It had been two weeks since that hour spent dry heaving over the church toilet. With the help of his brother’s old punching bag, which he had rescued from years of dust, Pete’s guilt was now almost at a manageable level. The running helped too, but the monotony of doing lap after lap around the primary school’s athletics track made him feel as though the cage in his mind was getting smaller every day.
Kismet supermarket on Dannhauser’s Main Street was heaving. It was the day after payday at the Durnacol mine and seemed to believe that all the money not spent would be lost – although for a decent chunk of those working at the mine, most of their wages went straight to Palm Liquors, on the corner of Newcastle Road and Camp Street, not Kismet. Because, as Belchie’s dad – a shift boss at Shaft no. 3 – liked to say, “Bread makes you fat, but brandy makes you strong.”
His mom’s black perm floated in between the aisles while Pete meandered around the shop without looking at anything in particular. He would pick things up and put them back without registering what they were. Shopping was not his favourite pastime, but this was payday shopping, so he knew if he stayed close enough to his mom, he might be offered a sweet reward. Perhaps a Tempo chocolate and a can of Mello Yello. He could almost taste it.
“Have you seen her?” A voice snatched the Mello Yello from his mind. His heart was racing.
Pete turned his head but didn’t want to look. Yet, there he was. Muscular and black. His fellow witness and burning ember in the pit of his stomach.
He stood two metres away from Pete and picked up a large bag of onions. At once, Pete’s thoughts became a vortex filled with memories of that night. He saw the girl’s pleading eyes again, her tears, brushing this black guy’s arm, the mud, the gunshots ... calling him the k-word. Pete swung his head from side to side like a tennis umpire, desperately trying to ascertain whether anyone had seen the guy addressing him – if his mom had seen.
Pete made a nasal grunt followed by a muffled “No”, then turned and walked away, not looking over his shoulder, in single-minded determination to find his mom and leave.
She was in the queue, with her trolley filled to the top, inspecting a Tempo bar, clearly deep in thought. Pete weaved his way through the barricade of trolleys and price checkers, but just as he was about to reach his mom, a bag of onions fell at his feet. The boy leaned in to pick it up and whispered in his achingly strong accent, “Meet me there at the place. We need to talk. Same time – any day.” And just like that, he was gone. Pete’s mom turned to him and smiled, holding up the Tempo bar. Pete fought the series of small explosions in his head and fabricated a smile that hurt more than the six of the best Mr Grey had given him.