' said Miller, pointing at the person in the chair.
'Except he's got more hair,' said Dumasis.
'And he's a bit fatter,' added The Flea.
Daley climbed out of the bus and slammed the door violently. He couldn't think with those three morons going on about the similarities between two people they'd never met. He was obviously the only one who appreciated the graveness of the whole situation.
He walked over to the snoozing figure and tried to look and act as charming as possible. He was going to have to ask a complete stranger if they could fill their tank and then give him his word that they'd pay him back as soon as possible. He didn't like his chances.
'Gee, Brad's a bit upset,' observed Miller.
'He was feeling good a while back,' said Luke as they watched Daley and the old man, who must've been the owner, enter the building and continue talking.
'We should've been back at school five minutes ago,' pointed out The Flea.
'Ahhh, they won't mind if we're a bit late,' dismissed Miller. 'We're only an hour's drive away.'
They waited in silence as Daley kept talking. The look on his face when he returned didn't seem very uplifting.
'What's the crack, Brad?' asked Luke as Daley slumped into the driver's seat.
'Yeah, Bradster. What's he gunna do?'
Daley breathed out slowly and glanced down in his lap before looking at Miller and turning around to face the other two. 'Well, for a start, it's not a he, it's a she.'
'You're kiddin',' replied Miller before getting an attack of the giggles. It was infectious. The other two joined in. Daley did not. When he thought he had their attention again, he continued.
'She doesn't speak much English but from what I can gather, she understands our predicament and is willing to help us if we help her.'
'Hey?' said Miller.
'Well, Danny. She's a very lonely woman.'
Daley let it sink in and was glad to hear the giggling dry up.
'You're kidding,' said Miller, no longer smiling.
'I wish I was,' replied Daley.
'Bullshit.'
'Mate, she wants someone to go upstairs with her.'
'Gee whiz,' said Dumasis.
'Don't look at me,' said Miller. 'I'm not doing it.'
The neither,' cut in The Flea.
Dumasis said nothing but shook his head when Daley looked at him.
'I knew this'd happen,' said Daley. 'There's only one thing for it. We draw matches.'
'Hey?' exclaimed Miller. 'Piss off.'
'We need petrol, Danny. What else are we gunna fuckin' do?''Diesel.'
'All right, fuckin' diesel then. How you gunna get some? Tell me.'
Miller looked at the other two. They made some noises but no one could think of a better idea.
'Yeah.'
'Okay.'
'Fair enough.'
Daley pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He was extremely pissed off with Miller. If anyone had to volunteer, it should have been him.
'I can't believe we're doing this,' said Miller, starting to cackle again. He thought it was funny already.
Daley held four matches between his thumb and forefinger, with only the heads showing. He offered them to Miller. 'The longest match has to do the deed.'
As Miller ummed and ahhed over his choice, Daley gave Dumasis and The Flea a look. Miller pulled out his match. The Flea followed, then Dumasis, leaving Daley with only one. Miller was looking at his match the way a poker player studies his cards. Daley leaned back and snapped his match with his right hand behind his seat so Dumasis could see what he was doing. Luke followed suit and motioned to The Flea to do the same.
'Right. This is it,' announced Daley. 'Fair dinkum. No muckin' around or backing out. Whoever it is gets in and does it. Okay?' 'Yeah.' 'Okay.' 'Right.'
They all compared matches and Miller couldn't believe what he was seeing.
'SHIT!'
'Tough luck, Dan,' said Luke. 'Yeah, mate,' added The Flea.
'I wasn't ready,' spluttered Miller. 'That wasn't the match I wanted.'
'Of course it wasn't,' said Daley. 'No one wanted it.'
'No! I mean that wasn't the one I meant to pick. You rushed
me.'
'No way, Danny. You said we all had to go along with it. Don't start your bullshit with me.'
'Ohhh. C'mon, Bradster. Redraw. I honestly wasn't ready. Honest.'
Daley sat and reflected for a minute. 'All right. But this is it,' he said, looking back at the other two sternly, as well as Miller. 'This one's for real.'
The other two grudgingly agreed on a redraw. The Flea pointed out that the odds were now stacked in Miller's favour, the chances of him drawing the long match again being mathematically smaller.
'It's not fair on us.'
'Life isn't fair, Flea,' answered Miller as he chose his match. They compared again.
'Fuck it!' Miller threw his match on the floor in disgust. 'I can't believe this. What're the odds of that?'
'Don't worry about the odds,' said Daley. 'You're the man with the wheelbarrow. It's all in front of you.'
'One more time. Come on.'
'No way, Danny. That's it. You've gotta do it.'
'Get fucked, Flea! Come on, Brad. Please?' pleaded Miller with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. 'I can't do it.'
'You have to.'
Miller sat glumly in silence for a brief period. He was going to use his last get-out-of-jail-free card, no matter what embarrassment or shame it might cause him.
'Bradster, I'm a virgin.'
Daley began laughing. Miller's eyes were like a baby seal's about to be clubbed to death.
'I know,' he answered.
'Whaddya mean?'
'Ohhh fair suck, Danny. If you expect me to believe you popped your cherry in the first-class cabin of a jumbo jet with a six-foot blonde stewardess on a flight to Hong Kong, you must think I'm as thick as a post.'
'It could've happened.'
'Pig's arse.'
'Okay. Fair enough,' said Miller. 'But can you see where I'm coming from? The first time should be special.'
'Well, I can't think of a more special time than now.'
'But I want it to be with someone nice.'
'She seems pretty nice to me,' said The Flea.
'Well, you do it then,' spat Miller. 'Anyway it's a mortal sin to have premarital sex.' It looked like a Mexican stand-off was going to develop. Danny was prepared to argue his case all night if he had to.
Luke spoke up. 'Listen, Dan. I'd hate to do it if it was me but someone's got to. Now, I don't wanna pull rank or anything but you drew the match. Be a man and face the music.'
'But'
'Just do it!'
Miller slowly opened the door and got out of the bus. He walked into the service station like a man going to the electric chair.
'Geez, Luke,' said The Flea. 'I can't believe you made him do it.'
'Neither can I,' added Daley. 'What do we do now?'
'We wait,' said Dumasis.
They waited.
Dumasis was stretched out on the back seat of the bus. The Flea lay on the floor. Daley checked his watch and cursed. 'Hey, Luke!' he shouted. 'What's he doing in there?'
'How should I know? What's the time?'
'Half past eight.'
'Bloody hell. He's been in there over an hour.'
'Maybe he can't get it up,' suggested The Flea.
'Maybe they're still onto foreplay,' replied Daley. They all shuddered.
'Maybe he's shot through,' said Dumasis.
'Ohhh, he wouldn't have, would he?' asked The Flea in a scared voice.
'Shit!' said Daley. 'That's it all right. The little bastard has shot out the back door. He's probably thumbed a lift down the road. I bet he's back at school already.'
'Ohhhhh no. What'll we do?' wailed The Flea.
'Bugger it!' spat Daley, hitting the steering wheel with his fist. 'I'll screw her. But make no mistake. When we get back, that little arsehole will pay for this. It's his fault we're in this mess and he's just left us high and dry. He's nothing but a yellow-bellied, green-eyed, low-down little prick.'
'Hang on,' said Luke. 'Here he comes.'
'Oh,' said Daley.
Miller approached them carrying a brown paper bag. He opened the door and slumped into the passenger seat.
'How'd you go?' asked Daley.
'Fill 'er up,' replied Miller, producing a key.
'You little beauty,' whooped Daley.
'Good on ya, Danny,' cheered The Flea. 'Yeah. Well done, little man,' added Luke.
The three of them laughed as the bowser light came on. Daley undid the padlock and filled the tank.
Daley climbed back in and started the bus.
'What's in the bag?' asked The Flea.
'She thought youse might be hungry so she made some sandwiches,' replied Miller wearily.
'You're a champion,' exulted Daley. 'I'm starving.'
'Give us one,' said Dumasis.
'They're all right,' said The Flea, devouring his. 'What about you, Danny?'
'I'm not hungry thanks.'
'You must've put in a decent effort to get these,' said Daley, reaching for another. 'What's in them?'
'I dunno. Some sort of canned meat.'
'You're a legend,' said Daley, turning out onto the highway.
'Yeah. Well, you reap what you sow.'
Danny sat quietly in his seat. He'd made the sandwiches himself from the cat food he'd found sitting in a bowl festooned with cockroaches. A chopped onion and lashings of tomato sauce made them edible.
'How was she?' asked Luke, swallowing the last of his sandwich and grabbing for another.
'She was no Brooke Shields.'
'How did you go?' asked The Flea.
'All right I guess.'
'Come on,' said Daley. 'Give us a blow-by-blow description.'
'Go to hell.'
'Maaate.'
'Get fucked.'
'Just one word then. How was it?'
'Tragic,' said Miller. This has been the most tragic day of
my life'
'Is she on the Pill?'
'What? Ohhh, you're sick, Daley.'
'Hey! I'm just saying we could turn up at that servo again in a few years' time and a little tragedy could be running around the bowsers.'
'She might even have twins,' said Luke.
'Hey, you lot! That's enough. You bastards owe me. Remember that when I come to collect.'
'I can't drive,' said Daley. 'I think I'm gunna wet myself.'
'What?' growled Miller. 'You want me to drive the friggin' bus as well? That'd be right.'
'It was your destiny, Tragic,' said The Flea.

Brother Vincent Collins sat in a darkened corner near the entrance to the senior residence. It was five past ten and all but four of the rooms were inhabited. He had sent the rest of the seniors to bed at the standard time, despite them all being engrossed in an espionage film that would have finished in another ten minutes.
Three of those four rooms contained unpacked suitcases. Dumasis had not yet arrived either but that was typical of boarders from the north who used the Queensland rail system. Brother Collins knew for certain the other three were up to no good though. The fact that Miller was one of them was proof enough. He checked his watch again and saw silhouettes approaching the door. There were three of them. They didn't even have the presence of mind to arrive separately. This was too easy.
Miller had switched off the ignition and the headlights before coasting the bus through the main gate and parking in the relative seclusion of the chapel grotto. They snuck out of the bus, locked it and walked to the residence. Dumasis headed back to the main gate and retrieved his two bags, which he'd hidden underneath a hedge. He saw the others enter the residence in front of him.
'Master Daley, it is now a quarter past ten. Would you mind telling me why you three have finally decided to grace us with your presence at this hour?'
The three started as the tall, gaunt figure appeared before them. They had been hoping to knock on Logan's door and report to him first. He had more things to worry about than four morons who'd gone into town to see a movie and then become hopelessly lost.
'Well, Brother,' began Daley, trying to remain calm, 'it's a bit of a long story. We were going to come and see you as soon as we got back. See, we took the wrong train home from town this afternoon and ended up at Pinkenba.'
'What were you doing in town?'
'We went to see a movie.'
'Which movie?'
'Uh, Footloose.'
'What time was that?'
'About half past three.'
'What time did it finish?'
'. . . Five o'clock.'
'What time did you catch the train?'
Daley knew this wasn't going to work. Collins would just keep reeling off questions until he hanged himself.
'I get the feeling you don't believe us, Brother,' cut in Miller, with an irritated tone in his voice.
'I don't believe I was speaking to you.'
'Well, I'm speaking to you and you're not listening. We're
all pretty tired after getting back from . . . wherever it was we ended up and all you want to do is interrogate us. I don't '
'Miller, if you don't quieten down this instant you'll be taking your bags out of your room and be waiting for your parents to take you back home tonight. You are all three hours overdue and, naturally, I am very concerned. If what happened was an honest mistake, you've got nothing to worry about.' Brother Collins gave them a smile that conveyed no warmth. He had them - they knew it. It was only a matter of time.
Dumasis stood in the shadows outside, his bags either side of him, and tried to think clearly. He could see Collins talking to the others and knew things weren't going as they should. He didn't know what to do.
'Luke, good to see you. Trains late again?'
Dumasis turned and saw Brother Logan walking up the path towards him.
'Yeah, Brother. How was your break?'
'Pretty busy in fact,' replied Logan as he grabbed one of the bags and carried it to the door. 'We resurfaced the main oval. It should be playable within a fortnight.'
'That's nice,' answered Luke as they went through the door. Logan followed him in and came up short as he saw Collins and three boys talking.
'Evening, Brother. What's going on here?'
'These three have only just returned from town. I was about to ring their parents.'
Logan breathed outwards and suddenly appeared to become very tired. He didn't need this.
'You better get to bed,' he said, motioning to Dumasis. 'I'll see you three in my room now.' No one spoke as Logan unlocked his door and opened it.
'I was with them, Brother.'Logan turned and his expression made them wish Collins was still handling things. He stood aside as the four filed into his room, dismissed Collins, then closed the door.
Logan's room was not much bigger than those of the boys under his charge. It consisted of a bed, a small fridge, desk, four crammed bookshelves and a mini stereo.
'Right,' he said, sitting down at his desk. 'Let's hear it.'
'Well, Brother,' began Daley, stepping forward. 'We all decided to '
'Not you,' ordered Logan quietly, holding up his hand. 'I want to hear it from him.' He pointed to Dumasis. The four shuffled their feet and looked at the ground.
'Well, Brother, Danny, Sebastian and Brad met me at the train station and we decided to go straight into town to see the Anzac Parade. After it was over, we went to a movie. We caught a train home around five o'clock but ended up at '
'Pinkenba!' the other three answered.
'Yeah. Well, we didn't know where to go from there so we took another train back into town. By then the trains were running only every hour so we caught a bus instead. We had to change at Nundah, though, and only caught the one that brought us here half an hour ago.'
'Why didn't you ring and let someone know?'
'The phone at Pinkenba was out of order and we were too busy chasing buses after that.'
'How was the parade?'
'Good!' they replied.
'Hmmm.' Logan studied them. 'You might not appreciate the seriousness of what you've done. We have to keep an eye on almost four hundred boarders and it's hard enough without them coming and going as they please. I guess it couldn't be helped but you're still going to have grounds duty for the next week or so, if only to make you realise the need to be more responsible in future.' Their relief blew the tension out of the room.
'Better get to bed, boys. School tomorrow.'
'Yes, Brother. Thanks, Brother.'
'By the way, Miller,' added Logan as they filed out, 'if you're going to tell people war stories, I suggest you get your facts straight. There was no sixty-eighth battalion in Vietnam, and the battle of Long Tan happened in 1966 not 1970. Sorry to hear about your father though. You must really miss him.'
The four froze.
'And, Capilano,' continued Logan, 'if you ever do make it down to the Gold Coast, don't ring the girls from Liaisons International. I was at a two-up game today and someone told me they'd caught something from one of them that took months to clear up.'
The Flea turned scarlet.
'And, Daley, you can thank your lucky stars you left when you did. That barmaid's husband was two minutes away from ringing your scrawny little neck.'
'Oh,' said Daley.
'Yes. What a day we've had, gentlemen. I'll see you all in my office tomorrow afternoon and we'll discuss what little chores you wish to perform over the next two months, shall we?'
'Yes, Brother,' they left with their heads down.
'Mister Dumasis,' Logan said as Luke reached the door, 'not a bad effort. I probably would've believed you, had I not known better. Pity that won't happen again.'
'Sorry, Brother.'
'So am I.'Logan watched them leave, then leaned back in his chair. It had been a good day at Pomona. Best Anzac Day he'd had there yet. The antics of those four had been a big factor. He'd given Dumasis an escape route and he'd not taken it. That was the only thing that had saved their arses.
What Logan didn't know was the mode of transportation the four had used. Had he made the connection between their outing and the unusual parking spot the minibus was found in the next morning, things would've been very different.
Daley flopped onto his bed and thought about Shelley - or more to the point, Shelley's tits. Husband or no husband, he was going back. He slowly began stroking himself.
The Flea fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Miller stood under the shower for almost an hour trying to wash the smell off his hands. The little old Romanian woman had asked him to go upstairs with her, then pointed him in the direction of the toilet, where a six-foot carpet snake was wrapped around the cistern. The old woman had been using a hole in the backyard for the past two days.
After trapping its head against the floor with a broom, Miller began the awesome task of unwinding it from the S-bend. In a last great act of defiance, the snake had shat all over him as he threw it out the window.
He didn't know why he hadn't told the others the truth. He just hadn't.
Dumasis lay on his back and stared at the darkness. The face of the girl in the car stared back at him. He suddenly felt very lonely. He wondered if she was thinking about him and if perhaps they'd meet again when she was older. But she wasn't and they wouldn't.


May
Miller walked down the stairs to the eleventh-grade classrooms,
Two younger students greeted him. 'Hey! Tragic!' Since his day of destiny, the story of Miller's sexual foray had spread like wildfire. Daley had probably started it, Miller guessed, but he wore the infamy with good grace. There was no other way to wear it.
'Hey, fellas,' he replied, 'is the girl of my wet dreams still in her home room?' Everyone had also heard of Miller's first encounter with Miss Louise and his subsequent daily proclamations of affection for her.
'Yeah, mate, but she's in a bad mood.'
'What's wrong?'
'Dunno. Probably that time of the month.'
Miller tapped the small box he carried against his thigh. Perhaps this wasn't a good time, he thought. But time was not on his side so he continued on his way.
Shae sat bent over her desk, a pile of essays to one side, still to be marked. Normally she would have done this work at home but her two housemates had returned from work yesterday and probably would have invited a couple of fellow air hostesses over for a few drinks and a gossip before the Bacardi really took hold and it became an all-out bitching session. Shae enjoyed their company. They were wildly funny and they had some good times but her work was beginning to pile up.
She declined the use of the teachers' lounge on account of Barry Cox being there. He wasn't bad looking but he was a bit too sure of himself and she was becoming tired of confident men who had little to be confident about. She heard someone at the door and looked up to see Miller coming towards her with a box of chocolates in his hand.
'What do you want?' she asked, putting her head back down to her work.
'These are for you, Miss Louise.' He'd decided it best not to call her Lambchop, for now at least. She looked up again and then sat up in her chair. What the hell was he up to now?
'What for?' she asked, looking straight at him.
'No reason, Miss. I won an Easter raffle and these'll just give me zits, so I thought I'd give them to, you know . . . someone nice. I gave Miss Sanders and Mrs Davies some too so don't go thinking you're anything special.' Only Danny Miller could say that and make it still sound like a compliment. He'd actually bought three boxes and given the art teacher and the librarian a box each to verify his story.
'Well, thank you, Danny. That's very considerate.'
'No worries, Miss. I get more of a kick out of giving them to you than eating them anyway.' Pretty smooth, Dan, he thought. Puke, thought Shae.
'Is that all?'
'Yeah. I guess. Well, are you busy?'
'I am actually.'
'Ohhh. Well... I think I can help you out then.'
Shae rubbed her face with both hands to hide her smile. You couldn't say no to him. He didn't understand the meaning of the word. A break wouldn't hurt anyway. She began opening the box.
'How?' she asked.
'Well, see all this work you've got here. It's a fair bit, isn't it? Now, you know how all you teachers have to take two extracurricular activities a year?'
'Yes.' She did know but hadn't started any yet. Shae was still finding her feet.
'Have you picked any out yet?'
'Not really.' She hadn't but was considering helping Ray Jordan with the debating team this term and lending a hand in the production of the school play later in the year.
'Well, how about coaching the fourths?'
'What?'
'You know. Rugby union. Coaching the fourth fifteen.'
'No thanks.'
'Hang on. Hear me out. It'll be the easiest thing you've ever done. All you have to do is turn up maybe half an hour after school every Tuesday and Thursday and watch us play on Saturday. We don't kick off till noon so you can still go out on Friday night and chase blokes and get blind.'
'That's good to know.' She couldn't believe he was serious.
'You don't have to do any coaching. I'll coach the side. I just need a figurehead.'
'Haven't you already got a coach?'
'Yeah, but Crusty's got heart trouble. He's not allowed to get excited. He's giving it up at the end of this week.'
'Hasn't Cms- ... Brother Warner organised a replacement?'
'Yeah. Fu-... Brother Collins. I'm not playing for that Nazi. He couldn't coach a dog's arse to point backwards. Sorry!'
Shae considered the prospect of trying to control fifteen teenagers with permanent erections two afternoons a week. It was hard enough containing them in a classroom. She didn't know anything about football. It might as well be ice sculpting. 'I don't think so, Danny.'
'Look, all you have to do is go and see Crusty and flutter your eyelids and ask if you can coach us. The boys won't play up on you, I promise. I'll make sure they don't. You'll get oneactivity off your list. It won't even take two hours a week and if you can't make it some days, we'll cover for you.'
'I'm sorry, Danny. I don't think it would work out.'
'Why not?'
'Because . . .' she struggled for the words.
'Because you just wanna stay in the comfort zone. That's what depresses me about people. I thought you were different. That's why I asked you.'
'I'm sorry, Danny.' The front Miller usually displayed was gone and he seemed disenchanted. She wanted to help him but saw too many hurdles in the way.
'Look, Miss, if you do this for me, I promise you'll get more out of it than you put in. Plus I won't call you Lambchop any more, or tell anyone else about it.'
'I'll think about it,' she finally replied, knowing she didn't mean it. She'd seen the hype and the fever that football season was generating around the college and couldn't understand why so much effort went into such a seemingly fruitless exercise.
'Danny?' she asked. 'What is it about football that grabs you all anyway? It's just a game.'
He thought for a second. 'Do you love chocolate?'
'What?'
'Do you love chocolate? Yes or no.'
'Yes. I guess.' She did.
'Are there times when you really need it?'
'Yes. I guess.' There were.
'Well, men need football. If we didn't have it we'd eat our young.'
'I see.' And she did see.
'Are you gunna think about it? Really?'
'We'll see.'
Travis Ovens gunned the throttle as his bike came onto a sealed section of road and his passenger clung to his waist even tighter. He turned off the bitumen onto a dirt track that led to the river. He was very aware of the grip the girl seated behind him had on his lower belly and couldn't wait to reach his destination so they could continue where they'd left off.
He and Vanessa had spent the afternoon swimming at Belmont Falls. Travis had hoped she was going to wear the black bikini he'd seen her in at the public swimming pool but she'd worn a one-piece underneath a T-shirt instead. That hadn't discouraged him, however, and he'd managed to accidentally handle her with increasing frequency as they splashed about in the water.
Adam Bartlo was out of town for the weekend. Coincidentally, Travis had just happened to be riding near the Dumasis farm that day, even though it was miles out of his way, and asked Vanessa if she felt like going for a swim. She jumped at the chance and he knew then that the look she'd given him the other night when he'd caught her and Adam entwined on a chair with Bartlo's hand up her skirt had not been imagined. Vanessa seemed totally uninterested in the whole process and kept her eyes on Travis while Bartlo continued sucking her neck, completely oblivious to Travis's presence in the room.
Whilst they were swimming in the waterhole, Vanessa had suddenly grabbed Travis. He was stunned at first when he felt the warmth of her tongue sliding between his teeth and around his mouth. He was about to respond but she'd pulled away and run out of the water, flashing him a teasing little smile.
Travis dropped down through the gears and slowed the bike up, then brought the back end round in the sand. He put his right foot out and steadied the bike as it came to a halt. Vanessa shifted her balance and the stop, meant to impress, didn't phase her.She hopped off and began walking across the river to her house. Travis turned off the ignition and ran to catch her up. He took her hand and grabbed her about the waist. They kissed briefly before she wriggled not too hastily out of his grasp.
'You want to do this again sometime?' he asked as they walked on.
'Yeah. Maybe.'
'Are you and Adam still going together?'
'Kind of. I don't know. I thought he was your friend.'
'He is. Kind of. Do you still like him?'
'I don't know. It's hard to say. Bye.'
'I'll see you tomorrow at school.'
'Okay.'
He went to kiss her again and she pecked him on the lips before walking away. Travis had screwed two girls in his lifetime so far. His girlfriend, Denise, a few times and one very forgettable occasion with Paula Banks in the back seat of his father's car during the Easter vacation. She'd hung around like a bad smell for a couple of days afterwards before she got the message. He was relieved Denise didn't get wind of it. But he'd drop her like a hot rock for a piece of Vanessa Dumasis any day. Stuff you, Bartlo. Every man for himself.
Vanessa climbed the far bank and walked towards her house, the roof just showing amongst the mango trees. The wetness she felt at the base of her costume was not completely due to her afternoon swim. Pretty soon, Paul and Travis would be slogging it out in front of everyone at school and they would all know it was over her.

Shae Louise stood at the edge of a muddy field and watched as Miller put the fourth fifteen through their paces on a cold, windy Tuesday afternoon. Danny had expressly told her not to
wear anything more revealing than a pair of overalls and that was exactly what she was wearing now. She hugged her clipboard to her chest and grimaced as the wind cut through the denim.
This was only her second afternoon as coach and it all seemed foreign to Shae but Miller had told her to act as if she knew what she was doing and not to let any of the players get too familiar until she was capable of being able to say something without sounding like an idiot. Until then, she was to remain aloof and Miller would consult her every ten minutes or so under the pretence of asking advice and receiving more instructions, as he was about to do now.
'Only you could look dazzling dressed like that,' he said as he approached.
'God, this is boring.'
'Shut up and look serious. You can go home in five minutes. I'll take it from there.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Point over to the hill and pretend you're asking me something.'
'Like what?'
'Anything. My love life's a good subject.'
'How is it then?' Shae asked as she dutifully pointed to the slope leading up to Stuart Oval.
'Bloody hopeless. You haven't got a little sister, have you?'
'No. But if I did I wouldn't let her know about you. What else do you want me to do?'
'Open the clipboard and act like you're looking at the team sheet. How're things in your department?'
'Not that it's any of your business but pretty slack actually. There aren't that many good men around, Danny,' sighed Shae as she opened the clipboard.'Cheer up, coach. We all have a dry spell now and then. Right. Close the board, look at the forwards and then act really angry and tear into me. Then you can go home.'
'Who are the forwards?'
'Those meatheads standing over near the scrum machine. They should be pushing it.'
Shae snapped the clipboard shut and then pointed to the group of boys standing hands on hips watching her. She tried her best not to laugh as she poked Danny in the chest.
'The two girls I live with reckon you're a sweetie for giving me those chocolates.'
Danny turned around as if he was looking for the first time at what was making her angry.
'See you tomorrow, coach.'
'See you, Danny.' Shae stormed over to her car and couldn't believe the language coming out of Miller's mouth as he screamed at the forwards to pull their fingers out and how the coach reckoned they were a bunch of pussies who couldn't take the skin off a rice pudding. By the time she was in her car, Miller had the entire team doing hill sprints on the slope he'd asked her to point to. Their first competition game was this coming Saturday.
Shae couldn't fathom the arrogance of most of the male staff as they patronised her when her coaching appointment became public knowledge. Barry Cox was the worst and she'd decided any chance of him getting to know her outside of work now had evaporated.
The fourths had lost all their preseason games badly and no one gave them a chance at winning their division. She hoped Miller could turn things around. Shae didn't like losing. Neither did Danny Miller. He'd missed out on the halfback spot for the first fifteen, thanks partly to private school politics but mostly because the other bloke was better than him. He could've played for the seconds but they didn't play as a team and Miller had decided two weeks ago that if he couldn't play for the firsts, he'd play in a side that everyone else wished they could play in. And they'd play champagne football. The thirds weren't a bad bunch but he wouldn't be able to run the show. So it was the fourths and Crusty Warner.
And the fourths thought it was great having Danny Miller training down on the flats with them. All the other good players trained up near the college on the big manicured ovals. And now they had Lambchop Louise as coach. And they were going to do ten hill sprints up the big slope at the end of every training session because Coach Louise said they needed the fitness and if anyone complained they could just fuck off and play for the fifths. But no one did.
June
There were only four cars in the dirt parking area next to Belmont Falls. Pretty quiet for a Sunday. Joe Dumasis stepped out of his Sandman, took off his shirt and walked down to the waterhole. He'd been out pig shooting but there were none around.
Joe was eighteen months older than Dale, two inches shorter and much slighter, but his wiry build was deceptively strong. Unlike Dale and Sam, whose square, pug features matched their father's, Joe was the spitting image of his grandfather, Joe Nemeth. The face was more angular, the eyes were softer and his forehead showed the beginnings of a widow'speak. He was basically a quiet spirit but still hadn't come to terms with that fact, attempting instead to be one of the boys, albeit nowhere near as successfully as Dale.
Joe picked his way along the well-worn path. Belmont Falls was one of the more popular tourist spots in the region. It was situated on the edge of a national park about half an hour's drive from town. The waterfall itself was fed by a creek that plummeted down the forty-foot rock wall into a large natural swimming hole, equivalent in area to five Olympic pools. No one could touch the bottom at the deepest point near the rock face, even in the dry season when the falls didn't run. It wasn't uncommon to see freshwater turtles breaking the surface for air or bearded dragons sunning themselves on rocks overhanging the water's edge.
Cars had to leave the bitumen for the last three miles to reach the falls and the Rosetta Shire Council made no attempt to improve the road - save for a grader giving it a going over once in a blue moon - in an attempt to control visitors to the area. But people still flocked to Belmont Falls, especially when the big wet came.
The falls were just trickling today, the water bleeding down the rock face in two separate streams. There were less than a dozen people there. Some were swimming, a couple of obese women in their swimsuits were standing knee-high in the water; a few kids were climbing the falls (it wasn't too difficult to reach the top when it was like this) and two adolescent males were standing at the cliff's edge, summoning up the courage to jump back down.
Joe stood in the shallows looking up at them. He wished he had the place to himself. The water was cold but he'd be right once he got his head under. He waded in, mindful not to slip on the pebbled bottom, past the fat women, then dived.
Shuddering slightly, he swam straight out to the wall and pulled himself up on the narrow rocky ledge that jutted out just below the surface. Joe sat on the ledge with his back to the rock face, the water covering his lap. The falls dripped down on him like light rain.
When the wet season came and the creek was in flood, the water would fall in a great torrent well out from the cliff. If a person swam in from the side they could climb in behind the falls and sit on the ledge while the water roared down two feet in front of them.
It was Joe's special place.
Last Christmas, after four inches of rain, he'd almost taken his girlfriend there to ask her to marry him. He'd met her in Airlie Beach, a little resort town that was on the cusp of the tourism boom of the eighties and only twenty kilometres from Rosetta. She'd moved up from Newcastle and worked on South Molle Island. They'd gone out together for nine months before she ditched him for a married cop. She'd also been screwing a few other guys on the side before that, including one of Joe's closest mates, and most people around town knew about it. As far as 'what about' stories went, it was one of the juiciest for the year. Joe refused to believe it even now, opting to swallow her story about having to find herself before she made a commitment to anyone and the cop was just a friend. It was easier to accept than the truth. The truth was too ugly. And even if it was true, Joe still loved her.

The Flea stood with an armful of squirt bottles on the grandstand sideline of Benn Oval next to Shae Louise. The Banyo fourths had belted their Ipswich Grammar equivalents in their first fixture the previous weekend and were now doing the same to Brisbane State High.The fourths' forward pack was led by Albert Lee, a tough little Filipino who played like he was forever pissed off at the world, and Kev Thomas, a big fat Thursday Islander who could run faster than anyone else in the team bar one person.
The Flea looked on as a State High player stood in a tackle about eight yards short of the Banyo goal line. A team-mate came in to assist him but they both got nailed after Kev Thomas drove them with his shoulder. They disappeared underneath an angry swarm of blue and white butcher-striped jerseys as the rest of the Banyo pack arrived in numbers and rucked over the top of them. The forwards were ruthless.
But the backline was poetry. Danny Miller picked up the ball from the base of the pile. Most halfbacks being this close to their own line would've just kicked it to the shithouse to get out of danger, but instead he calmly threw a long spiral pass to the left, which went over the heads of his five eighth and two centres and hit his open winger, Luke Dumasis, bang on the chest.
Dumasis, who had been standing way out near the corner post half waiting for this pass, and half staring at Coach Louise, almost dropped the ball cold before recatching it a foot above the ground. Had he caught it cleanly it would've been shut the gate but the extra second he took to regain control of the ball gave his opposite number a chance to get within reach. Dumasis sidestepped around him with little effort and then took off up the field.
The rest of the State High backline, who'd decided at half-time that their only chance of staying in this game was to pay extra attention to the blond winger with the zits, had swept across to cut off his escape route.
Dumasis veered right and jinked off his left foot past the first two defenders, then angled in towards midfield. He then slowed down a fraction and flicked the ball behind him with his right hand to his centre, Jason Walker, who was running the reverse angle back towards the sideline. Jason Walker tucked the ball under his right arm as three State High players tackled Dumasis as hard as they could, which wasn't that hard, and ran sixty metres with only daylight in front of him.
Shae looked at The Flea as Walker touched down underneath the goalposts for the second time that day. 'That was good, wasn't it, Sebastian?' 'Yes, that was very good, coach.'
Shae saw Miller jogging over towards them. 'You're all playing very well, Danny.'
'We're playing like shit,' said Miller. He grabbed a water bottle off The Flea. 'Get up 'em.'
The Flea headed out to the halfway line where Jason Walker was receiving dead-fish handshakes from the rest of the side. Anyone with the slightest amount of firmness in his grip would be laughed at.
'She reckons if you don't score forty points by full time you'll all be doing twenty hill sprints next Tuesday,' announced The Flea, who was the manager and the only other person in on the charade.
'Ohhh get fucked,' moaned Thomas. He began sucking on a water bottle as if he was being breastfed.
'Go easy on the water, Fat Cat,' warned The Flea. 'And she's not happy with you, Albert.'
'Hey? I'm fuckin' doin' my fuckin' best.' Albert glared over at Shae, who was standing on the sideline totally unaware of what was being said. 'What's she fuckin' want me to fuckin' do? Kill some cunt?'
'Language, language,' said Miller. He nudged his five-eighth. 'Lawro, I'm gunna start cutting you out and pass straight to Phantom.' He turned to Walker. 'You'll get moreroom then, Phantom. Take 'em on. And, Lawro, you wrap around him as soon as the ball goes past ya.'
'Right, Tragic.'
'Y'okay, Tragic.'
Tragic turned to Dumasis. 'Doom, keep your fuckin' eyes on the fuckin' ball.'
'Yeah, Tragic,' said Doom.
The sun was shining, Benn Oval looked resplendent and the fourth fifteen treated the midday crowd to a brilliant display of running rugby as they piled on four more tries to win forty-eight to six.
'She certainly knows her stuff,' commented Logan, looking on from the promenade.
'That's why I gave her the job,' beamed Mick Warner, who'd really appointed Shae because he couldn't resist that smile. He was a Christian Brother and almost eighty years old but that didn't mean the man was made of steel.

Daley stepped off the bus and walked up the street to the Pomona RSL. He knew this whole trip could turn out to be a complete waste of time and he might be back on a bus for Brisbane within an hour, but that hadn't stopped him. He checked his reflection in a shop window and thought the hint of a black eye he sported made him look tougher, maybe even older. He'd copped it the previous day when the State High first fifteen had walked over Banyo thirty points to ten. Daley hadn't played well. In fact, he'd had a shocker. His mind hadn't been on the game. It was already here in Pomona. Daley braced himself and went through the door to the main bar.
There were only a few people inside. Shelley wasn't serving them. Daley stood for a time, trying to decide what to do. Unable to think of a better alternative, he sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The barman was just a shade over twenty himself and remembered what it was like trying to get a drink when he was underage. He gave Daley a beer without as much as a second glance.
Daley nursed his drink for an hour or so and decided to quit while he was behind. He downed the dregs and walked out into the street back to the bus stop. The Pomona Hotel was across the road. Daley sat hunched on the wooden seat and stared. He crossed the street and went in, finding it much busier than the place he'd just visited. After walking around to the back bar, he caught a glimpse of that flaming red hair. She turned around and those breasts that had haunted Daley over the past six weeks pointed straight at him.
'Hello, Brad,' she breathed as he sat down.
'Hi, Shelley.' She remembered his name. He already had half an erection.
'What happened to you?' she asked, gently touching him under his left eye and looking far more concerned than the injury warranted.
'Ohhh . . . nothin' much.'
Shelley walked to the other end of the bar to serve a couple of old blokes in whites on their way to lawn bowls. Her husband was away on another supposed business trip. What was good for the gander was good enough for this little goose. She poured a couple of seven-ounce beers and gave one of the old men his change.
'You'll need an ice pack on that,' she said when she returned to serve Daley.
'You think so?'
'Uh-huh,' murmured Shelley as she inspected the eye again. 'I've got one at home.'Brother Kiernan sat at the long oak dining table and watched as the waiter ladled soup from a huge urn into the bowl placed in front of him. Tomato soup was neither his nor Brother Warner's favourite dish by any standard but abstinence from meat on Fridays was a habit that died hard with the old guard. Kiernan looked across at Warner and regarded the noticeable improvement in the other man's pallor. He definitely seemed more lively these days. Perhaps, thought Kiernan, due to the company of another associate, which helped while away the hours that took up one's days, days when everyone else had something to do, somewhere to go. Kiernan himself felt trapped in a body that was showing its age and he wondered whether he could attain a full recovery within the next several months, if at all. He felt tired most of the time, but couldn't sleep at night. Listless yet stir-crazy.
The waiter filled a third bowl at the end of the table and put his hands in his apron pockets as they said grace. The two elderly men began breaking open their rolls as the waiter sat down at his own plate.
'What about North Sydney and St George tomorrow, Michael?' asked Kiernan, buttering his roll.
'Ten bucks on the Bears,' replied Warner.
'Ten bucks?' repeated Miller, standing up and spilling soup on his 'Kiss the Cook' apron. 'That's a sheila's bet.'
'All right then. Make it twenty. I don't mind taking money from children who don't know any better.'
'You still haven't fixed me up from last week's game.'
'That was never a try, Daniel,' said Warner gravely. 'Mortimer was offside by a country mile.'
'Hey! It's on the Scoreboard, Mick. That's life.'
Kiernan brought the spoon up to his lips and sipped. Ever since Logan had put Miller on kitchen duty each Friday along with several other chores, the last afternoon of the working week had never been the same. Once the soup was consumed, out would come the port and cheese. Miller pointed out that if they wanted their flagrant disregard of doctor's orders kept quiet, they should allow him to partake in a drop as well. And so the three of them would spend the rest of the afternoon, until classes finished, passionately discussing a wide range of subjects.
'You can't tell me . . .' stated Warner as he poked the table with his right index finger, 'you can't tell me that Wally bloody Lewis is worth that much money.'
'He's worth more,' answered Miller. 'That man has single-handedly '
'Rubbish!'
'Has single-handedly brought us back on level pegging with New South Wales and he deserves every cent.'
'What about Meninga? What about Conescu? Bowstead?'
'Mick, they're good. I'm not denying that. But Lewis is the leader. A good leader makes all the difference.'
'Anyone can lead that Queensland side,' argued Warner.
'George Washington '
'Ahhh, don't start with him again.'
'George Washington once said,' continued Miller as he mirrored Warner's table-thumping action, 'an army of asses led by a lion will defeat an army of lions led by an ass.'
Bob Kiernan sat in his chair and reflected. This was far more entertaining than any faculty meeting. It was a pity Miller only had kitchen duty once a week. Friday night was the only decent night's sleep Bob got.

Barry Cox leaned back in the chair and briefly scrutinised his biceps as he put his hands behind his head and waited. Helooked at the boy seated across from him and wondered why it was taking him so long to phrase an answer. After watching him play the previous Saturday, Cox thought it was high time to send for him and was not at all pleased to receive the message that the fourths' left-winger was quite happy where he was, thanks very much. So here he was now, on his own time, explaining how much the boy stood to gain if he decided to play for the second fifteen this coming weekend.
Barry shifted his gaze from the blemished face to the collection of trophies on the shelves behind him. He'd decorated his office so it now resembled a shrine unto himself. The walls bore banners, certificates and photographs of representative teams he'd won selections in over the past fifteen years. He was quite photogenic, with a strong jaw and fighter-pilot looks, and had featured in a couple of soft-drink ads a few years ago.
Cox had been a student at Banyo himself and had represented the college at the highest level in rugby, cricket and athletics. He'd retired from club rugby last year to concentrate on teaching and had landed the plum job of sportsmaster at his alma mater eighteen months ago. Barry was one of the more popular teachers. All of the students knew who he was and what he'd done and, if they forgot, a quick visit to his office was all that was needed to remind them.
Cox looked back at the boy in front of him. If he wanted to coach the first fifteen next year, he had to make a decent fist of this current seconds side. This person could help things. 'What's my name?' Dumasis finally asked.
'Pardon?'
'My name. What's my first name?'
Cox was puzzled by the reply at first, then realised he didn't know. During the whole conversation he had referred to him as 'mate'. He glanced down at the sheet he had in front of him and saw the first initial. 'It's Larry, isn't it? I'm sorry, mate, but I'm hopeless with names.'
Doom translated those last four words that so many people too often fall back on as 'I'm not interested enough in you to remember yours'. He'd greeted Cox several times during the year and hadn't received more than a grunt as an acknowledgement. This was the same person who had taken one look at him late last term and pointed him in the direction of the Flats, where the fourths were practising.
'I'm sorry,' said Dumasis, 'but I'd rather keep playing where I am.'
'I'm afraid that's just not possible.'
'Well, I'd rather not play at all then.' Luke rose from his chair and went to the door.
'Excuse me. I haven't dismissed you yet, boy.'
Dumasis turned round. Boy? They were supposedly mates a minute ago.
'Look,' said Barry, 'if you don't play to your highest level and push yourself, you'll never get any better.'
Wank, wank, thought Luke. 'I just want to play with my friends,' he lied. 'If you want to take it up with anyone, talk to
Miss Louise.'

Shae Louise sat in her car and listened as Barry Cox leaned through the passenger window feeding her the same spiel he'd given Dumasis. Over the past month, Shae had tried to grasp some idea about the game. She'd even gone over to her parents' house and watched the Sydney football on television with her father. Phil had to tell his daughter midway through the first half that she was watching rugby league, not rugby union. Shae didn't know there was a difference. But she knew enough to know that Luke was pretty good. Apart from that day withMiller, he'd hardly said boo to her, even out of class. When he'd told her, in less than ten words, how he preferred to play for someone more genuine, she figured it must have meant something to him. And she appreciated being appreciated.
Shae rubbed her forehead as Barry related how important it was that the best players played in the best teams in the best interests of school morale.
'I thought they just played to enjoy themselves,' she cut in.
'Yes . . . but. . .' Barry flashed her his best smile. He'd half expected an answer like that coming from her, 'If he doesn't strive to improve himself, he won't build character. That's what it's all about.'
'I can vouch for his character,' said Shae. 'If he wants to go, I'll let him go. If he doesn't, we should respect that.'
'Listen,' explained Barry, the smile waning. 'If the firsts need a player from my side, he goes. No ifs, buts or maybes. The same happens here.'
'Why?'
'Because!' This was like explaining colour to a blind man, or woman in this case. Where was this smug bitch getting off telling him who he could or couldn't have in his team? The only reason the boy preferred to play in the fourths, no doubt, was so he could stare at those tits all afternoon. And he wasn't totally wrong there.
'Can you name the second fifteen winger from three years ago?' Shae asked.
'What's that got to do with anything?'
'Three years from now, who'll care where Luke plays but Luke?' She reversed out of the car park.
Luke, thought Cox. So that was his name.
The bus pulled up next to a small shelter shed and over half its passengers slowly filed out. Most of them were tourists from south of the border on their annual two-week stint at the Sunshine Coast, hoping to pick up a winter tan to impress the , neighbours and a few T-shirts for the relatives. They milled about as the driver retrieved their bags from the luggage compartment. The driver handed two boys their bags and they walked across the street, trying to get their bearings as they searched for a run-down old pub they'd been told was only a couple of blocks away. It was Thursday afternoon. The end of semester vacation was only a couple of hours old and the two of them didn't have a care in the world. They walked along the streets of the beach-resort town and came upon the Federal Hotel.
Tragic had won a trifecta the previous Saturday and it had paid three hundred and seventy dollars. After divulging his windfall to Dumasis, he decided they would squander it wisely, which was a contradiction in terms but Luke knew what he meant. The thought of spending two weeks back on the home front did not appeal to either of them so they devised a plan whereby both of them would ring home and ask if they could spend their holidays with a friend from school whose parents owned a pub in Caloundra.
Tragic booked a twin room at the Federal. After pooling what money they had, they were left with just under two hundred dollars after the hotel bill and bus tickets were taken care of. If they were going to eat well, and they were adamant that they would, there wasn't much left for entertainment. But if two young blokes couldn't find something to do amidst all this surf and sand without having to put their hands in their pockets all day, they figured they might as well slit their throats and curl up and die then and there.
They checked in and any queries the publican had werestymied when Tragic handed over two weeks' rent in advance. The publican showed them up to their room. Two beds, a wardrobe, a sink, a chest of drawers and a chair. The showers were down the hall.
Luke began to unpack. He pulled a big, white, soft object from his bag. Tragic looked at him. 'What's that?'
'A pillow.'
'A pillow?' Tragic looked disgusted. 'We're men.'
'Yeah, I know. But I hate those flat ones.'
'Who gives a rat's? Get rid of it.'
'Nuh.'
'You're a sook, Dumasis.'
They changed and went down to the beach. Luke had never been to the Gold or Sunshine Coast before and the big surf and clean fine sand that squeaked when you kicked it had him in raptures. The beaches in North Queensland weren't like this at all. It was too cold to swim, so they went back to the pub as the last of the light faded and ordered two T-bone steaks with vegies for three bucks fifty each. After dinner they went upstairs and played canasta until about midnight.
Over the next two weeks, Doom woke most days at five-thirty and went down to the beach to do some sprint training. Tragic went the first couple of days too, but gave it away after that. He wasn't a morning person. Doom thought he'd have the beach to himself and was surprised to see so many surfers down there already. He would return to the room to find his pillow underneath Tragic's head. They'd swim after training, then go back to the hotel for a shower and have breakfast with the publican, Bill Nolan, who usually had a cup of coffee waiting for them. Bill would have a bowl of All Bran, then start getting the pub ready. Doom would hose the sidewalk out the front for him and Tragic would chalk up the day's specials on the blackboard menu. Bill lent them a set of old golf clubs and they'd sneak onto a nearby course and play the back nine. Around noon, they'd make a stack of sandwiches up in their room, buy a couple milkshakes from the coffee shop on the corner and read paperbacks or play chess in the beer garden. In the afternoon they bodysurfed or kicked a football around for a couple of hours.
It was midway through the second week when they happened to be walking through the lounge to their room when one of the old barmaids called out to the crowd, asking if Vernon Miller was available. 'His mother's on the phone.' Tragic bit the bullet. 'Yeah, Shirl. That's me.' Shirl and Bill, who were in the office, listened as Vernon spoke to his mother.
'G'day, Mum. No, that was one of the barmaids . . . Well, the phone's near the bar. Geez, I can't tell Mr Dumasis how to run his pub now, can I? Nah. Mrs Dumasis is out shopping . . . Yeah, I'll tell her . . . Yeah, I'm being good . . . Yeah . . . Yep . . . See ya, Mum. Bye.' Tragic hung up the phone.
'How can you lie to your mother like that, Dan. . . Vernon?' asked Nolan.
'Ohhh don't start, Bill.'
'Blatant lying.'
'I don't like lying to her.'
'Sounds to me like you do,' said Shirl.
'Well, what am I supposed to do?'
'Why don't you go home for the holidays? She must miss you.'
'I don't think so.'
'A boy's best friend is his mother, Vernon,' said Bill. 'You'll learn that one day.'
'Go easy. You're not living with your mother.''I am actually. She lives in a little granny flat underneath my
house.'
'Well, when I'm your age I'll do the same.'
'I don't believe you. Anyway, go and get Luke. Your tea's
ready.'
'Y'kay. Are you playing cards tonight after you close?'
'Nup. The missus wants me home straight away tonight.'
'Who wears the pants, Bill?'
'Not me,' replied Nolan.
Tragic made his way up the stairs.
'So ... Vernon. What's all this about?' asked Doom. Tragic sighed and a pained expression came over his face. 'Look, I'll tell you once and then we'll never bring it up again. All right?'
'Okay.'
'Right. Vernon is my real name. Daniel is my middle name.'
'Fair dinkum?'
'Yep. No one else better hear about this.'
'No worries, Vernon.'
'Don't call me it either.'
'Sorry, Vernon.'
'I mean it, Pizza-head. Don't start.'
'Right you are.'

The multistorey units were casting long shadows across the sand as the sun went down behind them. Doom trod water and waited for another set to come in. One more bash and he'd call it a day. He'd been playing Frogger in the lounge bar for about an hour and seeing as Tragic was still up in their room engrossed in a book he'd decided to go for a swim. The saltwater was great for his skin and he'd turned dark honey bronze from running around in the sun the last fortnight. He looked like a skeg. A couple of waves undulated silently above, beneath and past him. He was too far out now and they weren't breaking. He turned to swim closer to shore, hoping to catch the next one, and noticed he'd drifted a considerable distance. He felt himself being swept along and it dawned on him that he was in a rip. Doom began thrashing towards the rocky point that jutted out at the end of the beach. Within half a minute he could see he wasn't going to make it and started yelling for help as he was dragged past the point out to sea. There were no lifeguards on the beach and no one fishing on the rocks. A couple of surfers were sitting on their boards in the water way over to his left but they didn't see or hear him.
Doom saved his breath and swam to the side of the rip. After a couple of minutes he stopped to assess his position and the urge to panic became stronger. He was way out past the headland and still drifting just as rapidly. He couldn't believe things had got so bad so quickly. Doom was not a strong swimmer. Two laps of the pool at college was the most he'd ever swum without resting. He doubted anyone would see him in the fading light but waved an arm madly above his head anyway.
Tragic sat on the bed in his room and dealt another hand as Diane added Coke to the two glasses that already held a touch of bourbon. Diane was seventeen and the epitome of the little surfie chick - bleached hair, golden-brown skin and a body to crawl across broken glass for. She was also Bill Nolan's daughter. Tragic had introduced himself to her a few days ago when she was having lunch with her mother in the beer garden. Her boyfriend wasn't around this evening so Tragic suggested a game of cards up in his room until Luke got back. That was some cause for concern as Doom had been gone over three hours now but Tragic figured he was old enough to take care of himself. And three was a crowd. The book he'd been pretending to read was still lying where he'd thrown it as soon as Doom had left him alone.He taught Diane how to play canasta but after a third of the bourbon disappeared, the idea of strip poker was brought up. By Tragic, of course. He was feeling especially pleased with himself and the fact that he had three queens and a pair of aces up his shirt sleeve was a major factor. Diane had already lost her shoes and socks. The jacket was next.
Doom counted his strokes. It was his third set of a thousand. He stopped to check his progress. The lights in the distance didn't seem to be any closer. He started swearing and it made his throat hurt. A long while ago, he'd lost any sense of time; the rip had brought him up against a line of buoys. His relief was short-lived when a sharp jerking from underneath the surface made the whole apparatus shake violently. He realised he was resting on a shark net. Fatigue fought and beat the urge to immediately head back to land. He was almost a kilometre from shore. The moon still hadn't risen and apart from his own hand in front of his face the lights of town were the only things he could see. The shaking subsided and he thought about clinging to the net all night but the cold made him head back
to land.
Doom lay his arms out in front of him and took a breath before resting his head in the water. He'd never felt so painfully tired. His arms and shoulders burned and the sensation only worsened when he started swimming again. It was time to count another thousand. He cursed softly and then rolled his left arm over, followed by the right. One. His eyes stung from the sea water so he kept them shut most of the time. Two. He began playing Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here' in his mind. It was one of those songs he could sing in his head over and over.
'HEY, VERNON! IS LUKE BACK YET?'
Tragic nearly hit the roof and dropped his cards but he
recovered quickly and raced to the door of his room. Bill was at the foot of the stairs.
'Nah, mate. I think he was going to see a movie.' 'WELL, TELL HIM HIS TEA'S IN THE OVEN.' 'No worries, Bill.' He put his hand on his heart. Shit, that was close. Diane was hiding under the bed when he got back.
'Danny,' she asked as she sat back on the chair wearing only her jeans and a bra, 'why was Dad calling you Vernon?' 'Just his sick idea of a joke, Diane. Your deal.' 'Did they getcha to trade, your heroes for . . .' The cramp returned with greater intensity and Luke stopped and sank in the water, trying to massage his calf. He knew he had to stop the second he felt it or it would be the end of him. When he was sure it was gone, he resurfaced and took a look to see how far he had to go. 'Fuck!' He slapped a hand into the water. He had very little left in the tank and the lights didn't seem any closer than they were before he'd started. A wave went over him and he coughed from swallowing sea water. The question of whether or not to keep going began to repeat itself in his head. He was beginning to contemplate the alternative when something beneath the surface brushed his leg. Doom whirled about, thrashing in the water, trying to see what it was. He struck out for the beach again, the after-feeling of the touch still on his leg. He wanted to turn around to see if it was following him but couldn't find it in himself to do so. He kept swimming. 'Please, God. Please, God.' He swam, keeping his left leg motionless, dragging it through the water, praying the cramp wouldn't return. He kept rolling his arms over and didn't bother counting and the tiredness left him. He kept swimming and thought he could hear the noise of the surf breaking but he didn't stop. He felt the push and pull of theswells. He kept his head down, refusing to look. A wave picked him up and pounded him into the sand. The sand.
He stood up and another wave dumped on him, knocking him over, almost drowning him ten feet from shore. He scrambled out of the water, coughing, and waded onto the beach. When he was completely out of the ocean, on dry land, he turned around and sat down, hunched over, relief flooding into every fibre. He had no idea where he was or how to get home but he felt great.
Tragic sat in his shorts and stared at Diane, who was now down to nothing but a G-string. He'd let her win a few hands to allay any fears that this was not all above board but now there'd be no more Mr Nice Guy. The bourbon was three parts gone and so was Tragic. Diane didn't seem to notice anything amiss when he beat her pair of aces with three aces of his own. He thought she must have been either just as drunk as he was or not too bright or maybe she enjoyed sitting in front of him half naked. Perhaps it was all of the above. That was not important. What was important was the fact that he had four jacks and a king and he knew he'd dealt her sweet FA. He drank in the sight of her pear-sized breasts with their white bikini-strap markings contrasting against her tan and began to congratulate himself on his soon to be legendary status.
The door flew open. Tragic jumped from the chair and Diane dove under the bed again. Doom staggered in.
'Where the bloody hell have you been?' demanded Tragic. 'I was worried sick.'
Doom surveyed the room littered with clothing, took a good look at Diane as she crawled out from under the bed and seriously doubted the sentiments expressed. 'I've been for a swim.' 'What? Must've been a bloody big swim'
'Certainly was.'
Doom slumped onto his bed and shut his eyes.
'I'd better be going, Danny.'
'No! No! Wait! He'll leave,' said Tragic desperately.
'No. It's getting late. I should've been home hours ago. I might see you round.' She began pulling her jeans on and picked up the rest of her clothes. The boy she was actually interested in was asleep, after seeing her almost naked. She couldn't believe it.
'Hang on. What about the '
Tragic tripped over the chair in a valiant attempt to stave off her exit. Diane giggled, then ran out of the room.
'You bastard,' he growled at the sleeping figure. 'Ten minutes. That was all I needed.'
The fun had gone out of him and the bourbon had decided it was payback time. Tragic could feel the room spinning. He made it to the sink just in time. The gushing and spasmodic coughing woke Doom.
'You all right?'
'Get fucked,' said Tragic. He stood slumped over the clogged sink for a short while, decided to unclog it in the morning, then slunk to his bunk. He thought about getting- up again to rinse his mouth but couldn't be bothered. Another ten minutes. The best-laid plans of mice and men.

Doom sat on the beach and looked out at the Pacific Ocean. She still seemed friendly. He didn't bear a grudge. His bags were packed and sitting next to Tragic's a few metres away. He watched a couple of skegs walking up the sand with their boards and wished he could surf. They had the right idea. Doom looked back out at the water and tried to spot the shark net. It was too far away.'Here,' said Tragic, sitting down beside him, breaking a hot dog in two and handing one half over.
'Ta.' They ate in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, the carefree attitude of the past two weeks almost non-existent. They'd missed the previous bus and now had an hour and a half to kill before the next one was due to leave. It was a pleasant winter afternoon but school started the next day and its inevitability hung over them like a rain cloud. The moroseness had taken its toll, the two of them becoming irritable and curt with each other, and the fact that their money was almost gone didn't help matters. They'd considered asking Bill for a loan to tide them over until they got back to school but after his wife saw the state Diane was in when she got home the other night, Bill's relationship with them had cooled somewhat. Doom was pretty peeved at Tragic about that as well, but then had to admit it was probably out of jealousy more than anything else.
'Sunday afternoon is the worst time of the week,' he said.
'What about Monday morning?' asked Tragic.
'Much of a muchness. This is what scares me. I don't want to live like this.'
'Whaddya mean?'
'Like just living for two days a week. That sucks.'
'Whaddya gunna do then?'
'I dunno,' lied Doom. 'What about you?'
'Same here,' lied Tragic. 'You know what my mum wants me to be?'
'What.'
'A priest.'
'You're kidding.'
'Nuh.'
Doom looked at him, still not sure whether he was serious. 'What makes her think you'd be any good as a priest?'
'I dunno. I was a pretty good altar boy.'
'You were an altar boy?'
'Yeah. What's wrong with that?'
'Nothin'. I was one too but '
'But what?'
'I dunno. I just pictured you being one of those real tough little twelve-year-old bastards,' laughed Doom. 'Gettin' round on your pushbike with a fag hanging out the side of your gob.'
'Ohhh, piss off,' said Tragic. 'Guess what my old man wants me to be?'
'The Pope?'
'No. A fuckin' barrister.'
'What? They don't agree?'
'I say yes to both of them. They never compare notes. Yeah, Mum, I'll be a priest. She gives me another piece of cake. Yeah, Dad, I'll be a legal eagle. Good on ya, Vernon. There's hope for you yet.'
Doom laughed harder. 'You're a legend, man.'
'Mmmm.' Tragic made the noise in the back of his throat. He didn't feel like a legend. He felt like an impostor He lied to everyone, even to the person next to him, even to himself. But in five months he'd be out in the big, bad world. It would be put-up or shut-up time and this whole facade would come crashing down around his ears. All he wanted to do was play halfback for St George. He wanted it so bad some days he could taste it, and if he couldn't do that he couldn't see anything else going for him. But who was he kidding? He couldn't even make the school firsts. He was slow, he was small, he missed too many tackles and he couldn't even get out of bed in the morning to train.
But he had few qualms about lying to his parents. He was still angry at them for making him board. It was only acrosstown; he could've been a day student. His mother knew he needed space but she'd capitulated to her husband who said Vernon had to and that was that.
And he'd hated it from day one. Stuck in a dormitory with eighty-six other juveniles. It was rats in a cage. The pecking order, the shit food, the cliques, the stealing, the dickheads who smoked and thought they were tough, the standover merchants, the locker inspections, the dorm inspections, the bed-strip searches, the cold showers in winter, the queues for everything, the crawlers, the dob artists, the strappings, the fucking bells to tell you to wake up, to get to meals, to get to Mass, to get to study, to get to your dorm, to get to sleep, the fights, the bastards who scabbed money off you and never paid it back. And that was just grade eight.
And in these last two years he'd seen the games people played. The fathers having a word in coaches' ears so they'd pick their kids, the girls who came to dances but wouldn't look twice at anyone who wasn't a prefect, the eggheads who scored ninety-seven percent in exams and argued with the teachers afterwards that they should've got ninety-nine. And the whole charade hosed down and polished up for speech day to make it look like it was character building when it was so far from it. The strong and lucky thrived, the mediocre survived, and poor little bastards like Sebastian Capilano bore the brunt of all their frustrations.
They sat a while longer, then picked up their bags and walked to the bus stop.
'Can I have that pillow for the trip home?'
'No worries, Daniel Boone.'
They waited amongst the crowds of sunburnt tourists with their tired kids and tried to do a crossword puzzle in a newspaper Tragic found lying on a seat.
July
The Flea rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and stifled a yawn. He checked the clock sitting on his desk. Two thirty-seven a.m. He still had another hour's work left. The Flea had attained marginally excellent scores in his first semester exams but after less than a month back at school, had already started to slip behind. He knew a lot of it had to do with the company he kept. When the fourths weren't playing or training, he and Doom and Tragic were borrowing a car and heading out to either of Brisbane's two racecourses or catching a game at Lang Park. They were even sneaking out on weeknights and going to the local drive-in, which was where they'd been tonight (Thursday night was porn night) and why he was still studying instead of getting some sleep.
Daley didn't hang with them much these days. He wasn't even playing rugby any more since he'd contracted a mysterious virus several weeks ago. Brad said it was a rare strain of glandular fever and he needed to go home most weekends to see his doctor. But Kev Thomas could've sworn he'd seen Daley in town one Sunday afternoon getting into a car with some red-headed piece with massive tits.
Meanwhile Doom and Tragic's schoolwork had gone to the dogs and they only needed to do a fraction of the workload The Flea subjected himself to. That was more distracting than any skin flick. It was very disheartening for The Flea being around other people capable of doing so well so easily but who didn't give a shit, while he had to work his arse off just to stay in the hunt. Doom hardly opened his biology text last term but crammed the night before the exam and scored ninety-eight percent. But thatwas a one-off. He failed or just passed everything else. Most teachers had given up on Tragic. They were both throwing it away but neither of them cared or at least didn't seem to.
The Flea envied their nonchalance but any tendency to become likewise in that regard was firmly quashed by the thought of having to face his parents after he'd failed to get into medicine the second time around and going to work in his old man's carpet store. He put his glasses back on and began flicking through his notes.

David Logan stood in the space where, less than two hours ago, he had parked his Mitsubishi. This was the third weekend in a row a vehicle had mysteriously disappeared, only to turn up later in some obscure little nook somewhere on campus. He'd checked with the other brothers on the two previous occasions to see if one of them had commandeered a car for their own use but no one had. In fact, a few of them had similar stories to relate, as did some other members of staff.
Logan had some theories as to what was happening and they weren't along the lines of the Bermuda Triangle. Students had physically pushed, even carried, cars to hiding places as a prank over the years but this was becoming a damned inconvenience. He knew better than to make an announcement for the perpetrators to own up. They'd get careless sooner or later. He was going to make them wish they'd never even entertained the idea when he caught them.
He walked back to the brothers' lounge and hoped Warner and Kiernan wouldn't laugh too hard when he asked them for the keys to the Mazda. This trip was for their benefit anyway. He was going to get some Chinese takeaway for dinner, and another case of port.
The stiff arm caught Jason Walker across the bridge of his nose. His feet went straight out from under him and he landed heavily on his back, the ball spewing from his grasp. Two packs of forwards converged on it. The referee, a grade-eleven student, ruled a knock-on and ignored the high tackle.
'Y'okay, Phantom?' asked Tragic while the forwards reorganised themselves.
'Yeah,' replied Walker. His nose was bleeding.
'Go on the wing for a couple of minutes, mate.' Tragic tried to sound nonplussed but he was seething. He was considering just pulling the whole team off the field, but that would be admitting defeat. There was a bit of animosity between the second, third and fourth fifteens. The fourths were the only senior team still undefeated and it looked like they'd stay that way with only three games left in the season. No one wanted to leave. Not with Coach Louise at the helm -Supercoach now.
Jason Walker and Kev Thomas had both been asked to play for the thirds last Saturday against Church of England Grammar and both had said no. The thirds, seconds and firsts had all suffered defeats against Churchie while the fourths romped home sixty-six to ten. And Tragic was pissed off they'd scored ten. The other sides were pissed off with the fourths' attitude - you didn't want us in May, you can't have us now.
Barry Cox had taken the opportunity, while Supercoach Louise was absent from training, to ask the fourths to take part in a practice game, and Tragic was chiding himself for not seeing the invitation for what it was. Cox was using them as cannon fodder. Barry was playing in the seconds' backline himself, under the pretence of wanting to rest his inside centre for the weekend. Doom had come in for a bit of attention. A huge egg was appearing above his right eye. He took up Jason Walker's position as the forwards packed down. The second fifteen halfback fed the scrum and the ball was shunted back through the rows of feet and rolled out behind the lock. He threw a spiral pass to his five-eighth, who caught and passed the ball in one stride. Cox took it at the full pace and when he'd committed Dumasis, fed the ball on to his outside centre. Doom veered away and followed play across field. Something hit him in the back of his head and the ground came up to meet him. He was disorientated for several seconds and by the time he'd picked himself up off the grass, the second fifteen winger was placing the ball underneath the goalposts.
'This is bullshit,' spat Albert Lee, standing behind the try line with his hands on his hips.
'You all right?' asked The Flea, passing over a water bottle. 'Yeah,' said Doom. 'What happened?' 'Fuckin' Cox belted you again.'
'He's fuckin' mad] said Kev Thomas, pointing at his own head. 'How much longer we puttin' up with this shit?'
'Until they've had enough practice, Fat Cat,' replied Tragic. They jogged back to the halfway line and kicked off again. After a few minutes' play, a ruck formed near the third's quarterline. Tragic pounced on the ball and threw a diving pass to his five-eighth, Mark Lawrence. Lawrence ran a few steps, then threw a low pass to Doom. 'I've got Zit-face.'
Doom heard the words as he caught the ball down near his feet. He looked up and saw Cox coming straight at him. He wasn't confident about getting past, so he put boot to ball and chip-kicked ahead. Cox read it easily. He stretched up and caught the ball in his fingertips on the run.
As he was bringing it back down from above his head, something hit him just under his floating rib and drove him backwards. Cox wheezed and the back of his head slammed into the ground. The ball rolled clear. Kev Thomas swooped on it and headed downfield. As Doom disentangled himself he took aim and drove his knee into Cox's chin, splitting it open and snapping the head back into the ground again. He looked into Barry's eyes for a split second.
By the time the cover defence had caught him, Thomas was inside the second's quarter. Mark Lawrence was running in support and Thomas floated a pass to him as he was being tackled. Lawrence ran to the try line unopposed. Thomas looked around and was surprised to see Doom so close.
'Good work, Fat Cat.'
'Thanks, mate,' replied Thomas.
A ring of players had formed around Barry. Blood was streaming out of his chin, soaking his hair and jersey, and he was still gasping for air. Tragic was ignoring advice from a few of the players to leave him alone and was instead prodding Cox with his boot, not all that gently. 'You all right, Coxy? Coxy? You all right?'
'We still playin' or what?' asked Albert. No one answered. Tragic took the initiative.
'Right. Well, if you need us, you know where to find us.'
He took the fourths back down to the Flats. They lined out at the bottom of the slope and did their hill sprints. They ate up the first ten so they did another ten just for the hell of it. The fifths had finished training and were walking up to the showers and decided to join in.
Then a couple of under-sixteen teams joined in as well and so did some under-fifteens, -fourteens and -thirteens. In the end, over a hundred and fifty players were running up theslope, jogging back, getting set and running up it again. Tragic made sure the under-thirteens and fourteens got a bit of a headstart and no one took off until The Flea said 'Go'.
No one got tired. It was an away fixture against Toowoomba Grammar on the following Saturday and none of them lost.

The young goshawk quartered methodically over the harvested paddock, then tipped her wings upwards and stalled. She fanned out her tail feathers to brake herself and stopped to rest. The crows had eaten all the fresh carrion.
She rarely rested on the ground and only in wide-open spaces. She stood on the baked, cracked earth and collected herself, then took off again with a few lazy wing beats and went in low over the ground, staying out of sight of the house. The fowl yard was out the back, towards the river, behind the shed.
She tipped her wings again but kept beating them and rose sharply over the wire mesh fence. She swooped down on a small brood trailing behind their mother and made a grab for the nearest chick. The shadow from the henhouse disorientated her and she came up empty.
The chooks raced about squawking and scattered for the shelter of the banana trees or the lantana at opposite corners of the enclosure. The goshawk wheeled about in the confusion. In seconds the quarry would be gone. She took another dive at a small ball of yellow down darting along the wall of the henhouse. Her effort was clouded by haste and inexperience and the chick turned and ran back the way it had come.
'Muuum! Mum! He's back again!' Sam raced up the back stairs. The dog started barking.
Kate went into the main bedroom and pulled the single-barrelled twelve-gauge out of the cupboard. She split open the stock and slipped a cartridge into the breech.
The new rooster had bailed up the goshawk. He'd puffed himself up to twice his size and was flapping his wings madly. She was perched above him on top of the feed bin, looking on bemusedly.
Kate snapped the stock back together as she walked down to the backyard. Sam followed behind. She'd only fired the gun once before, at a brown snake two years ago.
The goshawk saw the new threat and took flight. Kate ran the last few steps to get a clearer shot. The shed obscured her view. She thumbed back the hammer and pointed the barrel at the climbing bird. Had it stayed low, it would have made itself a more difficult target.
She squeezed the trigger and the recoil hit her hard in the shoulder. The bang echoed off the walls of the shed and the house and made her ears ring. 'Did you get him, Mum?' 'No, darling.'
They watched it fly off. Kate and Sam went inside and did a quick headcount.
'You're a good boy, Bruce,' she told the rooster. Their old Toyota Hilux came up the drive. John drove past the house and into the backyard. He and Dale spied Kate walking back with the gun and Sam in tow. 'Holy shit! You're in trouble,' said Dale. 'Bugger me dead,' replied his father. 'It's come to this.' They climbed out of the utility. 'Bloody hell, woman,' said John. 'We're not home that late, are we?'
'You just missed it, Dad,' said Sam. 'Mum nearly shot the hawk.'
'Where is he?' asked Dale.
'He's long gone now,' said Kate. 'Bruce scared him off.'
'Bloody Annie Oakley,' smiled John.'Here.' Kate handed him the shotgun and rubbed her shoulder. 'I forgot how much that thing jars.'
'Geez, Mum,' grinned Dale. 'You're a legend.'
August
David Logan looked at Shae Louise sitting across from him in front of his desk and tried to word the question in a way that caused the least amount of embarrassment for both of them.
'Did you hear any. . . disparaging remarks made by the other team? Concerning yourself?'
'How do you mean?'
'Sexist remarks.'
'Oh, I hear them all the time.'
'You do?'
'Yeah. The coach is a sheila, get back to the kitchen . . . um ... oh yeah, have you got your '
'I mean sexual remarks.'
'Oh.' She thought for a moment. She probably had heard a few but couldn't remember if it was here or at a nightclub or while she was shopping. The list went on. 'Why?'
'The captain,' began Logan, and Shae tried hard not to smile at his oblique reference to Miller, 'is adamant that the opposition made repeated derogatory remarks of that nature in reference to you.'
The fourths' second-last fixture against Brisbane Grammar the previous Saturday had caused a few repercussions.
Grammar were renowned for producing the most dirty football sides of all Greater Public Schools. They'd gladly kick someone's head in if it meant not losing. Consequently they won more games than they lost. It was this intimidation that had rattled the fourths in their preseason game against them. Tragic took his hat off to them but was adamant revenge would be his.
In the week leading up to the game, he instructed The Flea to take a bamboo stick to the forwards while they pushed the scrum machine. Any part of the body was fair game, including testicles. The backline was given the same treatment. If they dropped the ball, Tragic slapped, punched and screamed in their faces so much that Shae had to eventually step in. No one complained, however, and Tragic told them at the end of the week that if they could put up with that much abuse, nothing Grammar could do would bother them.
Just prior to the game, Shae and her two housemates, who'd come along to finally meet the sweet little pupil with the chocolates, listened as Tragic delivered an obscenely venomous prematch address that had the rest of the team almost frothing at the mouth.
Tragic delivered his coup de grace just before the teams lined up for the coin toss. 'Albert, I didn't wanna have to tell you this but I heard those Grammar pricks call your mother a big, fat, ugly, slant-eyed bitch.' Albert Lee, who was already prepared to bite his own hand off, became incensed with rage and didn't think to question how Tragic could've heard a conversation amongst a group of people standing more than a hundred yards away.
As the referee's eyes followed the trajectory of the coin, Tragic spat a huge gob of phlegm in the opposition captain's face. Albert headbutted the player nearest him and an all-in brawl erupted. Tragic stood next to the referee and tut-tutted the whole sorrowful display.When some rugby finally got underway, both teams tore into each other like there was no tomorrow. The Grammar fourths were no slouches and the score was twelve all at the break. Grammar took an early lead in the second half but the hill sprints and the home-ground advantage made the difference. Banyo scored four tries in the last fifteen minutes, and they won by twenty. Another fight started straight after the referee blew full-time.
Most of the crowd thought it was one of the best games they'd seen all year, but some were disgusted. No one actually left their seats to complain until the fight was over though.
The entire team was marched into the headmaster's office on Monday morning to explain themselves. Over a dozen people had been in Logan's ear on Saturday afternoon and another half-dozen had rung his office that morning. Even the sportsmaster supported the entire team's suspension, but Logan thought the scar on his chin probably had a big bearing on his sudden stand on football violence.
The fourths' captain and spokesman expounded in great detail how ribald comments made by their opponents concerning Miss Louise had angered them and if sportsmanship meant turning a blind eye to that, they wanted no part of it.
'I don't know whether to believe him or not,' continued Logan. 'I thought you might shed some light on the subject.'
'If they did I didn't hear them,' said Shae, who couldn't help feeling a little bit flattered if it was true.
Logan nodded. 'I've heard you've got a new nickname,' he said.
'Oh no. Not you too.'
'You didn't put on your resume you knew so much about rugby.'
'I didn't want to brag.' She tried to keep a straight face.
Logan could've quite happily spent the rest of the day talking with her, but there was a headmaster's desk between them.

Shae Louise stood next to The Flea on the sideline of Flat Ten and watched as things went from bad to worse in what was the fourths' last-ever game of schoolboy rugby. They'd been told on Friday that they could still play this weekend but in relative obscurity. The only other spectators besides the opposition coach and manager and half a dozen diehard supporters were the nine brown cows chewing their cud behind the barbed-wire fence less than twenty yards away from the far sideline.
Shae looked at Sebastian. He seemed a bit off-colour. She liked Sebastian. He was a funny little guy, never gave much away, and she wished she had his eyelashes. They'd spent a fair bit of time together on the sidelines and didn't always watch the game. She'd asked him what he was going to do when he left school and he said he was going to specialise in brain surgery. When she'd asked him why, he'd answered, 'Beats laying carpet.'
He wasn't as bright as Albert Lee though, who was also going to study medicine. She couldn't fathom how someone like Albert could be so quiet and studious in class yet so incredibly vicious out here. Albert didn't have a nickname, but 'Albert' suited his personality. All the rest of them had nicknames. They all got on.
Shae had played netball at school but she'd never got on with her team-mates like this. There was always a degree of cattiness and someone was always bitching about someone else. And she was as guilty as the rest of them. These blokes constantly took the piss out of each other and if there was a gripe, and there were a few, they'd bark at each other like a pack of dogs and then forget about it.And they were still boys, no matter how often the powers that be told them they were young men and to act accordingly. She envied the way they enjoyed themselves so easily, clinging to the last shreds of their childhood. And they were eager to let her be part of it. And she'd realised last week that she'd gone almost six months without a boyfriend, which was a record for her. She'd always had someone; she'd always had a crutch. It didn't worry her these days. Well, it did a bit now and then. But she had her eye on someone.
She put her hands in her jeans pockets and watched as the Southport fourths posted another try. Her boys were playing like strangers. Luke was absolutely useless. She checked her watch. There was less than a minute to go. 'It's all over, Sebastian,' she said to The Flea. 'Looks that way, coach,' said The Flea, who had a hangover that could kill an elephant.
He, Doom and Tragic had been drinks waiters at the annual Sportsman's Dinner, held in the college dining hall the previous evening. Daley, being a prefect, had been given barman duties and was asked to select three responsible seniors to assist him. While ex-Australian Wallaby Paul McLean and Test fast bowler Jeff Thomson had entertained the four-hundred-strong gathering with stories of their exploits and on-tour escapades, The Flea, Doom and Tragic had consumed eight jugs of Victoria Bitter behind the stage area and Daley couldn't get any work out of them after that. At the end of the evening, when almost all the paying guests had left and the chairs and tables were being stacked away, The Flea grabbed the microphone and performed a surprising excellent rendition of Soft Cell's 'Tainted Love' and then did Frank Sinatra's 'New York, New York' as an encore. Everyone stopped working and joined in, and some of the people waiting outside for lifts came back in to listen.
Shae looked at her team walking back to the try line, shaking their heads. She'd worn the T-shirt Miller had given her. It had a big red S on a yellow shield on the front and the word SUPERCOACH emblazoned on the back. He'd screen-printed it for Shae in art class. Loni Sanders told her he'd worked for three days trying to get the stencils right. She saw him mouth the 'F' word as a Southport player kicked the conversion and tried not to smile. His nickname seemed appropriate at this moment, but why they all called him Tragic was beyond her. He lived the life of Riley.
Shae waited for her team to walk over to her after shaking hands with their opponents and thought she should say something. 'You lot played like a bunch of old molls. Isn't that right, Sebastian?'
'That's right, coach.'
Tragic sat against Shae's car, not feeling all that well himself just quietly, and ate a piece of the cake she'd bought for them. She'd had to rub out the 'UN' in Undefeated Premiers that had been iced on the top. Tragic knew he hadn't played well and he knew it wasn't purely because of last night. He hadn't been nervous before the game. They took them too easy. Stupid. The rest of them were sitting around, not saying much but not hanging their heads either, which was good. Tragic hated melodramatics. The cake tasted like cardboard though.
Daley walked down from the main field and joined them.
'How'd youse go?' he asked.
'Came second,' answered The Flea.
'Too bad. How'd Doom play?'
'Like a busted arse,' said Tragic.
'Well, tell him to get his busted arse up to Benn Oval. Don Gardner wants him to sit on the bench.''For the firsts?'
'Yep. Only if he wants to. Don said to say that.'

Doom stood on the Banyo quarterline watching things unfold in front of him. He'd replaced the full-back five minutes ago and so far hadn't been put under any pressure. He tried to stay calm but everything seemed to happen so much faster at this
level.
The Flea and Tragic sat in the grandstand with eight hundred other students, all dressed in blue and white tracksuits or jerseys, chanting like English soccer supporters. When they'd spelt out the name of their college at half-time, it echoed off the school building and was heard around the neighbouring suburb. Tragic wasn't saying much though. He wasn't even watching the game. His attention was fixed on a dark-haired girl wearing a white dress sitting just inside the picket fence with a friend.
The grassy bank below the promenade was a sea of maroon and blue. The Southport student body was cheering just as loudly, which was a big effort considering they weren't at their home ground.
Channel Nine had sent out a camera crew to get some footage to use as a sports filler for the local evening news. The angle was Southport winning their first rugby premiership in fifteen years. The promenade was ten deep with spectators and every other vantage point around the oval was taken. Shae Louise sat in the top row of a small set of bleachers with her hands under her legs. It was chilly in the shade. She'd never hung around to watch the main game before but this was the last one of the season and she'd heard Luke might be playing. He looked too small out there now. Brother Warner offered her his cardigan. She accepted it before he could change his mind.
The Southport five-eighth put up a torpedo kick, the ball spinning like a bullet and taking a high arc fifty metres down field. Doom had it covered and took it on his chest but he didn't keep his elbows in and it slipped through his arms onto the ground. The grandstand let out a collective groan.
'Fuck my brown dog,' said The Flea.
Doom regathered the ball before the Southport chasers converged on him and the referee called a scrum.
'Don't worry about it,' said Peter Stone. Stone was a Queensland under-sixteen representative. He rarely lost his cool.
A few minutes later, after defending their own line, Banyo came up with possession. Stone thought about kicking but then saw an overlap on his right. He spun the ball wide. It went through two sets of hands. Doom chimed into the backline and called for the ball. The player inside fed him a pass. A little high. Slightly behind. Doom fumbled it. The Flea scratched the back of his head. Tragic looked down at his feet. 'We should never've got on the piss.'
'Fuckin' spastic,' said someone behind them.
The Flea turned around. 'Hey, dickhead! Go and get fucked.'
'Make me.'
'Right!' The Flea started climbing back towards him.
'My fault,' said Adrian Daniels, the outside centre.
Doom shook his head. He should've caught it. He didn't have it today. A few of the Banyo forwards were shaking their heads as they packed in for another scrum.
'It's okay. You'll be right,' said Stone, wishing he could believe it.
The Flea had taken a couple of punches but now had his foe by the throat and was about to give a couple back with interest.He felt several pairs of hands dragging him off before he could get the first one in.
'What's going on over there?' asked Shae, looking at the grandstand.
'I'm not sure,' replied Warner. 'Probably nothing.'
'You'll keep, arsehole!' said The Flea.
When Stone managed to get his hands on the ball again, he kicked it without a second thought. They had to get out of their own half. A few plays later, the Southport half-back attempted a long-range field goal but the ball sliced off the side of his boot, taking a nowhere trajectory into empty space. Doom ran at it as hard as he could. You're not gunna make it, thought Stone. A couple of Southport backs chased it at half pace, waiting for the bounce. Doom was still a couple of yards short just before the ball hit the ground. He was caught in no-man's-land. Too close but too far away. He attacked it at full throttle, snapped it up on the half-volley and sailed past the chasers before they could react.
Two more defenders tried to cut him off as he ran just inside the touchline on the grandstand side. Doom chip-kicked over their heads and chased it but the execution wasn't perfect. The ball wobbled in the air and took a high right-angled bounce toward the sideline. He stretched out his left hand and juggled it in his fingers as he ran, still keeping his feet in field. He dragged it back onto his chest but had to slow down in the process. The Southport full-back came at him from the right. Doom accelerated, still hugging the sideline. He saw nothing but a strip of grass stretching out in front of him. The full-back dived and slapped his right foot in an attempt to ankle tap him.
Doom's right boot shunted sideways and struck his left calf as it went forward into the next stride. He stumbled and doubled over, trying desperately to stay on his feet. The right
boot dug in the ground and his left leg came through. He put his right hand out to break his fall. As his hand touched the ground, just in front of his face, his left boot made contact, driving him forward and up. His fingers pushed off the ground and he felt himself rising.
The corner post was surprisingly close when he looked up again. It hit him that he was going to get there. He ran the last few strides, then dropped slowly to the ground in the in-goal area. He shut his eyes and embraced the couple of seconds he had alone to himself. It was like the beach. No joy, no pride, just relief. 'Stick that up your arse, fuckwit,' shouted The Flea. But his voice was lost in the pandemonium going on around him. The chanting picked up intensity and became even louder when Adrian Daniels converted the try from the sideline.
Doom stood and waited for the kick-off. He was aware of nothing else. He couldn't hear the cheering and had almost forgotten what he'd done a minute ago, or wasn't thinking about it. He wasn't thinking about anything. Things no longer seemed to be happening quickly. He had micro-seconds to spare but wasn't conscious of it. He just reacted.
Darren Johnson, Southport's Australian schoolboy back-rower, busted through Banyo's first line of defence a few minutes later. He fixed his sights on Doom and tried to run straight over him, ignoring the support players on his left. They spat it when Peter Stone tackled Johnson from behind, snapping his ankles together and bringing him down before he could get a clean pass away. It lifted the rest of the Banyo side and when Adrian Daniels intercepted a wayward pass soon afterwards and ran forty metres to score, Banyo took the lead for the first time in the match.
It forced Southport to concentrate on playing the game in the forwards, where they had superior firepower. They dominatedthe line-outs and used the eight-man shove in scrums when it wasn't their feed. They mauled and rucked their way down field within two yards of the goal line. The half-back took the ball from the base of a ruck and tried his luck down the blindside. He dummied a pass to his winger and made a dive to score. He was hit by the Banyo breakaway, Paul Mandrake, an athletic half-caste from Port Moresby, and the force of the tackle was enough to make the ball pop out over the line.
Doom snatched it up and knew he was going to score. He was a hundred metres out but he just knew.
Two defenders grabbed for him as he burst forward off his left foot and headed upfield. They missed by a yard and no one got closer.
He ran scared and it looked fast. The cover defence gave up before he reached the halfway line. Doom didn't slacken off. He burnt up the length of the field in ten and a half seconds. It was so quick it didn't look fair. Don Gardner put his clipboard down and didn't bother with it for the rest of the afternoon.
Doom put the icing on the cake just before full-time after calling for a pass from Stone inside Banyo's half. He threaded a magical path through a traffic jam of defence and weaved his way upfield and slowed down as the Southport winger and full-back converged on him, hoping for backup. It came in the form of Rod Bicton, the prop forward and captain. Doom laid up the sweetest of passes as the defence hit him and the sight of big Rod waddling the last five yards to score brought the house down.
The Flea's glasses were dangling from his left ear as he jumped up and down along with the rest of the throng in the grandstand. The old wooden structure began to tremble and the air filled with dust. Banyo College hadn't won a rugby premiership in twenty-three years. They still hadn't today but they felt like champions regardless. It was pure. It was simple.
It was old-school, rah-rah-rah bullshit. But it was a priceless feeling and every one of them was swept up in it.
Shae Louise hugged Mick Warner, which made Mick's day. Tragic stood amidst the euphoria and stared down at the field. He couldn't help feeling jealous - not about now, but about the future - and was ashamed that he wasn't happy for his friend.

The Flea walked along the promenade next to Doom, carrying his bag. It had taken them half an hour to get this far. Just about everyone wanted to say hello and throw in their twenty cents worth. Doom was still in his football strip. His feet were bare and his ankles still had strapping around them. He wasn't comfortable with the attention. Being gracious tired him out.
'Luke!' He felt a tap on the shoulder, turned around and saw a tall girl in a white dress.
'G'day, Paula.' She'd lost some weight.
'How are you?'
'Not bad. What're you doin' here?'
'Stephanie's brother goes to Southport.' Paula pointed to the girl standing a few yards away. 'We came out to watch.'
'That's nice. This is a mate of mine. Sebastian Capilano. Flea, this is Paula Banks.'
'Hello, Paula.'
'Hi.'
The three of them talked for a while, then Paula said she had to go or else they'd miss their lift. She waved as she walked away. The Flea and Doom waved back. Tragic appeared out of nowhere.
'Who was that?'
'A girl from home.'
'What's her name?'
'Paula. Why?''No reason. You had a good game, mate.'
'Ta.'
'Still on for the drive-in tonight?' asked Tragic.
The rest of the firsts were going to a party at Peter Stone's girlfriend's house.
'Yeah. Whaddya reckon, Flea?'
'I'm game.'
'Beauty,' said Tragic. 'What school does she go to?'
'Who?'
'Paula.'
'I dunno. Lourdes Hill, I think.'
The three of them walked back to the senior residence. Tragic and The Flea waited for Doom to shower and change.
'What's her last name, Flea?'
'Who?'
'Bloody Paula's.'
'I forget.'
'Is she going out with Doom?'
'I dunno.'
'Don't you know anything?'
'Nup.'
When Doom was ready they went to the dining hall. After dinner, Tragic snuck around the quadrangle and borrowed the Mazda. The Flea drove them to the drive-in and they watched Rocky I, II and III.
September
Doom and Sam were parked in the lounge room in front of the television watching the closing stages of the 1984 Sydney Rugby League semi-final between Parramatta and St George. Brett Kenny stood in the tackle and threw a pass to an unmarked Eric Grothe. The 'Guru' scrambled for the try line less than ten metres away. Steve Rogers hit him around the thighs in a copybook tackle but it was too little, too late. Grothe's momentum and huge bulk carried them both over the line to complete one of the greatest escapes ever seen at the Sydney Cricket Ground. 'Parramatta's outta jail! The Eels are out of jail,' exulted Ray Warren. The camera panned to a group of desolate St George players standing around, heads down, trying to figure out how they had let their lead slip in the last dying minutes.
Vanessa came into the room. 'Turn it over. I'm watching Countdown.'
'Get fucked,' said Sam.
Doom heard the phone ring and rose from the couch to answer it. He picked up the receiver.
'There is no God,' said a voice.
'How are ya, Tragic?'
'How do ya think? How the fuck could anyone lose a game like that?'
'Don't know. But they did.'
'I am gutted. I am absolutely gutted. This has ruined my year.'
'Que sera, sera.'
'Yeah. Right. Hey? Do you still wanna see this doctor?''Not really.'
'Aw c'mon, Doom. She won't bite.'
'Geez, Tragic.'
'Mate! We've made the appointment. You'll be in and out in twenty minutes.'
'Yeah but...'
'Bloody hell, Doom. I've gone to all this trouble. The least you can do is go and see her.'
'Yeah. Righto then.'
'Good on ya. I'll meetcha at Roma Street. When's your train get in?'
'About eight in the morning.'
'Beautiful. How's life in the country?'
'Not bad.'
'That good, hey? See ya later then.'
'See ya, Tragic.'
Tragic had suggested he see a doctor about his acne. Doom had told Tragic to get fucked. Eventually, he came around to Tragic's way of thinking. Something had to be done. He was sick of his mother telling him he'd grow out of it. But he was getting cold feet now and wasn't keen about going into a waiting room, then seeing a complete stranger and telling her he was sick of looking like a medium with ham and pineapple.
He sat by the phone and reflected on Tragic's question about life on the farm. He'd returned home with a report card bearing the comments 'does not apply himself; works well within his capabilities' next to some very ordinary scores. Big John took the opportunity to remind him that he only had two months until graduation and couldn't understand why, at the ripe old age of seventeen, his third son still had no idea what career path he wanted to take for the rest of his life.
When Doom's old man wasn't in his ear, Joe and Dale would take it upon themselves to help turn their no-hoper sibling into a useful member of society. The back of Doom's head was still sore from the lump of dry clay Joe had thrown at him after he'd kicked a ball too close to his bedroom window early this morning. And they reckoned country people were laid back.
Vanessa's efforts to make her life storybook perfect were taking their toll as well. After doing everything short of hunger striking, she finally made her parents relent and throw a party to commemorate the sixteenth anniversary of her existence on the planet. Doom and Sam were roped into helping with the preparations. Not that Doom minded, except he'd come perilously close to throwing a chair through the nearest window after Big John joked that he'd make someone a great little wife some day.
On the night of the party, Doom hid up on top of the rainwater tank and looked down on a crowd of people he'd grown up with but didn't know. He watched Vanessa float around like a little social butterfly with Travis Ovens on one arm and the gold bracelet he'd bought her on the other. The whole scenario bored him senseless.
Nothing here held his interest any more. Who was going out, who'd broken up, who was fucking who. He went back into the lounge room to catch the post-game interviews. Doom looked at the Parramatta players. Grand Final winners three years running and next week they'd be going for their fourth. How would it feel?
Doom walked back to the phone and dialled a number. It rang twice before a woman answered. 'Hello?'
'Hello. Mrs McLachlan? This is Luke Dumasis. Is New there?''Yes. I'll just get him for you.'
'Thanks, Mrs McLachlan.' Doom heard her yell out to her son.
Like Doom, Neville McLachlan was making a tough fist of it through the puberty years. He was freakishly tall, fragile thin and totally uncoordinated. New had copped more than his fair share of abuse from the first day he'd lobbed at Banyo and retreated into his own world soon after. New had two hobbies. One was video production. He was now the resident video head at Banyo College. New ran the media centre and recorded all the goings on - award ceremonies, speech days, theatre productions and sporting events.
Doom had asked him to compile a highlights video of the game against Southport with the footage he'd recorded off the local Channel Nine News that same evening and the stuff he'd filmed himself.
'Doomsday,' said New in his deadpan voice. 'How's it going?'
'Not bad, Neville. How's yourself?'
'I'm well. The project's going well too.'
'Is it?'
'I've done all the editing. What soundtrack do you want?'
'Soundtrack?'
'Yes. Music.'
'Geez, Neville, I dunno.'
'Thought as much. How's the instrumental part of "Industrial Disease" sound?'
'How does that go?'
'You must get out of the house more, farm boy. Leave it with me. I'm hanging up.'
Doom put the phone down. He had to ring Brother Warner tomorrow. Mick Warner used to teach a young fellow named
Henry Archer at a school near Mt Isa back in the fifties. Henry Archer was now the President of the Northern Suburbs Rugby League Football Club.
Tragic sprawled out on the modular sofa in the sunken level of the family room, watching one of the household's four TVs. As wretched as he was about their loss, he still loved St George and envied the players. They'd be feeling like arseholes now but in a few weeks' time they'd be hitting the piss and playing up like secondhand lawn-mowers. That was what it was all about. All Tragic wanted was one big game, one big day and a ten-year career of wine, women and skill. Doom could get it. Tragic had told him about Crusty Warner's connection with Brisbane Norths. They'd sign him up no worries. He'd have a couple of seasons in the Brisbane competition and then the big-league Sydney clubs would spot him, sure as the sun was going to rise tomorrow. And there was a good-looking guy behind those zits. He'd have the world on a string. Tragic knew he wasn't as blessed. He wasn't good enough to run around in Brisbane waiting to get discovered. He'd have to go down south off his own bat and play in one of the junior clubs and work his way up through the ranks: Jersey Flegg, President's Cup, under twenty-threes, and then hopefully reserves and first grade.
He looked out through the glassed-in patio at Steve, who was sunning himself on an airbed in their backyard pool. His head was nodding up and down to whatever he was listening to on the walkman their mother had bought for him. Steve had wanted one for weeks and had given her a big hug and a 'You're the best mum, Mum'. Like he couldn't go out and buy the fuckin' thing himself. Not a chance. He spent all his pay on clothes.
Tragic thought about going outside and dive-bombing him. Then he did.Canterbury-Bankstown beat Parramatta in the Grand Final
seven days later.

'What're your legs?' growled The Flea, re-enacting the scene from Gallipoli between Archie Hamilton and his uncle.
'Hey?' Doom hadn't seen the movie.
'Springs. Steel springs,' The Flea answered for him. 'What're they gunna do?'
'I dunno.'
'They're gunna hurl you down the track. How fast can you run?'
'. . . pretty fast?'
'You're s'posed to say "As fast as a leopard".'
'As fast as a leopard.'
'How fast are you gunna run?'
'You're s'posed to say "As fast as a leopard", again.'
'As fast as a leopard . . . again.'
'Then let's see ya do it.' The Flea poked him in the chest. Slightly bewildered, Doom handed over his tracksuit and The Flea walked to the outside of the track. A marquee had been erected nearby but it was already crowded and The Flea knew he wouldn't get to see a thing, so he joined Daley who was lying on the grass next to the hundred-metre straight.
'How'd you go?' asked The Flea.
'Came last,' replied Daley.
'Ahhh well.'
'Yeah.' Daley's doleful expression was not in the least bit connected to his poor showing in the high jump. He wouldn't have even been here had his glandular fever not been quickly cured by an enraged husband who'd come home early from a trip down south to find his wife taking a bath with someone
half her age. Daley had taken three slaps around the head before he could get past him to grab his clothes. He raced naked out of the house and hurdled a dozen backyard fences before he was certain it was safe to stop and dress himself. He hadn't seen Shelley since.
'Ahhh,' said The Flea. 'Finally arrived.' Tragic walked towards them carrying a towel, sunglasses, tape recorder, form guide and a small esky. 'Has he run yet?' 'Na. Just about to,' answered The Flea. 'What took you so long?' asked Daley. 'I missed the bus. Had to borrow a car. Would've got here sooner but I had to put a bet on.'
'Geez! Why do you do that? It's just a matter of time before you get caught.'
'I parked two blocks away. Me name's Billy, not Silly.' 'Where'd you get the esky from?' 'It was in the boot. You want a beer?' 'Ohhh, for fuck's sake, Tragic.' 'Just jokin'. I've got Fanta, Solo or Coke.' 'Chuck us a Fanta,' said Daley. 'Give us a Solo,' The Flea said in a deep voice. Tragic handed him a can and the three of them settled back in the sun and listened to a Cheech and Chong tape.
Doom crouched in the blocks. The nerves were there but they had been worse. He was worried about getting his start right. He was competing in the two and four hundred metres. Barry Cox was the sprint coach and he seemed to be giving most of his attention to the one hundred so Doom naturally distanced himself from it. He and Cox had developed an unspoken truce. Neither paid the other any attention and both made an effort to stay out of each other's way.
The gun went off and Doom came out a touch slow. Heleaned towards the inside of his lane slightly and righted himself when he came out of the bend, creating a sling-shot effect. He coasted the last fifty metres and finished fourth. He pulled up slowly and went to check his time. It wasn't too bad but the run hadn't felt right. He couldn't find what he'd touched on scoring that try against Southport.
Walking over to the other three, he saw Paula Banks standing behind them. She'd lost a heap of weight. Paula noticed him notice her and went to greet him. She and Stephanie had gone into town on a shopping trip and taken a detour to Brisbane Boys College to catch up with Stephanie's potential new boyfriend. Paula had come along for moral support but the company of two people who only had eyes for each other was becoming tiresome. Luke was welcome relief.
He introduced her to The Flea again and then Brad Daley and Danny Miller. She sat on the grass with them and chatted. Tragic offered her a soft drink. She declined.
After an hour, Doom had to warm up for the four hundred and The Flea went with him, hoping he'd remember his lines this time around. Tragic sat and watched Daley flirt with Paula, hoping he would disappear. When Daley went to get a hamburger, Tragic wished he hadn't gone. The silence was painful.
'Do you come from the same town as Luke?' he finally asked.
Paula looked at him. His sunglasses were a little too big. He looked like a blowfly. 'Yes.'
'Is it nice up there?'
'It's okay.'
'That's good.'
Her friend turned up and the two girls talked amongst themselves. When Daley returned they were all smiles. Tragic felt like Nicole Kidman's little sister. Doom ran his race and came second behind the state champion. The Flea was adamant his pre-race talk was a major help. Tragic was adamant The Flea was full of shit, but didn't say as much. They offered the girls a lift back to school. All six of them piled into the Mitsubishi, Stephanie sitting on Daley's lap.
'Have we got enough petrol, Tragic?' asked Daley.
'Yeah, no worries.'
Daley looked over Tragic's shoulder from the back seat, squashing up against Stephanie in the process. 'It's just above the empty mark.'
'She's got another fifty clicks in her once the needle gets on empty, old woman.'
'Well, I don't want a repeat of last time.'
'Neither do I, Bradley. Neither do I.'
'Is that horse running in a couple of minutes?' asked Doom.
'Yeah,' said Tragic. He began fiddling with the radio.
'How much did you put on it?' asked The Flea.
'A bit.' A bit being the last two hundred dollars Tragic and Doom had in their bank accounts, which was meant for school expenses.
'What's its name?' asked Daley.
'Superguts!'
'You . . . are . .. kidding,' said Daley.
'I don't care what it's called,' said Tragic, 'as long as it wins.'
They drove along Coronation Drive and Doom turned the radio up when the odds were being read out. Superguts was paying seven-fifty for the win. When she came in, Tragic was going to pull his stub out and wave it under Daley's nose. That'd shut him up.
By the time Tragic got on the Captain Cook Bridge, the race had begun and Superguts had missed the start by four lengths. She sat at the tail of the field until the home turn, then went five wide and had a run on the outside.'Come on, sweetheart!'
'Go, Superguts.'
'Run, ya moll.'
'She's got no hope,' said Daley.
Paula and Stephanie exchanged glances. Superguts finished seventh. It took all of Tragic's self-control not to swear in front of the girls.
'Bugger!'
'Bummer!' agreed The Flea.
'Told ya,' said Daley.
'Who's the jockey?' asked Doom. 'He rode that nag like a
bag of sand.'
'Did you lose much money, Danny?' asked Paula. 'Ohhh . . . no. Not in the big scheme of things.' They dropped the girls off a couple of hundred metres from the college entrance. If the nuns saw them get out of a car full of boys, there'd be hell to pay.
'Those guys are weird,' said Stephanie. 'Yeah,' agreed Paula but she was glad she'd met them all the same. They were funny. And Brad was a spunk.
'That Stephanie's a tidy little piece,' observed The Flea as they drove back to the north side. The others murmured their agreement. 'The other one's not much chop,' said Daley. 'She's all right,' said Tragic.
'Whatever you reckon,' replied Daley. 'Shit, Flea, you're not the only one here who needs glasses.'
'Careful, Bradster. You're talking about Tragic's girlfriend.'
'Pull your head in,' said Tragic.
'Oh I see,' said Daley, picking up the ball and running with
it. 'Is that a fact?'
'Yes,' breathed The Flea. 'Tragic has been shot right up the
arse by Cupid's arrow.'
'Get fucked, four-eyes.'
'What will Shae Louise think when she finds out there's another woman?' asked Daley, stroking the back of Tragic's neck.
'Keep this shit up and you'll all be walking home.'
'Take it easy, Tragic,' sang Daley. 'Don't get shitty on us just because you've got lovers' nuts over Mrs Big Bird.'
The other two laughed and Tragic kept his mouth shut. But he was extremely pissed off. They were right about Stephanie. She was petite and pretty and presented herself to the world in a way to make it obvious and normally Tragic would've appreciated the effort. The other girl seemed within herself, as if she accepted it wasn't her time yet. But Tragic could see the swan. He couldn't believe they couldn't see it and he didn't like them laughing at her expense.
'Hey, Sebastian,' said Tragic. 'Speaking of being shot up the arse, there's a great big carrot back at school with your name on it.'
'Ohhh, Tragic. That really hurts.'
'It will, Sebastian. When it goes fair up your ring.''
'Get fucked, Tragic.'
'Ohhh, yeah. Right-up-your-arse, man.'
'Get fucked.'
'Right up there, baby.'
It was like that for the rest of the trip. Daley had to physically restrain The Flea at one stage and Tragic said he'd gladly stop the car and sort it out on the side of the road then and there but he never actually did pull over. The two of them didn't talk to each other for a day or so.

The Kingswood Belmont weaved through the Sunday-morning traffic at just under a hundred and ten kilometres an hour.Logan's fingers gripped the dashboard so intently as to imbed themselves in the duco. His plane for Sydney left in less than fifteen minutes and he appreciated Shae doing her utmost to get him there on time but her margin for safety was considerably narrower than most people's. He shut his eyes as she ducked out from behind a line of three cars and overtook them as a truck came from the other direction.
Despite his anxiety, Logan was still very much aware of her. He tried his best not to stare at the legs as they flexed and relaxed while her bare feet stabbed at the pedals. They were clad in a pair of faded cut-off jeans. A long-sleeved cotton shirt was knotted at her waist and she'd swept her hair back in a ponytail.
He was almost grateful his Mitsubishi had stopped on him before he'd even driven out the school gates. The fuel gauge showed empty. She had driven into the college to retrieve some paperwork and found him standing next to his car, with his bags in his hands.
Shae ran a red light and brought the Kingswood sideways into the wrong end of a one-way street. Eagle Farm airport loomed ahead of them. She slammed on the brakes as they approached a T-section. The tyres howled and the smell of burnt rubber permeated the car. A van veered around them and the driver yelled something ending in 'bitch!'. 'Sorry,' she squeaked, then planted her foot again.
They came to an abrupt halt barely a foot from the rear of a stationary taxi, just outside the main doors of the Ansett terminal.
'Do you think you'll make it, David?'
'Well, the worst part's over.'
She returned his grin and they both let the moment last longer than was necessary.
'I'd better get going,' said Logan.
'Do you need a hand with your bags?'
'No thanks. You'll have to move your car first anyway.'
'All right. Have a nice trip, David.'
'Thanks.' He lifted his cases out of the back seat.
'See you,' she said.
Logan stood on the footpath and watched her drive off. He checked himself and walked quickly through the doors to seat allocation. His best friend was dying and his mind was on a woman.
October
Henry Archer rubbed his chin as Dire Straits began to fade out along with the image on the screen. Archer had seen the videotape twice already. The first time was at Banyo College with Brother Warner after he'd phoned and arranged a meeting. The other occasion was in this office, his office, alone.
Henry pressed stop, then rewind on the remote control. 'Here.' He handed a stopwatch to the person next to him. Archer stopped the tape again, pressed play and fast forwarded to the part he wanted.
'Start it... now'.' They watched the full-back run the length of the field. 'Stop!' He looked down at the time. 'Well?'
'Ten point eight.'
Henry lifted his portly frame out of the chair and pressed the eject button on the video recorder. 'What do you think?'
The young gentleman seated next to his desk watched Henry place his thumbs behind his braces. At twenty-three, Greg Yeates was already one of the more senior players at theclub, in terms of standing rather than age. He was a rugby union convert, having played with the Australian Under Twenty-ones for two years before being approached by Archer to join the professional code. Three Sydney clubs were chasing him with very substantial offers. Henry had managed to keep him for at least one more season thanks to a lot of tactful persuasion - and a contract that, on paper, only half matched the money being offered by the larger southern organisations but under the table was substantially more.
Yeates knew Archer better than most, having spent a majority of his time working in Henry's illegal bookmaking operation, which was the first job he'd been offered since coming to play for Northern Suburbs.
Archer tugged at his braces and let them snap back onto his shirt. Henry was the sort of bloke who kept Brylcreme factories in business. But the style suited him. Yeates knew what Archer wanted to hear.
'I'm very impressed, Henry.'
'Impressed? I'm bloody amazed, Yeatesy.' Henry never called anyone by their nickname unless he was very pleased with himself.
'Have you met him yet?' asked Yeates.
'No. But I have it on good authority he's no ratbag. Nice young fellow, in fact.'
'Young's the word.'
'Yes,' mused Archer.
'So you're going to sign him?'
'I'm considering it.' That was a yes. 'I was wondering if you'd come along with me when I go to see him,' said Henry.
'Not a problem.'
'Good. You can tell him what a nice bloke I am.'
The water was cold and no light broke through the darkness. Darkness wasn't the word. Blackness. The other four senses worked overtime to give some impression of the surroundings. Something was lurking behind. He tried to swim faster but his panic increased. It was getting closer. He felt it almost upon him and screamed.
Doom sat bolt upright in his bed. A pin-up of Ziggy Stardust looked back at him in the dimness. He let out a long breath and ran both hands through his hair.
He'd been plagued by this nightmare on and off since Caloundra. He slunk out of bed and headed for the bathrooms. A light was on in one of the rooms down the corridor.
'Flea. Whaddya doin'?' Doom blinked a few times to adjust his eyes.
'I don't know.'
'It's three o'clock.'
'I fucking know that.'
'Have you got a test tomorrow?'
'No!'
'Whaddya doin' this for then?'
The Flea looked at him, then shook his head. 'You've got no idea, have you? I'll be flat out passing this semester, let alone getting decent marks.'
'You'll be right,' said Doom, leaning over his shoulder and leafing through a textbook.
'Like fuck.' The Flea yanked the book away and set it on the other side of the desk.
'What's wrong, man?'
'What's wrong? Fuck me. What's right? I've done nothin' for the past two weeks. I'm flat out understanding this shit at the best of times. This whole year's gunna be a waste of fucking time.' He started looking for the page he was up to.
'There's still six weeks to go. I'll help you.'
'You don't even do physics.'
'Tragic does.'
'Ohhh, fuckin' hell. Is that supposed to cheer me up?'
'Flea, we can help you catch up.'
'Catch up? I don't even know where to start. It's beyond me.'
'Can't you see someone about it?'
'Warbolt won't help me. He reckons I've had this coming.'
'Tell him to get stuffed.'
'And where's that gunna get me? I have to get into uni next year or I'm history.'
'Why?'
'Because?
'Fair enough.' Doom stood for a while, not knowing what to do. 'Maybe you should get some sleep.'
'I'll sleep when I feel like it. Just piss off and let me get on with it.'
'Okay.' Doom left and went to the bathroom. The Flea punched his bookshelf twice. He didn't sleep much. Neither
did Doom.

Tragic stood in the phone booth, gripping the receiver with white knuckles and listening to the background noise on the other end of the line. He could hear voices but couldn't make out any words. Then he heard the sound of shoes running up wooden stairs. He recognised the next voice and swallowed. The phone was picked up and she spoke to him. 'Hello?'
'Hello. Paula?'
'Yes.'
'It's Danny.'
'Danny?'
'Yeah. Danny Miller.'
'Oh ... hi.'
'Yeah. Hi... How've you been?'
'Okay.'
'That's good . . . How's school going?'
'All right.'
'That's good. Same here.' The conversation laboured on for another five minutes before Paula decided to ask Danny if there was any special reason for calling her.
'Well. Yeah, sort of.'
'What is it?'
'Well, I was wondering if. . . you know.'
'What?'
'Would you like to ... maybe . . .'
'What?'
'Would you like to come to the senior formal with me?' There, he'd said it.
'When's it on?'
'In a couple of weeks.' There was no reply. 'Paula?'
'Can I think about it?'
'Yeah. Sure. No worries.'
'I'll think about it then.'
'Okay. Do you want me to ring you back?'
'If you want.'
'When?'
'Whenever.'
'Okay. See ya.'
'Bye.' The line went dead. Tragic hung up the phone. It wasn't exactly, 'Oh yes, I'd love to, I'm so thrilled you asked me,' but it wasn't no either. Tragic hated this feeling.
He'd had his first taste of unrequited love at twelve years of age when his first and only girlfriend had flicked him to play spin the bottle with a bunch of older boys. Since then he'dlearnt to spot the signs of disinterest early, though it didn't stop him from ignoring them all the same.
He was going to get burnt. He knew it.
Paula walked up to her room and sat on the bed. She'd never been asked out by a boy before, her only experience with the opposite sex being a painful, clumsy ten minutes in the back of a car with Travis Ovens. She was still getting over that.
Everyone back home told her she had her mother's looks but it was beyond her how they made such a connection. She took out the barbecue photo and stared at the image of Jean Banks, who managed to look beautiful even in a polaroid.
Paula knew she couldn't afford a dress and would have to make one if she decided to go. And her hair was a mess. And she wished she was thinner.
Danny Miller. He was nice. Short but nice. She'd have to borrow shoes as well. Preferably low heels. Maybe she'd get to dance with Brad Daley at some stage.

'If you hit it at full pace, there's no way you'll get hurt.'
'Are you sure?'
'Who's the physics student? You or me?'
'You are but The Flea reckons you're not that good.'
'Look. It's a scientific fact. You've seen those pictures of a bullet going through a balloon? The bullet's long gone before it bursts. Same principle.'
'I dunno, Tragic.'
'Hey? Don't you wanna help The Flea? Remember how he bashed Gordon for you?'
Tragic's recollection of that particular event had already conveniently erased his own precarious circumstances. Within a few years his version of the incident would describe how he himself had cut Gordon down to size.
'Yeah but'
'Well, mate. I can't think of a better plan than this one.' 'Why don't you create the diversion and I'll steal the exam papers?'
'Because no teacher likes me. If they saw me have an accident, they'd just stand up and cheer.'
Doom couldn't argue with that. He looked at the sliding glass door of the senior common room and then back to the teachers' lounge. They were at right angles to each other, both facing the car park. Everyone in the lounge would hear the smash. There would be chaos all round for the next few minutes. It was a brilliant plan. In theory.
'You're sure I won't get hurt?'
'Couple of scratches at the most.'
Doom looked at the door. 'Okay then. When do we do it?'
'When Warbolt starts giving us the chapters we have to revise, I'll know he's written the exam. Should be soon. Next week maybe.'
'Great,' moaned Doom.
'What's wrong?'
'For a week all I'll be thinking about is running through a glass door.'
'Well, you've got a week to think of another plan then.'
'I will.' Doom stared at the door in deep thought. Tragic started singing 'Break on Through' to help set the mood. 'Who are you taking to the formal?' he asked when he'd finished the chorus.
'I'm not going.'
'Why not?'
'I'm just not.'
'I can't go on my own.'
'You won't. You'll be with a girl.''You know what I mean.'
'I'm not going. It's all bullshit anyway.'
Tragic guessed the subject was closed. Doom was swearing, which meant he was upset. He'd never once gone to the school dances the college held and Tragic knew why. His skin was improving though. The antibiotics must've been working. The doctor said there'd be no scarring either.
Paula would feel more comfortable if Doom was there. She still hadn't given him an answer but it had only been two days.

Brother Vincent Collins initialled the last of four letters needing his signature and returned his engraved silver-plated ballpoint pen to his breast pocket. Brother Logan was still away on personal business and wouldn't be back for another three weeks at least but he was hardly being missed. Collins had been in the driving seat for the past ten days and was running a tight ship, even if he said so himself.
Discipline at the college had slackened over the past several months in his opinion and he was going to rectify it. He had only a quarter of an hour to enjoy his morning tea before three eighth-grade students were to see him regarding a water-bombing incident the previous evening.
He opened his drawer and placed a thick sixteen-inch leather thong, reinforced with a strip of metal in the middle, next to the headmaster motif on his desk. It would intimidate them into telling the truth and then he would use it on the perpetrator.
The secretary brought in his tea with two biscuits lying on the saucer.
'Thank you, Marge.' He handed her the letters he'd signed. 'Shut the door on your way out, will you?'
'Yes, Brother.'
Stuart Crofton slid the three-page contract across his desk towards the other two men seated opposite. John Dumasis placed a massive hand over the top corner and picked up a pen. Big John's younger brother, Nicholas, sat down next to him. This meeting was the culmination of over six months of negotiations and a substantial amount of sales pitch.
Dumasis Brothers Pty Ltd grew just under ten thousand tonnes of sugarcane. Since the European Economic Community's dumping of a surplus on the world market eighteen months ago, the price of sugar had halved. Domestic interest rates were running at fourteen percent and rising, and there hadn't been a decent wet season in almost three years.
After paying out the harvesting contractors and trying to service all their other financial commitments as best they could, the Dumasis brothers had made a handsome profit in the last financial year - somewhere in the region of minus thirty thousand dollars. The year before was almost as bad. The year ahead looked much worse. If they didn't do something soon, it would be all over, red rover.
The phrase bandied about these days was 'get big or get out'. And seeing as their old man had started from scratch with a piece of land no bastard in his right mind would've grown cane on sixty years ago, the 'get out' option was really not an option at all.
Cecil Davis had three hundred acres upriver from Nick's place and no sons to work it. Cecil himself wasn't getting any younger and had decided to put it on the market at the start of the year. He could've quite easily got a million for it in 1980 but there had been no takers up until now, even for just over half that price.
John and Nick had thought about it, but the current rates for a six hundred thousand dollar mortgage compared with thereturns spelt financial suicide. But there were other ways to skin a cat.
The Rosetta Sugar Milling Co-operative was also feeling the pinch. In a bid to diversify, the mill had decided to tap into the lucrative tourism boom by acquiring a resort, at nearby Airlie Beach.
In the course of looking for ways to finance this project, the mill's board of directors, on which John Dumasis sat, had been introduced to the concept of overseas borrowing by its bank earlier in the year. The bank's state corporate manager, corporate business manager and overseas business manager, along with the local manager of the Rosetta branch, Stuart Crofton, made quite an impression on the board. They explained the techniques of financing using European currencies and told them that by taking out the loan in Swiss francs, the mill would only be subject to that country's interest rates, which were currently less than four per cent. There didn't seem to be any significant downside. It looked too good to be true.
The overseas business manager, Marvin Goddard, assured them this was not the case and affected them with his expertise and confidence. He spoke like a man who knew what he was talking about.
At a dinner between the bankers and the directors later the same day, Big John spoke with Goddard at length about the prospect of a private business borrowing in Swiss francs. Goddard replied that provided the loan involved was not less than half a million dollars, there would be no difficulty.
Over the following few months, John Dumasis had gleaned as much information as he possibly could through his local bank. Stuart Crofton told him he had processed such a loan at his previous branch. Crofton mentioned, without particular emphasis, that there was a slight risk with the possibility of currency fluctuations. He showed Dumasis a graph of the movement of the Swiss franc from 1972 to 1982. It was a very stable currency, particularly in comparison to the Australian dollar, where it was trading one point eight.
After a few sleepless nights, John put the case of financing the purchase of Cecil's farm using the Euro loans mechanism to his brother and their accountant, Ross Maguire.
John had two boys on the land already. Nicholas had one. If they wanted to leave them anything capable of scratching a decent living out of, overseas money was the way to go. They had faith in the industry. Things would come good. Maguire agreed. And Cecil thought it was Christmas.
John signed at the bottom of all three pages for a one million and eighty thousand franc loan, equivalent to six hundred thousand Australian dollars. He handed the contract over to Nicholas. Nick signed on the dotted lines next to his brother. Their own farms, which were valued at twice this amount, had been put up as security.
A rival banking corporation had offered the Dumasis brothers a similar package two weeks ago, when word had got out what they were doing. It was a more attractive deal. They could've borrowed to a higher percentage of their security, but seeing as their family had done business with Crofton's bank since it had opened in Rosetta over seventy years ago, they decided to do the right thing and stick by them.
Nick handed the papers back to Crofton. Stuart shook hands with both John and Nicholas and told them they were the first people in North Queensland, including big towns like Cairns and Rockhampton, to take out such a loan.
The three of them went across the street to the Ambassador Hotel for a beer. Stuart Crofton bought the first round. It wasthe first time the Dumasis brothers had ever been shouted a drink by a bank manager.
Stuart was very pleased with himself. The banks were flogging these deals for all they were worth. Managers were receiving bonuses for any loan over half a million. And he felt certain this would be the first of several.

Tragic knocked on the door of the teachers' lounge and entered before anyone could answer and turn him away. The quiet hum of the airconditioner was the only sound that greeted him, a sharp contrast to the noise generated by several hundred teenage males horse-playing outside. He understood now why students weren't welcome here. A dozen weary faces stared at the interruption to their brief respite.
'What do you want?' asked Cox, who was sitting next to the new temp. It was rumoured he was poking her.
'Brother Collins wants me to do some photocopies of last week's newsletter . . . sir.'
'There's a copier in the library,' said Ernie Warbolt. 'You know you're not allowed in here, Miller.'
'Yes, I know, sir. But there's a crowd of kids around it and Collins wants them done by one o'clock to catch the mail.'
'That's Brother Collins to you.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Very well then. Hurry up about it.'
'Thanks, sir.' Tragic walked around the lunch table. 'G'day, Mrs Davies. You look a picture today.'
'Hello, Danny,' replied the sixty-three-year-old librarian.
'Hey, Mr Tessman. How's the wife and kids?' The newly divorced woodshop teacher did not reply.
Tragic raised the lid of the photocopier and shuffled the papers he'd brought, making a pretence of arranging them in
some sort of order. The filing cabinet in the corner of the room was open. Loni Sanders was bending down to retrieve a folder out of the second-bottom drawer. Tragic dragged his eyes off her arse and tried to think straight. Where was Warbolt's stuff?
'Master Miller! What are you doing here?' Tragic turned around and saw Brother Collins standing in the doorway.
'He's copying a newsletter for you,' answered Cox.
'For me, is it?'
'Well, it's not exactly for you, Brother,' cut in Tragic.
'It's not?'
'No. It's for ... you know . . .'
'No. I don't know.' Collins walked towards him. The faces of the staff followed. Tragic felt like Sammy Davis Jr at a Ku Klux Klan convention.
'What-are-you-doing-here?' repeated Collins in time with his index finger as it prodded the boy's shoulder.
Tragic could sense the rising anticipation in the room. There were more than a few people here who were enjoying this. Miller was going to get roasted again. Daniel in the lion's den.
Doom bounded out of a standing start from the wall of the art room and sprinted thirty yards across a small courtyard. He made a grab at a pole and swung ninety degrees, then raced through a wide entrance. He flew across the carpeted room and hit the glass as hard as he could.
An explosion broke the silence in the lounge and silenced the cacophony outside. The staff members instinctively turned and saw a body hit the ground amid a shower of glass. The sound rang around the walls of the senior school for a couple of seconds. No one moved as they tried to comprehend what had happened.The body shifted and raised its head. Everyone reacted at once. The teachers' lounge became a three-ring circus.
Doom lay on the ground and looked about dumbly as adrenalin drained away to make room for shock. He'd considered doing a practice run but there were too many people around. Tragic was right. It was a piece of cake. But his hands trembled regardless. He looked down and pressed them against the ground, to stop the shaking. There was blood pooling under his right wrist and he could feel something running down his forehead onto the bridge of his nose.
He turned his right hand over slowly and it began to shake uncontrollably. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. The blood looked to be coming from another source. His shirt was torn and wetly warm. The collar was moving rhythmically of its own accord. He pulled at it and a bright-red stream arced out of his neck. 'Ohhh, shit.'
Shae Louise spun around from the door of her Kingswood when she heard the bang. All she saw at first was a shattered glass door. A blood-streaked face peered up at her from the ground and she started running.
Tragic stood amidst the confusion and stared in disbelief out the window. He'd caught a glimpse of Doom's face before a crowd gathered, blocking his view.
He never, for a moment, thought Doom was actually stupid enough to go through with it. Evidently he was. Why didn't he just chuck a brick through it or something?
People were yelling orders, shouting questions and getting into action. Finally Tragic began collecting himself and sidled over to the filing cabinet. Loni Sanders had left it unlocked, bless her heart. He inched his way down and pulled out the bottom drawer.
Shae barged past four students who were standing over Doom wondering what to do. She went down on all fours next to him, cutting her hands and knees in the process. 'Luke?' She stopped him from trying to get up and cradled him in her lap, pressing three fingers over the wound in his neck. She'd never seen so much blood. It covered his upper body and arms and was filling up creases of her blouse. Her hands were slimy with it and she could feel it spreading across her skirt.
His face was pale white against the tracks of red coursing down it and when she felt his wrist his pulse was going haywire.
'Someone ring an ambulance.' No one moved.
'Get a fucking ambulance?
Mick Tessman arrived with a first-aid kit but Shae didn't take her fingers off the artery. She held Luke while the onlookers were dispersed and didn't let go until the ambulance arrived seventeen minutes later.
It was the best seventeen minutes of Doom's life.

Kelvin Rainey was into the last twenty minutes of a sixteen-hour shift at the Royal Brisbane emergency ward when an unconscious casualty was wheeled in with a blood-pressure reading of sixty over thirty. He clamped the carotid artery shut and some of the larger veins while two nurses set up intravenous lines and organised a cross-match blood type. They used two pints of O negative before they could stabilise the patient, his heart stopping briefly on one occasion. There was also a deep laceration across his chest.
Fifty-three minutes after he'd started his run-up from the art-room wall, Doom was on an operating table, undergoing vascular surgery. His partner in crime sat in a maths class, certain that all Doom needed was a couple of stitches and he'd be right as rain. Photocopies of the end-of-semester physics examlay in the bottom of his bag under his desk, as well as chemistry
and modern history.

Paula lay four metres of white satin on the floor, folded it lengthways and began pinning the pattern to it. Having only made one dress before, she decided to keep things simple and opted for an ankle-length fitted gown.
Danny had rung her twice in the past week but she wasn't going to commit herself until she saw how the gown turned out. If it looked like a shapeless sack on her, she'd cancel the appointment at the salon and tell him something had come
up.

Kate Dumasis hung up the phone and covered her mouth with her fingers.
'Who was that, love?'
'Brother Collins from Brisbane. Luke's been in an accident.'
'Hey?'
Vanessa shushed her father. Perfect Match was on. It was her favourite show. Everyone at school watched it.
'He fell through a glass door. He's all right.' Kate went into the kitchen
'He bloody what? Is he all right?'
'Yes.' He never listened.
'How the bloody hell did he manage that?' asked Big John out loud to no one in particular.
'Shhh, Dad,' repeated his daughter.
'Yeah, Dad. Shut up,' added Dale. He was lying on the floor .ext to her.
'Didn't you hear what your mother said?'
'Yeah. We heard.' Dale's eyes did not leave the screen now that Debbie Newsome was on.
'Stupid little bugger,' muttered John. 'What's got into him lately?'
'He's a dickhead,' answered Dale. The others sniggered.
'What'd you say?'
'Nothin'.'
'Turn this over to the news.'
'No!9 Vanessa hated the news.
Big John started in his chair. No wonder a man never came home early.
Kate set the table and dished out five servings. The headmaster had regretfully informed her that her son's misfortune hadn't been a total accident. He had apparently been horsing about in the senior common room by his own admission and was therefore liable for the damage: three hundred and twenty dollars for a replacement sliding glass door to be exact. She'd decided to write a cheque without telling John.
She'd let them all eat in front of the TV tonight. She wasn't hungry herself.

The northbound traffic on Gympie Road was banked up for two kilometres. A three-car collision blocked two lanes. It was steaming hot in the late afternoon and commuters' tempers were fraying.
Barry Cox's Honda crawled along, at half the rate of walking speed. He swore as a Volkswagen edged into his lane in front of him. The airconditioning had packed it in two days ago and the underside of his legs felt slimy against the upholstery.
At this rate, it would be another hour before he reached his house in Strathpine. It was usually only a thirty-minute drive from work, even in peak hour. Shitty end to a shitty day.
He could've been home and onto his second beer but for these after-school commitments. Cox was fast losing his enthusiasm forthe athletic squad now that the prospect of securing a place in the top three at the GPS carnival was becoming a more distant possibility. Four days ago, he was quietly confident of being congratulated on a job well done on awards night at the end of the year. The elimination of one small pawn had changed all that.
The Flea sat on a corner of Tragic's unmade bed, one of only a few places in the room not covered by debris, and looked at the papers Tragic had given him. 'I dunno about this.'
'What?' Tragic got down from the sink, which was where he usually sat. 'Whaddya mean?'
'This is cheating.'
'Yeah. So?'
'Well, it's not really fair.'
'Big fuckin' deal. Who fuckin' cares?'
'I do. It's not right.'
Tragic picked his way over the strewn books and clothes to his cupboard and took out the tuxedo he'd rented using the money he'd made from selling the same papers to four other seniors. Paula had finally given him the green light. 'Flea,' he said, admiring the tux, 'before you start having a moral dilemma about all this, think about what you went through last year. Ya think it was right what those arseholes used to do to you?'
'No.'
'Fuckin' oath it wasn't. If it hadn't been for those cunts you'd probably be in uni by now. Don't ya think?'
'I dunno.'
'You don't know? Fuck me dead.'
Tragic looked at him. The Flea was staring at his poster of Marilyn Monroe. Tragic put the sheets of paper back in The Flea's lap. 'Look. Just take 'em and put 'em in your room. If ya don't wanna look at 'em don't. Anyway, who've you taking to the formal?'
'I dunno yet.'
'Shit, Flea. It's this Saturday. I don't wanna be sittin' with Paula on my own.'
'Brad's going.'
'Ohhh, yeah. Fuckin' Daley. I might as well ring Harrison Ford and ask him to turn up too.'
'So I'm ugly enough to sit with you, am I?'
'I wouldn't say ugly. Just more like me.'
'Okay,' said The Flea, who'd just had an idea. 'I'll come. I better make a phone call.'
'Who to?'
'You don't know her.' He stood up and left Tragic's room, with the papers. When he got to his own, he sat down at his desk. He'd kept the same room he'd had last year. Back then it was his sanctuary. He'd stayed in there, out of sight, every chance he'd got. And while he was there he'd studied. And they'd come in, sometimes a dozen of them, drag him out of his chair, pull his pants down, hold him down on the bed and shove things up his arse and call him poofter, faggot, cocksucker and then leave. And he'd wait till they'd all gone and pull his pants up and find his glasses and get back in his chair and open his books again and sit and stare at the brick wall in front of him until he was calm and then continue studying because his parents were shelling out big money for him to come here and he wasn't going to let them down. And at the end of last year his score was five points short of medicine.
But this year it was different. There weren't as many fuckheads in the class of 84. He'd made short work of one early and the rest of them left him alone now that he had some mates. Anyone would've thought he'd breeze through this year. But he wasn't. The Flea picked up yesterday's copy of the Courier-Mail from the floor and turned to the personal columns.

'So when are they gunna let you out?'
'Probably Monday.'
The Flea looked at the row of sutures on Doom's neck. He also had twenty-two stitches across his chest.
Doom had been placed in the nil-by-mouth ward due to a shortage of beds. He'd had more than a dozen visitors over the past week but didn't appreciate most of the fuss. The majority of the other patients in the ward were old men who'd been there for weeks and received one or two visits if they were lucky enough to still have a wife or family. It cut him up to see them lying in the old cast-iron-framed beds with just a methodical nurse and a behind-schedule doctor to break up the monotony. He felt guilty whenever people dropped in to see him while the old blokes lay quietly, their jaws and mouths wired up and their eyes darting about, taking it all in.
'When do they take the stitches out?' asked The Flea.
'Dunno. Soon I hope.'
'Guess who 'I'm taking to the formal tonight?'
'Who?'
'An escort girl.'
'Fair dinkum?'
'Yep. I went last year with a blind date. Worst time of my life. I thought this time round, why not splash out and go with a good sort who won't ignore me all night?'
'Genius.'
'I think so,' agreed The Flea. 'It's time I broke my duck. might as well make it memorable. And you know what the best part is?'
'What?'
'I'm gunna get her to rub Collins's thigh. See what he does.'
'Legend.'
'Anyway, thrillseeker, I've gotta get going. Tragic would've come but he's got litter duty this weekend for being in the teachers' lounge.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. Apparently he was in there just before your accident.'
'Is that a fact?'
'Yeah. They caught up with him later on. Didn't have an excuse. Must've been up to something though.'
'He usually is.'
'Thanks, mate.' The Flea turned and left. He strolled up the corridor and pressed the button for the lift. When it arrived, the doors opened and a bloke as wide as a barn door appeared. He was with an older gent who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a James Cagney flick.
The Flea watched them walk down the way he had come, before the lift doors closed again.

'I want this area spic and span and then you'll be free to go. It shouldn't take you too long if you put your mind to it.'
Suck .. . my ... dick, thought Tragic, as he surveyed the quadrangle.
Since eight o'clock that morning Vincent Collins had been his second shadow, directing him around the college, pointing out litter he'd missed. Any other headmaster, or person for that matter, could We surely found something better to do with their time than follow someone around all day, barking orders at them and acting like they were doing it in the best interests of moulding their character.
It was nearly five in the afternoon now and Collins had acheesy grin stuck to his face, thinking that he and Miller had somehow bonded, having endured the whole trial together, and were spiritually richer for the experience. 'I'll leave you to it, Danny.'
Tragic gritted his teeth at the sound of Collins using his name, then rattled off a dozen swear words. The formal started in two hours. He was going to pick Paula up from her school but he'd rung and told her it would be best if she met him outside the Crest International, where it was being held, when he realised he'd never make it on time.
He watched the wind blow a newspaper across the quadrangle, its pages peeling and spreading in all directions. 'Good one, Vernon.'

Paula sat in front of the mirror and looked at her reflection. She wore her hair up, with just a few tendrils floating down near her temples. The satin showed off her olive complexion and Stephanie's imitation pearl choker complemented her mother's earrings, which she'd never worn before. Paula had never worn mascara before either. She wasn't sure but she thought she looked okay.

The wind had picked up considerably and blew Barry Cox's hair into his eyes as he walked across the car park from the teachers' lounge. He would've readjusted it but his hands were full. He placed the carton of beer on the ground and opened the door to his car. He plonked the carton on the passenger seat and checked his wallet.
Barry looked at his last fifteen dollars and reflected on the weekend so far. He'd spent over two hundred bucks last night wining and dining a model he'd met through a friend and thought she would've been a sure thing after that much groundwork. She was. But she was a dead lay. The money he had in his hand was all he had until pay day, the following Thursday.
His mood was not lightened by the athletics squad's forgettable showing earlier in the afternoon. GPS was next weekend and it couldn't come soon enough. They'd finish fifth or sixth, his commitments would be over and he could spend his afternoons as he pleased.
'Shit!' He remembered he hadn't locked the door. Cox lay the money and his wallet on top of the beer, which he'd pilfered from the staff fridge, and ran back to the teachers' lounge.

Tragic tugged at his bow tie and regarded himself in the mirror. Doom was right. This dressing up to play grown-ups was a load of bullshit. A bloke didn't look good in black-tie dress until there were character lines on his face and some bearing about himself. You had to have presence, Tragic thought. And that only came with experience, or better yet, achievement. He'd wanted to look all right but all he saw was a boy trying to be something he wasn't. Plus he was having a bad hair day.
The senior residence was deserted. Everyone else had left long ago. He went down to the car park to wait for his cab. There were no spare cars tonight. He'd checked. The money he had in his pocket would just cover the fare. He'd have to ask Brad or The Flea for a loan once he got there.
The wind blew straight into his face as he left the residence. He inspected the repaired sliding door briefly as he shut it. Doom. Deadset champion.
He walked to the entrance of the car park and stood with his hands in his pockets. He hoped Paula wouldn't mind dancing with a short-arse too much.A taxi pulled up outside the main entrance to the Crest and a young woman alighted, causing passers-by to crane their necks for a second look. She walked lightly up the stairs and smiled as the doorman tipped his hat and pointed her in the direction of the ballroom. His eyes followed her as she went through the doors.
She stood alone amongst a crowd of couples, the white satin standing out amidst the turquoise and taffeta, making her appear even more sleek, and waited for her partner to
arrive.

Tragic felt a hand grip him roughly around the scruff of his collar and begin shaking him. 'Where is it?' He twisted his head round and saw Cox's face only inches away from his, red and contorted.
'What?'
'Where's the money?'
'What money?'
Cox shoved him and he went over onto his hands and knees. He raised himself back onto his feet only to be grabbed again, this time by the shirt front.
'Where's the money that was sitting in my car?'
'I dunno.'
'Bullshit. It was there ten seconds ago.'
'I don't know.'
'Don't lie to me, you thieving little shit.'
'Get fucked.'
Cox hit him with his fist, throwing him off balance. He would've fallen again had Barry not been hanging onto him with his other hand. A car drew up beside them and Brother Collins wound down the window. 'What's going on here?'
Paula stood in a corner of the ballroom as the others began seating themselves. She had no idea where her table was and didn't relish the thought of sitting down alone, with people she didn't know.
'Paula!' She turned and saw Sebastian Capilano with a stunning blonde, even taller than she was, in a figure-hugging red gown with a slit that stopped at the hip.
'I thought it was you,' he said. 'Where's Danny?' 'I don't know, Sebastian. Has he turned up yet?' 'I'm not sure. Anyway, you're sitting with us. This is Candy.'
The Flea let them exchange hellos and then escorted them both to their table. He was in a room with over three hundred people and had the two most attractive women in there, one on either arm. You don't have to be great to touch greatness, thought The Flea.

Tragic sat in a chair facing the acting headmaster, the lamp on Collins's desk the only source of light in the room. Barry leaned in the doorway. Anyone'd think it was the KGB.
'Turn out your pockets.'
Tragic turned his head away and stared at a corner of the room. Cox had said he'd left three five-dollar notes in his car, the exact denomination of the three notes Tragic had in his possession. There was no way this kangaroo court was going to believe the money was his.
'I didn't steal his money.'
'Turn out your pockets,' repeated Collins calmly.
'I'm late for the formal. There's someone waiting for me.'
'So am I,' said Collins. 'But neither of us is going anywhere until this is straightened out.'
'This is bullshit.'Collins frowned. Cox walked over to the desk. 'If you've got nothing to hide, there won't be a problem. Don't make me have to search you.'
You'd love that, wouldn't you, thought Tragic. He pulled his pockets inside out and deposited their contents on the desk. There was a short pause before Collins made up his mind.
'I'm very disappointed in you, Danny.'
Pig's arse you are, thought Tragic.
'Go to you room and pack your bags. I'll notify your parents and request they pick you up immediately.'
'That's my money.'
'Sure it is,' grunted Cox.
Tragic looked up at him. 'You're a wanker, Barry. And I've always known it.'
Cox turned to Collins. 'I don't have to take this.'
'You'll apologise to Mr Cox before leaving this room.'
'Bite your arse.'
'Stealing is a criminal offence. If Mister Cox does not receive an apology by the time I'm finished talking to your parents, the next call I make will be to the police to press charges.'
'Over fifteen bucks? Get real.'
Collins began dialling the phone.

Paula sat through three courses barely picking at her food, hoping Danny would arrive and take up the empty seat beside her. Candy and Sebastian had gone out of their way to make sure she wasn't being left out. A couple of boys had taken the plunge and approached her for a dance. Determined to still have a good time, she'd accepted.
Brad Daley had been especially sweet to her and she took up his invitation for a waltz while his partner went off to talk to some friends. He was beautiful. One slow dance turned into three. His partner returned and gave her the sweetest of fuck-off smiles just as he was about to ask Paula if she wanted to go out for some fresh air. Daley rested his eyes on the back of her neck as she walked back to The Flea's table. She left soon afterwards.

Noel Miller turned his Mercedes into the driveway and hit a button on the garage remote control. One of three doors opened and he drove slowly in under the two-storey double-brick St Lucia home, which overlooked the Brisbane River. He switched off the headlights and ignition and sat in the car while his youngest son retrieved his bags from the back seat.
After cancelling a dinner engagement with a business partner at the last minute, Noel had driven out to the college to find the boy waiting outside the senior residence, in a tuxedo of all things, with all his belongings. The headmaster was waiting with him and explained the situation to Noel, adding that he'd decided to be lenient and not lay charges against the boy. (Collins had rung the police but the constable who'd taken the call had laughed as soon as he'd put the phone down.)
It wouldn't be long before word got out on the grapevine that Noel Miller's son was expelled from college for theft. Not a word passed between them during the drive home. And Tragic knew the longer the silence lasted the worse the dressing-down was going to be. But he was past caring.
Noel followed him through the garage entrance, then closed the rollerdoor.
'Why'd you do it?'
'I didn't do anything.''I expected as much,' said Noel quietly. 'You never do anything, do you, Vernon? It's never your fault, is it?'
'Not this time. No.'
'Don't give me that shit.' Noel rarely swore. When he did it was usually because of Vernon. 'You got caught. At least be man enough to admit it.'
'All right then, I did it. Big fuckin' deal.' He felt a slap across the side of his face. It wasn't half as hard as the punch Cox threw but it hurt more.
'Don't you ever, EVER speak to me like that again.'
Tragic looked at the ground.
'Get upstairs,' said Noel. 'Your mother's very upset.'
Tragic picked up his bags and started walking to the door. 'Yeah. Like what do you care?'
'What'd you say?'
'Nothin'.'
Tragic went to his room, avoiding the lounge where his mother would probably be. He put his bags on one bed and sat down, still dressed in his tuxedo. He used to share this room with his brother until Steve got his own.
The clock on his cabinet read a quarter past nine. There were trophies lined behind it and along the shelf on the opposite wall. Most of them were from Steve's junior football days. He'd given the game away at fourteen when all the other kids grew as big as him.
Tragic thought about Paula and wondered what she would've looked like. He had half a notion to climb out the window and somehow get into town but thought she probably wouldn't be all that keen to see him now.
He hadn't felt this pissed off since the Kenny Rogers concert at Festival Hall last year. He'd gone on his own to see Johnny Cash, who was the support act, which Tragic thought was an insult to Cash in the first place. And the crowd had booed the man in black while he'd sung 'Fulsorn Prison Blues' and chanted 'We want Kenny!' He couldn't believe it. People were shitheads at times.
He changed into a pair of shorts and a shirt and lay on his bed.
Around two a.m. he went downstairs, took a carton of milk out of the fridge and sat down in front of the TV. He flicked through the channels and caught the last thirty minutes of Glen Ella and the rest of the Wallabies trouncing England on their grand-slam tour of Britain.
By five o'clock the same morning, Tragic was on the southeast freeway, carrying an overnight bag, thumbing a lift to Sydney.
When Jean Miller told her husband their son's bed hadn't been slept in, Noel took the news rather calmly. Vernon had run away before, at the age of five, after Jean refused to give him a snack between meals. After a massive search involving police and almost a hundred volunteers, he was found two days later in the next-door neighbour's treehouse with six half-eaten packets of Iced VoVos.
He'd come slinking back. God help him when he did.

After reading the Sunday paper, Barry Cox decided to put the rest of the morning to good use. He lugged his vacuum cleaner down to his car and opened the front passenger door. Two five-dollar notes lay beside the seat adjuster. A third fluttered to the concrete floor of the garage.
Barry put the notes in his pocket and started vacuuming.

'I knew he'd get caught one day,' surmised Daley, slouching in the entrance to The Flea's room with his arms folded. He andThe Flea were filling Doom in on the goings-on over the weekend.
The senior boarders had all been summoned into the common room on Sunday night and informed why Danny Miller was no longer a student at the college.
'He'll take anything not nailed down,' concluded Daley. 'It's a wonder he didn't flog the car as well.' 'Stupid bastard,' added The Flea.
Doom said nothing. Tragic was gone. That was that. He'd found the note Tragic had left him under his pillow.
I didn't do it! And when I play halfback for Australia and they ask me to come back to talk at a sportsman's dinner, they can shove it up their date!
'How was your big night, Flea?' asked Doom. 'Ohhh, mate. Faaan-tastic! We even had a shower together.' The Flea hadn't really had a shower with Candy. He hadn't even screwed her. Sex was three hundred dollars extra and he didn't have the money. But he was a legend.
'I don't wanna hear it,' said Daley. 'It was bad enough having to look at her with you.'
'Was she a glamour?' asked Doom.
'Glamour's not the word,' said Daley. 'She was the best sort in the joint by a country mile.'
'I dunno,' cut in The Flea. 'Paula kept her honest.' 'Paula who?' asked Doom. 'Tragic's Paula.' 'Paula Banks?'
'Mate, she scrubs up like a million bucks. You danced with her, didn't you, Bradster?'
'Yeah. She was all right.' Daley didn't want to give too much away on that score.
'So what happened to her?' asked Doom.
'Candy and I put her in a cab early. Geez she was pissed off
with Tragic.'
The other two laughed.

David Logan sat on the vinyl kitchen chair in his sister's three-bedroom fibro cottage in Cabramatta, his forearms folded on top of the table. The walls barely shut out the noise of the traffic nearby. He listened as Tragic explained why Logan had spotted him walking down Parramatta Road, wearing his St George jersey with the jobs vacant section of the Herald in his hands.
'So what do you think really happened to the money?' asked Logan, when Tragic had finished.
'I don't know. All I know is I didn't take it.' Logan looked at him. The eyes met his own and stayed there. That wasn't proof of innocence. Logan had come across scores of people in his travels who could lie to his face without batting an eye.
The fact that, for once, Miller didn't have a story to explain why he wasn't responsible for the mess he was in was the major reason Logan believed him. 'So what do you want me to do about it?' 'I dunno.'
'You want your name cleared, do you?' 'Well, yeah. For starters.'
Logan looked out the window. 'Sorry, Danny,' he said finally. 'Maybe this is all for the best.'
'Why?' Tragic was bewildered. This chance meeting was not the godsend he'd hoped it would be. 'Don't you believe me?'
'Oh, I believe you all right. But I'd like to ask you a few more questions first.'
'Fair enough,' said Tragic. He had nothing to hide.Logan rubbed his day's growth and smiled wryly. 'You wouldn't know anything about some cars at the college that went missing temporarily, would you?'
'No.'
'No?'
'No.'
'You're sure about that?'
'Yes.'
'Yes, you're sure or yes, you know something?'
'Yes, I'm sure.'
'Yes, you're sure you know something.'
Tragic saw where this was heading. It went against his three basic principles - deny, deny, deny - but David Logan was no mug. 'Okay. It was me.'
'I see,' mused Logan, his black eyes staring right through him. 'And what exactly did you do with them?'
'Ohhh, took them places. You know.'
'What places?' asked Logan, expecting Miller to name some locations around the college.
'The drive-in, the races, Lang Park. The TAB.'
'What?'
'Well, you asked me.'
Logan squinted at the boy and tried to keep his composure as he came to terms with what had been going on under his nose. 'Who else was in on this?'
'Hey! This is just me we're talking about.'
'All right then.' Logan had a pretty good idea who they were anyway. Two of them at least. 'And now you're upset that you've been accused of stealing twenty dollars.'
'Fifteen. And I didn't take it.'
'That's right. You didn't. Anything else you'd care to admit to?'
'No.'
'Do you mind if I list a few things?'
'Yes. No. I dunno.'
'You haven't appeared in class on a Friday afternoon for over four months. You incited the biggest brawl seen on Benn Oval in twenty years
'There was a bigger one than ours?'
'Pipe down! You took three other students on an underage drinking jaunt and arrived back after curfew.'
'You've already got me for that one.'
'Shut up! You've repeatedly disrupted classes, failed to do any assignments or homework whatsoever and your room's looked like a bomb hit it since day one.'
'I cleaned it once.'
'You've got to clean it every day,' said Logan, exasperated. 'That's just it, Miller. You think you're a law unto yourself. You probably feel proud that I just said that. Don't you?'
'No,' lied Tragic.
'I've seen people like you before,' continued Logan. 'At school, in the army, in my home town. You're not anything special.'
'I never thought I was.'
'Yes you do. All the time. People like you think everything and everyone are just here for their benefit. You manage to stay out of trouble for a while but the minute anything goes wrong, you all start squealing. You can't depend on people like you. You're fun to be around but you bring other people down and they can't see it till it's too late.' Logan paused to let what he'd said sink in but he saw disagreement. 'The four people we expelled last year can probably thank you for that. And take a look at Dumasis and Capilano. At the start of the year we never had any trouble with them. Now it's the three stooges. And I'llbet Sebastian won't make it into university for the second time round. Thanks to you.'
Tragic wanted to take that bet on. But he remained silent. 'Look, you're not a bad person. You've got a lot going for you. It's just a shame to see you throwing it all away in the interest of thumbing your nose against authority.'
'Well, if I've got so much going for me, how come nothing turns out the way I want?'
Logan looked at the ceiling. 'God, I'm sick of hearing that bullshit from young people. You all reckon you're so hard done by. This country's full of losers who think like that. It gives me the shits.' Logan drew in a breath. Miller was looking away but the message was getting through. Logan wouldn't have bothered delivering it if he didn't think it would. 'Look at me, Danny. You can't let things get you down. You just can't. And you can't keep taking the easy options. You've got potential. But potential is one of those things people place far too much emphasis on. It's one of the most overrated things in the world. You know what I think one of the most under-rated things in the world is?'
'What.'
'Perseverance.'
'Oh.'
'You don't get it, do you? Look it up in the dictionary one
day.'
'Okay.'
'Listen. Believe me, if you've got an ounce of potential and a ton of perseverance, the world is your oyster.'
'What if you've got a ton of potential and an ounce of
perseverance?'
'An ounce of perseverance is not perseverance. It only comes in ton lots. And I've seen people with tons of potential who've done nothing with it.'
'Right.'
Logan leaned forward. 'Miller, I'm giving you probably the only real pearl of wisdom I know. Don't be a swine.'
Tragic tapped his head. 'Locked in.'
Logan sighed, 'We shall see. Have you got a place to stay?'
'Sort of.' Tragic had slept under a bridge the previous night. It wasn't that bad, surprisingly.
'You can stay with me until I go back to Brisbane if you want. Ring your folks tonight and let them know you're okay.'
'Thanks, Brother.'
'You're not at school any more. My name's David.'

Mandrake Paul reached a designated mark on the bend slightly less than thirty yards away and Doom began his take-off. Within a second he was cruising at three-quarter pace near the outside of his lane. Such was the synchronisation between the two, Doom could count his steps and know exactly which one would coincide with the feel of the hollow metal baton being thrust into his palm.
Mandrake was close, hugging the inside of the lane, extending his right hand forward, the top half of the baton pointing towards Doom, whose left hand was trailing back to him, fingers together, thumb splayed.
Three steps. Two. One and he was at top speed. He swept down the last hundred with fluid ease, dipping his head at the line exactly eleven seconds after the point of contact.
Gerald Davies, the relay coach, approached him. Gerald Davies let everyone call him Gerald. Gerald taught Advanced Maths and Maths II and was a middle-aged bachelor with a beach-ball body. He ate counter meals five nights a week at the public bar of The Homestead Hotel and washed them down with however many Victoria Bitters the change out of fifty buckswould get him. The Homestead Hotel was only a stone's throw from the college, and his mother's house, which was where Gerald lived, was only a stone's throw from The Homestead but he'd still been caught for drink driving four times in the last three years, and the local taxi drivers were making a small fortune off him at the moment. Gerald spoke in a nasally drawn monotone and always wore a white terry-towelling hat outdoors.
'Feel okay?'
'Yes thanks, Gerald.'
'No problems with y'neck or anything?'
'No, Gerald.' Doom fingered the scar. He'd taken the stitches out himself with a pair of scissors.
Gerald saw Barry Cox striding over. He could tell the time was good by the way Cox was animatedly holding up his stopwatch. Doom left before he arrived.
Barry didn't care. He was on top of the world. There seemed to be a buzz about the place this afternoon. The GPS carnival was four days away and Banyo was going to give it a big shake.

Tragic lay on his back and looked up at the night sky. Scorpio was directly above him. That was the only astrological formation he could recognise, apart from the Southern Cross.
'What I can't understand,' he stated, 'is why someone like you would want to become a Brother.'
'You're at an age where ninety-nine percent of your thinking is done with your penis. I don't expect you to understand.'
'Ninety-nine percent?'
'And that's a conservative estimate.'
'What's your percentage then?'
Logan stared at the sky. From their vantage point in the Blue Mountains, away from the lights of the city, the stars were ablaze but it was the blackness surrounding them that intrigued him. A vast blackness that appeared eternal but was not, apparently. So what was at the end of the blackness?
'About eighty-five,' he said.
'Hah!'
Logan shook his head and smiled. Miller had a knack of getting past his guard. Probably because he always led with his chin.
'But you'd do all right. You could pull a good sort without trying too hard.'
Logan winced. 'This may be hard for someone like you to comprehend but there's a lot more lonely bachelors than there are swinging bachelors.'
'Well, what if you meet Miss Right at a function or something?'
'I don't know,' he laughed.
'Well, what do you think you'd do then?'
'Can't say. I was engaged once.'
'Really?'
'Yes. Really.'
'What happened?'
'It didn't work out.'
'Why not?'
'It just didn't.'
'Did she play up on you?'
Give me strength, thought Logan. 'It just didn't work out. She's been married twice since then and I doubt she knows who she is even yet.'
Tragic didn't reply. Most of that went over his head.
'Where do you think you'll be in ten years' time, Miller? Living in suburbia with a large wife and small family?'
'The world'll end before that happens.'
'Where do you think you'll be in ten thousand years then?'
'Hey?''You think you'll die and that'll be the end of it?'
'I guess not.'
'It's worth thinking about.'
'Is that why you became a Brother?'
'I had visions of greatness at your age,' said Logan. 'Most people do. You should I guess but. . .' he trailed off.
'But what?'
'The fire goes out. See? Perseverance. Do as I say, not as I do. But things rarely turn out the way you want. It'd be a pretty dull world if they did. Never thought I'd be doing this.'
'Don't you get tired of hanging around turkeys like Collins?'
'Why'd you bring him up? You're out of school now. Move on.'
'Sorry.'
'I know it's hard sometimes but I'm a big believer in what goes around comes around.' Logan fished in his shirt pocket. 'And a couple of these help when things really get on my nerves. You feel like another one?'
'I won't say no.'
Logan lit the joint and took a drag. 'Bit seedy,' he wheezed. He handed it to Tragic. 'Shouldn't complain when it's free, I guess.'
Tragic had a puff and coughed a couple of times. 'Where'd you score it?' he croaked.
'I stumbled across a couple of plants growing down the back of the college earlier this year,' said his former headmaster. 'But you wouldn't know anything about that now, would you?'

November
Every seat in the VIP box at Queen Elizabeth Stadium was taken up by headmasters and their associates lunching on cold chicken, ham and salad. The tinkling of cutlery striking the china plates resting in their laps was faintly audible beneath their conversation.
The vice-principal of Toowoomba Grammar, Geoff Moore, tapped his teeth with his program. 'Looks like your lot are the dark horses this year, Vincent.'
'We'll see, George. We'll see,' smiled Brother Collins. Geoff half smiled back.
Vincent Collins removed the plate from his lap, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a paper serviette, then settled back in his seat with a second glass of moselle. The wine was already taking effect and the inhibitions he had earlier in the day were all but gone.
Vincent loved the deference people afforded him now. The small pleasantries and trappings of the job. The protocol that distanced him from the mob. He looked over to his left at the rows of students, twelve thousand in all from nine different colleges, packed into the main stand. This time last year he was eating a cheese sandwich and sitting amongst that uncouth rabble, hot, tired and irate.
The straw that stirred the drink was Banyo's surprisingly good showing in the day's events so far. Sport had never really appealed to Vincent but the regard he was being paid by the other college dignitaries because of his school's athletes giving such a good account of themselves made him begin to appreciate the value of success in diversions such as this.Luke Dumasis had just pipped the rest of the field in the open two hundred metres.
'Is it true that boy was in hospital only a week ago?'
'Yes,' answered Collins, turning around to face the handsome woman seated behind him. 'I had to ring his mother and inform her of his accident.'
'Dear me. That must have been dreadful.' She leaned forward earnestly.
'It was wrenching. The poor woman was beside herself with worry.'
'Well, it looks as if he's made a remarkable recovery.'
'Yes,' agreed Collins. 'Thank God for small mercies.'
'I'm sorry. We haven't been introduced properly.' She extended her hand. 'Caroline Welsh.'
'How do you do, Caroline. I'm '
'Vincent Collins,' she answered for him. They both laughed politely and then talked for an hour over a range of subjects, including what name the royal family had bestowed on Charles
and Diana's second child.

Doom walked outside the main stadium and headed over to the warm-up track. He put on his tracksuit, even though it was thirty degrees, and lay down in the shade of the small marquee erected for the athletes.
He fielded congratulations from students and coaches alike with a brief nod and barely discernible thank you He would've preferred being left alone. More than a few got the impression that Dumasis was afflicted by the worst trait an Australian could have - being up himself.
The relief of winning his first event had already given over to nerves as he waited for the next one. His condition had slipped markedly. His body still hadn't completely replenished its own blood supply. He hadn't run over two hundred metres since his accident. The four hundred was a cruel sprint and he knew he'd be hitting the wall sooner than later.
He thought about his big swim. Fatigue was just a state of
mind.

'Have a look at that.' Daley handed The Flea a pair of binoculars.
'Nice,' said The Flea, as he focused on a bronzed amazon lazing in the seats on the opposite side of the track, the fluoro midriff top revealing more than it concealed. 'Very nice indeed.'
The only day the QEII stadium had ever been filled to its seventy thousand capacity was during the opening ceremonies of the Commonwealth Games two years earlier. Most of the spectators here this day were housed under the covered stand, leaving the rest of the stadium near empty. The aluminium bleachers blazed a silver glare in the afternoon heat. Daley figured just about every pair of eyes there would've lingered on the sight across from them at least a dozen times. He tried to manufacture an excuse for moseying on over there later.
Barry Cox peered through his Ray-Bans and was thinking along the same lines as Daley when Gerald Davies approached him, his white towelling hat on his head and a white stripe of zinc cream across his nose.
'We might pull this off, Bazza.'
'Huh?'
'The carnival. I reckon we can win it.'
Cox nodded. 'I would've been happy with third this morning, but not now. That trophy'll look good in my office.'
'You won't have room.'
'I'll build another shelf.'Paul Manning unzipped his tracksuit top and dropped it on the grass inside the running track, then walked to his set of starting blocks in lane five, a clean, young, lithe, athletic, male specimen. He was the four hundred metre state champion for his age and had more than an even chance of securing a scholarship at the Australian Institute of Sport after finishing his senior year at Brisbane State High School, the biggest and only co-ed campus in the Greater Public Schools fraternity.
They were currently in first place by a narrow margin and Paul was State High's athletics captain. He was aware of the expectation on him to perform with excellence this afternoon, which meant not just winning but breaking the GPS open four hundred metre record in the process. The pressure didn't bother him. It was certainly within his capabilities; he'd nearly done it at a meet two weeks ago. The only thing wrong was that Paul Manning was tired of running.
He'd watched eighteen-year-old Darren Clarke lead the field into the straight in the final of the same event at the LA Games a few months ago but rather than inspire him it had slowly taken the wind out of his sails. Clarke had finished fourth, just out of the medals, at eighteen years of age in an Olympic final. Paul would be eighteen himself in three months. Even if he did manage to break the record today he would still be over four seconds outside Olympic qualifying time. And that was just to make the heats. And if he did get the scholarship at the Australian Institute of Sport and worked his arse off for the next four years, he still wouldn't make the semi-finals. He'd be twenty-one by then. A twenty-fucking-one-year-old also-ran in the heats at Seoul.
And here he was now at the same piss-ant school carnival that he'd competed in for the last five years and which no one gave a rat's arse about (except a bunch of teachers and parents who had nothing better to do). The students didn't give a toss. Less than a third of his school had turned up to watch and none of his mates. They were all chasing waves and chicks down the coast, which was where he'd be heading as soon as this bullshit was over.
But he still wanted to win. He hadn't come all this way to get beaten by these spastics.
Paul put both hands on the track, looked down between his legs and methodically placed his spikes in the blocks. His palms felt slippery on the Tartan surface and he rested on his left knee and right haunch while he wiped them on his singlet for the last time.
He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath and repositioned his fingers on the starting line. A whistle shrilled. They were under starter's orders. It was quiet in the stadium. A soft breeze brushed against the sheen of sweat he'd worked up, cool and light.
'Set. . .'
He raised his buttocks, bringing his weight forward onto his fingers and shoulders. He stared at a point on the track a few metres in front of him.
The pop of the starting gun echoed around the stadium. Nine runners came out of the blocks in unison. The diagonal starting formation broke up as they rounded the curve.
Paul came out of the first turn cruising just below full pace and overtook the runner in lane six. The breeze blew in his face as he went up the back straight. It was eerily quiet on this side of the arena. He could hear the others breathing over the wind rushing past his ears. He could hear someone getting closer.
The Banyo colours in lane four went past him. Shit. Paul in. He wasn't going to make his charge until the two hundred metre mark but this guy was inside him and getting further away.They hit the home turn and the further they went, the further the Banyo colours left him behind.
The lungs were starting to burn. Paul felt the fire spreading. The outside runners closed up and fell behind.
Doom felt like rust. He sprinted through the last half of the bend but had gone too hard, too early. The nausea of fatigue had set in. He dropped his mouth open to relax his jaw and shoulders and set his sights on the finish, ninety metres away. It might as well have been a mile.
The Flea stood next to Daley amid all the noise and then climbed up on his seat for a better view. Doom was well ahead of the State High kid but his legs looked like they were going up and down in the same spot.
Paul Manning caught up forty metres from the finish. The lactic acid had gone from slow burn to overload and his body screamed but he kept gliding. They went stride for stride briefly, then Manning started to pull away and Doom could not go with him. He knew he couldn't win and the wall hit him with a vengeance. The rest of the field swamped him. He dropped back to third, to fifth, and barely jogged over the line in sixth place.
Manning stood at the finish, doubled over in pain. His time was displayed on the huge electronic digital display board high above the other end of the stadium. He'd broken the record by more than half a second.
Doom felt sick everywhere. He could scarcely walk but he sought out the State High athlete anyway and put a hand on his shoulder. Paul nodded and stuck out his own hand. Doom shook it, then made his way stiff-legged slowly out of the stadium back to the marquee. He was relieved to find no one else there. He lay down inside on the grass on his back with his knees up and a forearm over his eyes.
Mandrake Paul came to get him ten minutes later.
'You right, Doom?'
'Yeah, mate.'
Jeff McNeill and Adrian Daniels were waiting for them on the warm-up track. They did some stretching and a few run-throughs, then went back into the stadium for the last event of the afternoon.
Gerald Davies was waiting on the track with Brad Daley. State High had already sewn up the carnival in the lower-age relays but Banyo could still get second if they clinched the open relay and Ipswich Grammar came no higher than fourth.
'Feel okay, Doom?' asked Gerald.
'Yeah, Gerald.'
'Brad can run for ya if ya want.'
'I'm right.' Doom wanted to win. They all did. They all liked Gerald. What you saw was what you got.
Barry Cox joined them just before they separated to their four different starting positions.
'Seize the day, gentlemen. Seize the day.'
Adrian Daniels dropped the baton on the first change and Doom dropped it on the last but they still managed a fifth placing. Ipswich came sixth.
Barry Cox was ropeable. Doom told him to go fuck himself. Barry told Doom to see him in his office on Monday. Doom told Barry that if he had anything to say to him, then say it now. Barry didn't so Doom told him to stick it up his arse.
It took about an hour for news of the incident to filter up to the conference room in the heart of the main stand where school dignitaries and their associates were taking refreshments at a special function after the award ceremonies.
As the convoy of chartered buses pulled out of the Queen Elizabeth the Second Sports Centre and crawled acrossBrisbane through the late Saturday afternoon heat and traffic, Doom sat at the back of one of them and talked to no one. When it reached Banyo College he spilled out the doors with the rest of the mob but headed for his room instead of joining the stampede to the dining hall and looked for the piece of paper with the address he'd been given during his stay in hospital. Twenty minutes later he rang for a cab and was waiting outside the senior residence with his bags packed.
By the time Brother Vincent Collins and quite a few others, albeit discreetly, were relating to Barry Cox how such an awful show of disrespect by a young foul-mouthed individual could put such a blight on what had, up until then, been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, Doom was lugging his bags up the front steps of an anonymous little house in Aspley.
He rang the bell and Henry Archer answered the door. 'Hello, Luke.'
'G'day, Mr Archer.'
'What can I do for you?'
'I need a job, Mr Archer. And a place to stay.'

Tragic stood amongst twenty others in the drizzling rain, hoping to hear his name called. This was his fifth pre-dawn appearance and he thought the inclement weather might have kept a few at home. It hadn't.
The group dwindled as drivers picked out spares to make up crews of three for their collection routes. It was akin to standing in the schoolyard, waiting to get chosen in a side.
The trucks started grinding out of the depot, plumes of diesel exhaust visible in their headlights. The garbos inside the cabs joked and laughed. If you got a start and could keep up the pace, you'd be snapped up straight away. If you were too slow or didn't know anyone, you stayed behind in the yard until four in the afternoon. The garbos knocked off as soon as they finished, usually around ten thirty, and were paid more.
There were ten left standing. A chunky middle-aged driver ran his eye over the last apples in the barrel. He paused at Tragic, who tried to look as energetic as he possibly could. 'Felix.'
A tall rangy guy in his late twenties came over from one of the trucks. The older man and Felix conferred for half a minute. They called out to a very fat bloke named Edgar, who must've been Felix's mate. It looked like a decent day's work would kill the poor bastard but, like most things, it wasn't what you knew.
Tragic followed the others back inside the depot and tried to see the positive side of pushing a broom for ten hours.

David Logan flopped into the chair and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He'd come straight from the airport to his office after catching a six a.m. flight and spent the entire day putting out brush fires.
Marge Hansen had handed in her resignation after seventeen years' service. When Logan pressed her further he discovered she'd been working fourteen-hour days in his absence, a third of that time being taken up by tea duties for the temporary headmaster. He managed to coax her into taking a couple of days off to think about it. He said if she still felt the same way after that, he'd be sorry to see her go. And he meant it.
Despite the hours Marge had put in, there was still a considerable backlog needing his attention. Logan would have appreciated being given an opportunity to sink his teeth into it but a storm in a teacup had brewed regarding the incident at the GPS carnival. Half the faculty wanted Luke Dumasis expelled.
From what Logan could gather, Dumasis had saved everyone the trouble and expelled himself. He hadn't been heard fromsince and was now regarded as missing. His parents had been informed and Logan had spoken to his father earlier that day.
John Dumasis seemed quite affable and even apologised for any trouble his son might have caused. Logan appreciated his cordiality. It was a nice change.
Logan persevered with some monthly paperwork for a while but found the effort futile and decided to call it a day. His watch read nine p.m. His best friend, Garry Sloane, who'd lived next door to David in Kempsey when they were kids, had lost his battle with cancer of the lung (and he didn't even smoke) at about the same time the night before. Logan was with him when he went into a coma late in the afternoon and had stayed till the end. He'd promised Garry he wouldn't hang around for the funeral and all the bullshit that went with it.
Logan had had a few close people die on him, his mother included. He no longer wondered why he didn't feel anything. He knew perhaps a year from now he'd be alone, and something would remind him of Garry Sloane and it'd click and he'd be able to grieve. That was the way he was.
He rubbed his eyes again and wished he was physically tired instead of mentally.
The administration building was empty and he locked the door behind him before strolling across the quadrangle.

'Listen here! I didn't spend all that money just so you could piss off whenever you felt like it and hang around like a bloody deadbeat.'
Doom held the phone six inches from his ear and listened as his father gave him some advice, the only way fathers know how.
'Now, you get your bum back to school before I have to come down and kick it back there meself.'
Doom took a breath. 'Sorry, Dad. I'm not goin' back.'
'Sorry? You'll be bloody sorry all right. What's got into you?'
'Nothin', Dad. I've got a job so what's the point?' He knew that sounded lame but he couldn't tell his old man the real reasons behind his actions. They only sounded worse.
'A job? Doin' what?'
'Labouring.'
'Labouring?'
'Yeah.'
'You won't last a week.'
Doom didn't reply.
'Fair enough then,' said John. 'If that's what ya want. Don't come crying to me in a couple of months when it all falls down around you.'
'I won't.'
'We'll see.'
'See you, Dad.'
Big John grunted.
Doom put down the phone. 'Fuck you, Dad.'
Doom picked up his lunch box and headed out the door of Henry Archer's house. It was a twenty-minute walk to work. Less than ten if you ran.
Big John sat back down at the kitchen table. Stupid little bastard. He'd wanted Luke to go on to university. He had the ability. What price to put an old head on young shoulders? He drank his tea, then rose from the table again. It was six o'clock. Time to get those other two out of bed.

The Flea looked at the list posted on the noticeboard, his own name second from the bottom with twenty-seven out of a pose
hundred sitting next to it. His chemistry results were evenworse. Tragic had stolen last year's tests. The Flea had thought they seemed familiar.
It was a good thing Tragic was expelled. There were four other very pissed off seniors wanting to have a little chat with him.
The Flea's parents were going to hit the roof. It looked like he'd booked himself a long stint in his dad's carpet store. He went down to the payphone and dialled the number Doom had given him the other night when he'd appeared at his doorway
for a hit-and-run visit.

'Travis,' whined Vanessa, doing her utmost to keep him from climbing completely on top of her. The complaint landed on deaf ears and she felt his body weight pressing down. The bed springs creaked. He ran a hand up her thigh. His other hand held her wrist above her head.
'Don't.'
He wasn't listening.
School broke up within a week and he wanted it known that he'd had Vanessa Dumasis before then. He'd done more than enough over the past six months to earn it. His parents were
out.
Vanessa had been wanting to break up for the past three weeks. She guessed this was what had been in store all along but was still angry at Travis for conning her into his room. He'd become obsessed with getting physical lately. Even when he wasn't touching her, she knew he wanted to. Plus he stank.
She felt his fingers grip the top of her pants and begin pulling them down. Vanessa grabbed at them with her free hand and a game of tug of war ensued.
He stopped and she thought she'd regained control of the situation. She heard his fly unzip and he started rubbing against her, renewing his assault on her pants. When they were down near her knees, she gave it up as a game and slapped him across the face. A bunched fist slammed into the side of her head a split-second later.
Travis pulled back and stared at her. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.' But he didn't let her go. She lay underneath him more angry than scared. He paused for a few seconds. It wasn't working out how he'd planned. Another minute. A minute and he'd be inside her and then she'd enjoy it. He started butting against her again. She was still dry. He could feel her beginning to give way.
Four fingernails dug into his cheek and raked downwards, his sweat making the superficial wounds sting instantly but he was in by then.
When he finished, she wriggled and dived out from under him.
Vanessa was out of the room before he could get to his feet, his unbelted jeans hampering him somewhat. She raced outside into the front yard and was well down the road by the time he caught up with her on his bike.
'I'm sorry.'
'Fuck off,' she said calmly.
'What! You're gunna walk home?'
'If I have to.'
'Good luck.' He turned the bike off and sat astride it. Her place was miles away.
She kept walking along the bitumen track, hoping a lift would come along soon. Everyone around here knew her, so she figured it wouldn't be long.
She'd only been walking for a couple of minutes when she
heard the sound of a car approaching from behind. A four-door
Monaro pulled up beside her. Just before she ducked into it,she took a look at Travis still sitting on his bike where she'd left him. She'd get him for this.
'Where're you headed, Vanessa?' The driver was Scott Rassmussen, a friend of Dale's.
'Can you take me to my place?' She kept her knees together and her skirt down. Her pants were still in Travis's room.
Travis watched the Monaro drive off. 'Fuckin' slut!' He turned the bike around and rode it hard all the way back to the house. He wished he'd hit her harder now.
Daley sat at a table in a sandwich shop in Burleigh Heads, he didn't know exactly where, nursing a ten percent bigger hangover than the one he'd had the day before. Like ten thousand other Queensland school leavers, he'd migrated to the Gold Coast for schoolies week in the quest of having the time of his life. It was eleven thirty in the morning, the earliest he'd been up the past four days. The bacon and egg burger he'd ordered stared up at him, untouched. He felt shocking and the sunlight blazing in from the front window made his headache worse. He was still in the clothes he'd worn the night before and it felt like a bear had shat in his mouth.
The other three Banyo graduates seated with him were in approximately the same condition. Between them they'd gone through two cartons and topped it off with a forty-ounce bottle of Bundy they'd flogged off someone lying face down on the beach.
Daley had been trying to score with a senior from Clayfield. She was as silly as a wheel but had a great body. He thought he was going great guns but she left him for a skeg with a bag of weed. Daley settled for a fat, drunken thing he'd found throwing up on the sand. The last thing he wanted to do was bump into her again.
He stared vacantly at his food and wished The Flea and Doom were around. He thought The Flea would've come down for a couple of days at least but he'd met up with Doom and they were both doing thankless man's work on a strip of road somewhere. Daley thought about Tragic. What he wouldn't give to have that little bastard running around with him down here.
'Geez, didn't we get blind last night,' said someone. The others chuckled, including Daley.
December
Paula sat at the top of the back stairs and began opening the letter. This was the first chance she'd had to put her feet up all day. After getting breakfast ready for her father, she'd fed the animals, done three loads of washing and remade the beds. She'd graduated with a reasonable score but had no idea what she wanted to do or where she wanted to go. She enjoyed being home though. Home being the house. She had no close friends in Rosetta.
The letter was from Danny. It was short and tried to be sweet and was basically an apology for not turning up at the dance. She read it three times, put it back in its envelope and placed the envelope in the top drawer of her dresser. She was still angry with him.
She had a chicken sandwich and half a litre of water for lunch, then cleaned the remaining windows she'd left the day before and vacuumed the house. Dominic Banks wasn't houseproud andalthough the place was tidy it wasn't clean. Afterwards she had a couple of Ryvitas with vegemite and a cup of coffee, one sugar, then saddled one of the horses and went riding for a few hours and visited her mother's grave.
When she was a mile from home, she let the horse go and jogged the rest of the way. She hoped to be up to four miles by Christmas.
1985March
Dale sat at the table, a hint of purple swelling under his right eye and a slight grazing over the corresponding cheek. His mother had treated the fresh scab and Dale wore the mercuri-crome to make her feel better. He'd wash it off when he left the house. Sam looked on, inspecting the damage and revelling in the commotion at breakfast.
'Honestly, Dale, I thought you'd have more sense at your age,' said Kate. 'You'll be twenty-one soon. It's time you jolly well grew up.'
'Yeah, Muuum,' drawled Dale with a show of weariness. He didn't need this bullshit. Dale was rarely home between Friday afternoon and early Sunday morning. This was why. Vanessa and Sam looked down at their plates to hide their smirks. Vanessa had missed Dale's fight. She, Jodie and Linda had just piled into Scott Rassmussen's car at the back of the Sweetwater Hotel and gone to a party only ten minutes before the fireworks started. A group of kids who turned up later at Scott's flat told them that Dale and Dale's girlfriend's ex had had a blue.The actual fight was over whose forty cents was on the pool table. Dale got his shirt ripped but he won.
'Don't "Yeah, Mum" me, Sonny-Jim,' said Kate. 'It's getting '
'Mornin' all,' said Joe, swaggering into the kitchen. 'Ahhh. Muhammad Ali. How'd you pull up?'
'All right,' said Dale.
'How many eggs do you want?' asked Kate, shifting her priorities temporarily.
'Two thanks,' answered Joe.
He sat down across from his father's chair. There were four permanent places at the octagonal table. Big John sat at twelve o'clock, Joe sat at six, Dale sat at three and Kate at nine. The other three floated around and sat where they could. Luke usually got to sit between Dale and his father but now that space was taken up by Sam - except when he was in trouble with Big John, which meant sitting next to Mum.
Joe had a hangover. He'd drunk as much as Dale had but hadn't relished the adrenalin rush of a car-park stoush or the subsequent nursings of an excited girlfriend keen for anything in the back of a ute to spice up a Friday night that was, for him, like so many others. Joe knew, though, that if he didn't consume a decent breakfast his mother would start nagging. He pointed to his cup and Kate poured him some tea.
The toilet flushed and John came out a minute later to resume his breakfast. He listened as his wife and Dale remonstrated with each other but his mind was elsewhere. The dollar had strengthened to two point one Swiss francs. They had actually made almost ninety thousand dollars without lifting a finger. It unnerved him somewhat. John still didn't know the ins and outs about offshore money but he knew ninety grand was nothing to sneeze at. He'd gone to the bank yesterday afternoon and asked Stuart Crofton if it might be a good idea to convert the loan back onshore and take the profit. Stuart didn't think it was. He had produced a few figures to show that, in his opinion, Dumasis Brothers Pty Ltd could still not afford the domestic rates and said it would not be wise if they stopped where they were. John was going to pay a visit to his accountant to see what he had to say.
'Isn't that right, John?' said Kate.
Big John woke from his deliberations, not entirely sure what his wife was going on about. 'Yeah. Wake up to yourself, boyo.'
His second eldest was about to say something but his old man's expression told him it would be a smart thing not to. He ate his food silently. In a couple of hours he'd be in the public bar of the Sweetwater for the morning session, reliving last night's escapades and finding out what happened to everyone else, then picking up his latest girlfriend and going waterskiing. She looked great in a swimsuit.
Joe dropped Big John in town outside Ross Maguire's office after breakfast, then went and changed the irrigator on the block behind his Uncle Nick's place. It should've taken two hours but one of the hydrants blew out when he started the pump and it ended up taking four. His headache pulsed behind his eyes as he fixed it in the midday glare and a dry northerly blew the dust and heat straight at him. He tried his best not to but his mind kept going back to her and he felt like packing it in and just fucking off forever.
John had a chat with Ross for an hour or so and Ross agreed with Crofton that John should hang in there.April

It was round two of the 1985 Brisbane Rugby League season and Redcliffe was belting North Brisbane thirty-four to ten.
The crowd scattered around Norths' home ground, Bishop Park, couldn't have numbered more than a thousand. A few hundred had congregated in the bleachers and the rest, mostly families, were strewn over the grassy slope on the opposite side of the field. The slope extended round behind one of the goal-lines, where the licensed area was. Shirtless supporters were swarming around the outdoor bar, knocking the Fourex back like there was a million dollars up for grabs to see who could get the drunkest.
Dozens of them were already half tanked and had lost their balance and rolled all the way down the slope, into the fence behind the in-goal area. They rose to their feet like fighters before the count of ten and climbed back up the embankment in their grass-stained shorts, still clutching their cans. The rest of the mob hooted and laughed in the sun. The only people who weren't enjoying themselves were the players they'd come to support.
Norths' first-grade coach, Stan Hudson, swore under his breath and shaded his eyes with his left hand. They were puffy eyes, in a puffy face on a pudgy body. Although in better condition than most at forty-two, Hudson was still a candidate for a heart attack before the age of fifty. Stan drank with his players, played up with his players and put the fear of God into them before they ran out onto the paddock. If they won, he was their best mate. If they didn't, things got ugly, and at this point in time, Stan was not a happy man.
Norths had had a very ordinary start to the season. Stan's problems didn't end there. His half-back was lying motionless on the ground, courtesy of a late tackle. Neither the referee nor the linesmen had seen it. 'I can't fuckin' believe this.'
The rest of the coaching staff sat extremely still and stared straight ahead. The players were standing half a field length away, but it didn't stop Stan from giving them some words of encouragement. 'YOU BUNCH OF USELESS FUCKIN' CUNTS! WHAT THE FUCK DO YA THINK YA PLAYIN' AT? PULL YOUR FUCKIN' FINGERS OUT AND HAVE
A FUCKIN' GO!'
A fifteen-knot breeze muffled most of what was said and the twelve players stared dumbly back at Stan. Mitchell Hayes, the captain, turned around to face them. 'What'd he say, Yeatesy?'
'Dunno,' replied Greg Yeates but he had a fair idea.
The mood amongst the twelve was very sombre. The clock showed ten minutes remaining. When you were getting flogged, ten minutes could take all day.
The trainer, Don Evans, ran back to the sideline while two ambulancemen took a stretcher out to the still motionless halfback.
'How's Cubbsy?' asked Hudson.
'Fucked.'
'Fuck it.' Stan Hudson lit his second-last cigarette. The pack had been full at the start of the game. Six reserves sat on the bench and, like the coaching staff, all of them were staring in any direction except Stan's.
Doom sat in the middle, totally enthralled with the patch of grass between his boots. Please not me, please not me, please not me.
'Luke, warm up.'
'Okay.' Don't fuck up, don't fuck up, don't fuck up.He touched his toes a few times, ran on the spot for ten seconds and listened to Stan's instructions, which ended with the words: 'and tell the rest of those cunts if they don't start showin' a bit of fuckin' ticker they might as well not turn up Tuesday night 'cause I'll find some fuckin' cunts who will.'
Doom jogged down to the rest of the team, while the Redcliffe goal kicker lined up the ball for the conversion. 'What'd Stan say?' asked Hayes.
'Ohhh, he reckons we could be doing a bit better.'
'Is that all?'
'Pretty much, yeah.'
The kids leaning over the fence began banging their hands on the advertising to distract the kicker as he started his approach but it had little effect. Another two points went on Redcliffe's score.
Norths jogged back to the halfway line, while the drunks on the hill gave someone a wedgie and threw his thongs onto the roof of the bar.
Half a minute after the kick-off, Doom found himself in front of a seventeen-stone front-row forward, running with a full head of steam, the ball tucked under one arm. He didn't tackle him as much as just got in his way. Two other Norths defenders came in around the chest and the four of them hit the ground.
As they disentangled themselves, the Redcliffe forward screwed his free hand into Doom's face, trying to push his nose back up into the space between his eyes. Welcome to first grade.
Despite the game being in its closing stages, the pace was still quite hectic. A Redcliffe centre lost possession in a gang tackle. Doom dived onto the loose ball and felt a knee slam into his kidneys as another player dived on him.
He took a few elbows to the head from his opposition halfback whenever the referee wasn't looking, a boot in the mouth after diving to make a cover tackle, and a torrent of abuse from Stan after throwing a pass that was intercepted and resulted in another try against them.
They sat slumped in a dressing-room littered with discarded shoulder pads, jerseys and strapping and listened as Hudson told them they were a bunch of useless poofters with cowshit for brains. Doom crouched in a corner and held a bag of ice to his mouth. He was beginning to understand why Bishop Park was nicknamed Bash-Up Park.
'How'd you pull up?' He looked up and saw Henry Archer standing over him.
'Not bad thanks, Mr Archer.' Henry paused while Stan compared the team's playing abilities with those of his own grandmother.
'Do you think you could get this Tuesday afternoon off work?' asked Henry while Stan wondered out loud whether to give Grandma Hudson a run in first-grade the following Sunday.
'I dunno,' said Doom.
'Don't worry. You will. Come by the clubhouse around three o'clock. We'll have a bit of a chat.'
When they hit the showers a few of the players noticed the marks on the replacement half-back's body. It looked like a miniature set of train tracks running across his chest. One of the wingers, Lloyd Boyd, asked him how he got them.
'Glass door.'
'Hey?'
'I went through a glass door.'
'Shit. How'd you do that?'
'Can't remember.' The Drifters were crooning their way through 'Saturday Night at the Movies' and every dog in the street was barking its head off. Streaks of mauve were appearing across the sky and the cloud bands on the horizon were fiery orange at the edges. There was some traffic on the streets but the suburbs were still sleeping.
Tragic trundled two wheelie bins across the street to the rear of the truck. His running shoes were soaked with dew and his T-shirt was damp with sweat. Despite the cold, the barking dogs and the stench of garbage, he was cloaked in an unfamiliar sense of wellbeing. Sydney's west was not exactly God's country but the council flats and unkempt yards seemed less monotonous in the pre-sunrise greyness than in the harsh light of day. This was only his third week on the run and he was still a bit green but most of the garbos regarded him as a little goer, which was as good a tag as he could hope for. Although the routes varied daily, as did the crews, every Monday Tragic found himself doing the Fairfield Heights run with Felix and his fat mate Edgar.
He flicked a lever and the hoist flipped the bins up, their contents sliding into the back with a tinny rumble. Tragic unhooked them and raced them back to their respective houses. He ran on and grabbed another two as the truck groaned forward, air brakes hissing as it pulled up a couple of houses further on.
Felix and Tragic laboured urgently while Edgar lit a cigarette and adjusted the volume on the radio. Tragic saw the glow as Edgar sucked deeply before sticking his head out the window.
'Pull your finger out, Danny. They'll be starting in a couple of minutes.'
'Get out and give us a hand then.'
'Maaate,' answered Edgar, motioning at the steering wheel and shrugging his shoulders.
When they reached the end of the street, Edgar switched off the music and the truck and hefted his considerable bulk out of the cab. The three of them jogged up the next lane and into a cul-de-sac before taking up their positions behind a badly trimmed hedge. Edgar was blowing hard already. 'What time is it?' asked Tragic. 'Ten to six,' answered Felix.
'Shhh!' hissed Edgar. They waited for a few minutes. 'Maybe we've missed them,' said Tragic. 'They're probably sleeping in,' replied Felix. 'Shut up, fuck yas,' said Edgar.
The kitchen light came on in the house. The three could see clearly into it through the living-room window. A young bloke stumbled around in his boxer shorts. He put the kettle on, spooned something into a mug and went to the fridge. 'Come on,' muttered Edgar. 'We haven't got all day.' The young man in the kitchen sat at the table and propped his head up with both hands. His girlfriend or wife, the three weren't sure which, came in and tousled his hair. She was dressed in a shirt about five sizes too big for her. She began massaging the guy's shoulders.
'Lucky bastard,' spat Edgar. It wasn't long before the couple were doing more than just reading the morning paper.
By the time they'd finished their quickie, the kettle was whistling. The three onlookers were quietly clapping. 'Good stuff, Andrew.'
'You're a legend, Andrew.' They knew his name was Andrew by the personalised number plate on his car. She'd cried it out a couple of times last week as well.
The three walked back to the truck. Edgar lit a cigarette. 'Do you think she knows we're watching?' asked Tragic. 'I like to think so,' sighed Edgar. 'Dunno how that table stands up to it.'
Felix climbed into the cab. Each of them took half-hour turns at the wheel, even though Tragic still didn't have a truck licence. They arrived back at the depot at ten forty-five and received the ceremonial last-truck-home applause from the rest of the garbos. Edgar, Felix and Tragic were last every Monday. Tragic cycled out of the yard soon afterwards, back to David Logan's sister's house, a three-bedroom fibro cottage less than five minutes from Cabramatta Station. He had a shower, got changed and then went into the kitchen and made four scrambled eggs on toast. Tragic had been going to the gym three afternoons a week on the days he wasn't training with the Cabramatta under eighteens. He hadn't put on any weight though.
After breakfast he went down to the Cabramatta sports park and practised kicking goals. Tragic used a round-the-corner style. Two little rat-tailed ten-year-olds who wagged school most days chased after the ball and brought it back for him. Tragic kicked one goal from forty-three metres out. The kids thought he was a legend.

It was hotter than it should've been for autumn but that didn't stop Peter Crombie from rabbiting on about his latest sexual encounter to anyone who cared to listen as they downed tools for smoko. Henry Archer was good friends with Graham Stafford. And in the time that Doom and The Flea had been at Stafford Brothers Proprietary Limited, Crombie had related at least thirty such stories and, curiously, every tale involved a girl no older than twenty-four with legs up to her tits. Apparently, a sizeable percentage of young nubile Brisbane women seemed
to lust after middle-aged backhoe drivers with enormous beer guts, if what they were being told was true.
To look at Peter Crombie, the nicest possible way of describing his appearance would be to say that he wasn't an attractive man. He'd been turning up at Stafford Brothers for thirty-eight hours a week plus overtime for the last eight years, was unhappily married with two kids and lived in a brick-veneer dwelling somewhere in Coorparoo. And if the only way he could get his jollies was by telling his workmates how he'd given the young chick down at the local video store the best forty minutes of her life, or how one of these days he was going to punch the head foreman's lights out, or how dole bludgers and Asians should be lined up against a wall and shot, that was fine with Doom and The Flea. As long as he didn't sit too close. Peter had breath that could choke a wild pig.
Doom stretched out in the shade of a Moreton Bay fig a small distance from where the others sat and tried to doze for a few minutes. The Flea sat beside him, adding further fuel to the rumour that they were actually rooting each other. It was obvious they were poofters. The fact they were ex-private school was proof enough. Plus neither of them seemed to have had any experience with, nor showed any great interest in, members of the opposite sex. And they never hung around the main shed after work on a Friday for a few beers laid on by the boss. 'Want an apple?'
Doom shook his head and returned it to its resting place on his forearms. His mouth was too sore and he was too tired. He always felt tired lately. When he wasn't working he was training. The Flea, too, was in a state not conducive to shovelling asphalt but that wasn't due to any physical exertion the day before. He'd staggered into the flat he and Doom were renting at four in the morning after drinking what was left of his pay with Daley at Cybil's Nite Club. Daley was still sound asleep on their couch. The Flea would've gladly paid good money to be doing the same - if he had any.
'Hey, Mary! Did you and your little girlfriend go a bit overboard last night?'
The Flea didn't bother answering. He bit into his apple and chewed unenthusiastically. The rent was due on Wednesday. He'd have to bite Doom for a loan.

The in-tray was half a foot high with memos, mostly requests to draft letters to clients with fees still outstanding. Steve Miller looked at the pile for a couple of minutes and let out a yawn. The working week had begun two hours ago and he was still attempting to make a start. He fingered the diamond stud in his ear and stared across the room at Melanie, the new secretary.
Much of his time had been taken up in this manner since she'd started her traineeship with Downings and Miller two weeks ago. He'd managed to bump into her a few times and thought he was making good progress. Just as he sensed she was about to look in his direction, Steve grabbed another pen and began doing a drum solo on his desk. If she wanted wild and crazy, he'd fit the bill.
'Have you sorted out those receipts from the Calcott file?'
Steve placed the pens back in their plastic Garfield holder as nonchalantly as he could and tried to look as if he was in the middle of doing something.
'Yeah, Dad, I was just about to get onto that.'
'Didn't I specifically ask you at breakfast this morning to have them ready for me by eleven o'clock?' Noel Miller's voice was calm. He always asked questions that he knew the answer to.
'Yeah, well... a few things came up.'
Noel looked at the desk. There was nothing sitting directly
in front of his son except a notepad with a couple of love hearts doodled on it. 'Have them ready for me in half an hour.'
'Right, Dad.'
Noel made to leave, then turned around. 'And, Steven?'
'Yes, Dad?'
'Take that thing out of your ear before I rip it out.'
'Yes, Dad.'
Noel left the room. Steve ran a hand through his hair and looked around to see if anyone, namely Melanie, had seen the exchange. He wasn't sure she had but he picked up the phone and began dialling an imaginary number as if he'd been asked to do something very important very quickly, just in case.

Dominic Banks climbed the back stairs using one hand on the rail. His lunch box was in the other, his thermos tucked under the same arm. It was only half past six but he was ready to fall into bed straight away. His legs and arms were black with dirt, as were his clothes. He smelt of diesel and his shorts were damp with hydraulic oil. Dominic's face was black as well. He had dust in his hair, around his eyes, in his ears and nostrils and his throat ached from breathing it.
He dragged his feet through the back door. The kitchen light was on. For an instant he thought it was his wife standing at the stove. He tried to indulge the illusion but the moment had gone before he was truly aware of it.
'Hi, Dad.'
'G'day, love.' She was even taller than Jean. Jean had been taller than him. Dominic was chunky and swarthy. They'd been the odd couple round town when they first started going out.
He went and had a shower. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, Paula had his dinner ready. Dominic had one beer first, then they ate in front of the television. The Dukes of Hazzard was on. Dominic liked Boss Hogg but he doubted whether he'd stay awake till the end. Paula sat on the couch next to his lounge chair and ate off her lap. She was dressed in one of his old work shirts. Neither of them was riveting company for the other. The common denominator had gone out of their lives. They both knew this and she had given up trying to change it.
Dominic mopped up the last of his gravy with a slice of bread. Paula always buttered it right to the crust, the way he liked it. Apart from that, she was a lousy cook. He put his plate on the floor, his feet up on the pouf, and watched Rosco P. Choltrane plough into the middle of a haystack, siren wailing, rollers flashing. He dozed off, then woke up when the ads came on. He got out of his chair.
'Are you going to bed?'
'Yeah, love. Early start. Night.'
'Night, Dad.'
Dominic went to his room and got into bed. He didn't fall asleep straight away. He wished he could. It'd be two years
next week.

Doom took the silver pen Archer offered him and signed his first football contract. Then he shook hands with Bart Powell, the club Secretary. Bart handed Doom a cheque for two thousand dollars, the standard sign-on fee for contracted first-grade players. Doom was also on four hundred dollars a win, one hundred a loss. He was currently clearing a hundred and eighty for a forty-hour week at Stafford Brothers, so he thought it was pretty excellent.
'Luke,' stated Henry. He gestured to Doom to sit down again. 'Just a couple of things we need to straighten out. Henry's amiable expression left his face. He now looked very stoic. 'You're a contracted player. You'll be treated as such and we expect you to act as such. You will train with the senior side unless, of course, you're not able to keep up the standard required for first grade. If that's the case, you'll find yourself back with the under nineteens and we'll think long and hard before giving you another chance. Understand?' Doom nodded.
'Good. If I hear you've been out on the town the night before a game, you'll find yourself back there as well. And I'll put a match to this.' Archer pointed to the contract. 'You'll arrive at the ground for training at least half an hour before it commences and you will follow coach Hudson's instructions to the best of your ability.'
Doom thought the last request was going to be difficult. Half the time no one knew what Stan wanted. Not even Stan. 'You'll receive a letter in the mail outlining what else is expected of you,' continued Henry. 'Congratulations. I hope you have a good year.' He offered Doom his hand. Doom shook it. 'Thanks, Mr Archer.'
Henry became amicable once more. The three of them walked out of the office chatting.
'How's the job going?' asked Henry.
Doom thought about Peter Crombie's latest tale, involving two horny young hitch-hikers who'd gone out of their way to thank him for giving them a lift to Mermaid Beach. 'It's an eye-opener.'
Henry and Bart watched him walk over to the weights room. They hoped the scare tactics would keep him on the straight and narrow. For a couple of months at least.may
Daley perched on his chair while the older gentleman seated on the other side of the desk glanced through his resume. Daley was one of thirty applicants being interviewed. The other twenty-nine were all university graduates. He was nursing a tequila-slammer hangover and had used up half a bottle of Clear Eyes in the waiting room outside.
The editor glanced up at him. 'So you've had some experience working with media, Brad?'
'Yes, sir.' That was bullshit. Daley had done a paper run when he was twelve and given it up after a week.
'Assistant editor of the school magazine?'
'Yes, sir. When I had the time.' That was bullshit also.
'I see.' The editor looked at Daley. Daley smiled back.
'How's your uncle Ian?'
'Very well thanks, Mr Goodwin. He said to say g'day.'
'Is he still running that fishing boat?'
'Yes. He's actually got two now.' Daley's uncle and the editor were old school chums. Goodwin was going to stay at Ian Daley's beach house in Cairns next August. 'I was going to work for him over Christmas,' added Daley.
'What happened?'
'Glandular fever.'
'Oh. Still play any sport, Brad?'
'No, sir.'
'First fifteen I see. Shame you're not continuing.'
'Well, I wanted to concentrate on a career.'
'How'd Banyo go last year?'
'Tied for third.'
'Not bad. We were undefeated the year I played.'
'Was that in fifty-nine?'
'Yes,' answered Goodwin. 'It was.'
'Uncle Ian reckons you nearly played for the Wallabies.'
'I don't know about that. There were some good centres back then.'
'Was that your position?'
'Yep. I was shadow reserve for Queensland once.'
'Is that a fact?'
'Bloody oath.'
The floodgates opened and the bullshit flowed. Daley walked out of the room twenty minutes later and Goodwin said he'd be hearing from him. Two other applicants stood up hesitantly as the door opened, both thinking it was their turn. Suck eggs, thought Daley.

Vanessa leaned against the school fence, waiting for her lift home. Jodie and Linda stood beside her and they talked amongst themselves. They had no time for anyone else their own age. Any male under nineteen years old who as much as greeted them was regarded as insubordinate. Anything that went on at school without them being involved in some way was of little importance and they involved themselves as little as possible.
John and Kate Dumasis's only daughter had steadfastly refused to go to boarding school for her senior year. There was no way she was going to start on the bottom rung somewhere else when she had it all at her feet right here. Big John didn't put up too much of a fight. She'd probably get a job in town for a few years, then settle down with someone by the time she was twenty-three or so. He'd feel sorry for the poor bastard, whoever he was.Scott Rassmussen's Monaro pulled up next to them and Linda and Jodie climbed into the back seat. Vanessa walked around the car and waited for Scott to lean over and open the door for her. She derived a great deal of satisfaction knowing that over half the school watched this ritual almost every afternoon.
She seated herself and crossed her legs towards the driver's side, letting her skirt ride up fractionally. Jodie pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her bag, shared them around and they lit up as Scott drove away. Vanessa drew in a lungful of smoke. 'God, what a day.'
Scott listened sympathetically as she and her two friends discussed the trials and tribulations that had befallen them since nine o'clock that morning, including having to help serve at the tuckshop. Not that they had, but being asked to was bad enough. At least it was Friday.
Later in the evening, they'd doll themselves up and sneak into the back lounge of whatever pub Scott was in. He and his friends would buy them wine coolers until they were legless. Vanessa would usually sit astride him and dance in his lap between games of pool. After about four West Coasts she'd have her tongue in his mouth and a hand down his shirt - even sooner if Travis Ovens happened to be there. It was great being sweet sixteen.

Doom lay on the couch with his head against the armrest. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was on. Saturday night had walked into Sunday morning. He had the flat to himself but was too nervous to sleep. It was a typical young males' dwelling, with clothes and gear strewn about the floor in every room, furniture that had seen better days and a bathroom full of wet towels. The kitchen sink was stacked with dirty crockery -The Flea and Doom only washed plates as they needed them.
And the fridge was empty, save for a few condiments and half a litre of ice-cream that they couldn't eat because the freezer compartment was frozen solid.
Doom was the chef of the household. His cooking repertoire consisted of tea, coffee, toast, steak and eggs, and anything out of a can. He and The Flea were on first-name terms with every Chinese takeaway within a two-mile radius.
The Flea had gone with Daley to a school friend's eighteenth birthday party. Doom had been invited as well but he had a game the next day. He doubted whether he would've gone anyway. He'd been to a few eighteenths already and they all followed pretty much the same routine. You rocked up with half a carton under your arm, met the host's relatives, had something to eat from the barbecue and then hung around with the people you felt most comfortable with and slowly wiped yourself out.
At some later point in the evening, a cake would be brought out and the birthday boy's old man would make a speech about how his son had been such a handful but was now becoming a fine young adult and they were all so proud of him. Then the same fine young adult would stumble his way through a thanks-for-coming-hope-you-all-have-a-good-time monologue before skolling a jug of beer in front of a chanting mob of friends.
A twenty-first went along basically the same lines except you skolled a yard glass and were given a wooden key with a heap of signatures on it. It all seemed pretty pointless to Doom, considering the only thing most people had achieved by that age was not dying.
Robert Redford and Paul Newman were arguing over whether to fight the posse chasing them or jump from a great height into the river below when the phone started ringing.Doom didn't bother answering it. It was usually The Flea's parents or some girl close to tears trying to get hold of Daley At this hour it was probably the latter.
It kept ringing. He watched Paul and Robert's stunt doubles jump into the river. Finally it stopped. He settled back on the couch. Doom hated phones.
It started ringing again. He tried to ignore it but couldn't hear the TV properly. He swore and rose from the couch. 'Hello.' 'You took your bloody time.' 'Hey?'
'I'd hate to be hangin' by my balls.' 'Is that you, Tragic?' 'No, it's Jack Nicholson.' 'How ya goin', Jack?' 'Not bad. Listen. Turn your TV on.' 'It is on.' 'What channel?' 'Dunno.'
'Well, turn it on to Channel Nine. You've got to see this. I'll ring you back when it's over.' Tragic hung up.
Doom stood holding the phone. He hadn't heard from Tragic since the accident with the glass door. He went over to the TV and changed channels.
A rugby league game was on. The green chequered field and hundred-thousand-strong crowd told him where it was. He'd only seen the cathedral splendid image once before but knew it was Wembley Stadium.
London was basking in one of its rare cloudless spring days and Doom could sense the atmosphere even though he was twelve thousand miles away. The commentary was barely audible above the noise.
Within ten minutes, he gleaned that Hull and Wigan were
contesting the Challenge Cup Final, rugby league's equivalent to the FA Cup. English rugby league had a style all its own. Defence was not a priority. Nor was ball security. They threw it around with little regard to field position, the tackle count or the score. Brett Kenny, on loan to Wigan from Parramatta, was on fire. He broke the line, ran clear, threw an inside pass to his right. The player supporting him scored without a hand being laid on him. His name came up on the screen. He was Shaun Edwards and he was only seventeen.
It became apparent that the game's fortunes rested in the hands of two players. Kenny carved up the defence again and Wigan scored soon afterwards. Then things turned around. Peter Sterling, ironically from Parramatta also, steered Hull back out of the wilderness. He did not possess Kenny's individual brilliance. Sterling's strength was subtle generalship. He stood out on camera with his shoulder-length blond hair and even a person not familiar with the game could tell Hull's attack revolved around him. He was one of those players who always seemed to have heaps of time. He handled the ball more than anyone else on the field and always made the right decision.
It looked like only a matter of time before Hull would clinch it. But time ran out for them.
Doom watched the Wigan players climb the famous thirty-nine stairs to take the trophy. The phone rang again.
'That has to be the greatest game of football I have ever seen,' said Tragic. 'How good is Brett Kenny?'
'Pretty good,' answered Doom.
'And Sterlo? How good's he?'
'Pretty good. John Muggleton went well too.'
'He certainly did. How good would it be to do that one day?'
Doom agreed that it would be pretty good. 'How'd you get hold of me, Tragic?' 'Ohhh ... I rang Norths during the week and they put me onto someone who gave me this number.'
'Where are you?'
'In Sydney.'
'Sydney? Whaddya doin' down there?'
'I'm a garbo.'
'Fair dinkum?'
'Yeah. I'm playing under eighteens for Cabramatta.'
'Where's that?'
'It's a suburb near Parramatta.'
'How're youse doin'?'
'Fucked. I sat on the bench for Jersey-Flegg last Saturday but.'
'What? For Parramatta?'
'Yep.'
'You lucky bastard.'
'I don't think I'll get a run though.'
'Why not?'
'They only picked me 'cause another bloke was injured. He's back this week.'
'Ohhh. You never know.'
'Mmm. Anyway, how's Norths doin'?'
Doom filled Tragic in on the past six months. He gave a reluctant 'Yes' when Tragic asked him if he was still a virgin. Tragic told him not to worry as he hadn't put any notches on his own gun lately either.
They magged for another few minutes. Doom told Tragic about the exam papers. Tragic said The Flea was a stupid bastard for not realising it sooner. Tragic said he'd ring again in a couple of weeks, then hung up.
Doom went over to the TV and switched it back to the movie. Butch and Sundance were about to make a run for it,
not knowing that half the Bolivian army were waiting outside with their rifles trained on the door.
He thought about Shaun Edwards. Seventeen and already doing a victory lap at Wembley. He thought about Brett Kenny and Peter Sterling and wondered what it would be like to play against them one day. He thought about Robert Redford and Paul Newman and wondered what sort of a lifestyle those two had. He thought about Tragic and wondered why he was playing in the Parramatta juniors when he wanted to play for St George. He thought he was thinking too much and decided to go to bed. He had butterflies already and the match was still
thirteen hours away.
Doom got up early the next morning to go to church and prayed for a good game. He went okay and Norths beat Wests at Wests sixteen-eight. Stan was almost smiling in the dressing-room afterwards.

SUE JAMIESON AND HER THREE CHILDREN OUTSIDE THEIR BURNT-OUT HOME YESTERDAY.
Daley read the caption under the photo for the third time. It was the first time he'd seen his own words in print. He was stoked. He guessed the Jamieson family were probably nowhere near as elated. He'd heard they didn't have any insurance either. Daley saw Alex Edwards walking in his direction. Edwards had joined the Redcliffe Herald two years ago after completing a Bachelor of Arts degree, majoring in journalism. 'G'day, Alex.' 'Hi.'
Edwards didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. He walked about the place as if the printing presses would grind to a halt if he wasn't on deck. Daley thought he was a wanker. 'Oi! James Dean. Feel like some lunch?'Daley turned and saw George Fredericks rubbing his stubble. Daley had come into work that morning to find Fredericks asleep on his desk. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence.
George smoked like a green log and always had a thirteen-ounce bottle of McGinley's in his top drawer. He was forty-nine but looked about a hundred and fifty. George called Daley James Dean or Rock Hudson or any other Hollywood heart-throb that came to mind.
Daley followed Fredericks down the stairs, his suit coat over one shoulder. 'Where're we headed? The Queen's Arms?'
'Naaah. We'll give the Brekky Creek a visit.'
The Breakfast Creek Hotel was almost an hour's drive away but it had the best steaks going in Brisbane. Not that George would be eating any. The Brekky Creek still kept their Fourex in wooden kegs as well. And George had ridden up a tab at the Queen's Arms a diamond heist couldn't cover.
He usually took Daley along with him so Brad could do the driving. Sometimes young Bradley would have a few too many himself and they'd have to leave the car and get a taxi back to work. If they went back at all.

'Do you mind if I change stations?'
'Not a bit.'
Shae Louise leaned forward and played with the dial. The Doobie Brothers came on. 'Do you like this?'
Logan nodded. Shae settled back and took in the view as they drove over the Storey Bridge.
Shae had invited him along to the Princess Theatre to see Guys and Dolls. A friend of hers was performing in it and she thought the two free tickets were as good an excuse as any to finally ask him out. He'd accepted on the condition he did the driving.
Logan decided to put on some aftershave and not to wear the silver crosses on his collar. Shae wore a little black dress.
He saw another side to her when they went backstage after the show to see her friend, the two women reverting to schoolgirl impulses upon seeing each other for the first time in a long while. Shae introduced him to her as David. They attended a party for the cast afterwards.
Their ease dried up as he turned into her street. He parked in the driveway and kept the motor running. She didn't get out of the car. He switched it off.
'Well,' she said. 'Thank you for a lovely evening.'
'My pleasure.'
They both sat and waited. Her two housemates were in Melbourne.
'I'm glad you got to meet Jane. She's a card, isn't she?'
'Yes she is.'
Shae opened the door but stayed in her seat. Even the interior light made her look good.
'I guess I'd better go in.'
He nodded.
'I'll see you tomorrow, David.'
'Yes.'
He watched her walk through the beams of the headlights, across the lawn to her door. He started the car. She watched him as he reversed out.

Alan Cubbs drove along Nudgee Road to his home in Hendra. The traffic lights ahead of him turned red and he was grateful for the pause. He sat at the intersection and stared at nothing in particular.
Cubbsy had been a reserve-grader at Norths for the past eight seasons, only missing three games in all that time. He'd toyed with the idea of switching clubs a couple of times but never seriously considered it. In February, he'd thought it had all been worth it when Stan Hudson named him as the starting halfback.
Norths had struggled through the preseason and the state league, losing more games than they won, but he'd played okay regardless. After being flattened by a Redcliffe thug over a month ago, he'd had to sit out the next two matches. The first-grade side strung a few victories together against easy-beat clubs and his replacement enjoyed the luxury of youth, his mistakes being put down to inexperience. Cubbsy thought he might've got the call-up after they lost to Valleys but Stan didn't make any changes. Dumasis wasn't a bad kid. Not too many tickets on himself. But Cubbsy couldn't help hating him.
The lights changed and he drove on. He turned into Beatrice Street and parked outside his house.
Elizabeth Cubbs was sitting in the lounge watching Fawlty Towers.
'You're home early.'
'Yeah.'
Alan usually stayed back at the clubhouse for a few beers after training. He watched her take his dinner out of the oven and unwrap the foil.
'Where's Kirstin?'
'I put her to sleep a while ago. She's got a bug. You want a cuppa?'
'Yeah.'
Liz put the kettle on and heaped two spoons of leaves into the teapot they'd been given as a wedding present. She'd put on a few pounds since then. Certainly wasn't the same horny little thing that used to sit on the hill with her friends and squeal whenever he made a break. After the main game they all used
to go out together in a group. He and Liz would get as pissed as each other and then sneak back into her room at the nurses' quarters and go at it like rabbits.
She poured the boiling water into the pot and let it draw.
'I'm giving it away, Liz.' Cubbsy didn't use the word 'retire'. Only big names retired.
'Oh? Really?'
'Yeah.' He hadn't touched his food. 'I'll pack it in the end of
this season.'
Alan thought he might start doing a bit more overtime and put a dent in their mortgage. Then they could move back up the coast where Liz's parents lived. If he couldn't make it to training some nights, then that was the club's problem.
'They'll miss you.'
'No they won't.'
She squeezed his fingers and sat with him awhile. It'd be nice having him home on weekends.

Tragic's gut muscles were burning. It was cold and the wind blew dust across the field but he had his eyes shut and kept doing his sit-ups. 'Hundred to go.'
Tragic concentrated on the numbers. He made himself do ten, and then another ten. Soon fifty were out of the way. The next thirty would be the worst. Once he got to eighty, he was home.
Most of the others were giving up. Someone started dry retching. Tragic screwed his face up and tried to shut it out. Seventy. His tail bone was rubbed raw. But he was always going to get there. Finally they reached four hundred.
Tragic rolled over onto his hands and arched his back. Other players just lay on the ground. Steam rose from their backs and heads.'Right. Two laps, then that'll do youse.'
They rose slowly to their feet and trooped around the field in a group. The mood had lightened now that it was all over and a few players were cracking jokes.
Tragic slogged along at the rear, his mind elsewhere. He'd written to Paula three times and hadn't received a reply. It was over, time to move on. He was going to meet a girl in less than an hour. She worked behind the counter at a bread shop in Canley Vale. Tragic had taken it upon himself to keep the household bread supply well stocked over the past couple of weeks before finally working up the nerve to ask her out. They were going to the movies to watch Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Tragic had seen it already. It was a disappointment compared to the first two but Trudy didn't care as long as Mel Gibson was in it.
The first-grade coach ran up beside him. 'Danny!'
'Yeah, Mick?'
'Hodgey doesn't look like he'll be right for Sunday. I'm putting you on stand-by. Think you're up to it?'
'Yeah. Sure. No worries.'
'We're training at eight o'clock Saturday morning. You know what that means?'
'Stay off the piss?'
'Good boy. See ya then.'
'Okay. Thanks, Mick.'
Mick Hartess turned around and went back to pick up the witch's hats. He watched the newest member of the first-grade side finish his laps. He looked six inches taller already.
Two seasons ago, when the club had plenty of depth, a little bloke like Danny would've been flat out getting a start in reserve grade at Cabramatta. He wasn't ready. But that was two seasons ago. Hartess had no choice.
Paula's watch read a quarter to six. It'd be dark soon and she was still a fair way from home. The shorter days weren't going to break her routine though. She jogged for an hour every day. There were three different routes home but they all led to this long featureless stretch of road with paddocks on either side. She'd tried to run along the dirt tracks that crisscrossed the neighbouring farms but she'd been bitten by dogs twice. Paula stuck to the main roads now. It was boring at times but she got to do a lot of thinking.
Her hair bounced and shimmered down her back with each stride and the headband swept it off a face that glowed with health. She was finally back to her ideal weight. And at just under six foot, she looked long, tan and statuesque. Her short shorts and singlet clung to her body and there was more than one driver who took his eyes off the road as they passed the vision.
The local sawmill had employed her as a pay clerk. Paula liked her boss, Viv Cairns. He was a friend of her father's. She liked the guys who worked there too. They were funny and showed off in front of her. Paula preferred the company of men but only in small doses.
She'd taken up the invitation to go out with a group of them two weeks ago. They arrived at her house in a panel van playing the Radiators' 'Give Me Head' at full volume. They went to the Sweetwater Hotel. There was a live band from Mackay playing in the back bar and it was too loud to talk. Five males accounted for every female and it wasn't just the boys getting pissed. Paula didn't drink much and found it hard to relate to people who did. Alcohol seemed to go hand in hand with everything around here. No one appeared to have any other ambition besides having a good time.
She saw Travis Ovens across the room and decided to call ita night before he came over to her. Her lift misread the signals and took a detour. She told him she had a boyfriend in Sydney. He made the observation that Sydney was a long way away but eventually drove her home when it finally sank in that he wasn't going to get anywhere. At least not tonight. When he got back into town he told all the boys he'd scored.
Paula approached a turn-off and saw a small boy standing at the end of it. His feet were grubby, his knees were scabbed and he lugged a football under one arm. He was there most afternoons. She smiled a greeting. 'Hi.'
His face beamed back. 'Hello.'
Samuel Dumasis watched his dark-haired goddess jog on past in the fading light. When she was gone, he ran back up the gravel track to his house. It was nearly tea time. She was late today. He'd almost given up on her.

Shae Louise brooded over her second cappuccino near the western entrance of Toombul shopping centre. The airconditioning was too cold and a muzak version of Neil Sedaka's 'Oh Carol' wafted through the coffee hut. Shae had the guilts. Her one-night stand from two nights ago, a male friend of one of her flatmates, had rung her up at work and asked her out to dinner. She knew this was going to happen. He'd got her drunk. But she'd let him.
The girls were happy for her. It'd been ages since she'd 'been' with anyone. And he was good too. If things were different she probably would've gone out with him. She'd treated him coldly all the next morning, hoping he'd get the message. God, she was a bitch. She checked her watch. It was time to get back to school. She wasn't keen. The glare struck her as she walked through the automatic doors into the car park outside.
Someone wolf whistled at her. She clenched her teeth.
'Hey! Supercoach!'
Shae looked back across the car park and saw Luke Dumasis leaning on a shovel, flashing a smile at her. For a second, she thought the shorter person standing next to him was Danny Miller. Then she realised it was Sebastian. Shae walked over to them and they both greeted her.
'Where are your glasses, Sebastian?'
'I'm wearing contact lenses, coach.'
'How are you both?'
'Good thanks, coach,' they answered.
Shae smiled at the way they addressed her and they chatted for a couple of minutes. She asked Luke what he'd been up to and he said not much. Physical work obviously agreed with him. He looked to have filled out a bit. His skin had improved and he seemed less awkward. She noticed the thin white scar on his neck, and another one over his left eye.
They told her Danny Miller was in Sydney when she asked after him, then they watched her walk back to the car. Peter Crombie sidled up to them and stared after her.
'God, I'd love to part that hot little bitch's legs. She'd love it too.'
Doom cocked an eye at The Flea.
'Peter,' said The Flea wearily, 'I reckon you wouldn't know what a fuck was if it crawled up and sat on your face.'
'What's up your arse, Mary?' Crombie motioned to Doom. 'Besides him.'
'Get fucked, ya fat shit.'
Crombie's mouth set. He pointed a finger at The Flea. 'You're a little boy with a big mouth. If I was ten years younger, you'd be fuckin' mincemeat by now.'
'If you were ten years younger, you'd be lookin' for another excuse,' said The Flea.They stood a few feet apart, Crombie head and shoulders taller and far heavier. Doom studied The Flea, who was still holding his shovel. He looked like he was going to tear Crombie's throat out with it. A few others nearby stopped working. It was very uncomfortable for what seemed a long time.
'Fuckin' smart-arse little poofter.' Crombie turned and walked to his backhoe.
'Yeah. Fuck 'im, Pete,' said someone. 'The faggot's not worth it.'
The Flea threw the shovel down and walked off.
'Where ya goin'?' asked Doom.
The Flea didn't even turn around. Doom ran after him. They caught a taxi back to the main yard and handed their notice in.
Shae turned into the college driveway and smiled at the thought of what Danny Miller would be getting up to in Sydney. She reckoned she could get through the rest of the afternoon on the strength of it.
'. . . and he was fuckin' shittin' himself,' said Crombie as he recounted the day's event to the rest of the boys at the pub after work.

Tragic bowled out of the Stardust Hotel, slightly confused and more than slightly under the weather. He had four hours before training started and thought it best to get some sleep. He stumbled round in the car park, trying to get his bearings, then headed for the direction of home. It was roughly a twenty-minute walk.
He noticed a car that belonged to one of the reserve-grade players, an older guy named Terry Jennings. Terry was just getting out of the back and Tragic veered over towards him, hoping for a lift. When he was about thirty yards away, Tragic saw a girl get out of the back as well, still buttoning up her blouse and smoothing down her skirt. He recognised the petite form and curly black hair. Trudy had told him an hour ago she wasn't feeling well and was going home with one of her girlfriends. She didn't look too dick right now. Terry looked pretty pleased with himself too. He'd been shouting Tragic drinks all night.
Tragic turned around and commenced walking again. He threw up in someone's yard halfway home. When he finally got back, he staggered into the shower and sat with the water running over him for half an hour. She wasn't worth worrying about. She wasn't half as good as Paula.
He went into the living room and put a video on. It was a recording of the Hull-Wigan game at Wembley.
Marie Logan came out of her room in her towelling dressing-gown to see what the noise was.
'Danny. How'd your night go?'
'Okay.'
'You're not watching that game again, are you?'
'Yeah.'
'Feel like a cup of tea?'
'No.'
'Sure?'
'Yeah.'
Marie went into the kitchen and made herself a cup. She made one for Danny as well. She also made some toast. There were ten loaves of bread in the pantry, so she thought she might as well use them.
Tragic kept watching the game. He watched Sterling. He watched everything he did. Fuck Trudy, fuck Terry Jennings, fuck Friday night.

It was standing room only at Bishop Park, but the majority of the eight thousand spectators hadn't come to watch Northsplay, despite their recent winning streak. Their opponents, Wynnum-Manly, were the major drawcard. Gordon Palmer fished a cloth from his shirt pocket and wiped the telescopic lens on his camera for the umpteenth time. A drizzle fell like mist, slowly soaking his clothes, and an intermittent breeze. blew it in at an angle, adding to his discomfort. The weather hadn't deterred the fans though. Palmer had to park his car eight blocks from the ground and walk the rest of the way.
Wynnum were favourites to win the Premiership. Their line-up included five State of Origin players who were household names in Queensland and the main reason Palmer was here was to get some shots of them.
There were twenty minutes left on the clock but the game was all over. Wynnum were leading by sixteen and even the hardiest Norths supporters could see their side wasn't up to the task. A few hundred people were already leaving the ground.
Palmer had shot four rolls of film and was contemplating whether or not to call it a day. He didn't want to be caught in the crush and there was still plenty of work to do back at the darkroom. A shower of rain woke him from his deliberations and he looked up to see the North Brisbane half-back making a run in broken field.
Two Wynnum players lunged for him but came up empty. Palmer raised the camera. The half-back was running diagonally from right to left across the waterlogged field towards him, near the halfway line. Another Wynnum-Manly defender came at him, making a tired high attempt for the shoulders. He was fended off and landed flat on his back in the water. Palmer clicked off two shots.
The crowd sensed something and the noise level rose as Luke Dumasis straightened up off his left foot and headed upfield. The cover defence swarmed in. They had him, then they didn't. He flew across the sodden field like a scalded cat, beating two more players with just speed and then swerved around the full-back without missing a beat. None of the three laid a hand on him. Twenty metres out, he took it all in and let himself enjoy it. The boys on the hill were going off their heads. Doom reached the try line and put the ball down one-handed.
'Ohhh, fuckin' bullshit,' said Don Evans, the trainer. He grabbed a couple of squirt bottles for the players while Stan drew on a cigarette. He'd only gone through half a pack today.
'Don! Tell that little smart-arse if he ever puts that fuckin' ball down like that a-fuckin'-gain, I'll kick his ring so fuckin' hard ...'
Evans didn't hear the rest of it.
Some of the spectators who were leaving early decided to hang around a bit longer.
Gordon Palmer began packing up his equipment.

Tragic sat shirtless on a bench between two other players, his money in one hand, a can of lemon squash in the other. Three committee men wandered about the small dressing-room, each handing out one of the notes they had in their hands to the players. One had a fistful of fifties, the second had twenties, the third tens. Winning pay.
Mick Hartess stood in a corner and surveyed the euphoria going on around him. He could see why the referee mistook Danny Miller for the mascot. He didn't look a day over fourteen.
Ken Hodge lurched through the door, dropped a carton of Tooheys on the table and weaved his way over to Hartess. Half a dozen players ditched their soft drink and made a grab for the beer.
'He went all right,' said Hodge, jerking a thumb in Tragic's direction.
'Yeah,' agreed Hartess. 'How's the knee?''Good. Should be right by next week.' 'How do you feel about playing five-eighth?' 'Shit! He didn't play that well.'
Hartess picked up the stats sheet. 'Second-highest tackle count. No errors. I can't drop him, Hodgey.'

Gordon Palmer held the print between his thumb and forefinger. The solitary figure was sprinting with the ball through the rain, the body leaning twenty degrees to the right. The blond hair made a good contrast with the dark muddy background. The angle was flattering and the eyes were looking at something off-camera. Staring it down. It wouldn't make the layout though. They wanted a name on the back page. If Norths had won, then maybe it would've had a chance. Maybe.
But it was a good photo. Palmer placed it in his dossier and sorted through the rest of the pile.
June
Big John leaned over the work bench at the back of what used to be Cecil Davies' shed and opened the previous day's Courier-Mail to the finance section. The dollar was trading at one point nine Swiss francs. He did some mental arithmetic and checked his figures twice. They'd lost over sixty thousand dollars.
He'd had a meeting with Crofton less than a week ago to discuss the possibilities of hedging the loan in case the exchange rate slipped below one point eight. Crofton replied that it would be ludicrous to do so.
'If we fix the loan at a set rate, you'll negate the low interest advantage. You might as well come back onshore. And you know you can't do that.'
'So we sit back and do nothing?'
'We'll keep an eye on things, but I really don't think there's anything to worry about.'
John poured a dram of black tea from his thermos into an enamel mug and rolled a smoke. He flicked through the paper and read a small segment on the second-back page again. Wynnum-Manly had beaten Norths twenty-eight to twenty-six. At the bottom of the paragraph were the match details. L. Dumasis was listed amongst the try-scorers.
John sat down on a big wooden stump and finished his smoke. He flicked the tea dregs onto the dirt floor and went back out to the paddock to shift irrigation pipes. It took a couple of hours. There was a twenty-knot south-easter blowing and it went right through him.

'Geez it stinks in here,' said Tragic.
Ken Hodge ignored the complaint and continued rewiring a vacant exhibit. Over the past couple of months he and Danny Miller had struck up a friendship of sorts. Hodge had played three undistinguished seasons in the Sydney Rugby League with perennial battlers Western Suburbs. He could've played a fourth but the head coach didn't think much of him, so now he was back down at Cabramatta. He shone at this level, despite being overweight and drinking heavily most nights. Tragic thought he was a legend. Hodge told Tragic he was going to be working at Taronga Park Zoo all this week, tragic had come along, riding around in the work van, talking nonstop.Tragic handed Hodge a screwdriver. He had to be directed three times before he finally laid his hands on what Ken wanted.
A woman in a keeper's uniform approached them and asked how much longer they'd be. Tragic ummed and ahhed. 'Half an hour,' answered Hodge. 'Thank you.' 'Excuse me,' said Tragic. 'Yes?'
'Do youse have the South-American bird-eating spider in here?'
'The what?'
'You know.' Tragic held his hands about two feet apart. 'That big hairy bastard that climbs up trees and eats birds.' 'I don't think so.'
'What about tarantulas? Surely you must have tarantulas in this joint.' 'No.'
'Okay. Thanks anyway.'
The woman walked away, quicker than necessary. 'What was that all about?' asked Hodge. 'Nothin'. I just like big spiders.' 'What? Why?'
'They intrigue me,' said Tragic, who'd always wanted a pet tarantula.
'You were trying to crack on to her.' 'No I wasn't.' 'You were.' 'I wasn't. Honest.'
While he had him on the back foot, Hodge thought he might as well bring something else up. 'That had to be the worst hospital pass I have ever seen anyone throw, last Sunday.'
'Ohhh, don't start with that again. I feel crook just thinking
about it.'
'You feel crook? Bloody Jennings'll be eating through a
straw for six weeks thanks to you.'
'Poor old Terry,' said Tragic. 'Ah well. That's football.'

Ryan Oakley stuck his hand under the passenger seat and
pulled out the orange juice bottle. He packed the makeshift
bong and handed it to Bartlo. Ryan held the steering wheel
while Adam held a lighter over the cone, put his mouth to the
bottle and sucked for all he was worth. The grass glowed, the
water burbled and the bottle grew cloudy, then clear again.
Bartlo held his breath, handed the bong back to Oakley and
grabbed the wheel. Ryan packed the bong again and handed it
to Andrew Warren in the back seat. Wayne O'Brien went next,
then Ryan, then Adam again.
They'd driven down to Mackay in Bartlo's Cortina to catch INXS at the Showgrounds and then went to Valentino's night club. Ryan forgot to bring his driver's licence and the bouncer refused to let him in. The others left him outside for a few hours. None of them knew any girls there. The three stood in a corner and poured a week's wages worth of watered-down spirits down their throats in the hope of changing that. Bartlo sucked face with a little honey at one stage but she wouldn't
put out.
It was daylight by the time they left. They found Ryan asleep on a median strip near the car. Andrew had a cousin who lived on the northside. They drove around to his place and crashed out on the floor.
Around noon, they decided to go home. Adam was still over the limit but it was his car and he didn't want anyone else driving it. They made it back without any trouble. Rosetta wassleeping through the afternoon. She was always a ghost town on Sundays.
They saw Scott Rassmussen's Monaro coming in the opposite direction. His girlfriend was with him.
'Been there, done that,' said Bartlo.
The others laughed.
'How'd she go, Barts?' asked Wayne.
'Fuckin' hopeless,' said Adam. 'Had to check for a pulse halfway through.'
They laughed louder. Andrew Warren kept watching the Monaro through the rear windscreen after it passed.
Adam parked behind the Railway Hotel and they played a few games of pool out the back. Then they went back to Wayne's flat with a carton of VB to play cards. Wayne's girlfriend asked them how their night went. They said it was unreal. And it really was.

It'd been raining on and off for the past eight days. Mainly on. Fortunately the weather had held off for a few hours but the sky was still grey and a storm was on the horizon. The Flea stood in a corner of his parents' backyard in Coorparoo and watched his little cousins take turns running through the gazebo with their arms held out in front of them, making motorbike noises. They'd been going at it for most of the Sabbath afternoon and didn't look like they were sick of it yet. He wished he was their age again.
There would've been close to a hundred and fifty friends and relatives there, spread over five generations, celebrating his sister's engagement party. Why it was so important for him to attend he had no idea. It wasn't like he'd be missed. And she'd been living with her fiance for two years, so what was the big deal?
From what he'd heard it seemed apparent everyone was just relieved she was going to be made an honest woman at last, whatever that meant. The Flea didn't get on with his sister. She'd bossed him around all his life. Lisa Capilano despised the fact that most of her mother's and father's attention was focused on her brother, but in a semi-Italian family she could hardly expect much else. No one was more pleased than her when he'd failed to make it into medicine, the second time around. The Flea didn't give a shit about her any more. He didn't give a shit about anything and was relieved no one was taking much of an interest in him. He'd had two cones with Daley before he got there and wasn't up to holding a conversation with anyone.
His old man still wasn't talking to him. His mum was happy to see him though. She made sure he had more than enough to eat and had packed two boxes of groceries and leftovers from the barbecue for him to take back to the flat.
It was almost three o'clock. Doom would be getting ready to play by now. The Flea envied Doom. Not for what he had or what he was. Just his vision. He knew what he wanted to do and he was on his way. Perhaps it was more admiration than envy.
Doom was going to pick him up when he'd finished his game. He'd paid cash for a mostly purple Torana during the week. Private sale. The owner asked for two grand. Doom said okay. Marvellous negotiation skills.
The Flea saw his second cousin's girlfriend walking towards him. She was his height, 'Hello, Sebastian.'
'Hello.' The Flea couldn't remember her name. 'You've been quiet.' 'Have I?'She nodded. 'These get-togethers wear me out too.'
'Wear you out,' repeated The Flea.
'I haven't seen you round in a while.'
'No. You haven't.'
'I like your hair.'
'Thanks.' The Flea was growing it long. It was down past his shoulders.
'Next time you go for a smoke, get me.' She walked away and joined his cousin's group.
The Flea stood and thought. He had half an ounce in the back pocket of his jeans. Was she that keen? Was he that keen? It was all too hard. He watched his little cousins. They were pulling wheelies. Then the rain came in. Big and heavy.

Doom felt like shit. He didn't know it but he had the flu.
'You right?' asked Greg Yeates.
Doom's eyes shifted from staring straight ahead. He nodded once, then gazed straight ahead again.
Yeates lay on the massage table and listened as the rain got heavier on the roof above him while Don Evans rubbed his corked thigh with goanna oil. The rest of the room was filled with quiet activity as Yeates's team-mates had their injured ankles, shoulders, hamstrings, fingers, thumbs and knees strapped.
Davies Park, home of the Southern Suburbs Magpies, was already a quagmire and the fifteen hundred who'd braved the conditions outside sat huddled under umbrellas while the reserve-graders turned it into pea soup. Souths had very ordinary facilities. The dressing-rooms were just mobile dongas with showers.
Yeates watched the others prepare themselves. Dumasis was already ready. He was sitting forward on a plastic chair in his playing strip with his arms folded on top of his legs, quietly tapping his boots on the floor and staring into space. He was
always in his own little world. No one had worked him out yet. He was the baby of the side. The next youngest player was the left winger, Lloyd Boyd, who was twenty-three and fifteen or so minutes younger than his brother, Floyd, the right winger.
Yeates watched as Mitchell Hayes took two pain-killing injections in his right ankle. Hayes had broken it two weeks ago. A few of the players went into the toilets to pop a few uppers. Some took more than a few. Some took speed. Some took both. Some even had more at half-time. And poor old Stan would wonder why they couldn't follow instructions. Yeates had made up his mind to head to Sydney next season.
Despite all the goings-on in the room, there was something missing. The atmosphere was flat. They should've been on a knife edge. Souths were top of the ladder but their captain, Mai Meninga, was away on the Australian tour of New Zealand. This was Norths' best ever chance to knock them off. If they did win, they'd be only two points out of the top four.
But the butterflies weren't there. Maybe one or two but, overall, Yeates wasn't nervous. He knew he should've been. He wasn't the only one. Everyone was going through the motions, doing the same rituals, speaking the same bullshit, but it wasn't working. Stan made it clear that changes would be made if they didn't get a result. Even that didn't pick them up.
The rain got heavier and pounded on the roof above them. There was nowhere to warm up. Stan made them go outside in the wet. They were going to get soaked anyway, he reasoned.
The reserve-graders lost. They waited outside while the first-grade side went back in for a last-minute pep talk, which had no positive effect whatsoever. They slapped the first-graders on their backs and said things like 'fuckin' give it to 'em' when they ran out.
Norths started an all-in brawl in the first ten minutes. They were ahead by four at half-time. They lost by twelve. Doom did not play well.
Stan was very quiet. It scared them more when he was like this. Everyone kept their voices low and spoke in monosyllables. The lower grades had used up all the hot water. The showers were freezing.
They changed and headed over to Souths' clubhouse. Despite the small crowd watching the game, it was packed inside. Souths had more supporters and better-looking groupies. Doom had half a beer, then went to get The Flea. Greg Yeates asked him if he was going out later. Doom said he wasn't sure. Yeates said they'd be at The Port Office or The Underground if he wanted to catch up with them.
Doom drove round to The Flea's parents' place. He'd told The Flea to be waiting for him when he got there, so they wouldn't have to hang around. Doom sensed The Flea's oldies weren't all that keen on him. But The Flea wasn't ready for him when he got there. The party was just about over, with a dozen or so relatives inside. Doom stood in the kitchen and endured a strained conversation with Lisa Capilano and her fiance for twenty minutes before The Flea surfaced. And it was another twenty minutes before they finally got in the car.
'Sorry,' said The Flea.
'No worries,' said Doom. 'Do you wanna go out?'
'Where?'
'A few of the boys are going to The Underground.'
'Yeah, I'm keen. Can you lend us twenty bucks?'
'I gave you a hundred on Friday.'
'I know but..." The Flea shrugged his shoulders.
'Geez.' Doom hunted around in his Adidas bag while he drove one-handed, looking for his wallet. 'Here.' He gave The Flea a fifty.
'Thanks, mate. I'll pay you back Tuesday.'
They parked the car at the Petrie end of Caxton Street and walked up to The Underground. Even though it was a Sunday night and the weather was drizzly, there was still a four abreast line stretching from the door of the nightclub out to the taxi stand thirty yards away. Doom had only been to The Underground twice before. Most Brisbane footballers hung out at the Caxton Hotel on Saturday nights if they didn't have to play the next day or The Port Office or The Underground on Sundays and were usually let in straight away.
The doorman recognised Doom and gave him a nod. As Doom and The Flea walked to the front someone shouted at
them. 'Luke!'
Doom turned and saw Travis Ovens smiling at him.
'How ya goin', mate.'
'G'day, Travis. Whatta you doing down here?'
'Just got down yesterday for tech college.' Travis was doing an apprenticeship at the sugar mill. 'I heard you're playing footy down here.'
Doom nodded.
'That's great, mate. Are you going in here?' asked Travis.
'Yeah.'
'Can you get us in?' Travis motioned at the other two young
blokes who were with him.
Doom didn't know them. He went up to the doorman, Max. Max was a dirty great big Fijian with a huge affro, who played
third grade for Valleys.
'Ey, Lukey Boy. How's it goin', man?' smiled Max in a high,
scratchy voice. 'Good, Max.'
'How'd youse go today, man?' 'Got done.''What by?'
'Twenty-four: twelve.'
'Fuckin' Souths. How'd Stan take it, man?' Max's teeth lit up again.
'He wasn't a happy chappy.'
'He's never a happy man. Don't worry about it. Get inside. Drink some piss.'
'Is it okay if a few of my mates come in?'
'Where are they?'
Doom pointed back to Travis.
Max waved them up. They went in.
The Underground was your typical half-dark, carpeted, mirrored, disco-lighted establishment. Travis and his mates were stoked. They thanked Doom, ignored The Flea, had one drink with them and then left them. Travis told them soon after how he'd gone to school with Dumasis and how a little wog half his size had beat the shit out of him and how they all used to fuck his sister.
Doom and The Flea bought two Ouzo and Cokes and stood against a pillar on their own. Before long, Mitchell Hayes's girlfriend, Greg Yeates and the Boyd brothers spotted them. They all knew The Flea. He went to most games to watch Doom.
Mitchell's girlfriend came over. She was a blonde plain Jane but in a nightclub with some make-up on she looked the goods. She leaned down on The Flea's shoulder. He was just the right height.
'How are you, Luke?'
'Not bad thanks, Deb.'
'How are you, Sebastian.'
'Pretty good for once thanks, Deborah. How's Hayesy?'
'Fucked,' said Deborah. 'I told 'im not to fuckin' play.'
'Where is he?' asked Doom.
'He's at home. I said, "Fuck ya. If you're gunna be a dick-head I'm not staying at home with you".'
'Fair enough ... I s'pose,' said Doom.
'He'll be out for the rest of the year,' said Yeates. He and the Boyds had followed Deborah over.
'Shouldn't have played,' said Floyd. 'I mean, if it was a
Grand Final, fair enough.'
'He had a cunt of a game anyway,' said Lloyd. 'We all did,' said Yeates. 'Yeah,' said Floyd and Doom.
'Hmmm,' said The Flea, though they couldn't hear that over the music. The Flea noticed Greg Yeates's boyfriend standing a small distance away. He was pretty and quite a few women gave him more than just a second look. He and Greg had been seeing each other for about a month. Hardly anyone knew but the whispers were getting louder. The Flea had put two and two together weeks ago. Lloyd and Floyd knew. Greg had told them. Doom had no idea.
They stayed there for a couple of hours. The Flea nearly pulled a not-half-bad sort, which would've made it two for the day. Doom almost bumped into Travis again but they avoided each other at the last minute.
Around midnight, they found Daley in there as well. He was in a corner booth with a little honey who had big hair and eyes for Brad alone. Brad was putting in some huge groundwork and it was paying off so he couldn't talk to them for too long. They left him to the job at hand and went home soon after.
Doom took the last Panadol in the packet and went to bed. He woke up the next morning feeling worse and decided not to do any training. He visited the doctor, got a prescription, bought some lemons and a bottle of Vitamin C and spent the rest of the day on the couch.By Tuesday it had cleared up and so had the rain. Doom did some sprint training early in the morning and decided to give himself the rest of the day off. He went into the city to do some shopping. He was spending money like water these days and had lunch in Queen Street at Jimmy's on the Mall. They made a wonderful spaghetti marinara with Moreton Bay bugs and a tomato and basil sauce. Doom had a coffee afterwards and watched the world go by. He didn't mind sitting on his own. 'Hey!'
He looked over his right shoulder and saw Sabrina Stewart standing just outside the open-air restaurant, dressed in a bum-length sloppy joe and leggings. 'G'day, Sabrina.'
Sabrina was the younger sister of Oscar Stewart, one of the under-nineteen players. She came to the Norths games now and then and hung around the clubhouse afterwards.
She had boy-length black hair, cat's eyes and exuded a feline minx appeal. Most of the boys wanted to get her home alone and she knew it. Doom had met her a couple of times and he was no exception.
Sabrina invited herself in and sat down and ordered a cappuccino. She asked Doom how his weekend was and teased him about losing on Sunday. Her cappuccino arrived and she stifled a yawn and told Doom about a party she'd been to the night before and how an old guy had offered to take her on a holiday to Singapore with him next month. Doom asked her if she was going to go. She said no way, the guy was a sleaze. When they finished their drinks Sabrina suggested she might see Doom later on in the week.
'Okay,' said Doom, trying not to sound too excited by the prospect.
He watched her leave.
An old busker was murdering 'Greensleeves' on a violin.
Doom recognised it because it was the theme from Lassie. He dropped twenty bucks into his case when he went past. The old bloke said, 'God bless you.' Doom said, 'No worries,' went home and had a nap.
July
Vanessa fingered the top button of her uniform while Kieren Hemmings, the new history teacher, drew up a dateline on the blackboard. He had a cute arse, nice eyes and was married to the dumpy cow who'd taken over the hair salon across from the supermarket. She stared at his face when he turned around to speak and counted the number of times he looked in her direction.
He asked the class to copy down what he'd written. She made a show of conspicuous inaction. He walked around the room and passed her desk twice before asking what the matter was.
'I don't understand.'
He leaned over and showed her what she had to do. She put her forearm against his hand and he didn't take it away. 'Clear?'
'Not really.'
He spent another five minutes with her and she turned around so he could see down her shirt.
'Okay now?'
'Sort of.'
He smiled at her. She gave him one of her own. He went back to the board. Vanessa turned around to the desk behind her. Jodie covered her mouth and rolled her eyes.Doom pulled two cups out of the kitchen cupboard and thought about what he had to do next. Coffee, then water, then milk. He was under pressure. Days of Our Lives was on. After that was The Young and the Restless, then Hogan's Heroes. He lived for Hogan's Heroes.
He stuck his head round the door. 'How many sugars?' 'Do you have any sweetener?' He didn't. Bugger it. This could blow it. 'Yeah.' 'One then.'
Doom put a teaspoon of sugar in her coffee. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her. One teaspoon wasn't going to hurt that waistline.
He brought the coffees out to the living room, which was spotless. So were the bathroom and kitchen. He and The Flea had hired a lady to come in twice a week. Mrs Leggitt did a great job and Doom and The Flea were her favourite clients. They didn't expect her to have every speck of dust gone and she billed them for five hours a week even though she only did three. Doom didn't care. It was still worth it. She'd found the set of keys to the flat they'd lost six months ago in the sink when she first did the dishes.
Sabrina took her cup. 'Thanks.' She sipped it. 'Nice.' 'That's good,' said Doom.
Sabrina attended teachers' college at Mount Gravatt but was cutting a lecture today. Not that Doom minded.
The Young and the Restless had started. Sabrina curled her legs up on the couch. Doom stared at the TV Victor and Nicky were blueing again. But it wasn't Victor's fault. Doom reckoned he was a nice bloke. That mongrel bastard Jack was trying to backdoor him. Again.
'How can people watch this show?' sighed Sabrina. 'Beats me,' said Doom. 'What's it called anyway?'
777
'Who cares?'
'Yeah.'
An ad came on. Doom got worried. He'd done the coffee thing. 'How's college?'
'It sucks.'
'Oh.' Doom thought it would be best to shut up. Sabrina did most of the talking after that, which made things easy. All he had to do was agree with everything she said. Which he did.
They sat through the rest of The Young and the Restless. She looked at her watch. 'I'd better get going.'
'Okay.'
He followed her to the door.
'Are you doing anything this Friday night?' she asked.
'No.'
'Would you like to come out with me and some friends?'
'Yeah.'
'I'll meet you at the Regatta.'
'Okay.' Doom didn't know where that was. The Flea'd know. She pecked him on the mouth and then walked down to her car. Her parents' car actually. Doom watched her drive away. He hadn't been kissed by a girl in two years. Excellent.
He could hear the Hogan's Heroes theme music. Sensational.

'How much?'
'Seventy thousand.'
'Buuullshiiit,' said George Fredericks.
'No bullshit. Seventy grand and a car and a house.'
'Well, that's what he told me.'
Everyone lost interest. There were two kegs on tap and no journo worth his salt was going to listen to someone feeding the chooks about another Courier-Mail scribe jumping ship and going over to The Sun for big dollars when there was free piss on offer.
'Hey, Rock Hudson,' drawled Fredericks, holding up an empty glass. 'Man's not a camel.'
Daley took the hint and tottered across the small auditorium furnished with rows of butcher's-paper-covered tables and plastic chairs. He leaned up against the temporary bar and tried to focus properly.
'Four more thanks.'
Geez, these old bastards could put it away. He was a shot duck but still glad to be there. It beat where he was and who he was with earlier that day hands down.
Daley had spent the entire morning at the Redcliffe State Primary School. If he never had to do another stranger-danger or adopt-a-cop story again, he'd still have done too many. And he knew he was pencilled down for two more. The liaison officer he had to work with was a stuck-up piece of work. Even his best smile hadn't had any effect on her. Probably a lesbian, he guessed.
George had brought him along to this sportsman's dinner-come-launch under the pretence of showing him some more ropes. Daley was already too drunk to chauffeur him home. It seemed weird that everyone was talking football when it was the Sheffield Shield squad who were the guests of honour. But Queensland's cricket side had never been taken too seriously and the big names were away on tour with the Australian side.
Daley was hoping to branch into sports eventually. The closest he'd come at the Redcliffe Herald was typing in the trots results. He'd only been there a couple of months and already he could see the limited horizons of a suburban weekly.
The barmaid put his drinks in front of him and Daley shook himself out of his despondency. There was plenty of time and he still had heaps to learn. He walked back to George's circle and they took his load off his hands.

The Flea parked the Torana in unit forty-one's space, making sure not to go too far forward and hit the motorbike. Doom had bought a Honda 250 for nine hundred dollars off a Norths reserve-grader. He let The Flea have the car to go to work at a cannery across town. The Flea wasn't all that hot on a motorbike. Still, he was far more capable than Doom was when he first bought it. The first night he went to training on it he came to grief twice before he even got out of the driveway. Doom didn't have a bike licence and the registration had run out three weeks ago.
The Flea laboured up the steps and opened the front door. Doom was in the kitchen, making baked bean jaffles.
'Hey,' said The Flea.
'The Italian Stallion,' announced Doom. 'Want one?'
'Yeah.'
'How was work?'
'Fucked.'
'How many'd you have today?'
Three.'
'Legend. Where?'
'One in the toilet, just before morning tea, then another in the toilet after lunch. And the third was just on closing time.'
'Where'd you do that one?'
'In the toilet. By the time I got out nearly everyone'd gone.'
'Fair dinkum.'
'Yeah. Just the shift boss left.'
'What'd you say?'
'Told 'em I was sick. He said if I hadn't showed in another ten minutes I would've been locked in.''Classic.'
'What about you?' asked The Flea.
'Two.'
Two? When?'
'One when I woke up. The other when I had a shower.'
'Straight after the first?'
'Just about.'
'So I came back from a two-nil deficit?' The Flea walked around the kitchen with his arms above his head. 'Champion.'
They went into the lounge with their jaffles and a couple of Milo milkshakes and watched Family Feud and Wheel of Fortune. Halfway through Wheel of Fortune, The Flea looked at Doom. 'Haven't you got training tonight?'
'Yeah. Doesn't start for another ten minutes.' Doom watched one of the contestants spin the wheel. 'R! R, ya stupid cow.'
She picked an S.
'Have you solved it?' asked The Flea.
'War and Peace,' said Doom.
The Flea looked back at the screen. 'You should go on this show. You'd kick arse.'
'I would if I was up against those three dickheads.' Doom got off the couch and put on his knapsack. He plucked the full-face with no visor off the hat stand and ran down the stairs. The Flea's cousin's girlfriend was walking up.
'G'day,' said Doom. She didn't acknowledge him.
Doom shoved on the helmet, walked the bike out, kicked it over and gunned it out of the driveway, nearly taking out the woman from downstairs who was walking up the drive with her shopping. 'Sorry, Mrs Guthrie.' He rode out into the quiet street, then hit Gympie Road. He only stayed on it for half a minute before turning into the Kedron High School and riding across the ovals till he reached a huge suburban park.
Doom rode along the bikeway, scaring the odd jogger, then wound the Honda out on the grassy flat, following the brook right into the Toombul Shopping Centre. He raced across the car park, lost it in some loose stones and came off hard, gravel rashing his left side from the hip down. He bounced back up, kick-started her again and rode even harder through a few streets until he reached Bishop Park, pulling up the front wheel as he came through the main gate.
Stan Hudson was standing in the car park of the clubhouse, tapping his watch as he went past. He looked at Don Evans. Just what I need. Another fuckin' lair.'

Vanessa stood behind the ironing board in the lounge room with her wet hair wrapped in a towel, watching the Saturday-afternoon repeat of Countdown. Her eyes stared at the television screen but her brain wasn't really taking any of it in. She was depressed more than average. Her period was due but that wasn't it. It was nothing. It was everything. She knew she'd be late at this rate but Scott wouldn't mind. And stiff shit if he did.
Molly Meldrum introduced Pseudo Echo playing live in the studio as she gave the dress she was ironing a liberal dose of Fabulon. She looked up at the screen every so often for a glimpse of Brian Canham but couldn't hear the lyrics over the noise in the background. The chocks were going off. She heard Samuel yelling, the dog barking and Joe stomping through the house, swearing. The commotion pricked her curiosity just slightly. They were always shouting at each other.
The shotgun went off.
'Shit.' Vanessa put the iron down and went to the back door. She stood at the top of the stairs. Joe, Samuel and her mother were all in the backyard.
'What's wrong?''Joe shot the hawk,' replied Sam. 'Where is it?'
'In there.' Sam pointed to the block of cane behind the chookhouse, then put his hands back on his hips. 'That'll teach the bastard.'
Kate grabbed him by one shoulder and smacked his bum as hard as she could. It had little effect and Sam, who'd turned twelve two weeks ago, assumed a stance to convey as much.
'Get upstairs, Sonny-Jim.' Kate watched him leave. 'And you'd better be ready for Mass by the time I'm up there.' Sam sauntered back to the house.
'Hurry along or I'll get the belt.' Sam hurried along. 'Where does he pick up language like that?' Fucked if I know, thought Joe.
Kate went inside the pen to check on her poultry. Joe walked back up to the house to put the gun away. He passed Vanessa at the top of the stairs.
'Poor old hawk,' she mused, still staring where Sam had pointed.
'Dead old hawk,' said Joe. 'Why'd you have to shoot it for?' 'What?'
'Didn't have to kill him. Could've just scared him away.' 'And he'd be back tomorrow, Vanessa.' She turned and went back to the lounge room. 'Fucking hero.' 'What'd you say?'
She resumed her ironing. Sam was sitting in the beanbag in front of her. 'Fuckin' hell. All I said was "bastard".' 'Don't swear.' 'You do.'
'Not as much as you.' 'Bullshit.'
'Oooo. Big tough Sammy with his big foul mouth.' 'Big cow Vanessa with her big fat arse.' The top ten came on. Vanessa's favourite group, The Models, were number two with 'Barbados'. Sam bolted for the shower when he heard his mother coming up the stairs. Kate took a quick look in the lounge room to check he wasn't watching television.
'What time does the party start?' 'Seven o'clock.' 'Are you going to Mass first?' 'Yes, Mum.'
Kate left the room and called out to Joe to ask him if he wanted steak and onions for tea.
Sam and Kate were getting in the car to go to church when Scott's Monaro cruised up the drive. Sam called out to his sister and his mother was mildly pleased when her daughter came down the back stairs. Her shoes didn't exactly go with the frock but telling Vanessa that would be more trouble than it was worth. 'That looks very nice.' 'Thanks, Mum.' 'Have a nice time.' 'I will.'
Scott said hello and goodbye and spun the back wheels in the gravel as he took off.
'Bloomin' maniac,' said Sam, attempting to claw back a few points for the swearing. It was imperative he got back in the good books by the time they returned home so she'd let him go camping down the river with Simon Hinton, who lived directly across on the opposite side. Simon was going to sneak out his old man's twenty-two and they were going to blast fuck out of anything that crossed their path. Sam had decided his mother didn't need to know that.Vanessa had the frock down around her high heels before they reached the end of the driveway. She threw it in the back seat, smoothed down her miniskirt and adjusted her tit top.
'Got any smokes?'
Scott wordlessly pulled a packet of Winfield reds from his shirt pocket and tossed them over to her. He'd been at the Sweetwater most of the afternoon.
'Want one?'
'Yeah.' He took his slightly bloodshot eyes off the road for a second as she flicked her hair back behind her shoulders and lit his cigarette.
'Here.'
'Ta.' He wondered if they'd be having sex tonight. You never knew with her. Some nights she was all over him. Sometimes it was look but don't touch.
He turned the music up until the bass was rattling the rear speakers. Vanessa lit up another smoke and looked at the road ahead. She wasn't into Bruce Springsteen but it was better than half the shit he had. She wanted this party to be dull. So dull that they'd leave after making an appearance and head down to Airlie Beach where she could meet up with Linda at Trix nightclub. It was the only one in either town, not counting the crappy disco at the back of the beach pub. Linda's height and cleavage had been getting her in the door at the disco since she was fourteen and she'd finally cracked Trix a month ago.
Neither of them spoke on the way into town and she was onto her second cigarette when Scott turned into a new subdivision on the southern outskirts just off the highway. They parked out the front of the duplex two of his workmates had recently moved into and Scott pulled a carton of VB stubbies out of the boot. AC/DC's 'Hell's Bells' was playing somewhere inside. Vanessa followed him through the front door and into the one-roomed living area where three girls were sitting on a couch together drinking cask wine and watching Valley Girl on video. They said hello to Scott and hi to Vanessa and started talking about her as soon as she'd followed him out the back door.
In the half-grassed backyard a dozen unmatching chairs were arranged in a wide circle around a garden table. A ghetto blaster and bowls of CCs, Jatz crackers and dip were on the table and four eskies were interspersed amongst the chairs. Six of Scott's mates were sitting around swapping car stories and working their way through their second carton in record time. They oied as Scott joined them, then rested their eyes on the girl with him. They all knew Dale Dumasis's hot little sister. Vanessa half knew most of them and plummed for their company rather than the girlfriends'. She knew they hated her guts but didn't care. They were all nearly twenty and past it.
She enjoyed the male attention for the better part of the first hour but by the second hour she was bored and freezing cold. Scott was already half cut and she was sick of the way he acted like he didn't give a shit about her around these people. The three girlfriends came out to join in the fun and Vanessa went inside the unit for the solitude of the toilet. Two more girls who'd arrived later were waiting outside it. They were both dressed in tight jeans and open-neck blouses. It worked for one of them. Their conversation halted as she approached.
'Are you Dale's sister?' asked the taller one.
'Yes.'
'Where's he tonight?'
'At a rodeo I think.'
'Where at?'
'Bowen River.'
'Shit.' She poked her plump red-headed friend. 'You said he'd be here.''Well, that's what he told me on Thursday.'
'Fuck it. Let's go to the beach.'
'Can I come?' asked Vanessa.
The toilet flushed and the occupant walked out, tucking his shirt in. 'How yas goin'?'
The three of them muttered one-word replies and avoided eye contact as he headed for the backyard.
'What about your boyfriend?' said the tall blonde with dark roots.
Vanessa asked them to give her a minute, then went outside and told Scott in a voice that was loud enough to grab the attention of most that she was going to the beach with or without him.
'Go then.'
She went back inside. 'Fuck 'im.'
'Come on then,' said the tall girl.
They hurried through the bachelor pad and out the front door to the redhead's Celica. The tall girl pulled her seat forward so Vanessa could climb into the back. She offered her an Alpine as they drove away.
'Fuck. What a waste of time that was,' said she and they all laughed. Her name was Thea. Vanessa forgot the fat girl's name as soon as she'd said it. Thea had the hots for Dale and he was the main topic of conversation for the twenty-minute journey, once they'd finished talking about the three stuck-up bitches back at that party.
By the time Sam and Simon had blown away six flying foxes and a feral cat, Vanessa was getting her wrist stamped and the two bouncers on the door were eyeing off the magical spot where her legs ended and her buns began as she walked up the carpeted stairs behind Thea and Thea's friend.
The music went from a muffled thump to a blast as Thea led the trio through the double doors at the top of the stairs and into the smoky dimness and body heat. Trix had opened just three months ago and it was fairly crowded already. It was not cutting-edge nightclub chic. The music was mainstream top forty with the usual light effects, mirrors and seating booths. The males wore jeans and collared shirts and the females wore whatever they liked.
Vanessa stood behind Thea at the back of the four-deep throng at the bar, wondering what her next move would be, when a hand lightly squeezed the back of her neck.
It was Linda. Squeals and hugs followed. They floated away from Thea as Vanessa told Linda about her night thus far, over the noise of the fridge-sized speakers. Linda responded with the correct amount of sympathy and disgust. She was wearing close to the same outfit as Vanessa except for black vinyl calf-length boots. They danced with each other and were in their element and needed no one else except for atmosphere. They let a few guys buy them drinks and then played dumb for as long as it took to get rid of them. During their second joint visit to the ladies Vanessa inspected the back of her skirt in the mirror. On the way out she asked Linda if she thought her bum was getting bigger.
'No way. You should be a model.'
'So should you.'
Linda led her back to the dance floor. They flirted with the DJ and requested 'Like a Virgin'. It came on after one song.
The club was packed shoulder to shoulder by the time Saturday night became Sunday morning and the fights began to erupt. Two more hopefuls bought them drinks and were exchanging we're-in-here glances when Linda spotted a ruckus near the bar. The bouncers started dragging someone towards the doors. She grabbed Vanessa.'Andrew's in trouble!'
Vanessa left one of the lads shouting in mid-sentence what he did for a job and followed her best friend through the press of bodies to the doors, wondering who was in trouble.
Linda caught up with the bouncers halfway down the stairs. 'What's wrong? What's he done?'
'Spewed up on the bar,' said one of them. They turfed him onto the footpath. It was Andrew Warren.
Linda went hysterical. 'Andrew.' The bouncers walked up the stairs. She brushed past them and tried to help him up.
'Fucking arseholes! You could've killed him!'
The two big men ignored her. The bastard was lucky not to have had his head kicked in. They had to clean the mess.
'Fuckheads.'
'Shut y'mouth, darlin', or you'll be lickin' it up,' said one of them, still walking.
Vanessa went outside to calm Linda down. Andrew struggled to his feet and walked across the road. Linda followed him.
'Fuck off,' he said tiredly. She kept following.
'FUCK OFF!'
She stood in the middle of the street and watched him sit down in the gutter. Vanessa told Andrew he was a fucking using turd.
'Fuck you too.' He watched them go back inside, then looked down at the bitumen between his feet. He was still sitting there half an hour later when Scott Rassmussen's Monaro pulled up.
Scott and Brendan Crane got out and headed over to Trix but were refused entry. A lively argument ensued and ended with Scott beckoning to one of the bouncers with both hands. 'Come on then! Come on, cunt!'
Neither of them took him seriously. But they went upstairs, fervently hoping he'd try his luck and sneak in. Scott and Brendan walked back to the car and sat inside it until the club closed at two o'clock.
Adam Bartlo, Ryan Oakley, Tim Harkins and the girl Tim went home with the night before came downstairs, milled around the leaving crowd, then bought three hot dogs and went over to Andrew.
'Y'okay, Wozza?' asked Tim.
'Yeah.'
'Wanna bite?'
'Nuh.'
Tim stood six foot four over him while Adam and Ryan and the girl, who looked far more delicious now than she would in six hours' time, went to get Ryan's car. Tim saw Linda and Vanessa come outside and mingle in the crowd with two blokes in tow. 'Geez I'd love to fuck that Walsh chick.'
Andrew looked at Linda. He could've if he wanted to. Even now with vomit on his shirt. Even after telling her to fuck off. But he didn't want to. And the fact of the matter was the apathy he had for her was the same apathy the other girl had for him. And it wrenched him like a speargun through his guts.
Scott Rassmussen got out of the car along with Brendan Crane, crossed the street a second time and king-hit the bloke who was with Vanessa, but it wasn't a good punch and the guy stayed on his feet. People came from everywhere and broke it up before it really got going and from then on it was just yelling and chest-beating and second-rate drama that would sound a lot better when it was retold.
Andrew watched Vanessa get in the front passenger seat of Rassmussen's Monaro.
Ryan Oakley's Ford Escort pulled up beside his feet as the Monaro drove off.'Fuck, youse missed a good blue,' said Tim as he and Andrew folded themselves into the back seat.
'Where?' asked Adam.
'Just here.'
'When?'
'Just then.'
'Who was in it?'
'Fuckin' Rassy and some other cunt.'
'What happened?' asked Ryan, turning around. Tim told him as Ryan drove to the flat that the girl sitting between Tim and Andrew shared with another girl. When he said who the fight was over Adam laughed his head off.
When they got to the flat they all piled out and went inside. Tim pulled two buds out of the foil he had in his back pocket and the girl got a bowl from the dish rack and a bong from the top of the fridge. Then she put a various artists cassette on. Her flatmate came out of her room dressed in a black silk teddy to see what all the noise was. Tim chopped up and added the tobacco from a Winfield blue and packed a cone. He went first, then passed it on and around it went. Andrew didn't really want any. He hated having spin with cones. Why they put it in in the first place had him fucked. You smoked to get high. But no, let's crumble a cigarette into the shit so there'll be more for everyone and we'll all smoke twice as much for half the effect. It wasn't fun any more. Not like it used to be when they'd have one joint between four of them and that was all it took. And they'd laugh. They'd laugh so much it hurt.
Like the time they were altar boys and Luke Dumasis rang the bell at the wrong time during consecration and Adam got the giggles and they'd all busted their guts trying not to laugh for the rest of the service, which only made it funnier. And Father Doyle blew his stack when he got them all back in the sacristy afterwards and told them if they ever giggled like a bunch of girls during Mass again he'd stop the whole show and kick their bums. And they'd pissed themselves laughing as soon as he left the room. Fuck, man, ten years old. Footy in winter, cricket in summer, pushbikes, red rover, girl germs no returns, playing war, playing with toys, playing with fire. Playing with fire and nearly burning the Harkins' house down when the banana trees caught alight and just fleeing the scene and leaving Tim and his brother Wes to fight the flames on their own. And Disneyland on Sunday nights with chicken noodle soup and toast for tea and turning around to see if Mum and Dad were laughing as well and when they were it was just so good.
And somewhere between then and now he'd started pretending to be a man. And here he was an apprentice painter and girls were either dogs or glamours, frigid or sluts. And young lions travelled in packs and didn't give a fuck about anything except their next fuck. And he wondered not for the first time if his was the only horizon that stretched beyond that short-term goal. And he wished he could stop worrying where he was headed and just be like the others and enjoy the ride.
Sometimes he could. Sometimes he enjoyed himself. But sooner or later his ambitions would come back to remind him that he wasn't truly alive or truly himself.
The bong came round to him again. He held a lighter to the cone and put his thumb over the shotgun hole. Utah Saints' 'Something Good' started playing on the stereo. It was one of his favourite songs and it made him hope something good -was going to happen. He wasn't big or tough or good looking (or so he thought). He was just normal.
He pulled the cone and held it in his lungs while he passed the bong on to Tim. The headrush from the tobacco hit him, and in a moment of bleak clarity he saw himself doing the sameold shit in ten years' time, with a car, a job, four weeks' holiday, beer, fishing, pornos, Thursday-night shopping, Friday-night dollar drinks, one-day cricket, the footy, the tennis, the golf, the top forty, the Sunday session, the tit magazines, talkback radio Gold Lotto, long weekends, barbecues and bucks' nights. Still aimless. Still swimming in sand. And Rassmussen was probably screwing Vanessa by now. As he let the smoke out he looked at the others and wondered if they really were enjoying the ride or whether they were just better actors than him.
They all had the small-town blues and complained how this place was a hole. They all went out every weekend because they were worried if they didn't something would happen and they'd miss it, and invariably nothing did. Andrew promised himself that tomorrow he'd pick up his act and start again. He'd get his shit together and get out of this rut. He'd break the circle. Tomorrow.
He watched Tim and the girl go to her room. And then there were four. Adam had another cone. They were waiting for something to happen. And while they waited for something to happen and the flatmate waited for them to leave, Tim screwed the girl he'd screwed the night before with a picture of Linda Walsh in his mind's eye. And Vanessa rode Scott in the spare room at Linda's house. And the goshawk lay breathing in a furrow with ants swarming over the mess that used to be her right wing.

Doom grabbed four beers and his change off the bar and made his way back to the table. It was Thursday night. The players had the back bar to themselves.
'See ya, Cubbsy.'
'Yeah.'
He watched Alan Cubbs go out the door. Cubbsy never hung around for more than two beers these days. He would've left sooner had Doom not shouted him one.
Doom was feeling a bit tipsy from trying to keep pace with the shout he was in.
He put the drinks down in the middle of a chest-high round table. The others knocked their beers back and reached for the new ones. Doom was getting lapped. He still had a full one to go.
'Champion,' said one of them, punching him in the ribs. 'I'll pay back that fifty on Sunday night.'
'No worries, Floyd,' said Doom.
'I'm Lloyd,' said Lloyd.
Doom looked across the table at Lloyd Boyd's twin brother, Floyd. He picked up his old beer. 'Right.'
Lloyd and Floyd moved over to another bunch of players and tried to get a game of nude darts happening.
'What're you so happy about?' Stan Hudson asked.
'Just life in general,' said Doom.
'What's this I hear about you packing your job in?'
'Ohhh, I had a bit of trouble with this . . .'
'Yeah, yeah, whatever. Have you got anything else lined up?'
'Well. . .'
'I betcha haven't even looked.'
Doom studied his beer. The head was gone.
'Listen,' said Stan. 'I'll say this once and I wish to fuck someone had told me the same thing when I was your age.'
Doom twirled his beer on its coaster.
'You can't get where you're going and be Jack the lad at the same time. Know what I mean?'
'Not really.'
Stan looked at Luke. He was three parts gone already and he'd only had four pots. Stan nodded to the dart board. 'See those two idiots? They've got more ability in their big toe than you'll ever have and they're goin' nowhere.' Stan poked Doom in the shoulder. 'Now, wake up to yourself.''Sorry.'
'Don't say sorry. You haven't done nothin' wrong.'
Doom was about to say sorry for saying sorry. He checked himself.
'Here.' Hudson pushed a card across the table. 'Ring this number around eleven o'clock tomorrow. Ask for Murray Beckford. He knows who you are but he doesn't give a shit about football so don't go taking any sickies on him. It's cash in the hand. You'll probably get a start on Monday.'
'Okay,' said Doom. He wasn't that keen. Victor and Nicky looked like breaking up soon.
'And one other thing. You're dropped.'
'Hey?'
'Zzz.' Stan grinned and reeled in an imaginary fishing line.

Scott Rassmussen cruised past the front of the high school. Linda and Jodie were waiting in the usual spot. He parked across the street and they got in.
'Where is she?'
'She had to stay back after class again,' answered Jodie.
Scott said something under his breath. 'Did she say how long she'd be?'
'No.'
Vanessa appeared a quarter of an hour later. She didn't bother waiting for him to open the door for her. He was sulking.
'WhereVe you been?'
'Nowhere.'
'I'm sick of waiting for you.'
'No one asked you to.'
'Marie! Where's my boots?'
'In your bag.' Marie sat at the kitchen table and tried to finish the Sunday crossword. It was like this every match day. JKen Hodge was parked in the driveway and Tragic was frantically racing around the house, trying to organise himself.
'Where's my mouthguard?'
'In your bag.'
'Where's my bag?'
Marie rubbed her forehead. 'In the lounge.' She put her pen down and waited for the next question.
'Where in the lounge?'
'Under the table.' She heard him running back to his room.
Hodge tooted the horn. 'I'M COMIN', FUCK YA!'
'Danny!'
'Sorry. See ya.'
'See ya. Have a good game.' She heard the front door open and close. Ten seconds later, he came back in.
'Have ya seen my socks?'
'Are they in your drawer?'
'I don't think so.'
'Go and check.'
He went into his room. 'Found 'em.'
He went out the door a second time. She heard them drive off. He usually went in and out three or four times so she'd got off lightly today.
'Can't you get your act together quicker? We're gunna be late again,' said Hodge.
'I can't help it,' said Tragic, searching for an excuse. 'Marie gets lonely.'

Doom's new boss, Murray Beckford, scribbled some initials on a case of tomatoes with a marker pen and threw it on top of a stack of others sitting on a pallet. Six other stacks stood in front of that one. It was just on seven thirty. Trading wouldn't peakfor another hour yet and already the deliveries were backing up.
Beckford looked out across the square mile of sheds and loading docks, each bay housing a separate wholesaler. Scores of forklifts ferried fruit and vegetables across the vast expanse of asphalt, weaving in and around hundreds of parked trucks. Beckford's partner, Lawrie Keats, stood beside him. 'You want me to go look for him?'
Beckford turned around and saw another buyer poking about the dock. They still had over fifteen hundred cases to sell and you couldn't get ten dollars a pop for even your best fruit this week.
'Give 'im a few more minutes.' Murray walked over to the buyer. 'Rozzo. Fifteen bucks for those, mate. Twelve if you take the lot.'
'Stick it up your arse,' said Rozzo and they began to talk turkey.
Keats was about to join them, then he saw Luke driving slowly through the traffic and pedestrians. He drove into the front of the bay, missing the back of a truck by inches, and picked up the next load.
The Rocklea Fruit Markets was Brisbane's racial melting pot. There were Lebanese, Israelis, Italians and Greeks, a few Yugoslavs, surprisingly few Asians and a sprinkling of Basques, Arabs and Turks all trying to make an honest dollar - or hustle a dishonest one if the chance presented itself. Everyone worked two degrees below hysteria, talking, yelling and selling. The place was like a bag of cats and every end was the deep end. Beckford's newest recruit was drowning. 'Where the fuck have you been?' 'Ohhh. He said he needed a hand loading his truck.' 'Fuck 'im,' said Lawrie. 'You haven't got time for that shit,
mate. Do ya know where these have to go?' He pointed to the initials marked on the stack.
'Uhh...'
'QIC! Down near lot forty-four.'
'Right,' said Doom, flustered. 'Where's that again?'
'Shit,' said Keats, shaking his head. 'Down that way.' He
pointed.
'Okay.'
'Fuckin' hurry up about it.'
Doom lifted the forks and tilted the load back. He gunned the forklift and reversed, still not sure where to go. He was trying to get a mental picture of the shed belonging to Queensland Independent something or other when he spun the wheel and hit the back corner of the parked truck. Its steel framework sliced through the middle layer. The stack teetered over and collapsed. Doom hit the brakes and stared at his handiwork. He felt sick in the guts.
Hundreds of tomatoes spilled out and rolled into the main thoroughfare. Another forklift carrying a load of watermelons raced through them before the driver could put the brakes on. Everyone nearby froze for a few seconds and gawked at the poor bastard who'd just erased the profit margin on the load he
was carrying.
Doom jumped off and started picking up the undamaged fruit and cases. Keats did the same and called him every name under the sun, and then some. Doom would've preferred to clean the mess up on his own. He wasn't far off telling Keats to shove this job fair up his arse but it was his own fault so he had
to wear it.
Beckford came over to lend a hand as well. Doom pretended not to notice him. They salvaged what they could. Eight cases were beyond help and needed replacing. Doomjumped back up behind the wheel. He was about to reverse out when he felt someone grab him by the forearm.
'Oi,' said Murray. 'Look at me.'
Doom shifted his gaze from his feet to Murray's face.
'Take your time. Go nice and steady. You'll get there.' He clapped Doom on the shoulder. 'Bad start, good finish, hey?'
Doom nodded.
When Murray came down from the office around noon, he found Doom sweeping out the bay.
'Don't worry about that, Luke. Get home and have a sleep.' 'It's okay. I don't mind.' Murray let him finish.

The Flea stood at the outdoor bar near the betting ring at the Doomben racecourse. The hundred bucks he'd tried to turn into a thousand had almost dwindled away to nothing and he was nursing a Bundy and Coke through the last three events.
Daley and Doom hadn't come with him. He would've stayed home as well if he could've been certain his cousin's girlfriend wasn't going to call round. She was a psycho bitch. He should never have taken her up to his room at his parents' place. And he still didn't know her name.
The pineapple rash he'd picked up from the cannery was starting to itch. At least he hoped it was from the pineapples. If it didn't go away after he got promoted to baby carrots, there'd be trouble. He spied a group of seniors from the class of '83 walking around. He hoped they hadn't seen him. Stuff it, thought The Flea. He wasn't going to leave because of them. He took a sip from his drink.
An old bloke, somewhere near sixty and six foot four, strolled over to the bar. The Flea recognised him. He was his old boss, from The Flea and Doom's first job.
'G'day, Graham,' said The Flea.
Graham Stafford turned around and looked at The Flea, trying to place him. Everything about Graham was big. He was a big man, with a big voice and an even bigger laugh.
'You're bloody. . .' he snapped his fingers arid pointed, 'Sebastian.'
'Yeah.'
'How ya goin'?'
'Not bad.'
'Not bad? By crikey. If I was your age, I'd be doing a helluva lot better than not bad. Feel like a beer?'
'Wouldn't mind one, Graham, but I can't shout you back.'
'Done your arse, hey? No worries. Would ya rather one of
those?'
The Flea looked at his glass. 'Nah. A beer'd be good.' Graham ordered two sevens. 'What're you up to these days?' The Flea told him. Graham read between the lines and asked if he wanted his job back. The Flea said he would've liked to work for him again, except for all the bullshit he had to put up with. Graham drained his glass and ordered another two and asked The Flea to extend on that.
They talked for another ten minutes. It wasn't just the 'Mary' crap that got to The Flea. Everyone there seemed to be on a go-slow and you were looked on as a lick-arse if you worked too hard or showed a bit of initiative.
'You know why they carry on like that?' asked Graham. 'The longer they take, the more overtime they get.' He took a sip. 'I've got bastards there that drive the same truck day in, day out and they haven't got the nous to check the oil or the water. That fat prick Crombie siphons diesel out've anything he can get his hands on and puts it in his Land Cruiser.' 'Fair dinkum?''Yeah. Didn't you know that?'
'No.'
'He's not the only one. I reckon they've all got a box full of tools back home they never paid for. They're all on the take.' 'Bugger me.'
'Well, not all of 'em, but a fair few.'
'Why don't you sack them?'
'It's not worth it.'
'Why not?'
'Just isn't. Believe me.'
'Fark,' said The Flea. He was gob-smacked.
Graham looked down at him and grunted. 'Ahhh, they don't worry me. They're cows. Long as I know what they're up to. Costs me about forty grand a year. That's pretty cheap.' 'Bloody hell.'
'You know what's funny though?' 'What?'
'Every Friday arvo, I bring out a couple of cartons and they sit there and drink my grog and suck up and say what a good bloke I am. And they actually think I believe 'em.'
'That'd piss me off.'
'You've got a lot to learn. I tell you what though. I'd give my eye teeth to be in your socks and startin' out again.'
The Flea grunted.
'I'm serious,' said Graham. 'You could buy and sell all those bastards and give 'em change in ten years if you worked smart.' 'Get out of it.'
'You young blokes,' laughed Graham. 'The bloody opportunities in this country.'
The Flea picked up his second beer and started on it. He and Graham Stafford talked for the rest of the afternoon.

August

It was cold on top of the roof but at least the wind had died down. It was quiet here. That's what Doom liked about it. He looked down from his vantage point at the party going on in the backyard below. No one knew he was there.
He couldn't believe he'd given up a night on the couch for this bullshit. Sabrina seemed uninterested - change that to irritated - with him. They'd gone out a few times and slept in the same bed last weekend but when she was around these people she acted like she merely tolerated his company. He knew now why she'd asked him to bring her here tonight.
Doom could see her talking with her ex-boyfriend. He was better looking than Daley, and that was saying something. He'd apparently just returned from a backpacking trek across Nepal. How could anyone measure up to that? He leaned with one hand on the clothes line she stood next to. She laughed at something he said, then rested her head on his outstretched arm and folded her arms behind her back. He said something else to her. She looked around and shrugged her shoulders. Doom watched them leave together soon afterwards.
Getting angry wasn't going to get her back. He'd had one fight over a girl and that'd got him nowhere. Best to just bow out gracefully. He thought he'd better wait awhile and give them a good headstart. The last thing he needed was to bump into them out the front.
He drove back to the flat with a gnawing inside him he'd thought he'd left behind at Rosetta. He slunk through the front door and found Daley in the kitchen wearing a towel.
'How was the party?' asked Daley.'Well, I'm here, aren't I?' 'Dipped out again, mate?' 'Yeah. What're you doing here?' 'I thought you might be staying at her house.' Doom saw the two glasses of water Daley was carrying. He gathered one of them wasn't for him. 'Is The Flea home?'
'Yeah,' said Daley. 'He's out to it. That mad thing's with him.'
Doom nodded.
'We'll get out and sleep in the lounge,' said Daley.
'Don't be stupid. I'll sleep on the couch. Just chuck us a pillow.'
'Thanks.'
Brad went into Doom's room. Doom caught a glimpse of the semi-naked girl Daley met the day before yesterday. He heard her asking what was going on. Daley reappeared with a pillow.
'Need anything else?'
'No.'
'See you in the morning.'
'Yeah.'
Daley went back into the bedroom. Doom tried to go to sleep. He heard his bed start squeaking. It got louder and faster. She started moaning. Softly at first. It went on for about ten minutes. He thought about Sabrina. The hours dragged by and Doom was angry at the world.
As soon as he saw the sky lighting up through the window outside, he got up and rummaged through the laundry basket for some training clothes. Norths had a bye this weekend. He wouldn't have gone out last night otherwise. He jogged through the streets of Hamilton, crossed Kingsford-Smith Drive and went up an avenue to the Royal Queensland Golf
Club. There was a big slope on the back nine that rose steadily for a hundred and fifty metres, then climbed sharply for another fifty. Doom stood at the bottom, then attacked it. When he got to the top, he turned around, walked back to the bottom and ran up it again. He did it ten times and rested, cut it back to a hundred metres and did another ten. The last two
were killers.
The sun was up but it was still cold. The chill air burnt his throat and lungs. A few Sunday-morning hackers were on the course now. He let them tee off and cut it down to the last fifty and attempted another ten. His legs felt like jelly. He felt nauseous after six. This was bad. Six months ago he could have done this easily. He'd have to do some extra training.
He slogged up the rise twice more, then did some sit-ups and jogged home. Everyone was still asleep. They wouldn't be getting up for hours. Doom had a shower, then sat on the couch and told himself she wasn't part of the equation. But if she walked through the door he knew he'd take her back. He thought he was missing out on life. Missing out big time. Daley and The Flea were partying every weekend and pulling chicks left, right and centre. He didn't want to be here when they woke up.
Doom picked up the phone and made two calls. The second was to Murray Beckford's place. He told him he wouldn't be able to go to work tomorrow. His grandmother was crook.
Doom knocked on the door to his room. There was no answer. He went in and grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. The girl lay naked in his bed with her head on Daley's arm. She was gorgeous. Doom looked at her for a couple of seconds, then left the room.
He jumped into the Torana and drove to the airport. He paid cash for a return flight to Sydney, which he'd booked on the phone. There were plenty of seats available. He bought the Sunday Sun and had breakfast in the terminal. Bacon, eggs, sausages, grilled tomato, juice, a chocolate milkshake and coffee, brewed. Doom was cultivating a dislike for instant. He read the sports section. Canterbury-Bankstown were playing Parramatta at Belmore Oval that afternoon. Excellent.
He boarded the flight at nine forty. It was only the second time he'd been on a plane. It'd be the first time he left Queensland.
He flew into Mascot airport and took a cab out to Tragic's place, not realising how big Sydney was. It cost him forty-eight dollars.
Doom knocked on the door. Marie Logan answered it in a pair of tracksuit pants and an old turtleneck jumper. He introduced himself. Marie said Danny had gone to play football. She didn't know where. He asked her if it was all right if he stayed for the night. Marie said of course it was. She put his gear in the spare room. Doom instantly liked Marie. She was pleasant and buxom, with no pretensions. She looked younger than David Logan but was actually eighteen months older. He told Marie he was going out for a while and would be back around six. He rang for another cab and headed out to the Parramatta game.
There was a huge line outside the ground already but Doom managed to get a spot on the hill. The Bulldogs and the Eels were the two dynasty clubs of the eighties and Belmore Oval was home ground to both of them.
Doom caught the last of the under twenty-threes. He reckoned he could handle this level. Then the reserve grade played. They were pretty good. Norths would keep them honest though. It was a full house at Belmore by the time the first-graders ran out, and the twenty thousand spectators, a big percentage of whom were Lebanese, became infected.
Sydney fans aren't loyal. If a team is not successful, they'll stay away in droves. Both these armies were used to winning. This wasn't passive spectating. It wasn't tradition. The people didn't come because there was nothing better to do. They chose to come. They feared losing. It was genuine fear and it took the form of hatred against those who sought to defeat them. They didn't care how they won. They didn't care what it took. They were selfish and ruthless. Like the game they followed and the decade they lived in. But they weren't violent. There was enough violence on the field.
Doom had never been amongst anything like it before. And the game was like nothing he'd seen before. Television didn't do it justice. It was hard. It was incredibly fast. Some of the hits the players put on each other made him flinch. And they just got up straight away like it was nothing.
Defence was the number-one priority in the Sydney Rugby League. The Canterbury Bulldogs had revolutionised the game to such an extent that one small mistake - one dropped ball, one missed tackle - was all they needed to get their noses in front. And when they were in front they shut up shop with big defence and forced the other side to take risks to catch them. Inevitably more mistakes were made. It wasn't pretty but the attrition fed the human animal within those watching. Other teams tried to copy them but Canterbury were the present day kings of the hill and on the dust bowl that was Belmore Oval, they hustled and gang-tackled and smashed the shit out of any team that took them on. They shut down the Parramatta backline. Brett Kenny was targeted. Peter Sterling had nowhere to go. No one had an answer. It was like playing a brick wall, except sometimes the brick wall landed on you.
And Doom couldn't wait to get down there one day and mix it with the bastards.Cabramatta were defending their own goal-line. Tragic stood amongst them, trying to anticipate the next play. The Wentworthville half-back was calling for the ball. Two forwards stood outside him. One behind the other.
'Second man! Second man!'
'Got 'im,' said Hodge.
The ball cleared the ruck. Cabramatta moved up in umbrella formation, the players on the fringes rushing up faster than those in the centre to keep Wentworthville from spinning the ball wide.
The half-back dummied to the first runner and by the time the forward trailing behind received the ball, Tragic and Hodge were launching themselves at him.
As Tragic hit him around the thighs, a star burst in his vision. Pain exploded in his head. They fell to the ground. Tragic rolled clear, holding the left side of his face. Someone yelled at him to get up. He struggled back to join the line but his vision was blurred.
Cabramatta held them out for two more plays. On the sixth tackle, Wentworthville hoisted the bomb. It wasn't the best of kicks but it had the desired effect. The ball wobbled straight up and came down amongst a melee of players behind the goalposts. A Wentworthville centre timed his leap perfectly and was head and shoulders above the pack when it descended. He caught it on his chest and fell to the ground.
His team-mates clambered around him. The Cabramatta players looked at the ground. Tragic stood in the middle of the confusion, still trying to get a grip on things. Hodge was having a quiet word with the referee, saying he had to be fucking kidding, the bastard was offside and he couldn't fucking believe this shit. The referee signalled a fair try.
Hodge looked over at Tragic, who was shaking his head, trying to clear it. 'What's wrong with you?'
'What the fuck was that?' asked Tragic, holding his eye. 'Sorry,' replied Hodge. 'I was trying to belt the prick. You all right?'
'No. I'm fuckin' not.' 'Don't be a sook. Stop your whingeing.'

The phone rang at The Flea and Doom's flat. The Flea was in the shower with his cousin's girlfriend. Daley was lying on the lounge. So was the girl. They'd all got up around eleven that morning and had bucket bongs for breakfast, then veged out in front of the TV
Daley was about to have another bucket but he answered it. 'Hello?'
'Hello, Luke?' It was a male voice.
'Nah, mate. It's not Luke.'
'Oh. Can I speak to him then, please?'
'He's not here.'
'Where is he?'
'Dunno. He's been gone all day.'
'Was he playing footy today?'
'Nuh. They had a bye. He's just been out all day.'
'Do you know when he'll be back?'
'Nah, mate. He was gone when we got up this morning.'
'Could you get him to ring me when he gets home?'
'Yeah, no worries.'
'Tell him Andrew Warren from Rosetta rang. He knows my number.'
'No worries, mate.'
'Thanks. Bye.'
'See ya.' Daley hung up the phone.
'Who was that?' asked the girl.
'Someone wanting Doom.''Who's Doom?'
'The other guy that lives here.'
'Oh.'
Daley had another bucket and forgot the message.

Cabramatta lost to Wentworthville fourteen-ten.
Tragic had a massive shiner. He went back to the clubhouse for a few schooners and left when he felt he'd got all the sympathy he was going to get, which wasn't much. Mick Hartess gave him a lift home.
Doom and Marie were in the lounge watching Sixty Minutes but they weren't taking much interest. They talked mostly about David Logan. Marie and David had lived with their mother in this house most of their adolescence. David had apparently been a real wild bastard. Marie told Doom how David used to sleep in the room Danny now had and how girls used to climb through his window at all hours of the night. There wasn't much business through the window these days. She said Danny was good company and well mannered.
Tragic came through the door.
'Oh my God. Look at you,' wailed Marie.
'Take it easy. Ohhh g'day, Doom.'
'Tragic.'
'Give me a look at it,' said Marie.
'What're you doin' here?' asked Tragic.
'Just came down for the day. Thought I'd pop in.'
'Oh. Fair enough. What's been happening?'
Doom told Tragic what'd been happening while Marie put an ice pack on his eye and fixed him some dinner. They watched the Sunday-night movie and then Marie went to bed.
Doom told Tragic about The Flea and his cousin's girlfriend.
'And he still doesn't know her name?' asked Tragic.
'Nuh.'
'Bullshit.'
'No bullshit.'
'It's drugs, hey. You've gotta be into drugs to get onto sheilas these days.'
'Seems that way,' said Doom.
Doom and Tragic watched the video of the Hull-Wigan Challenge Cup Final together. Tragic had seen it nineteen times. Doom enjoyed seeing it again. Now that he knew the result, he could appreciate the game for what it was. And it was magical. It was one of those finals that comes along every ten years or so. It was everything good about football. And Kenny and Sterling were brilliant.
'We've gotta play a couple of seasons over there,' said Doom.
'Too right,' said Tragic.
Doom caught a plane back to Brisbane the next afternoon. The only seats available were first class so he was upgraded. It was nice in first class. The hostesses didn't look stressed and didn't feed people out of a trolley like they were cattle. They were very courteous and when Doom was courteous back it was appreciated, not overlooked. He had never really thought about money before. He hadn't realised until then what it really bought.
He touched down at Eagle Farm. Hogan's Heroes was on when he got home but he fell asleep halfway through. The next morning Murray asked him how his grandmother was. Doom sent Marie a bunch of flowers to thank her for putting him up.

Dale up-ended the burner and the half-diesel, half-petrol mix streamed out of the nozzle and formed a dark circle in the grass and weeds. He flicked a match onto the damp patch and the grass caught alight with a small swoosh.The flames licked up and into the thrash, clinging to the tall stalks leaning overhead. Dale pointed the nozzle of the burner into the fire and the fuel-soaked fibrous end lit up. He started walking down the break, trailing the nozzle six inches above the ground. A thin stream of flaming diesel arced onto the base of the cane and began climbing and spreading into the canopy, leaping from row to row. The heat crackled and popped as the flames lit up the dusk His uncle Nick walked along the opposite side of the paddock, lighting it in similar fashion. They'd both started at the same end and were walking into the wind.
Nicholas junior followed Dale up the break on a water tractor, spraying anything that looked like getting into the other block only a few feet away. The sugar in cane deteriorates forty-eight hours after incineration. They only wanted to burn enough for one day's harvesting.
Joe stood where they'd started, a wet hessian bag in his hand, watching for any live floaters drifting over into the block on the other side of the rail line. The smoke blew into his face as the fire grew and he turned his head away, his eyes watering. Big John stood up the far end of the block almost a quarter of a mile away. Sam stood next to him. He could see the flames beginning to leap above the canopy into the air. There was still no sign of Nick or Dale. He was holding a wet bag but wasn't going to get much use for it up here. The wind was blowing away from him.
A carload of tourists who'd taken a wrong turn off the main highway pulled up on the side of the road to watch. Two adults got out of the car, the mother holding a camera. The kids were told to stay inside but they got out anyway.
The northerly began to fan the blaze on Dale's side and the crackling became louder and more constant. John could make out Dale's silhouette in the darkness, walking up the block towards him. A couple of bandicoots ran out, heading for the safety of the long grass on the other side of the road, their hair smouldering. The kids squealed and pointed.
The smoke turned from grey to dark brown as more ash lifted into the air. Dale emerged from the break and began lighting the ends of the rows exposed to the wind. Nick appeared from the other side and did the same. They walked towards each other, meeting in the middle.
The breeze did the rest. A twenty-foot wall of flame, red, black and orange against the sky, roared through the block. The mother yelled at her kids to get in the car.
The fire began to draw towards the middle as all four sides raced against each other in the quest for more oxygen. They had done this many times over many years, yet still looked on mesmerised as it did its work.
It raged like a great wounded beast for a few minutes, then died. The darkness returned silently. Nick junior drove out of the break, then turned around and went back in to check for any misses and to pick up Joe. Sam climbed on the back.
Dale walked over to the car and gave the husband directions back to the highway. Nick walked over to the shed and put the burners away. John stood and looked at the blackened skeleton, smoke drifting through it like mist, a few small embers still glowing. It was a good block. She might cut forty tonne to the acre. Even if it cut double that, they still wouldn't come out square this year.
The dollar had dropped to one point seven five. Stuart Crofton said it couldn't possibly go any lower. John hoped he knew what he was talking about.

Stan Hudson elbowed his way through the throng at the back of the clubhouse. The beer garden was full of players and staffand family and friends plus a couple of hundred supporters They'd had arguably their best day all year. Norths had won all five grades against Ipswich, the first-graders coming home after trailing by twelve at half-time.
He saw Luke in the far corner with the Boyd brothers. He'd had, without argument, his best game to date. Greg Yeates told Stan in the dressing-room afterwards that three players were marking him in the closing stages. Doom scored twice in the last ten minutes. They broke his nose in a head-high tackle and he'd just laughed.
'Luke, can I see you for a minute?'
'Yeah, Stan.'
'Hey, Stan, if it's about that stolen keg . . .'
'Shut up, Floyd,' said Lloyd.
'Shut up, the pair of ya,' said Stan. He crooked a finger at Luke. 'Come on.'
Doom followed Stan into Henry Archer's office. Henry wasn't in the room. It was nothing flash. A small brick box with a prefabricated desk, stuffed chair and a filing cabinet, television and video on top. Framed team photos were arranged on the wall facing the desk. The 1980 Premiers took up the centre.
'What's this about a stolen keg?' asked Stan.
'Beats me.'
'Oh, never mind. How's the hooter?'
Doom felt his nose. 'Not bad.'
'Good. Look. The reason I got you in here is, well. . you're dropped.'
'Yeah, sure.'
'No. Really. You are.'
'Why?'
'Well, Brothers didn't lose today, so there's no chance of us making the semis. The nineteens've got half a chance of winning the Premiership. If you play with them.'
Doom shrugged his shoulders. 'Fair enough.'
'No worries?'
'Nuh.'
'You can sit on the bench for us but I can't put you on till the second half.'
'Okay.'
'Feel like a beer?'
'No. I'm drinking soda water.'
'Soda water?'
'I get zits if I drink soft drink. I was gunna leave anyway-Work tomorrow.'
'How's it going with Murray?'
'Not bad.'
'That's good. See ya later then.'
'See ya, Stan.'
Doom went out through the front of the clubhouse to avoid the crowd. He hopped in the Torana and put on a cassette. Dire Straits' Brothers in Arms. He fast forwarded to 'Walk of Life'.
He'd been stopping over at Henry Archer's house for tea the last couple of Sunday nights. Henry's wife, Sylvia, usually cooked a roast and said he was always welcome. They often had their kids and grandkids over as well. The food was great and the conversation even better. The Archers had a knack of bringing him out of his shell. But for some reason he decided to go straight home tonight instead.
The flat was a shambles. The Flea was in the lounge. He and his cousin's girlfriend had just sunk a couple of buckets.
'Hey,' said The Flea.
'Hey what?' said Doom.
'Ya have to ring home.''What for?'
'I forget.' It was a big enough effort remembering that much, thought The Flea. Doom cocked an eyebrow at The Flea's cousin's girlfriend sitting two feet from the TV staring at the screen. It wasn't even on. The Flea shrugged his shoulders. Doom picked up the phone and rang home.
'Hello?' answered one of his brothers.
'G'day.Joe?'
'No. It's Dale. Is that you?'
'Yeah. I was told to ring.'
'Yeah,' Dale cleared his throat. 'Andrew Warren killed himself this mornin'.'
'Andrew Warren?'
'Yeah. His old girl came home from church and found him locked in the garage with the car running.'
'Bloody hell.'
'Mum thought you oughta be told.'
'Where's she?'
'She's over there now. So's Dad.'
'Do they know why he did it?' Stupid question.
'No. The funeral's on Wednesday.'
Doom didn't reply.
'How'd youse go today?'
'We won.'
'How'd you go?'
'Not bad.'
Dale grunted something that sounded like 'good on ya'. 'Right. See you later.'
'See you.'
Doom put the phone down. The Flea and his cousin's girlfriend had gone into the bedroom.
Andy Warren. They'd been friends in primary school.
Doom remembered having his first cigarette with him and the Harkins twins in their cubbyhouse down the river. They smoked anything back then. Grass, leaves, cow dung. They drifted apart in high school.
Carbon monoxide poisoning. Fuck that. How did he go through with it? Sitting in the garage, waiting for it to happen, waiting to fall asleep, knowing it was happening. Maybe it was easier doing it gradually like that.
The last time they'd spoken to each other was when Andrew warned him to give up on Teresa Waterson. He remembered it clearly because it was exactly a week after he'd almost attempted to take his own life. He'd told Andrew to mind his own business.
Doom went to the kitchen and began making himself a couple of banana sandwiches.
It took about another week, after Adam Bartlo came looking for him and arranged a meeting after school behind the science block, to realise Andrew was right. And he was shitting himself. He hadn't wanted to go through with it but in the end he had because it wasn't really about Teresa. It was about a lot of things. And there wasn't one kid watching the fight that day who wanted to be in Pus-head's shoes but once Bartlo had punched him a few times Doom reckoned it wasn't that bad. And finally when he'd had enough he'd stayed on the ground but he'd had a go; he'd done that much. It was a strange couple of weeks that.
Doom took the banana sandwiches and a carton of milk into the lounge room and switched on the TV He remembered sitting in the Leichhardt tree two weeks before that fight with the anchor rope from the boat in the shed tied round the branch above him. He'd felt so tired and he'd thought he was past fearing death but he couldn't find the guts to take the final leap. Looking back at itnow he reckoned he had a bad seed inside him somewhere and had always seen the glass half empty. That seed wasn't completely dead yet either. He hoped he never had to go that close again. But how close was close? You either did it or you didn't, and he hadn't and Andy Warren had. So how bad must things have been in his shoes? It didn't take guts to kill yourself, just a gutful.
Stan Hudson read out the first-grade side at the beginning of training the following Tuesday night. Alan Cubbs was named at half-back. Cubbsy finished his career in first-grade, then moved his young family north to Noosa in December. The local club up there approached him to see if he was interested in the captain-coach job next season but Cubbsy said no thanks. And he didn't miss it one bit.

Rosetta's St Thomas Church was filled to overflowing. It was a relatively small building. One aisle, forty rows of pews either side. Hot in summer, cold in winter. Chairs from the Lions Club had been put out on the front lawn for the mourners who couldn't fit inside. Many more stood behind them and listened as Andrew's uncle, Ray Clarke, read the twenty-third Psalm. The usual themes were brought up in the eulogy. So much to live for; such a wonderful young man; a shock to everyone.
Viv Cairns and his wife Yvonne sat at the back of the church. Paula Banks sat on the other side of Viv. They'd left the sawmill and driven up together, picking up Yvonne on the way. Paula didn't have any black clothes. She wore dark green.
The last time she'd seen Andrew was two weeks ago. He was coming out of MacLeod's Electrical as she was going in. He said hello and held the door for her. He was a nice guy. She didn't cry, though. She hadn't at her mother's funeral either. She looked at Andrew's mother who was sitting up the front.
Paula felt for Mrs Warren, more so than she did for Andrew. She was on her own now. Her husband had left town with another woman seven years ago.
Kate Dumasis sat in the pew in front of Viv and Yvonne. John said he would come but hadn't showed. Dale and Joe had. Kate sympathised with Carol Warren as well but couldn't help feeling this was bound to happen. Apparently Andrew smoked drugs. She was grateful her children were more sensible.
Vanessa sat in the third-back row of chairs on the lawn and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Jodie and Linda sat next to her and did the same. All the high-school seniors had been given the choice to attend. All one hundred and forty-six had. They stood when the casket was carried out to the hearse. Adam Bartlo was one of the pallbearers.
As luck would have it, Scott Rassmussen was working day shift at the mill and Vanessa found solace in the form of Kieren Hemmings. His wife couldn't leave the salon. He walked her back to school, his arm around her shoulders.

Tragic hoisted two loads of washing into the dryer, threw a few twenty-cent coins down the slot and pressed the start button. In a bid to help out around the house, he'd tried to wash four blankets at once in the machine at home and burnt the motor out. He was not the golden-haired boy this week.
Aside from his domestic misfortunes, all was well in Tragic's bubble. St George had won the minor Premiership, Cabramatta had made the semi-finals in their own little neck of the woods and he had two weeks' holiday coming up. Tragic thought he'd wait until the season finished before taking them.
He went next door into the Portofino cafe. Tragic liked the Portofino. It had been owned and run by an old Italian coupleuntil the end of last year. Now a Vietnamese family had it. It reminded him of the fruit store his mother used to take him and Steven to every Thursday after school when she went grocery shopping. There was a small milk bar up one end. Jean Miller would plonk him up on one of the upholstered stools, which were too high for him to climb, and buy him and Steve a strawberry milkshake. The store always smelt of rockmelons or stone fruit and they'd sit in the shady cool and drink their shakes out of the big steel cans with paper straws and look at the big, bright caricature fruit posters.
Tragic could still remember them all. Billy Banana, Alexander the Grape, Peter Pear, Mad Hose Mango, Wally Watermelon, Tina Tomato. Tragic liked the mango with the sinister handlebar moustache, bandolier and big sombrero the most.
Their mother would come back and pick them up after an hour or so. Tragic tried to make his milkshake last until then. It never did. He used to love Thursday afternoons. But that was way back when you could leave your kids on their own in public and not have to worry about them. And Steve was his hero.
The little Asian woman didn't ask Tragic what he wanted. She began making a strawberry milkshake and served it to him in a steel can.
September
David Logan walked from the speech hall back to the senior residence. Shae Louise walked alongside him. The college arts and crafts exhibition had gone off without a hitch. Numbers were up on last year. Most of the visitors had come to see Bob Kiernan, now that he was fully recovered and back on deck.
Kiernan was aware that a couple of developments had taken shape in his absence. At the small function for the organisers afterwards he became more aware of one particular development. He wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Most of the college staff were still forming opinions, if they hadn't shared them at this stage.
Logan sensed the looks and awkward small talk. He wondered if Shae had. If so, she was obviously ignoring it. He was conscious of the singular attention she paid him. It was flattering, to put it mildly. He enjoyed her company. More than that, he realised he was beginning to miss it if he went a day without seeing her, which was rare.
He listened to her voice, not hearing what she said, as they walked to her car. If she'd invited him in the other night, he liked to think he would've declined the offer but knew otherwise. He knew enough to know she was hoping for something more than that. Logan had no problems with the vows of poverty and obedience. Chastity was another story. Loni Sanders knew the score. And she'd made it plain to him within forty-eight hours of meeting him three years ago that she knew. Shae was twenty-four and a young twenty-four at that.
'Do you think you can go?' Shae asked.
'Go where?'
The Irish Club.'
'Excuse me?'
'David, pay attention.' She poked him in the arm. 'Can you go to the Irish Club tomorrow night?'
Logan thought for a second. 'I don't think so.'
'Oh.' She'd expected a yes. He was free most Monday nights.
'Maybe next time then.''I don't think so, Shae.' He looked straight at her. 'I don't think it would be a good idea.'
She suppressed the urge to ask why. She thought she knew anyway. He held the door for her as she got in the car.
'Thank you.' She drove off.
Logan walked up to the common room. He sat and watched the news with Mick Warner and tried to take an interest.

Back in the seventies, twenty-odd thousand rugby league fans had booed the country's Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam, when he'd made a public appearance at a Queensland versus New South Wales game at Lang Park. He never returned, and every federal politician wanting to get some mileage out of being seen with sporting heroes did that sort of bullshit back at the Sydney Cricket Ground or the MCG for years to come.
Doom had never played at Lang Park before. It was nowhere near as big as the other major sporting arenas in Australia but it possessed an atmosphere none could copy.
Lang Park was the birthplace of the State of Origin. The ground was only filled on three or four occasions each year -interstate and international matches and the Brisbane Grand Final. But even on days when it was half full, like today, it was still enjoyable. There were two grandstands on either side of the field and the rest of the stadium was tiered concrete and gravel, like a colosseum, where spectators stood and drank copious amounts of Fourex. With the sun out, it was like a day at the cricket. Streakers were appreciated, mothers and children not so, and men embraced the opportunity to be at their best worst.
Underneath the Frank Bourke grandstand was a labyrinth of dressing-rooms. The Redcliffe under nineteens were cramped in one of the smaller ones and their coach, Malcolm Weekes, bent down to speak to his son, pitching his voice just below the level of a scream. Andrew Weekes was nineteen and built like a brick dunny. He was an above-average second-rower with a lot of potential. The day Andrew pulled on an Australian jersey would be the greatest day of Malcolm's life. 'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT
THERE?'
His son tried not to look at him but it was impossible. Malcolm's face was only four inches away. 'YOU'RE PLAYING LIKE A FUCKIN' POOFTER, ANDREW! I TOLD YOU TO SMASH THAT CUNT!'
Malcolm hit him twice in the face. The rest of the Redcliffe under nineteens looked at the floor. This happened pretty much every week, whether Andrew was playing well or not.
'ONE DECENT HIT ON THE CUNT AND HE'LL FUCKIN' SHIT HIMSELF!'
Malcolm continued to peel the paint off the walls, until it was time to go out for the second half. They'd come in ten points behind and went out feeling like it was a hundred.
Andrew did his level best to do what he was told. He clouted the North Brisbane half-back the first chance he got. The halfback didn't shit himself. Andrew belted him with a swinging arm a few minutes later and received a caution. Then he hit him in a late tackle and eye-gouged him and was sent off.
He made the long walk back to the tunnel. Malcolm ignored him as he went past the bench.
Oscar Stewart picked up the ball and walked to the spot where Norths were awarded the penalty. He looked at his captain, Matthew Bryant. 'What's on?'
Bryant thought for a second. 'I dunno.' He looked at Luke.
'You okay?'
Doom nodded.
'Just take the tap. Quick!'Oscar did as he was told and restarted play by tapping the ball with his foot, then picked it up and ran at the defence. Three Redcliffe players tackled him. Norths were just inside their own quarterline.
'Yeah. Fuckin' now.'
The dummy-half heard Doom and slapped Oscar on the arse in a bid to hurry him up. Oscar wrestled himself up off the ground and rolled the ball backwards with his foot. The dummy-half picked it up and passed it straight to Doom.
Doom ran at the defence and knew there was no one covering the sweeper position. He chip-kicked over the front line and regathered on the full, then sprinted away.
The Redcliffe full-back was ahead of him and a winger was coming in fast on his right. He shifted his weight onto the outside of his left foot and veered left subtly. The two defenders almost missed it and had to scramble hard to cover him. When they were fully committed, he jinked back to the right and left them stranded.
He jogged the last five metres and scored his third try for the afternoon. Back at this level, he saw things long before the others did. Holes on the blind side, players who were struggling, full-backs out of position, tired markers. Sometimes he didn't see. He just knew.
Norths won their way into the under-nineteen Grand Final by a comfortable margin.
Andrew Weekes had showered and gone by the time the rest of his team came back inside. He changed clubs the following year but gave the game away altogether halfway through the season.

The phone kept ringing and Kieren Hemmings kept ignoring it. Kieren's wife had left to visit her sister in Townsville. He'd pulled out of the trip at the last minute, because of a supposed pile of exam papers he had to assess. He'd been looking forward to this weekend all month.
He adjusted the shower head so the water fell on the girl. Her blonde hair felt thick and wet in his fingers. She rested her head on his chest and her hands went slowly up and down his flanks.
She'd turned up on Saturday evening and offered to cook him something. Two pizza cartons lay on the bedroom floor. They ate it cold for breakfast. Apparently her parents thought she was at a friend's house. From what Kieren gathered, her mother wasn't all that bright.
Must run in the family, he thought. This thing didn't have a brain in her head either. He hoped she was going to make herself scarce after this. Lee-anne was due home late this afternoon. If she found out, she'd have his nuts on toast.
Kieren put his hands on her shoulders. Vanessa kissed his chest and worked her way down until she was certain she had his full attention, then stepped out of the shower. He chased her into the bedroom. Her little backside was pink from the hot water.
The phone started ringing again.

Marcus Peters walked out of Lang Park and caught a taxi back to the Gazebo Hotel. The main game was only twenty minutes old but he'd seen enough. He took the lift to his room and went straight to the phone as soon as he got through the door and placed a call to Wollongong. The Chief Executive of the Illawarra Steelers, who'd joined the Sydney Rugby League three years ago, answered on the third ring. He was surprised to hear from their talent scout so early. He asked him about the centre they'd been hearing so many good reports about. Peters said he was about as useful as a three-legged dog.'Waste of a trip then.'
'Not exactly.' Peters pulled a notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open and rested it on his gut. 'There was a young bloke running around in one of the curtain-raisers who looked pretty handy.'
'I see.' The last prospect the Chief Executive had heard Peters refer to as 'pretty handy' was the current Australian fullback. Illawarra hadn't signed him, and he wasn't keen to repeat the mistake.
Marcus said he'd spoken to the player briefly and, no, he wasn't signed for next season. Yet. Peters said he was going to visit him during the week. He'd take a contract along as well. The Chief Executive gave him a figure. Marcus said he'd offer half that much to start with. They could pick him up for next to nothing with a bit of luck.
Doom sat in the Frank Bourke stand and watched Wynnum-Manly dispose of Brothers in the first-grade final. They were doing it in a canter. In his bag was a business card. He was supposed to meet Marcus Peters again on Wednesday. He was also not supposed to tell anyone about it.

'Don't sign anything.'
'But he said he needs an answer straight away.'
'Don't give him one.'
'Yeah but...'
'Luke,' said Yeates, 'stop acting as if this prick's doing you a favour. If you weren't worth the trouble of him coming to see you, he wouldn't be doing it.'
Doom shuffled around and looked at his feet. He'd expected Greg to be pleased for him. Yeates was linking up with the North Sydney Bears next season. Doom had been busting to tell him. Yeates folded his arms and leaned on the bonnet of his car.
'How much did you sign on for here at the start of the season?' he asked.
'Two grand.'
'You know how much you could've got?'
'No.'
'Guess.'
'I dunno . . . three?'
'Higher.'
'Four?'
'Try eight.'
'Oh.'
Yeates looked at him. 'Oh? Is that all?'
Doom shrugged his shoulders. Yeates felt like choking him.
'You did yourself out of six grand. Aren't you pissed off?'
'Well, that's what Henry said all the other players get.'
'And that's what they do get. But you could've got eight. Henry was laughing after he signed you.'
Doom shrugged his shoulders again. 'Well, that's history now. I'm gunna get heaps more in Sydney.'
'Are you?'
'I imagine so.'
'Ever heard of Dougie Haig?'
'Yeah. Played for Balmain.'
'He played for Australia as well. You know what he's doing now?'
'Owns a pub, doesn't he?'
'He owns an orange juice stand.'
'Oh.'
'Feel like squeezing oranges for a living once you stop playing?'
'Not really.'
'Then don't sign anything. Don't even shake hands. There'll be more scouts than you can poke a stick at at theGrand Final this Sunday. Play anything like you did last week and you'll have more than just the shitty old Steelers chasing after you.
'Even Parramatta?'
'You never know.'
'Right. Thanks, mate.'
'Not a problem.'
'Hey, Greg?'
'What?'
'I was wondering if you could do something else?'
'What's that?'
'Well, I've got this mate who's a journalist. . .'

'Happy, Dopey, Sleepy, Doc ... who else?'
'Sleazy?' offered Tragic.
'There wasn't one named Sleazy,' said Tony Holloway.
'Yeah. He was the one who was always looking up Snow White's dress.'
'Bullshit.'
The rest of the Cabramatta backline racked their brains. They couldn't recall how this topic had come up but it had them all intrigued now.
Holloway started naming them again, holding out a finger as each dwarf was reeled off. 'Dopey, Sleepy, Greedy, Doc, Sleepy...'
'You've already done Sleepy,' said someone.
'And there wasn't one named Greedy,' said Hodge.
'Yes there was.'
'No there wasn't.'
'I think you'll find there was.'
Hodge dismissed him and started his own list.
'Doc, Sleepy, Happy, Dopey . . .'
'WHAT IN FUCK'S NAME ARE YOU BASTARDS DOING DOWN THERE?'
The backline looked upfield as one. Mick Hartess was glaring back at them. He had the forwards running across field, going through set plays and generally working their arses off.
'It's okay, Mick,' yelled back Hodge. 'We're just workin' on a move, mate.'
'WELL, FUCKIN' HURRY UP, THEN! YOU'VE BEEN STANDING ROUND LIKE STALE BOTTLES OF PISS HALF THE FUCKIN' NIGHT.'
'Grumpy,' said Tragic. They nodded.
'Dopey,' said Holloway, holding out two fingers.
'Happy,' said Hodge, holding out three. 'Sleepy, Doc . .. who's left?'
'Nasty?'
'Dog's breath?'
'Ohhh, I know,' said Holloway. 'The shy prick.'
'Bashful,' said Hodge. 'Oh shit. Here he comes.'
The backs scattered before Hartess reached them and lined out across the field. Hodge called out a code name in a serious voice. Tragic threw a cut-out pass across Hodge. Hodge wrapped the inside centre and picked up the full-back. The full-back veered across field, dummied to the outside centre and picked up the winger, Holloway. Holloway scored in the corner.
'Not bad,' said Hartess. 'What's it called again?'
'Cinderella,' answered Hodge, making it up off the top of his head.
Hartess walked back to the forwards. They were bludging now. He couldn't believe this. They were playing in a Grand Final on Sunday and no one seemed to give a shit. He barked at the forwards to get going again.The backs regrouped again. 'Right,' said Hodge. 'Doc, Dopey, Sleepy, Happy . . .'

'Can you tell me how much Redcliffe are paying you?' asked Daley, keeping his voice low on the phone.
'Ohhh, mate. I'd rather not say,' replied Greg Yeates. 'It's a fair bit, though.'
Shit, thought Daley. This was the story of the year. For the Redcliffe Herald anyway. 'And they're signing Luke as well?'
'Hey? How'd you know that?'
'He told me.'
'Geez, he's a big mouth,' said Yeates disgustedly.
'Oh, he's not really,' cut in Daley. 'I just about had to use a blowtorch to get it out of him.'
'Hmph,' said Yeates.
'Look, Greg. If it's hush-hush, mate, I'll keep a lid on it. But it'd be a real shot in the arm for me if I could use this.'
'Yeah, I understand.' Yeates let out a breath. 'Look. Do you know Roy Altridge?'
'No.'
'Well, he's the club Secretary. Tell him I said to ring him. If it's okay with him, it's okay with me. Most of the boys at Norths know I'm going anyway. Here's his number.' Yeates read out Floyd Boyd's phone number. Daley wrote it down.
'Beauty. Thanks, Greg. I owe you one.'
'Geez. You're starting to sound like a journo, Brad.'
'Hah. Thanks, mate.'
'Not a problem. See ya.'
'Yeah. See you, Greg.' Daley put the phone down, then dialled the number he'd been given. Floyd Boyd answered on the fourth ring. 'Altridge residence.'
'Roy Altridge? Brad Daley from the Redcliffe Herald here.'
Finally, thought Floyd. He'd been answering the phone as Altridge all afternoon. 'Yes, what can I do for you?'
Daley told him what he could do for him.
'Weeell,' said Floyd, 'we wanted to keep it quiet, Brad. You understand how these things work.'
'Yeah, Roy, but I've spoken with both the players involved and they've got no problems with it.'
'Weeell, yeahhh. But players don't often see the big picture, Brad. A lot of noses might get put out of joint. If you know what I mean.'
'No, I don't, Roy.' Shit, thought Daley. This could be huge.
'Weeell, the money we're outlaying for these two players is quite substantial. I wouldn't want that to be made public.'
'No worries, Roy. I won't mention any numbers.'
'Oh, that's good, Brad. I'm glad to see there's still some people with ethics in the news trade.'
'Don't worry, Roy. I wouldn't dream of it.'
'I appreciate that, Brad. I really do. Listen, as long as the players don't mind, then I don't mind. But you didn't hear it from me. Fair enough?'
'Fair enough, Roy. Thanks. I hope I get to meet up with you one day.'
'I do too, Brad. I do too. All the best, son.'
'Thanks, Roy.' Daley hung up. He was tingling all over. He looked across at Fredericks' desk. 'George.'

'So when will you be heading off?'
'Friday week.'
'Mmm.' Henry Archer sipped his scotch and watched the creepy-Krawly make its way around the sides of his pool. His top button was undone, the shirt sleeves were rolled up and thebraces hung loosely at his sides. He hadn't swum in the pool for almost two years. The grandkids loved it though.
He and Yeates usually had a quiet drink on his back verandah most Wednesday afternoons. They'd do the books in his recreation room around noon, take a late lunch and then adjourn here. The takings were down this week. Too many favourites got up on Saturday. Henry wasn't bothered. He'd get it all back with interest by the end of the month. Most punters were mugs.
Speaking of mugs, the Police Commissioner's bag man would be calling round for another plain brown envelope the day after tomorrow. He visited Henry's house four times a year.
'Did you see that bloke I told you about?'
'Yep. They're packing the furniture on Thursday.' Yeates rolled his tumbler in his fingers and looked at his drink. 'Have you lined up anyone else yet?'
'Nah. Not yet. I've got someone in mind though.'
'Well, if it's who I think it is, you'd better get hold of him soon. There's a couple of Sydney clubs chasing after him.'
'Whaaat?' Henry turned to Yeates with a pained expression.
'Yeah,' said Yeates. 'I had another talk with him yesterday. Illawarra's offered him twenty thousand. He's keen to go.'
'Sheee-yit! I was hoping to save some money now that you'd gone.'
'Doing it tough, are we, Henry?' smiled Yeates. Illawarra's real offer was twelve.
Archer snorted. 'Don't worry, my son. He won't be going anywhere.'

Paula stepped out of the bank and headed in the direction of one of Rosetta's two car yards. She'd declined the offer to test drive any of the other models available. Another ten minutes in a car with Owen Lynch wasn't exactly her idea of a good time. Her mind was made up anyway.
She walked through the front entrance of Reynolds' Motor World and saw Sarah Black sitting behind the counter reading a Cosmopolitan. Paula and Sarah had been best friends in primary school. Sarah had a boyfriend now. She'd been going out with him for three years. She never had too much to say except to advise Paula to grab one for herself or she'd be left on the shelf.
'Hi, Sarah.' Paula always had to greet Sarah first. Otherwise they'd never speak.
'Hi.'
'Is Mr Reynolds around?'
Sarah ducked into the main office. Owen Lynch came out a couple of minutes later. He ran his eyes over Paula, stopping here and there, and asked if she wanted to talk in private. Paula said no thank you and handed him a bank cheque for sixteen hundred dollars. Owen asked her if she was going out on Friday night and she gave him the first excuse that came into her head.
Five minutes later, she was driving a secondhand four-wheel-drive Subaru back to the sawmill. Paula figured she could pay off the Subaru in fourteen months. On the day of the last payment, she was going to pack everything she could in the back and head out.
'Did you ask her?' asked Sarah.
'Yeah. She said her dog was sick,' replied Owen.
He was pretty disappointed. The word around town was that the young Banks chick put out.

The back page of the Redcliffe Herald was dominated by a sixty-point-sized headline. Greg Yeates had signed with the RedcliffeDolphins. The bold type underneath added that Luke Dumasis had also signed in a joint package worth six figures.
The phone started ringing in Ted Goodwin's office long before business hours were due to commence. Goodwin rang George Fredericks. Fredericks rang Daley. Henry Archer rang Yeates. Yeates rang North Sydney to tell them a prank had got out of hand. Doom rang Marcus Peters to say the same. Norths rang Redcliffe. Redcliffe rang the Herald again. The Herald rang Yeates and Doom. The Courier-Mail rang the Herald. 4BC and Channel Seven almost got into the act before it broke that it was all bullshit.
Daley was summoned to Ted Goodwin's office.
'You told me you got this from the horse's mouth!'
'I did. I did.'
'Did you check it out with Redcliffe?'
'I asked around, yeah.'
'What'd they say?'
'Not much. I thought they were just trying to keep it hushed up.'
Goodwin rubbed his eyes. 'Fuck me. Tell George to get in here.'
Daley went outside and grabbed George. The rest of the staff were surreptitiously watching them both. Alex Edwards walked past and tsked-tsked just loud enough for Brad to hear him.
'Get fucked, Alex,' said Daley.
Edwards kept walking.
'Fuckin' wanker,' muttered Daley.
'Don't worry about him,' said George. 'Worry about fuckin' Ted.'
George went into Goodwin's office and was dragged over the coals. He dragged Daley with him.
Doom rang Tragic. Tragic thought it was a great joke. Doom asked Tragic how Cabramatta's Grand Final preparations were taking shape. Tragic said they'd hit a major snag. They couldn't decide whether to use Cordon Rouge or Veuve Cliquot as their victory champagne. Doom said to plumb for the Cordon Rouge. He'd heard it fizzed better when you shook it up to spray it. Tragic said he'd take that into account.
'How're things your end?' asked Tragic.
'Not bad.'
'Think you'll win?'
'Dunno.'
'That's no good, Doom. You gotta sound confident, mate. What time do youse kick off?'
'Eleven o'clock.'
'Bugger me. The last time I played at eleven was in the under fifteens. Is it hot up there?'
'Certainly is.'
'That's good to hear.'
'Why?'
'I'm coming up there soon.'
'When?'
'Next Wednesday. I've got two weeks off
'Is that a fact?'
'Yep. Can I stay at your joint?'
'You'll have to sleep on the couch.'
'Is it a nice couch?'
'I slept on it once. It was okay.'
'That'll do then. Can you pick us up at the bus terminal?'
'When?'
'Dunno. Haven't booked yet. Probably Wednesday night sometime.'Doom said he and The Flea would both pick him up. Tragic asked Doom what else he'd been up to.
'I'll tell you when you get here.'
'Why? What's goin' on?'
'You'll find out. See ya.'
Tragic said goodbye and hung up.
'What was that about the couch?' asked The Flea.
'Tragic's gunna stay with us for a week or so.'
'Why doesn't he stay at his parents' place?'
'Don't ask me.'
The Flea grunted and opened his mail. 'Hey! Guess what?'
'What.'
'They've accepted me. I start next Monday.' The Flea had applied for a job at the Commonwealth Bank. It wasn't brain surgery but it was better than baby carrots. He'd have to tie his hair up. Doom couldn't think of a worse place to work.
'Good on ya, mate,' he said.

The midday sun was out but it wasn't just mad dogs and Englishmen running around in it. The crowd at Lang Park was steadily building up for the main game. Only a small minority took any interest in the curtain-raiser going on at present. A smattering of applause went up around the stadium after the Valleys under nineteens posted another try on the board. The PA system boomed as the announcer gave the try-scorer's name and number. The Norths under nineteens bunched together in the in-goal area, waiting for the conversion.
There wasn't much to be said. Matty Bryant had given up trying to induce them into a comeback. It was forty-six to nil. He was taking a new tack now.
'Come on, fuck yas. Let's put in for the last ten minutes, hey? Get somethin' on the board.'
'Have a look at the tits on that,' said Oscar Stewart. A golden-brown brunette wearing a boob tube was making her way past the licensed outer. The applause was louder than that given for the last try.
'Look. Fuck her,' said Bryant.
'Too right,' said Oscar.
'Fuck up, Oscar.'
'Get fucked, Bryant.'
The heat, frustration and hopelessness of the situation spilled over and before the rest of the team knew what was going on, Bryant and Oscar were going toe-to-toe in the middle of the Winfield sign that was painted on the grass behind the goalposts.
Doom crouched on his haunches and ignored the ruckus going on around him. He'd thought too much about Illawarra during the week instead of Valleys' under nineteens and this was the end result. He was disgusted with himself.
When order was restored the Valleys' goal kicker took the conversion and the North players jogged back to the halfway for the restart.
They held Valleys to forty-eight points. They sat on the grass and watched the under-nineteen Premiers do their victory lap. Doom wasn't too upset. Losing only felt bad when you knew you should've won. He just felt empty. And he'd felt that a hundred times or more.
Four hours later, Souths' first grade did a victory lap of their own. No one in the media had rated them a chance. They obviously hadn't read the papers. The whole of Lang Park was giving them a standing ovation. Wynnum-Manly walked off the ground with their losers' medals.
One of the Souths players was jumped upon by three nubile blondes wearing black running shorts and white singlets. Ithappened right in front of where The Flea and Doom were standing.
'That bastard won't have a pulse by midnight,' said someone behind them.
'What a way to go,' said The Flea.
'Better than hanging yourself,' agreed Doom.

The Cabramatta dressing-room was like a morgue. Mick Hartess walked around the small confines but didn't say much.
He sat down next to Tragic, who was eating a chocolate frog.
'The beer tastes like champagne when you win, and the champagne tastes like beer when you lose,' said Hodge.
'What does the beer taste like when you lose?' asked Tragic.
'Foster's,' said Hartess.
Some players showered and changed and left for the clubhouse. Hodge was a hang-arounder. Tragic was becoming one as well.
'Got any more Freddos?' asked Hodge.
Tragic rummaged around in his bag and brought out two more. He offered one to Hartess.
'Where'd you get these?'
'Marie packed 'em for luck.'
'Tell her not to bother next year.'
'Sorry, Mick,' said Hodge.
'Just wasn't our day,' said Tragic.
'Youse didn't lose it today,' said Hartess. 'You lost it Tuesday night.'
Tragic nodded. It was Southport all over again. When was he gunna learn?

Doom, Tragic and The Flea stood in a corner of the beer garden at the Victory Hotel on a Friday night. The Flea's branch had been held up that afternoon. He'd only been working these five days.
'What happened then?' asked Tragic.
'He's pulled out a fucking gun and told Melinda to start puttin' money in the bag.'
'Get fucked.'
'What sort of gun?' asked Doom.
'Sawn-off rifle. Don't ask me what kind.'
'How'd you go?'
'I was shitting myself,' said The Flea. 'I mean, you hear about this shit all the time but when you've got a gun pointed at you ... fuck that.'
'So then what happened?' Tragic just had to know.
'She's put the money in the bag and he's yelled at her to fuckin' hurry up and then he got the other two tellers next to her. They couldn't put the cash in quick enough.'
'Then what?'
'He rucked off out the door.'
'And they still haven't caught him,' rounded off Tragic. 'Fuckin' legend. Good on 'im.'
'Whaaat?' said The Flea. 'Get fucked.'
'Ohhh, take it easy. He didn't hurt anyone. What'd he get? A hundred grand for two minutes' work. Good luck to the bastard.'
'Wasn't a hundred. More like thirty.'
'Fuck thirty,' said Tragic. 'I wouldn't do it for less than a hundred grand. Nah. Scrub that. A million.'
'A million?' repeated The Flea.
'Yep. You gotta cover your tracks. You wouldn't wanna be on the run all your life.'
'Would you shoot anyone?' asked Doom.
'If I had to.'
'Ohhh, bullshit you would,' said The Flea.'Mate, if a million dollars was involved, I would shoot to kill.'
'Bullshit you would,' said The Flea.
'Okay then. Shoot 'em in the foot. For a mill.'
'A million, hey?' asked Doom.
'Yep. Ohhh, okay. Nine hundred thousand. That's my bare minimum.'
'What about you, Flea?'
'Nah, Doom. I wouldn't do it. Honestly. Fuck that.'
'You're hopeless, Flea,' said Tragic. 'Shit, you could do an inside job now, too.'
'That's just it. I've seen what you're up against. And you wouldn't get a million out of most places.'
'What about you, Doom?' asked Tragic.
'Half a million.'
'Half?'
'If I was guaranteed of getting away with it, scot-free, no worries. Halfa million'd do.'
'You won't have to anyway. How much are they . . .' Tragic trailed off as a group of girls traipsed past them. He, Doom and The Flea tried to catch their eyes. They caught bugger all. They needed Daley. He'd gone across the street to check out The Exchange.
'How much are they paying a win?' asked Tragic.
'Eight hundred.'
'Eight hundred? Fark meee.'
'That's only if I make first grade but.'
'Eight hundred bucks a week to play footy. That's like getting paid to root sheilas.'
'I wouldn't know.'
'You will, big fella. It'll be money for nothing, chicks for free down there. Just don't forget your mates.'
'Who?'
'That'd be right.' Tragic finished his beer. 'You want another one . . . buddy?'
'Yes, buddy.'
The Flea went to get Daley. Tragic headed over to the bar. Doom read the back of his T-shirt before he disappeared into the crowd. THE GRASSY KNOLL SHOOTERS' CLUB. He saw a familiar face on the other side of the beer garden. Sabrina. He was pondering whether or not to go over and say hello when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
'Hello, Luke.' It was Shae Louise.
'G'day ...' he stopped himself from calling her coach. 'Shae.'
'How are you?'
'Not bad.'
His skin was clear, the nose was bent, the eyes were quietly discontented. Her skin was translucent, the almond eyes hypnotic. It almost hurt to look at her.
'What're you doing here?' he asked.
'Girls' night out.' Shae nodded to her two flatmates. They had a bunch of men standing around them. She leaned over and said in a conspiratorial whisper, 'Michelle and Sonia are on a man-hunt.' She was at the playful stage that makes women more endearing. A few more drinks and it didn't look nearly as good.
He thought about asking if she was on a man-hunt as well but didn't. She looked at the scar on his neck. 'Run into any doors lately?'
'Not lately.' He remembered lying in her lap and looking up at her face. He was as tall as her now.
'Had me worried that day. I got a scar from it too.'
'Where?'
'Here.' She showed him the heel of her palm. 'And here as well.' She touched her pants at the knee. 'I'll have to show you that one another time.''Okay.' He felt giddy. Comparing scars with Shae Louise.
Who would've thought?
'Supercoach!'
'Danny!'
Tragic bounded out of the crowd with a beer in each hand. She wrapped both her arms around his head. He only came up to her nose. Tragic held the beers either side of her and gave Doom a how-good's-this look. Doom shook his head. She still hadn't let go of him. His name's not even Danny, thought Doom.
She let go of him and held his face in both hands. 'Danny Miller.'
'You're pissed, Supercoach.'
She hugged him around the neck again. Doom took his beer and tried not to sulk.
Daley and The Flea returned. Daley looked at Tragic, then at Doom. 'We leave youse for five minutes and the little prick pulls the best sort in the joint.'
Shae extracted herself from Tragic and greeted The Flea and Brad. Daley was blown away. He hadn't realised who it was. She kept talking to Tragic. 'I can't believe how we lost that game against Southport.'
'Ohhh, mate. I know.'
'Youse played like a bunch of. . .'
'Old molls,' said Tragic. 'I know. I know.'
'What happened?'
'I don't know.'
Michelle and Sonia joined them after a while. They remembered The Flea and Tragic. Daley bought a round of drinks. Sonia thought he was a bit of all right. Shae and Michelle were dressed to impress. Sonia was dressed to kill. She was mid-twenties-sunkissed-blonde, alluring, with a party-girl smile and fantastic cleavage.
'How're you getting on over there, Michelle?' asked The Flea, motioning to the group they'd been standing with.
'Ahhh, bugger them,' said Michelle in a central-Queensland drawl. 'They're all talkin' 'bout how much money they're makin'.'
Sonia asked Daley what he did for a crust. Daley told her he was a journalist. Doom stood on the outer edge of the circle. He looked around the beer garden. Sabrina was standing with her back to him, not more than ten feet away. Then her boyfriend joined her and they put their hands in the back pocket of each other's jeans.
The Flea told Michelle and Sonia about the Anzac Day outing. He left out how they got the petrol. Tragic didn't bother correcting him about diesel.
'Did you coach again this year?' he asked Shae.
'No, Danny.'
'Why not?'
'It wasn't the same. Did you know Loni Sanders got engaged?'
'Who to?'
'Barry Cox.'
'What?'
'I know.'
'Talk her out of it.'
'Get out. I'm one of the bridesmaids. Anyway I can't talk.'
'Hey?'
'Nothing.'
'I'll have a word to her.'
'No you won't.' She deliberated for a minute before speaking again. 'I'm leaving there at the end of this year.'
'Why?'
'Just am.'
Tragic took her hand dramatically. 'Where shall you go? What will you do?'Shae put the back of her other hand to her forehead but couldn't think of a clever answer. Tragic answered for her. 'Kings Cross. To earn a livin' lyin' down.'
She slapped him around the head.
'Take it easy, Lambchop.'
She slapped him again.
The Flea got the next shout.
Sonia started putting the moves on Daley. He let her for a while but kept his distance when she started standing right next to him. She'd never been given the brush-off before and kept after him. It soon became obvious to the others what was happening and when they all left The Victory together and crossed the street to The Exchange, she tried to get him in a taxi and take him home.
'I just wanna have a drink with my mates,' he lied.
She followed him and the others, and Shae and Michelle started feeling embarrassed for her.
The Flea changed up to spirits when he got inside The Exchange, which was pretty loud and crowded. Doom followed. He was going to drown his sorrows in loser juice. Shae stayed with Tragic and almost told him about Logan but Daley interrupted them.
'Is it all right if I stand here for a while?'
'No, piss off,' said Tragic.
'Danny' said Shae.
'All right. Stand here then. What's wrong?'
'Bloody Sonia won't leave me alone.'
'Ohhh, geez. And I'm s'posed to feel sorry for you, am I?'
'Watch out, Brad,' joked Shae. 'She's a man-eater.'
'Well, she's not eating me.'
Michelle decided to ditch the man-hunt and just hung with Shae and the boys and had a good time. Doom got drunk and was a happy drunk but fell over at the bar with his hands full of drinks and got punched in the head by a big bloke who got his pants wet. The Flea wanted to go him but Doom hardly felt it and just said 'Sorry, mate' and bought him a drink to make up for it.
Brad was still standing with Tragic and Shae when Sonia walked past with another guy she'd picked up in ten minutes. She slowed down and turned to Daley. 'Last chance.'
'No thanks.'
She left the building with second choice and years later Brad would look back and tell himself it was probably the smartest thing he'd ever done.

Lee-anne Hemmings slid the bacon and mushroom omelette out of the pan and onto a plate. Kieren loved having a big cooked breakfast on weekends. She'd cut his toast into triangles, the way he liked it.
Lee-anne was having a bowl of Special K and a few slices of watermelon. She was on another diet. She hoped this one would work. 'It's ready.' She heard him roll out of bed. Lee-anne sat down and started without him. She had to open the salon in half an hour.
Kieren emerged from the bedroom in his jocks. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and picked up his knife and fork. She had the radio on. The AM stations up this way were murder. 'Can you turn that down?'
She turned it down.
'Is there any tea?'
'Do you want some?'
'Wouldn't ask if I didn't.'
Lee-anne rose from the table to put the kettle on. Kieren dug the fork into his food. She'd put too much cheese in again. She was prattling on about something to do with work. Hetried to listen to the radio. At least the toast was okay. He forked some omelette onto a piece.
'. . . and she says she knows you.'
'Who?' He took a bite.
'The girl.'
'What girl?'
'The one I've got starting today. Vanessa.'
Kieren stopped chewing.
'She's a pretty little thing,' continued Lee-anne. 'I'm thinking of offering her an apprenticeship when she finishes school.'
Kieren swallowed. The toast went down like a piece of glass. 'That's nice,' he said.

Doom sat across from Henry Archer. Bart Powell was in the room also. The Flea and Tragic and Daley were in the back bar with about a hundred others. The Sydney Grand Final was being shown on the big screen. St George versus Canterbury. Everyone was paying out on Brad 'Scoop' Daley with regards to his effort at the Redcliffe Herald.
Most of the Norths players were given their match payments this day and usually signed on for the next season as well. Archer would ask them to step into the office one by one. They'd left Doom till last. He was handed a cheque for one thousand three hundred and eighty-six dollars and forty-eight cents, which was payment for eight wins, six losses, minus tax, insurance and what he'd borrowed from Henry over the past two months.
Powell slid a contract across the desk. 'Have a look at that, Luke.' He handed him a pen.
The sign-on fee was four thousand dollars. The match payments stayed the same.
'I'm sorry.'
'What're you sorry for?'
'I can't accept that.'
Powell looked at Henry. Henry looked at Doom. Doom looked at his fingers.
'Why?' asked Bart. 'What's wrong? Is it the money?'
'Well. . .'
'You're getting more than most of the others. None of them complained.'
'Yeah but...'
'We can hardly afford this much as it is. Shit! When I was playing, it was a beer and a pie and a slap on the back.'
Henry looked at the photos on the wall. The loftiest height Bart's career ever reached was reserve for reserve grade.
'I'm sorry, Mr Powell.'
'Sorry? Like fuck! You bastards are all the same. Just take, take, take.'
Henry touched Powell on the arm. It'd been a long day. Three hours at the bar this morning hadn't helped things.
'Might be an idea to go and check on the score, Bart.'
Powell left the room. Henry watched him close the door behind him, then raised his eyebrows at Doom as if to say, Look what you've done now. He leaned back in his chair.
'What's the story, Luke? How much are the Steelers offering you?'
'How'd you know about that?'
'A little bird told me.'
Doom had a fair idea who the little bird was. Yeates had told him to say twenty grand.
'Twelve thousand.'
Yeates, you bastard, thought Archer. He couldn't help smiling, though. He loved these games.
'That's a lot of money, Luke. I don't know whether we'll be able to match that.''That's okay,' said Doom. He hadn't expected them to.
'There's more to this than money, though,' said Henry. 'You know, when you get down there, you'll be a little fish in a bloody big pond.'
'I know.'
The way he answered told Henry he hadn't considered the prospect of failure.
Henry thought for second. 'Look. Those bastards down south've probably told you you're the greatest thing since sliced cheese. Well, I'll tell you what I reckon. You've played a couple of good games this year, mixed in with a lot of very ordinary ones. Do you agree with that?'
'Yeah, I s'pose,' said Doom, though he didn't think he'd played that badly.
'You've gotta play well every week, mate. Even your bad games have to be good. You're not ready for Sydney yet. Have another year up here and get more consistent. I heard you left your job at the markets.'
'Yeah.' Geez, thought Doom. He'd only quit two days ago. He'd basically decided he was going to Illawarra.
'Pretty hard work that. Early starts and all,' said Henry. 'What you need is a job that ties in with your training. Maybe three or four days a week. What do you think?'
'Pardon?'
'How would you like to work for me?'
'I don't know.'
'I need someone now that Greg's gone. You know he used to work for me, don't you?'
'Yes.'
'We were talking about a replacement the other day. Your name came up. Do you know what he said?'
'No.'
'He said he reckons you're smarter than the average bear. Are you good with numbers?'
'Uhhh. ..'
'What's nine times seven?'
'Sixty-three.'
'There you are - genius. How does a hundred bucks a day sound?'
'Hey?'
'Cash in the hand. That's not bad, is it?'
'I don't know, Mr Archer.'
'Call me Henry. It's three days a week, sometimes four. The most you'll do is about six hours a day.'
'I'll have to think about it.'
'Of course you do. Of course you do. Whatever you do, promise me you'll come back and see me again before you decide. Can you do that?'
'No worries, Mr . . . Henry.'
'Okay then.' Henry started walking him to the door. 'We might be able to bump that contract up a bit as well.'
'Better ask Bart first,' said Doom.
Henry smiled.
There'd been a meeting earlier in the week. The Norths RLFC committee had discussed, amongst other things, how much the club was prepared to pay to keep young Dumasis north of the border. Bart Powell was adamant they match the Steelers' offer dollar for dollar if need be. Bart played a round of golf most weekends at the Royal Queensland and had seen Luke doing sprints up the fifteenth fairway that Sunday morning. He reckoned any bastard who could run up that slope thirty or forty times had to have something going for him.
'Don't worry about Bart,' said Archer. 'He'll come around.'Canterbury beat St George. There was only one point in it but the Saints were never really in the hunt. Tragic was gutted.
»
Scoop and Tragic stumbled out of The Regatta Hotel. It was their fourth straight night on the ran-tan. Doom had fallen by the wayside two days ago. The Flea had no money and thought it best not to turn up hung-over at work the first couple of weeks. Tragic loved The Regatta. He was a little kid in a lolly shop. Good sorts were falling over themselves all night trying to get Scoop's attention and Tragic stuck to him like a Siamese twin. But Scoop had no time for girls. All he wanted was to drink himself into oblivion and take Tragic with him. Both of them were well past full when Tragic realised he'd lost his wallet. Scoop's bankcard was in it. They were temporarily destitute. 'Where did you lose it?' asked Scoop. 'If I knew that, it wouldn't be lost.' 'God you're a spastic. How're we gunna get home?' 'Don't worry about it,' said Tragic. 'We'll stay at my place.' 'Where's that?'
'Somewhere round here. I just need to find a landmark.' 'Can't even remember where you live any more. How fucked is that?'
Tragic ignored him and started walking. They trudged a couple of miles, and Scoop was going to give it up as a lost cause when Tragic led him up a paved (Driveway and into an impressive courtyard which fronted a triple garage.
'Where the fuck are we?' asked Scoop.
'This is it.'
'What? You live here?
'Yeah,' said Tragic, who hadn't invited anyone over to his house since he was twelve. 'Garden's full of furniture, house is full of plants.'
Tragic tried the door. It was locked. He rang the bell. A light came on.
'Geez. I dunno about this,' said Scoop. 'I didn't wanna wake up your oldies.'
'Don't worry about it.' The door opened and Jean Miller appeared. 'G'day, Mum,' said Tragic. 'Vernon. I might've known it'd be you.' 'Sorry.' Tragic opened his arms and gave her a statutory hug. 'Come inside,' she sighed. Tragic and Scoop went in. 'Mum, this is a mate of mine, Brad Daley.' 'Hello, Bradley.' 'Hello, Mrs Miller.'
'Do you wake up your mother in the middle of the night after running off for a year, Bradley?'
'Can't say that I have, Mrs Miller.' She was a small woman. Tragic's height. Dark eyes and dark hair with some grey. 'How are you, Vernon?' 'Good thanks, Mum.' 'Do you want something to eat?' 'Nah. I'm right.'
'What about your guest? Are you hungry, Bradley?' 'No. I'm fine thanks, Mrs Miller.'
They went through the family room, past the study, down some stairs, into the kitchen. Jean sat them down and started heating up some leftovers. 'Where's Dad, Mum?' 'He's working.'
'Oh.' Tragic took this pretty casually. Noel Miller had been doing eighteen-hour days for years. 'Where's Steven?' 'He's out with his girlfriend.''Who's the poor tart he's got this time?'
Jean clipped him around the ears. 'Shoosh, Vernon. She's a very nice girl. She works at the partnership.'
That'd be right. Probably thinks Steve's a barrister.'
'That's enough. Do you make fun of your brothers, Bradley?'
'No, Mrs Miller,' said Daley, who was the youngest of six children and the only male.
Jean put two plates in front of them and went to make up a bed for Scoop in one of the spare rooms.
'What's this "Vernon" all about?' asked Scoop.
'It's just a name she calls me.'
'Why?'
'I'm too tired to explain.'
'Vernon. Hah.'
'If you tell anyone about it,' said Tragic looking up from his food, 'I'll tell everyone about the time I caught you pulling yourself in the shower.'
'Big deal. Everyone does it.'
'Yeah, but you were trying to suck yourself off.'
'I was not.''
'Ohhh yeah? Tragic put a hand to the back of his own head and pushed it downwards. 'You were trying to lick it with your tongue.'
'I was not.'
'You were.'1
'Oh, get fucked, Tragic. There's heaps of blokes who've
tried to do it.'
'Not as hard as you.' 'I bet you've tried it.' 'Nup.' 'Bullshit!'
'Nup. Thought about it. Too inflexible. Gave it up straight away.'
Jean came back to the kitchen and sat with them and asked Tragic how he'd been, what he'd been up to, what he was doing back here, how long was he staying, why didn't he want to stay at home, whether he was still going to church and assorted other questions. Tragic answered as briefly as he could and asked if she could give him and Scoop a lift back to Doom and The Flea's flat in the morning. Jean said she would and they all went to bed soon afterwards. Scoop felt like punching Tragic for not staying up and talking to his mum a while longer.
They woke up and had breakfast around eight o'clock. Noel Miller had come home at three in the morning and was still asleep. Steve had stayed over at Melanie's. Jean chauffeured them over to the flat. They were going to play golf with The Flea and Doom and then go to the races. They drove through the Saturday-morning traffic in the city. Jean noticed a mounted policeman.
'Look, Vernon - a horse.'
'Muuum.'
She dropped them off outside the block of flats. She asked Tragic if he was going to come over for a roast on Sunday night. Tragic said he would.
'Hey, you two,' said Daley, as soon as he got through the door. 'Guess what happened on the way over here?'
The four of them piled into the Torana and headed over to the Virginia golf course. The Flea had his own bag of clubs. They pulled up at a level crossing. Doom pointed.
'Look, Vernon - a train.'
They arrived at the course. Doom lent Tragic and Scoop twenty dollars each. They rented another set of clubs and two golf buggies. The greenkeeper drove past them. Scoop pointed. 'Look, Vernon - a tractor.'The Flea and Tragic paired up against Scoop and Doom. It was a good contest. Tragic was a shocking golfer and Doom wasn't far behind him.
Scoop pulled Doom aside on the seventh while Tragic lined up his tee-shot.
'So what are ya gunna do?' asked Scoop.
'About what?'
'The Steelers.'
'Can't get rid of this bloody slice,' said Tragic.
'Can't tell you yet.'
'Don't try to hit it so hard,' said The Flea.
'When can you?'
'It won't go anywhere then,' said Tragic.
'I have to ring and give them an answer tomorrow night.'
'It's not going anywhere now,' said The Flea.
'Why can't you tell me now?'
'I haven't made up my mind yet.'
'Don't stand so stiff,' said The Flea. 'You look like you've got a broom handle shoved up your arse.'
'Are you still flying home on Monday?'
'Yeah.'
'Don't you start talking about things up my arse.'
'Need a lift to the airport?' asked Scoop.
'Get fucked, Tragic.'
'Tragic's gunna take me,' Doom said.
'Shut up, hippie.'
'You're kidding,' said Scoop.
The Flea hit Tragic in the middle of his back with a two wood. Tragic swore and took a swipe at The Flea.
Scoop told them both to settle down. Tragic said not to get up him, it was The Flea who started it. Scoop said he didn't care who started it. He told Tragic to hurry up and have his shot. Tragic told The Flea if he ever hit him again like that he'd smash his fuckin' head in. The Flea said he'd like to see him try. Tragic said it'd be the last thing he would see. Scoop turned back to Doom.
'I can't believe you've got him driving you out there.'
'Well, he offered and I didn't want to say no,' said Doom.
'You'll miss the plane.'
Tragic had a couple of practice swings.
'No we won't,' said Doom.
Tragic lined up the ball.
'I bet fifty bucks you do,' Scoop said.
'Fair enough,' said Doom. They shook on it.
Tragic sliced into the trees. 'Fuck it.'
'Tragic,' said Doom. 'Make sure we don't miss that plane.'
'Yeah, yeah. No worries.'
'You wanna pay me now?' asked Scoop.
October
Doom stood on the front stairs of Henry Archer's house and knocked on the door. He remembered doing the same thing almost twelve months ago when circumstances had been very different. Henry's wife, Sylvia, answered the door.
'Hello, Luke.'
'G'day, Mrs Archer.'
'Henry's out on the back verandah. Would you like anything?'
'No thanks, Mrs Archer.'
'Cup of tea? I'm about to make one.'
'Okay then. Thanks.'Sylvia led Doom through the house. It reminded Doom of his grandparents' place, except it was more opulent. He walked outside. Henry was sitting on a chair, looking out over his pool, sipping a scotch. Doom sat down next to him and they talked for a while. Sylvia brought out some tea and a plate of scones.
'Thank you, Princess,' smiled Henry.
'Oh shut up,' said Sylvia.
They watched her go back inside the house.
'So what are you going to do, Luke?'
'I think I might go to Illawarra, Henry.'
'Have you told them yet?'
'No.'
'Good. Now, tell me why you want to go.'
Doom couldn't phrase an answer.
'It's not money, is it?' said Henry.
'No.' It wasn't, but Illawarra had upped their offer to sixteen thousand.
'Do you have any friends, Luke? Outside of football?'
'A couple.'
'That little bloke I see you with now and then. What's his name?'
'Sebastian.'
'Sebastian? Really?'
'Yeah.'
Henry shook his head and laughed. 'Fair enough. Where do you know him from?'
'School.'
'Right. And that mate of yours from the Herald. He went to Banyo too, didn't he?'
'How'd you know that?'
'He introduced himself to me last weekend at the club.
Nice young fella. And that other idiot youse were with. What's his name?'
'Danny Miller.' 'Does he play footy?' 'Yeah.'
'Thought so.' Henry put his scotch down on the plastic table next to the tea and scones. 'Do you have any friends or relatives down at Illawarra?' 'No.'
'Ahhh. Have they talked to you about where you're gunna live or anything?' 'Not really.'
'Probably set you up in a house with a couple of other players. That's what usually happens.' 'Yeah.'
'Didn't say anything about a job, did they?' 'No.'
'Yeah, well, things are pretty tough down in Wollongong. You might end up getting some hours at the club as a cellarman or something.' 'I s'pose so.'
'Or you probably won't work at all, knowing you.' Henry looked at Doom. Doom looked at the scones.
'Professional Rugby League player,' smiled Henry. Doom sipped his tea.
'You know what worries me about that?' asked Henry. 'What?'
'You're only eighteen and you're gunna be spending all your time around football players. You know what I'm saying?' 'Yeah.'
'Do you? Don't get me wrong. I like footy players. Most of 'em are great blokes,' said Henry. 'And funny. Funniest bastardsin the world. That's why I'm with Norths. Keeps me young. If I could get those bloody Boyd twins on film I'd make a bloody fortune.'
'You certainly would.'
'Yeah, I would,' smiled Henry. 'But then you get those one or two players who are genuine losers. Now, you get people like that in all walks of life. Doesn't matter what you do but in most other cases you can choose not to have too much to do with them and still get the job done. You follow me?'
'Yeah.'
'Good. But see, if you want to make a living out of this game you're gunna have to play with bastards like that from time to time and some of 'em will be bloody terrific players but hopeless as men. And you're gunna have to be mates with them because a team won't win if youse don't all get on. And to be frank, Luke, I honestly don't think you've got what it takes to associate with people like that and not let it affect you. Don't laugh. It's the quiet ones who end up the worst of the lot.'
'Really?'
Henry groaned and shook his head.
'I'll be careful.'
'It's not about being careful, it's about experience.' Henry picked up his scotch again. 'The job I offered you wasn't a token position. I honestly need someone with a few brains that I can trust.'
Doom thought for a second. 'Can I think about it?'
'Aren't you going home soon?'
'Yeah. Tomorrow.'
Tor how long?'
'Couple of weeks.'
'Right. Have a good think about what I told you and when you get back come and see me.'
'Okay. Thanks, Henry.'
Doom drank his tea and ate a couple of scones and left a short while later, declining Sylvia's invitation to stay for dinner. He drove home thinking about what Henry had said. Maybe he
wasn't ready yet.
Scoop, Tragic and The Flea were at the flat playing cricket in the lounge room. The couch had been pushed to one side and Cold Chisel were belting out 'You Got Nothing I Want' on The Flea's ghetto blaster, which he'd bought with his first fortnight's pay, at full volume.
Tragic turned the sound down after it ended and resumed his Richie Benaud commentary. Daley was bowling, The Flea was stoned off his head and fielding at silly mid-on to protect
the television.
'Miller on ninety-eight... the only real resistance the West Indies have come up against today ... and a genuine thorn in their side throughout this Test series. He's watched his side collapse around him on at least three occasions this summer... and on each occasion has shown maturity beyond his years ... and steered Australia to victory... A marvellous talent, and he's still only...'
'Will you hurry up and fucking take strike,' said Scoop.
Tragic faced up. 'Michael Holding with a few words to say to the fieldsman . . . He's really been frustrated by Miller out here this afternoon . . . copped some stick . . .'
Scoop began his run-up from the far end of the kitchen. He reached the edge of the lounge room carpet and fired the tennis ball wrapped in red electrical tape down as hard as he could. Tragic drove it off his front foot straight back into the overhead kitchen cupboards. Four more plates crashed onto the lino.
'Shot. . . absolutely brilliant timing ... a pleasure to watch and what a way to bring up his century . . . this capacity Gabba crowd . . . standing as one to applaud what would have to be one of the most heroic innings I have ever witnessed . . . and I don't use that term lightly. Not much emotion from Miller, just a small nod of the head, in fact... he knows there's still a long way to go . . .'
'Shut the fuck up and help us clean this shit up!' Tragic turned to The Flea, who was still standing at silly mid-on. 'Michael Holding probably the only person in this arena who didn't appreciate that straight drive . . . And there's Elle MacPherson on the hill, Daniel Miller's current love interest... and don't they make a delightful couple on the international cricket social circuit. . . and a few other circuits as well, I'm led to believe . . .'
Doom came in. 'What the fuck happened here?' 'Dickhead hit the ball into the cupboards.' 'Hey, don't get up me. You bowled the fuckin' thing.' Doom stepped over the debris. 'Keep it down. I've gotta ring this bloke up.'
Tragic sat on the couch with The Flea as Doom dialled Marcus Peters' number. Marcus asked him what he was doing. Doom said he'd had a chat with Henry Archer and was thinking about staying in Brisbane another year. Peters upped the offer to twenty thousand.
'Hey, Tragic,' said Doom. 'Twenty grand. Whaddya reckon?' Tragic stood up on the couch. 'They can have me for ten.' Doom said he still wasn't sure. Marcus said he wanted a definite answer by Wednesday. Doom said he'd ring on Wednesday. 'Feel like goin' out, Flea?' he asked as he put the phone down. 'I will,' said Tragic. 'I know you will.'
'I dunno, mate,' said The Flea. 'I might just go to bed.' 'What about you?' 'Nah, mate,' said Scoop. 'I better get home. Work tomorrow.'
'Need a lift?'
'Yeah. Ta.'
Doom and Tragic drove Scoop home and met his second eldest sister, Kym, who was washing her car in the driveway. Good looks ran in the family.
He and Tragic went out for a quiet drink. They ended up at the Wintergarden Tavern around midnight. Floyd Boyd turned up there around one o'clock. He asked Doom if he was going to Illawarra.
'Dunno.'
'Why. What's wrong?'
'Nothin'. Just haven't made up my mind yet.'
'Fuckin' go, idiot. I fuckin' would.'
'That's what I've been tryin' to tell him,' said Tragic. He poked Doom in the chest. 'If you stay up here another year, the QRL'll whack a dirty great transfer fee on ya and you'll never get out then.'
Tragic had a feeling he'd forgotten something.

Jean Miller ate the roast lamb she'd cooked, alone. Noel had gone into the office that afternoon to prepare for a hearing the next day. Steve was at his girlfriend's place.
She was worried something had happened to Vernon. She put Noel's meal in the oven, did the washing-up and went in to watch the Sunday-night movie.

The morning traffic was bumper to bumper along Nudgee Road. The clock on the dashboard of the Torana read twenty-eight past nine. Doom's plane left at a quarter to ten.
The two of them had fallen through the front door around five o'clock. The Flea gave Tragic a kick in the guts just before he left for work. Tragic rolled off the couch and went straightinto The Flea's room and curled up in his bed. Doom woke up at five to nine.
The traffic started crawling forward. Doom felt very seedy. He'd decided to give up drinking. He couldn't handle it.
'We're not gunna make it. I owe Scoop fifty bucks.'
'Don't worry, mate. We'll get there.'
Doom gave Tragic a look.
'We will,' said Tragic.
The car in front of them stopped.
'What's this bastard doing?' Its right indicator started flicking.
'Ohhh, good on ya, dickhead.' Tragic snuck into the outside lane, straight in front of a Volvo. The driver sounded his horn.
'Yeah, yeah. Stick it up your arse.'
They sat at the lights behind an old Chevrolet. The lights turned green but the Chevie didn't move.
'What's wrong with every bastard this morning?' Tragic stuck his head out the window. 'COME ON, OLD PERSON! IT'S NOT GUNNA GET ANY FUCKIN' GREENER.' He pulled his head back inside.
'Ohhh, shit! You've done it now,' said Doom.
'What? Ohhh, shit!'
Genghis Khan's big brother lumbered out of the Chevie and started walking back towards them. 'Holy fuckin' white man,' said Doom. 'Have a look at this bloke.'
The driver had a head on him that looked like it'd been carved from granite. The jaw was as big as a phone book. His arms were like legs, his legs looked like trees and the closer he got, the angrier he became. Tragic thought about winding the window up but he'd probably just smash it in.
Genghis placed two ham-sized fists on the door and leaned in. 'You got a problem, smart-arse?'
'No, mate,' squeaked Tragic.
The driver in the Volvo started sounding his horn. Genghis stood up and looked at him. The beeping stopped.
'You sounded like you had a problem.'
'Well, my mate here has to catch a plane. His mum's really crook and . . .'
'I don't give a fuck about your mate's mum.'
'Okay, mate. Sorry, mate.'
'And I'm not your fuckin' mate!'
Tragic nodded his head up and down, then shook it back and forth. Genghis shoved him back in his seat and walked back to the Chevie. He drove through the amber light. By the time Tragic got there it was red.
'Fancy that,' said Tragic shakily. 'Not even worried about your mum. The bastard.'
The Torana howled to a stop outside the Ansett terminal. Doom raced in to the seat allocation desk. Tragic followed, carrying his bag. Doom gave the clerk his ticket.
'I'm sorry, sir,' she said. 'Your flight left two minutes ago.'
'You're kidding,' said Tragic. 'You couldn't wait a couple of minutes?'
Doom asked when the next flight was. She said the next available flight would be tomorrow afternoon. She transferred his ticket, which Doom thought was very nice of her.
Tragic put the Torana in the car park and they had breakfast in the airport restaurant. They went to The Breakfast Creek Hotel after that and met up with Scoop for lunch. Doom paid him his fifty bucks. Tragic still couldn't believe they didn't hold the plane up for them. He caught a bus back to Sydney that afternoon.
'What did he call him again?' asked Scoop when Doom drove him and George back to work.
'Old person.''God, it's hopeless. Hey, do you want to go ten-pin bowling
tonight?'
'Yeah. That'd be good,' said Doom.

Sam leapt off the school bus and ran up the track to his house. The dog met him halfway and the boy's agitation was infectious. He gave the dog a bit of a pat and it barked and gambolled alongside him, getting caught up in his feet. He climbed the back stairs two at a time and burst through the door.
Kate was in the sewing room. 'He's not back yet, dear.'
'Why?'
'He rang and said he'd been held up. He's coming tomorrow now.'
'Oh.'
'Do you want some smoko?'
'Yeah.'
'Pardon?'
'Yes please.'
Kate got up and made some sandwiches and put the kettle on. She began icing the patty cakes she'd baked that morning. They were Luke's favourite.

The Rosetta Cooperative sugar mill's board of directors and four representatives of the bank, including the state corporate manager, were slowly emptying the mill's administration office bar fridge and enjoying the small buffet of sandwiches and finger food that the office girls had set up on the long dark cedar wood table in the boardroom.
With the formal constraints of official business now out of the way, the farmers and bankers discussed more candidly the subject matter put forward at the recently completed meeting, which had been set up specifically to address the board's growing concerns regarding the continuing demise of the Australian dollar.
John Dumasis had one beer and walked out of the boardroom, through to the foyer and out into the late afternoon. He needed to think. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tie and raised a thick sunbrowned forearm to shade his eyes as he squinted at the top of the chimney stacks. There was nothing coming out of them. Another breakdown.
Big John backed his Toyota Hilux out of his space and drove home. Three hours he'd been in there and basically all they'd said was that it couldn't get much worse. But they'd said that three months ago, and it had. And it was no longer just the falling dollar that worried him. It was the little things. The way they fobbed him off when he asked questions, and in the boardroom just then, when everyone was having a drink, those four bankers all knew who he was but none of them came over to him. He remembered the two weeks leading up to his taking out the loan. They were ringing him every second day, practically falling over themselves to help him. And now when he needed them, they kept their distance and gave him information on a need-to-know basis. If he wasn't a member of the board, he wouldn't have known those four were in Rosetta today. They were only worried about the mill's loan. He was small fry.
He tried to tell himself not to think that way. It was a bank, for God's sake. But something told him something wasn't right and he couldn't tell if it was gut instinct or paranoia. And meanwhile the loan was blowing out further and further. It felt like he was walking to the edge of an abyss, staring into it, unable to change direction.
He turned into the gravel driveway of his farmhouse, thehouse he'd grown up in. The contractor had harvested the last of the blocks near his home. About four hundred tonne. He looked across the paddocks and could see a loco backing up to the siding a mile and a half away, where a long line of bins, eighty-eight in fact, all holding his cane, stood waiting to be railed back to the mill.
He remembered a day almost forty years ago when he'd stood with his father and watched a steam locomotive hauling twenty-five wagons of hand-cut cane back to the mill, six of which held his dad's. Johnny had speculated, the way young boys do, how wealthy a man would be to actually have all twenty-five. You'd have to be one of the richest men in the world.
'What the fuck have you got yourself into, Johnny?'
'Got the keys?'
The Flea answered by patting his pocket.
'Right. Let's go bowling.' Doom held the door open. Scoop was on the top step. The phone started ringing. The Flea halted in the middle of the kitchen.
'Don't worry about it,' said Doom.
'It might be for me.' The Flea went back to the living room. Doom swore.
'It's for you,' said The Flea.
Doom swore again and yanked the phone off The Flea. 'Hello.'
'Luke? It's Murray Beckford.'
'Ohhh. G'day, Murray.'
'Yeah, g'day. Listen, mate. I was wondering if you could come out and give us a hand tomorrow. That bastard I got to replace you hasn't turned up the last two days.'
'Mate, I'm catching a plane tomorrow.'
'Ohhh, right. Okay. Don't worry about it.'
Doom thought for a second. 'Murray? I can give you a hand early on but I have to be gone by eleven.'
'That'll do. We can handle it after that.'
'What time do you want me there?'
'Three thirty.'
'Right.'
'Thanks, Luke.'
'No worries.' Doom put the phone down.
'Who was that?' asked The Flea.
'My old boss. Can you drive me to the markets tomorrow morning? You can have the car after that.'
'Sweet.'
'What's goin' on?' asked Scoop.
'I'm working at Rocklea tomorrow.'
'Aren't you going home now?'
'Yeah. I'll catch a cab to the airport afterwards.'
'Don't be a dickhead,' said Scoop. 'That'll cost you over ten bucks.'
'I'm not catching a bus.'
'I'll pick you up. George'll lend me his car.'
'Sure?'
'Yeah. He might even come out with me.'

Scoop edged the Torana through the melee of traffic and pedestrians in the main square of the Rocklea markets. He'd asked directions from six different people and received six different answers. He finally saw the red and black sign board that Doom had told him about and steered towards it.
He parked in front of Murray Beckford's bay and saw Doom out the back, sliding a pallet jack underneath a stack of cartons. Doom looked up and jogged out to meet him. 'Geez, it's a shit-fight round here, isn't it?' said Scoop. 'You're not allowed to drive cars in here,' said Doom. 'How'd you get past the gate?' 'I dunno. The boom was up.'
'You better park around the back before someone sees you. It's a thousand-dollar fine.' 'Bugger me.'
'What're you doin' in my car anyway?' 'George needed his. He gave me a lift over to where The Flea works.'
'Fair enough. I've just got two more loads to do.'
Scoop got back in the car and drove around to the rear of the
building. The floor of the shed was at ground level out the front
but five feet above it out the back. He inched the Torana forward
until die front bumper was up against the wall of the loading dock.
A flat-bed truck reversed in beside Scoop. Its warning
beeper gave him a bit of a start and he looked up to see the back
of the truck glide past his window, less than two feet away. He
couldn't open his door, so he crawled over to the passenger seat
and got out that side.
'Am I in your way?' he asked the driver. 'No. Shouldn't really park there though.' 'You want me to move?' 'Doesn't bother me.'
Scoop walked up to the dock, put his palms on the top, and pulled himself up. He strolled through the back of the bay and came out the front again. He saw a wiry little man wearing a grocer's apron and a pencil behind his ear stacking some cases on a pallet. He guessed it was Doom's boss.
Scoop waited till he'd finished, then went over to say g'day. Murray Beckford shook his hand and introduced himself. Murray asked Scoop if he was looking for work. He said
he'd give him a start if he wanted one. Scoop told him he already had a job. Murray told Scoop about how the bloke he'd got from the CES to replace Doom hadn't bothered showing up the last two mornings. He said he wouldn't hire another bastard from that joint for love or money.
Scoop asked him how he'd get on tomorrow. Murray said he and Laurie should be able to manage on their own. Tuesdays and Fridays were the biggest days. He hoped to have someone by Thursday.
Doom brought the forklift back, picked up the stack Murray had just finished and drove off again. Murray asked Scoop what Luke was doing these days. Scoop told Murray Doom had been offered twenty grand to play for the Illawarra Steelers. Murray said he hoped he played football better than he drove a forklift.
Doom came back and parked outside the front of the bay. Murray said that'd do him - he'd better go before he missed his plane. Doom went into the office to grab his suitcase and sports bag. Murray shoved a fifty in his pocket and said thanks.
Doom shook hands with him and he and Scoop went out to the car. The driver and his offsider were standing on the back of their truck. They saw Doom walk out.
'G'day, Luke,' said the driver.
'G'day, Dog.' Doom didn't know his real name. Everyone just called him Dog. Dog had a straggly goatee beard and always wore Jacky Howe singlets and an old Akubra.
'I thought you'd finished up here,' said Dog.
'Just gave Murray a hand this mornin'. Tuesday and all.'
Dog saw the suitcase. 'Where're you headed?'
'i'm going home for a couple of weeks.'
'Where's home?'
'Rosetta.'
'Where's that?' Doom tried to explain. Dog listened and pretended to understand.
'Right,' he said, when Doom had finished. 'See ya.'
'Yeah. See ya, Dog.'
Doom jumped down off the dock. 'Chuck us the keys.'
Scoop threw him the keys. Doom opened the boot. The Flea's golf clubs were still in there. He pushed them further in and threw his suitcase in beside them. He tossed the sports bag on top. The boot wouldn't close. He lifted the lid again.
Dog stood up near the front of the truck behind the cab and watched him. He told Doom to move the sports bag to the side. Then he and his offsider tilted a forty-four-gallon drum of oil on its edge and started rolling it towards the dock. The offsider stumbled and lost his grip. Dog couldn't hold the weight on his own. The drum swayed and fell over the side.
The lid of the boot slammed down with over six hundred pounds behind it. Doom was thrown off his feet and fell onto his left hand and knees.
He gazed about for a second, stunned, then tried to get up. His right arm wouldn't respond. He looked up and saw why.
Dog looked down from the back of the truck. The top of the drum had dug into the lid of the boot and wedged itself in upside down.
'Ohhh,fuck,' said the offsider. He jumped down and tried to open the boot again, to free Doom's arm. Dog leapt down to help him.
Scoop heard the bang and wondered what had happened. He heard Doom scream and went round to the back of the car. He found the other two trying to free him.
'Try the key,' said Scoop.
'It won't fuckin' open!'
Scoop curled his fingers around the bottom edge and tried
to help them lift the lid. Doom was pushing up with his left
hand as well.
Dog gave it up and started on the drum. 'Here! Gimme a hand!' The three of them wrestled with the drum but they couldn't budge it. 'Fuck,' growled Dog. 'Get some help.'
Scoop bolted back into the shed. He yelled at Murray to come quick. Murray followed him out to the car. He saw Doom sitting on the ground, head bowed, his right arm disappearing up inside the steel panels, just above the wrist. He told Scoop to stay there and raced back into the office.
The word spread to the neighbouring bays. Six men grappled with the drum but it still wouldn't shift. Dog drove the truck out of the way and someone brought a forklift around. They chained the drum onto the forks and tried to lift it out.
The driver shunted it back and forth. The whole car shook and the forklift's engine screamed in the red. The drum came away with a metal groan.
'Not long now, mate,' said Scoop. 'It doesn't feel right,' said Doom.
Scoop squatted down next to him and squeezed his hand. It was alarmingly cold and it frightened him. But he didn't know the body was already in peripheral shutdown, constricting the blood supply to the vital organs.
Scoop looked at Doom's face. He was pale and his pupils nearly took up the whole of his eyes. His expression was blank and he tried to make a joke of it. 'Shoulda caught that plane.'
They worked on the boot. It still wouldn't open. Someone started on it with an axe. Two others tried to force it open with
a couple of crowbars.
A crowd had gathered. Murray yelled at them all to fuck off. The ones at the front backed off a few yards.
Lawrie Keats ran down with a set of bolt cutters. They triedto prise open the lid enough so he could cut the latch, but it was too close to Doom's hand.
Blood was dripping down over the bumper bar. There was a red pool collecting on the bitumen below. It had been over ten minutes now. Doom's arm was blue and purple from the elbow down.
They started on the hole the drum had made and peeled back the metal shell. Murray crawled half inside with a torch. He came out white as a sheet, with bloody hands and arms. 'Just wait till the fire brigade gets here,' he croaked. Scoop looked at him and he shook his head. Doom saw Scoop's expression and knew things weren't good. Someone else wanted to go in but Murray wouldn't let him.
They draped an old blanket over Doom's shoulders and tried to stem the bleeding. He was staring down at his lap, trying not to look at his arm. There wasn't much pain but it felt close by. He tried not to think about it. Murray squatted down next to him. 'Y'okay, mate?' 'Yeah.'
Lawrie ran back to the office and rang the ambulance again to ask what was taking so fucking long. He went back out and stood around with the others. No one spoke. They heard a siren in the distance. It was joined by another, seconds later.
The fire brigade and ambulance arrived within half a minute of each other. An ambulance officer checked Doom
over.
'How ya feelin', buddy?' 'Not bad.' 'Nauseous?'
ma- ?'
'Do you feel sick in the tummy?'
'Ohhh ... I dunno ... no ... Can you just hurry up and get me out, please?' Doom was hoping that if they bandaged it up he could still catch the flight home.
Murray had a word with one of the firemen who went inside the boot to have a look.
'Shit.'
The ambulance officer had a look too. He said not to worry about it. It was only hanging by a thread anyway. The sooner they got him to hospital, the sooner they could work on saving
it.
They hit the pull start on the jaws of life. The four-stroke compressor started up. It was as loud as a lawnmower.
They cut Doom free. 1991

may
Nine hypodermic needles lay next to each other on a white towel on a massage table in the gleaming tiled luxury of a cavernous dressing-room. Upon the same towel nine bandaids were stuck side by side below the needle tips and on each bandaid a different name was written in black texta.
Chester Hamel sat quietly in the corner of the room waiting for the club doctor to give him his needle. He'd broken his right thumb four days ago and there was no guarantee two or three injections would keep the pain at bay, but he had no choice. Chester was thirty-four years old, six foot one, a hundred and twelve kilos and about as handsome as a one-eyed pig dog. He was a big tough Pommy bastard and he'd never played at Wembley before.
Just over an hour ago he'd done the pre-match stroll around the field with the rest of his team-mates in their club blazers and he was still charged up from it. It wasn't the immaculate green checked playing field that affected him, nor the vast twin-tower stadium that encompassed it. The stands were only half full when they'd gone out there and because he knew where to look Chester had easily spotted his two kids and their mother and his father sitting just below and to the left of the Royal Box on the northern side. Chester had waved to them and his two daughters had waved madly back. They'd never come to watch him play before and thumb or no thumb he was going to have the game of his life today.
The Flea and Scoop sat in the seats next to Chester Hamel's father. They'd arrived at Heathrow at five a.m. on Thursday and Doom and Tragic had met them there. Neither pair had seen the other in almost two years and Doom and Tragic only got to spend a couple of hours with them that morning before driving back north to Batley, a little town in Yorkshire, just outside of Leeds. The Flea and Scoop had stayed in London. The other two would return the next day with the rest of the team. They'd got a bit of a shock when they'd seen each other. Scoop had put on a bit of weight and Tragic asked him if he'd swallowed a horse. Tragic might as well have been at the bottom pub in Nundah. He was wearing double-plugger thongs, dark-green Adidas tracksuit pants and a Phantom T-shirt. Doom wore a black sports coat and kept his stump inside the pocket when they sat down at the table in the airport restaurant where they'd had breakfast. He had a goatee and his hair was down past his shoulders. It had gone brown from lack of sunlight. 'Ya look like Jesus, man,' said The Flea. Doom said he was glad it was spring; he was sick of winter.
The Flea and Scoop were the only ones Doom and Tragic had brought to come and watch them. They gave the other six tickets they'd been allocated to their next-door neighbours. They said they didn't want to have to be worrying about anyone else. They had enough on their plates. Doom had rung home after they'd won their semi-final against St Helens and
told Big John. Big John said he would've liked to come over but it looked as if he'd be in court by then. He was taking on the bank. Doom told him he'd see it better on TV anyway. Tragic had rung Paula. She was working in Andorra. She said she couldn't get time off.
Wembley was full now and a noisy verve was omnipresent, like the constant buzz from a hive, generated by over eighty thousand voices conversing, laughing, shouting, singing. A staccato burst of side drums rattled out over the stadium as the band marched across the field and then their bagpipes joined in. Scoop looked at the pageantry around him. There wasn't just the candy red and white of Wigan and the black, red and tan of Batley draped over the barrier fence surrounding the field or adorning the spectators. There were scarves and banners and jerseys of almost every club in England's north. It was a sea of colours bathed in sunshine and Scoop was struck by the English sense of occasion and the way they entered the spirit of the event with a pureness of tradition and a refreshing lack of hype.
He almost hadn't come. He was between jobs and at a crossroads in his life but his wife told him to go. The Flea owned two concrete trucks in South Brisbane and hadn't taken a day off in three years. Coming here was costing him more than just a return airfare but he was glad he'd done it.
Tragic walked around the dressing-room, wearing his shorts, boots and socks. He always put his jersey on last. You could play a game of tennis in here it was that big. And a game of water polo in the bath in the other chamber. Despite all the extra space he was still a bee in a bottle. He smacked his right fist into his left palm. They were gunna fuckin' smash these cunts today.
Mick Hartess stood in a corner and took in the methodical activity going on around him. The room was tense with the fear of failure and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Half the side were carrying injuries and there was no guarantee any of them would last eighty minutes. But they just had to. Simple as that. Most of the players were at various stages of undress, half-naked with lily-white bullocky torsos, getting their needles, getting strapped, getting rubbed down, each following his own routine, his own set order of little things done, which he knowingly or unknowingly performed each week. There was no ranting or raving, no bullshit talk, no wasted breath. Everyone knew what they had to do.
Tragic made his way over to Doom, who was sitting on a chair waiting for his needle (he had a cracked sternum), and pointed to his own head.
'Good hair day today, Lefty. We're gunna win.'
'Right you are,' said Doom, but win, lose or draw this was his last game. He watched Tragic hyper-activate around the room. His energy was infectious but he didn't say much until everyone was dressed and strapped, warmed-up and ready to go. The ground official tapped on their door and told them to line up outside. Mick Hartess and the club chairman, club doctor, two strappers and the team manager left the room.
The thirteen starting players and two reserves (of which Doom was one) bunched up in the centre of the floor.
'Right,' said Tragic. 'Nothin' fancy, nothin' flash. Win the game, and take the cash. Let's go.'
Chester Hamel led them out of the room and they lined up in single file at the start of the tunnel, right next to the Wigan players, who were doing the same. This was Wigan's fourth straight Cup Final. They hadn't lost a Cup fixture since 1987. Wembley was like their home ground in May. Batley had never made it to Wembley before. They'd come in from five hundred
to one at the start of the first round back in February to eight to one today. Wigan were ten to one on.
No one looked across at the other team. They stood there waiting for too many seconds. They could hear the crowd getting louder. Then the line started moving. Their steel studs crumped against the concrete floor but it was quickly drowned out by the noise outside. It was dark in the tunnel and the light at the end came into focus. Tragic was second last in line. All he could see past the silhouettes of the players in front of him was the greyhound track, then the field, then the far end of the stadium. Mostly Wigan colours. The noise was deafening. Doom was behind him. This was it. EPILOGUE
1992

a day at the races
Tragic and The Flea had their noses pressed against the glass as the horses went past. The semi-pandemonium around them died down as soon as the front runners crossed the finish line.
'Did it win?' asked Scoop.
'Yep,' said Tragic.
'Flea, did it win?' asked Scoop.
'I dunno,' said The Flea, turning back from the glass. 'Hard to tell from this angle.'
'Shit,' spat Scoop.
'I think he won,' said Tragic, still facing the track, then added for Scoop's benefit, 'I'm sure he did.' He turned around and looked at Doom. 'Fairly sure. Whadda you reckon?'
Doom was watching the replay on the television above them. The other three followed suit.
'Bloody close,' said Doom.
'It'll be a photo,' said The Flea.
PHOTO FINISH appeared at the bottom of the screen.
'Told ya,' said The Flea. No one replied. Scoop started chewing a fingernail.
'I still reckon he got up,' said Tragic.
'What the fuck would you know?' muttered Scoop.
'Whose shout?' asked The Flea.
'Mine,' said Doom. 'Get us a bourbon.'
'Same here,' said Scoop.
The Flea stuck his hand out and Doom put a fifty in it.
'Ah,' said The Flea. 'The big Hawaii.'
They watched him walk to the bar.
'Did he get one last night?' asked Tragic.
'Must've,' said Doom.
'Who?'
'Dunno.'
'She must've been all right.'
Doom nodded his agreement.
'How'd you go last night?' asked Tragic.
'No good,' said Doom. 'You?'
'No good either.' Tragic had had the hard word put on him by a girl he knew but he'd politely refused. He'd had three direct offers from three different women in the last four days but he wasn't really interested. He looked at Scoop.
'How'd you go?'
'What?'
'Did you tie one on last night?'
'None of your business.'
'Yes or no?'
'Yes.'
'Lucky bastard.'
'Luck's got nothing to do with it. And it'll be the last one I have this year if we lose this.' Scoop looked back at the screen. 'Fuckin' hell, Tragic. All I wanted was a couple of quiet beers at The Crown. Why the fuck did you have to turn up?'
'I dunno.' Tragic started rubbing Scoop on the bum. 'I guess I just like you . . . Brad.'
'Yeah, well I fuckin' hate you. Stop touching my arse.' Tragic kept rubbing it. 'I fuckin' mean it.'
Tragic stopped. Scoop looked at Doom. 'Stand between us. Because if he touches me again I'm gunna smash his face in.' 'Temper, temper.'
Scoop looked at the smirking Tragic. 'I fucking will. And if this donkey doesn't get up, you better start running.' 'Hey. I want him to win too.' 'No you don't. You don't give a fuck.' The Flea arrived with the bourbons. Bourbon and Coke for Scoop, bourbon and dry for himself and Doom, and a double bourbon and Coke for Tragic. 'Who doesn't give a fuck?' 'Who do you think?'
The Flea looked at Tragic. 'Oh. Did we lose?' 'Don't know yet.'
'Geez they're taking time,' said The Flea. He took a sip and made a show of grimacing. 'Fuck that's strong.'
'You're tellin' me,' said Tragic. He took another mouthful. 'Fuck me dead,' and looked over at the barman. 'Must be new.' The result came in.
'High-school Loser. High-school Loser by half a nose to Miss Muffin .. .'
'Ohhh, thank fuck.' Scoop slumped on the table. 'A length back to Jungle Bunny for third . . .' 'Too easy,' said Tragic. He downed his glass in one. 'Thank fuck,' repeated Scoop. He lifted his head. 'I feel like I just gave birth.'
'Good tip, Tragic,' said Doom. 'Yeah, mate,' said The Flea.
'Ohhh yeah, little man,' Scoop reached out to pat Tragic. 'Sorry I roused on ya. You've come through with the -'
'Protest. Brisbane. Second against first.'
'. . . Ohhhfuckin'' what?' Scoop pulled his hand away. 'This is absolute bullshit.'
'Y'tellin' me,' said Tragic.
The general chatter about the place picked up an octave. Most of those present had money on the second-placed favourite. The four stood around their table in grim silence.
A bloke in a white shirt and loud tie at the table next to them was rabbiting on to a rather fetching young lady and the rest of his party about Miss Muffin's chances of winning the protest.
'Hey, mate,' said Tragic. 'How much've you got on this race?'
'Fifty.'
'Well, we've got a bit more than that on this other nag so I'd appreciate it if you kept your voice down.'
'It's a free country.'
'I don't give a fuck if it's free or not. Just shut the fuck up.'
'Watch your language, short arse.'
'Get fucked,' said Tragic and The Flea. They turned back to their table.
'Don't start,' said Scoop. 'Not today. Please.' It sounded like a prayer.
'Fuck 'im,' said Tragic. He glanced back at the other table. 'Free country. What a wanker.'
The Flea drained his glass 'Whose shout?'
'Mine,' said Scoop.
'Better get up there then, boyo.'
As Scoop walked to the bar the head-on shot of the horses
coming down the home straight was replayed. They saw High-school Loser drift across the track and shunt Miss Muffin, a hundred metres out.
'There it is,' said the commentator. 'Blatant interference.'
'Oh, fair suck of the saw,' whined Tragic. 'He hardly fuckin' touched her.'
'He's just got money on the Muffin, like every other bastard,' said The Flea.
'Blatant,' said Loud Tie, loud enough for Tragic to hear. His mate, a rather large pear-shaped fellow wearing a horizontal-striped shirt, vertical-striped tie and a look that gave the impression he'd had a big day already, joined in. 'Blaaatant.'
'This prick is really trying my patience,' muttered Tragic.
'Blaaatant.'
Tragic turned around. 'Get fucked, Humpty Dumpty.'
'Blaaatant.'
'Keep it up, smart-arse. I dare ya.'
'Blaaatant.'
'Right. Don't say I didn't fuckin' warn ya.'
'Could you please stop swearing,' said Loud Tie's lady
friend.
'Don't get up me. Tell Humpty to stop being a dickhead.'
Scoop came back with his shout. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothin',' said Tragic.
'Blaaatant.'
'I'll hit the bastard myself shortly,' said The Flea quietly.
'How bad was it?' asked Scoop.
'Didn't look too good,' said Doom.
'You're kiddin',' said Tragic. 'There was nothin' in it.'
'The missus will kill me if we lose this.'
'Don't tell her,' said The Flea.
The 'Protest Upheld' light came on. Scoop dropped his head, Loud Tie let out a whoop, and Tragic belted him with a big right hook. He fell back against his own table and took it down with him, along with a dozen drinks Humpty Dumpty and another bloke grabbed Tragic and the young lady stood by, calmly disgusted, with beer, rum and champagne soaking through the front of her satin camisole.
The Flea and Scoop stepped in before the two could do Tragic any harm and the five of them did a ten-legged waltz while the rest of the Members' bar cleared around them and watched the melee from a safe distance.
Loud Tie got up off the floor and went to join in but he was grabbed on the shoulder by Doom. 'Hey, mate, take it ea'
Loud Tie punched Doom in the face and sat him on his arse. Loud Tie joined the fracas. The Flea punched him in the balls, and he fell to the floor again. Doom felt his left eye. It was closing up already.
He looked at the young lady and felt a twinge of deja vu.
Humpty Dumpty had Tragic by the throat and told Tragic he was a real brave bastard with all his mates around. Tragic told him to go and get fucked.
'Come on then, arsehole,' said Humpty. 'Outside.'
'Fuck outside,' said Tragic. 'I'll do you right here, ya fat cunt.'
The bar staff and doorman arrived in numbers and managed to separate the lot of them.
The doorman looked at Scoop. 'What's goin' on, Brad?'
'Sorry, Nikko,' said Scoop, straightening his shirt. 'The little bloke lost control.'
'Might be an idea if youse took off, hey?'
'Yeah. No worries.' Scoop fixed his hair.
The Flea spotted Doom. 'We're goin'.'
'Rightio,' said Doom. He patted Loud Tie, who was still
curled up on the floor, on the shoulder. 'See ya later ... champ.' He walked past Loud Tie's friends. 'Sorry about your dress, Miss.'
The young lady ignored him. Most women did.
He walked down the stairs behind The Flea, Scoop and Tragic. It was the sixth joint in four weeks they'd been asked to leave from and all instances were Tragic's doing.
'Good work, Vernon.'
'Don't start,' said Tragic. 'I'm not in the fuckin' mood.'

After putting in a fair morning's work at the office, Noel Miller had decided to call into the Tattersalls Club on his way home. He was halfway through his second scotch and soda and listening to his business partner, Maurice Downings, relate about a recent trip to Canberra when Maurice paused mid-sentence.
'What? What's the matter?' Noel's eyes followed his partner's, which were glued to the television at the end of the bar. Noel put his glasses on and focused on the closing stages of the fifth event at Eagle Farm racecourse. Three horses were being whipped home and a streaker at the edge of the screen was running five wide, ten metres in front of them.
He came into view as the horses passed inside him and then was surrounded by the rest of the field. For a fleeting moment Noel recognised the naked figure but then dismissed it.
'No. He's not that stupid.'
'What'd you say?' asked Maurice.
'Nothing.'
'Oi!' Another patron caught the barman's attention. 'Turn the sound up.'

The Flea was standing on the bonnet of Scoop's BMW, trying to get a better look. 'He's gunna get killed. He's gunna get fuckin' killed.' Scoop and Doom stood beneath him next to the car, which was parked near the outside rail for a quick getaway. Doom was not that excited. He'd seen Tragic nude in public that many times the novelty was starting to wear off but people were lined up twenty-deep near the finishing post, craning their necks, and more punters were streaming out of the betting ring up into the stands for a better view.
Tragic felt the turf shake and the air move as the big bodies rushed by him. Their hoof beats drummed thunder and he could smell the horses and the leather and heard the jockeys curse him. Then they were all in front of him.
Twenty-two horses and he hadn't been touched.
He ran past the post in last place, gave the punters a wave, then turned around and high-tailed it back the way he'd come with half a dozen stewards and two constables in hot pursuit.
The Flea jumped down off the bonnet when Tragic was about a hundred metres from the car park. 'Fuck he's good value. That has gotta be worth five grand, Scoop.'
'Pig's arse five grand. I put forty bucks on it.'
'Fair dinkum?'
Scoop showed them his betting slip.
'He's been a bridesmaid all his life. I backed it for a place.' acknowledgements
The author would like to thank David and Genevieve Moller, Greg and Carol Hodge, Marty Ziebell and Anthea Hodgson, Kerry and Richard Borg, Tom and Terri Raudonakis, Tony and Sue Gibson, Bill and Linda Pepper, Alan and Robyn Murray, Eddie and Jo Muller, Craig and Tracey Hoffman (and Beth, Ed, Gabrielle, Kurt and Darcy), Shane and Kerry Buckley, Steve Rosolen and Cath Trigger, David and Cath Rogers, Mai and Trish Deike, Mark and Sandy Zillman, Greg Fordyce, Pat O'Brien, Mick Selmes, Craig Emmerson, Jack Stevens, Steve Hanley, Paul Dray, Tony Price, John Telford, Chris Connors, Luchi Gardell, Alan Dufty, David Dobe, Ricky Bachelor, Bill Bloxam (RIP), Father Tom Card (RIP), Les Stagg (RIP), Lachlan Churchill, Troy Clarke, Noble O'Tene, Bill Ward, Jim Skinner, Andrew Stevens, Scott Thompson, Paul Raiteri, Garry Lawrence, Allan Agar, Henry Dray, Denise Jarvis, Roz and Tom Kyne, John Higginson, Glynn Davies, Steve Mason, Brendon Clack, Cheryl Raiteri, Mark Fleetwood, Andrew Colbourne, Craig Pepper and all at Penguin Books (Alex, Clare, Allison, Annabelle, big bad Bob, Rebecca, Deb, Gabrielle, Sophie, Madonna, Fiona).
Special mention must go to Liz Dray, without whom this book would never have got off the ground.