15

Remember, remember the fifth of November …

When I was a little kid, Mum would take me to see the fireworks at Owen Delany Park. We’d sit on an old wool blanket and have a picnic while we waited for the night to get dark. By the time the fireworks started, I’d be snuggled up to Mum, because I was cold and a bit tired. She’d put her arms around me and I would lie back to look at the sky. She’d hug me a little closer with each Bang! Bang! Bang! Then I got a bit bigger, and didn’t want her arms around me any more; it felt too close, too protective.

We haven’t been in ages. Not that I’d want to go with Mum anyway. But even if I did, she’s always got work.

Beep. Beeeeep!

I look out to the driveway and, surprise, surprise, there’s Stone Cold’s shitty red car. Of course Stone Cold never does anything on the down-low, not when she can announce to the whole frickin’ neighbourhood that she’s arrived.

Beep! Beep!

I stand at the window and slice a finger across my throat at her – kill it, chick. She knows how long it takes me to lock up this house: the sliding locks in the windows, the broomstick in the ranch slider track, the back door, the back gate …

‘C’mon, Bugs, I want to get there early!’ She leans across and opens the passenger door for me. ‘Just chuck that in the back.’

I lift up the bag on the seat. ‘What’s in here?’

‘Just some clothes and things.’ Like rocks or concrete? ‘Mum and I had … words. Hey, can I stay here tonight?’

‘Won’t your mum have “words” to say about that? I know my mum will.’ I’m trying to push the stupid bag through the gap between the front seats, but it won’t budge. And neither will Stone Cold.

‘Bugs, I have nowhere else to go.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. She just doesn’t get me. Can I stay tonight?’

I finally push the bag through, and it lands on a big box of fireworks on the back seat. ‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Mum’s having a party and I bailed. She won’t even notice it.’

A hundred-dollar box and she won’t notice? Shit.

‘We can’t take it into Owen Delany Park; they’ll confiscate it.’ I’m out of the car, opening the back door. ‘Pop the boot.’

‘Bugs, c’mon …’

‘Why are you in a hurry, anyway? They probably just opened the gates. It’s just families and picnics and a lame band until dark.’ I jiggle the hatch; she still hasn’t released it. I bang on the hatch. ‘Pop it.’ She releases the door and it opens with a sigh. ‘What the fuck is all this?’ The boot is filled with boxes.

‘Just some things.’

More ‘things’?

‘Jez asked me to hold on to them.’

‘What are they?’

She shrugs as she looks at me in the rear-view mirror.

If I rearrange the boxes a bit I can fit this one in too. I push one to the side and the top pops open: Jez’s clothes, some art supplies, all randomly shoved in a box like someone did it in a hurry. This isn’t some of his things; this is all of his things. I push the fireworks box in sideways between the other ones. I slide myself back into the front seat, feeling as weird as that shiny, foil-covered box looks between the old wine and nappy boxes in the boot. Stone Cold checks her mirrors before she pulls out, all concerned about obeying the Road Code, ignoring the fact that she’s carrying a passenger. I wriggle in my seat; the rabbit on my hip is itchy. It would be OK if it was just there – I could subtly rub the side of my hip with my elbow. But it’s everywhere: my pubes have started to grow back in, popping out all over the place like those leaves in spring that seem to suddenly appear when your back is turned.

‘Have you seen Jez?’

‘No, Bugs, his stuff just magically appeared in my car.’ Sarky bitch. ‘I picked this stuff up before. It was strange – all piled up on the lawn.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t say.’

‘How is he?’

‘Have you guys had a lovers’ tiff or something?’

‘He’s not my …’

‘Jokes, OK? Jokes? I know he’s not. He just asked the same thing about you. Weird that you guys aren’t talking.’

Weird that he’s packed up his whole life into your car.

‘It’s only been a couple days.’

‘What did you guys fight about?’

‘We didn’t have a fight, it was … it was nothing, OK?’

‘That’s dumb, then. Falling out over nothing.’

‘Kinda like “words”, eh?’

‘That’s totally different.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

I rub my hip with the heel of my palm; it’s itchy and sore at the same time. The rabbit kick, kicks. I should have called him. It’s my fault that it got weird. I should apologise for – I don’t know, freaking out? Not knowing how to deal?

‘God, Bugs, if you keep frowning like that you’re gonna have to get Botox between your eyes.’ Better than a bullet. ‘Why are you so grumpy? It’s Guy Fawkes!’

‘A, I’m not grumpy and B, Guy Fawkes is fucked up – celebrating the execution of …’

‘Blah, blah, blah, grump, grump, grump.’ I’m sure she took that corner wide so I’d bump my head. ‘We get to hang out after dark and blow shit up. It’s fun. You don’t have to think too hard about it.’

But isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we celebrate it; why we remember the day, centuries after? So we do think about it; think hard about our place in society; think about the fact that if you try to push the world, it’ll push back, even squash you. Then they’ll make a holiday of your death and dance drunk around a bonfire while a replica of you burns.

‘He was a terrorist anyway, we learnt that in history.’

‘History is written by the victors …’Yes, I did just quote Churchill.

‘Oh God, you’re not one of those people, are you?’

‘What people?’

‘Conspiracy geeks. The ones who think aliens probe them and that 9/11 was an inside job.’

‘No, I just don’t think we can trust everything …’

‘GEEEEEEEE –’ Stone Cold brays like a donkey – ‘EEEEEK!’

I smash her in the arm. ‘Shut up.’

‘You’re so uptight! You could do with a good probing.’ She bunny-hops the car on purpose so we’re bucked in our seats.

‘Says Charmaine the porn star,’ I say, and she moans like a whore.

We crack up – we laugh and laugh – but I kill it. ‘You’ll get pulled over.’

Stone Cold sits up straight and checks her mirrors again. ‘God. Then Mum will go spare again.’

‘She’ll have “words”?’

‘Yeah, words like “boarding school”.’

‘Are they still going on about that?’

‘They haven’t stopped.’

I put my hand on hers as she changes gear. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘If it wasn’t for you I’d probably already be at boarding school, or worse.’ Her voice has gone all shaky, and I know she’s heading for a dark place.

‘Cheer up, otherwise we’ll both have to get Botox. And that would fuck up your acting career.’

Stone Cold laughs. ‘Not if I go to Hollywood.’

‘Yeah, you’d just have to look pretty and get your tits out.’

‘And then I’d just have to ug up for a movie and I’d get an Oscar.’

‘Would you thank me?’

‘Of course.’ She squeezes my hand before letting it go. ‘You and Jez will be there with me.’

So, the only future either of us can imagine for Jez is dimly lit by the edge of our spotlight. We’re up on stage accepting a degree, accepting an award, and Jez is there clapping and clapping like a wind-up monkey.

 

When we pull up to Jez’s it looks like his mum is throwing a party too. Out the front on fold-up chairs and chilly bins are the boys: Havoc the Cock’s boys. Oh great, I bet he’s here too. Guys like the Cock aren’t lone wolves. They’re pack animals. One of them offers us a can from the slab. I push Stone Cold inside. ‘She’s driving.’

Stone Cold has stopped in the hallway. She sniffs. ‘It smells like paint.’

‘They’re moving out.’

‘Why would you redecorate when you move out?’

‘To get their bond back.’ Though if the boys are here and they’ve already started drinking, there’s not much hope of that.

Stone Cold makes her hand into a gun, tosses her head and pokes out a hip. ‘Bond, Jez Bond.’ She’s clueless, but she is a crack-up.

At the back of the flat, in Jez’s room, I can hear a familiar sound.

Buzz …

Bites the rabbit …

Buzz …

And it kicks.

I knock on the door, like I’ve never been here before; like I’m a stranger. Stranger still is when Jez says, ‘Who is it?’ Because who else could it be, except me, me, me …?

‘Char.’ Stone Cold has flattened herself against the door like she’s trying to press her voice through it. ‘And Bugs.’

The door opens a crack and Jez looks out at us. ‘I’m kinda busy right now …’

‘Let them in,’ a voice says from his room. ‘I don’t care.’

Jez opens the door and lets us in. His room has been totally painted; the thick white paint has covered every last part of what made this room Jez’s. It could be anyone’s, anywhere. His bed is still covered with the sheet, still protecting the duvet from splatters. Lying on the bed, naked to the waist, is the Cock. Jez has drawn on his broad, brown back with the same purple felt-tip he used on me.

‘It’s Jez’s girlfriend …’

‘She’s not his girlfriend.’ Stone Cold says it so strongly that Jez and I just look at her.

‘Are you?’

Stone Cold blushes. ‘No.’

‘You even struck out with a ginge? Fuuuuuck.’

You can see the muscles in Jez’s jaw ripple. If he’s actually biting his tongue it will be ripped in two by that pressure.

I say, ‘Hey,’ because I don’t know what else to say.

Jez moves his hand towards my arm, but stops short of touching it. We don’t know where our boundaries are any more. ‘I was gonna call you …’

‘There’s your problem there,’ the Cock says. ‘You gotta treat them mean.’ He winks at Stone Cold. ‘Eh, sweetheart?’

Jez pushes us out of the room and closes the door behind him. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Please.’ Stone Cold rolls her eyes. ‘Like that guy could scare me.’

‘Are you OK, B?’ He moves his hand near my hip, and I move it away from him. It probably looks like we’re dancing a samba with a ghost between us.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Have you been looking after it? I don’t want it to get infected.’

Hand forward, hip back, cha cha cha!

Stone Cold stands between us. ‘Ew. What are you guys talking about?’

‘I gave Bugs a tat.’

‘Really? Can I see?’

Me and Jez both go red and look at the floor.

‘Ew. Where is it? I don’t want to know.’ Stone Cold flares her nostrils at me like I’ve gone off. ‘Are you coming with us? To the fireworks?’

‘Yeah, cool. I’ve just got to finish up in here. Just hang for a bit.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘I dunno. A bit.’ He looks back to the room. ‘Maybe an hour?’

‘Is that how you got it?’ I say. ‘You got it on tick from him?’ Jez nods. ‘So it won’t be just him then, eh Jez? It’s all those guys out there too.’

‘Nah, after this we’re even, we’re square.’

‘Jez …’

‘Just wait for me, OK? Just wait.’

Jez slips back into the room and the buzz of the gun starts up again. Stone Cold and I walk to the lounge, flop on the couch.

‘How long do you think he’ll be, Bugs?’

‘I don’t know. We’re on island time here.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’ll happen when it happens.’

One of the boys from outside comes in and looks in the fridge. We watch him from the couch as he pokes around. He takes a bottle of beer from the fridge and opens it – Wap! – with a fish slice. He sees us, looks back in the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. His face goes all crazy hard and googly-eyed and he shouts, ‘Cook me some fuckin’ eggs!’ right at us.

I’m cracking up because that shit’s funny, but Stone Cold goes whiter than I thought was even possible and legs it out the door. I follow after her and that fulla is going wooooo, wooooo, vibrating the sound through his lips, taking the piss out of that Māori instrument. I should give him shit for that, but I’ve got to go calm down Stone Cold. Poor chick probably thinks that he’d hit her. Like she matters to him, like she even registers.

Stone Cold is in her car. She flashes the light at me, like it’s some big secret where she’s hiding out. I get in, and she’s slouched down in her seat.

‘Did he follow you?’

I answer, ‘No,’ just as he walks out the door. Classic timing, bro, classic.

She makes a kind of eep noise and tries to get down further in her seat, but she’s too tall for that shit. ‘He’s there!’

He has the fish slice in his hands, and he makes the face again and then mimes Stone Cold’s escape. All the boys crack up.

‘It was a joke,’ I say. ‘Y’know, like the movie?’

She unfolds herself and hits the car horn: Beep! They all turn around and look at us, and then crack up.

‘See, they’re laughing.’

‘God, how embarrassing.’ Stone Cold’s laugh is light, unconvincing. ‘Do you think I should apologise?’

‘What for?’

‘Running out like that? It’s kinda … racist.’

‘I dare you to go out there and apologise for being a racist.’ We stare at them through the windshield like they’re dangerous animals behind glass at the zoo. ‘I’m sure that will go down really well.’

Stone Cold taps her fingers on the dash. ‘We’re missing the band.’

‘It’ll be lame; it always is.’ I turn on her stereo and the tape deck clicks on. ‘You’re still listening to this?’

‘I can’t get it out, remember?’ She hums along to the song. ‘And I kinda like it now. It’s growing on me.’

‘Like a fungus?’

‘Whatever; you’re the one with the itchy crotch.’ She faces me. ‘Can I see?’

‘You want to see my crotch, lez?’

‘No, the tat.’

I look out my window, pretend to be into the music.

‘C’mon Bugs. I’d show you mine if I had one.’

‘Fine.’ I have to lean back in my seat to get to my waistband. I pop the button and have to tip my hips up to pull the top down …

‘WOOOOO! YEAH!’

Wolf whistles and whoops from our captive audience. I plonk my butt back down on the seat and pull my zipper back up before Stone Cold even has the chance to see it.

‘Fuckin’ pervs!’ Stone Cold yells, and then one of the boys winds his hand – asking her to open the window and say that again. She pretends she doesn’t see him, and then one of them waggles his tongue between the V of his fingers, and they all crack up.

‘Fuckin’ pervs,’ she says to her chest.

We get treated to a whole show of ‘masculinity’ – they pretend to fuck one another, their chairs, their drinks – before they get bored of us and get back to really drinking.

‘We should go,’ Stone Cold says.

‘Jez won’t be long.’

‘I don’t feel safe.’

‘It’s OK now. By the time it gets really messy we’ll be gone.’ They’re only one slab in. That’s just enough to take the edge off; it won’t have even touched the sides.

We listen to Mum’s mixtape. It’s kind of like we’re at the park, listening to dumb music, watching ‘kids’ play silly buggers. Finally, Jez walks out of the flat with a metal briefcase – he looks like he is Bond, Jez Bond, with that in his hand. He raises his eyebrows at the boys, slaps a few hands, accepts a beer but doesn’t linger.

He’s walking towards us, and if you didn’t know Jez you’d think he was just walking normally, but to us he’s practically running. He opens the back door and chucks in the case before he sits down. He’s closed the door and put his seat belt on before the Cock is on the lawn. He has a big, white dressing taped to his back.

Jez says, ‘You might want to turn your lights on, and turn her over.’

Stone Cold starts the car, lets it idle and turns her headlights on low. It is still bright enough for the boys to squint and put their hands up in front of their eyes.

The boys gather round the Cock, giving him shit. They tug at the tape that holds the dressing on his back. It is the perfect spotlight for an unveiling.

‘Just wait.’ Jez is leaning forward like someone waiting for their favourite part in a movie.

And the dressing comes off. And it is perfect.

COCK.

Written in big black letters between his shoulder blades. The boys crack up. The Cock turns, trying to see it.

‘He wanted his name,’ Jez says.

COCK.

Not just outlined, but bold. Puffing up and sticking out, as his body gets as angry as he is.

‘I think we should go.’ Jez says.

As his fist comes down on the bonnet of the car, Stone Cold yelps, and I jump.

‘We should go.’

Stone Cold grinds it into reverse and we’re on the street, but he’s running after us, and I hope that she doesn’t stall, but the gear change is smooth, and she guns it, and we’re gone. I check the mirror and he’s still there on the street, just Hulking out. I turn around in my seat to get a better look, and there’s Jez with the biggest smile on his face. He takes his fingers and traces a square in the air, like he’s framing the Cock as art.

We’re even, we’re square.

And all I can say is, ‘Fuck, Jez. You’re a …’

COCK.

Because he is. He is. He is.