We play footy on Saturday, the last game before the long weekend, and when I touch the ball it feels almost like it normally does. I even kick a great long goal on the run, and when I peel off after it like a Mustang fighter, as seen on Total War/Shoot to Kill, I almost, but not quite, raise my winning finger.
‘That’s a really good kick,’ says the kid I’m on, who’s actually too big and too slow to be a wingman. He’d do a lot better up back smashing guys in the goal square. ‘You nailed it.’
Shocked at such good sportsmanship, I take a closer look at the dude, noting the plain black boots, long-sleeved jumper, and pulled-up socks. And I recognise him; I mean, I recognise his type as occasionally you come across guys like this who are really fair, never swear, have no haircut or attitude, and will end up as either heart surgeons, or growing trees in countries that burnt all theirs, or sold them for decking.
‘Ah, just luck,’ I say, and add, since we’re five goals up with five minutes to go. ‘You wanna kick the next one?’
The guy – who has the flat, crinkly kind of do-nothing hair that these guys generally have – laughs.
‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt.’ He points to the boundary line where four or five chicks hold some little white dogs. ‘That’s my girlfriend over there. The one with the red hair. And she thinks I’m hopeless.’
Right. Well. I hear you, brother; so when the ball bounces our way, I don’t exactly let him get it, but I don’t exactly mow him down, either, because he has a girlfriend that he doesn’t want to lose, which is something I understand at this moment better than just about anything else in the world.
And as the ball flies ugly off his boot, I see the girl with red hair clapping, and really, it’s the happiest I’ve felt for quite a while.
But it still doesn’t balance the equation.
In the afternoon my mum drops me at Trav’s house, because she’s going to a fundraiser with his mum for another mother whose cosmetic surgery went wrong. Evidently this lady can’t lean over, or put on a seatbelt, as her boobs are too big, or so Trav says. But my mum, obviously, has got more than Mrs Kennilworth’s chest on her mind.
‘Now, Marc.’ She says my name as if she wants to make sure she’s got the right person. ‘Marc.’
‘What?’ I pray she is not going to talk about Electra, or I will throw myself out of this car, and into the traffic – well, I won’t, as I’m sitting on the wrong side, but I will definitely get the hell out of here as soon as possible. ‘Quick. I gotta get going. I’m late.’
‘Look, I know you’re having a hard week, but your dad and I have been talking.’ My mum manages to get the steering lock on at the third attempt. ‘And since you seemed to do such a good job at the car yard, we’ve decided that we’ll put five thousand dollars away for you to buy, when you’re old enough, a car. Meaning you’ll have to add as much as you can, to get something with some reasonable safety features.’
I stop, with one foot out of the door, and one hand on the seat. Well, now, that’s not the worst deal I’ve ever heard of, and coming somewhat out of nowhere, I must say.
‘All right,’ I say, picturing a Commodore ute with me driving it. ‘Cool. Great. I’ll see you later then.’
And I complete my exit.
Speaking of utes, when Trav and I walk down to the shops late on Saturday afternoon to buy cinnamon doughnuts, we see a dirty white Falcon ute with Caterpillar mudflaps and Queensland plates parked in GateWay Auto. We stop.
‘Mikey’s brother’s got a ute,’ I say cautiously. ‘And that one’s got Queensland plates on it. So what d’you reckon? D’you think we should go up or not?’
Trav selects a doughnut from the bag we’ve just gone halves in.
‘No way. Are you mental? We’re outta here. Anyway, it’s probably just some rural tradin’ it in.’
I guess so, although if it is Mikey’s brother, I doubt he could’ve tracked Mikey down without some help from somewhere from someone. In other words, it has to have been an inside job, although from where inside, or from whom inside, is the obvious question.
‘You didn’t make a phone call to Queensland, by any chance?’ I ask, guessing I already know the answer. ‘Did you, Trav? I mean, I doubt you did. But I know you do get The Big Issue at your place.’
‘Me?’ Trav gives the last doughnut to Dot, making it a five/ three split their way. ‘Of course not. Lesbians have telephones, too, you know, Jarvis. And letterboxes.’ He gives me the paper bag to deal with. ‘Anyway, I think my work here is done. Let’s go round to Hailey’s. The monster plasma has arrived. So are you catchin’ up with Electra tonight or what?’
I’m in shock. More shock. Total shock. First the Marc Jarvis Future Car Fund and now this.
‘Tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Sunday. We’re going into town. Apparently Coach Tom Geraghty’s not that stoked that she’s leaving.’ To say the least. ‘So she’s staying out of his way as much as possible.’
‘Understandable.’ Trav helps Dot push the button for the lights. ‘She’s got drug free gold medal written all over. He’d be smashed losing a runner like her.’
That makes two of us.
‘You sent Immy the magazine?’ I need to confirm this, just for my own records. ‘How do you know where she lives?’
Trav sets off with Dot across the road.
‘I asked her, Jarvy. Sometimes, things are that simple.’
I guess, sometimes, they are.
‘You’re a legend,’ I say, having to walk fast to keep up. ‘I never thought of doing it like that. Man, perhaps I should have. Besides, Mikey made it pretty clear that me and Belinda should stay out of it. Or that’s the message I got.’
Trav and I cross the road, Dot prancing sideways, holding the lead in her teeth, growling.
‘Yeah. Well.’ Trav pats the growling Dot, which is another thing I wouldn’t do. ‘Attack from another angle. That’s my good deed for the year. You got any money? I could do with a Coke.’