The Story of Tom Brennan (12 page)

'You need an alarm clock,' Brendan said. 'Then there's no excuse.'

'Yeah, right,' I mumbled giving my nuts a bit of a scratch through the boxers. 'Anyway, you must've left earlier this morning.'

'One hundred and sixty-two,' he breathed.

'Or were you the slack-arse who didn't go to the top?'

'Hey?'

'It's not even 7.00,' I said, checking my watch. 'We usually don't get back till now.'

'One hundred and seventy-eight,' he puffed. 'What are you, a bloody detective?'

I felt something push against my back.

'Eh?' I looked up and saw Jonny trying to open the door. 'Sorry, Tom, didn't see you there, mate.'

Jonny stepped over me, wearing a pair of boxers too. His were covered in Homer Simpson faces.

'You all Simpsons fans?' I asked. Not that I cared. I just wanted to talk to detract from the 'cosy' scene I'd found myself in. 'I saw your sister's Bart slippers.'

Jonny smiled, his big white teeth glinting like a comic strip.

'One of my favourite shows, The Simpsons.'

I sat there trying to act casual. I mean, I guess Jonny and Brendan were together. That made sense.

'Um, Brendan? Remember Gran used to have those scrapbooks of Daniel and me playing footy? You know, articles and photos, stuff like that.'

'Yeah, I do,' he nodded. 'I think . . .'

'Oh, no, she hasn't burnt them or something, has she?'

'No!' He laughed. 'They're probably still in the wardrobe in your room. I haven't seen them for a while. Check the bottom drawer.'

'I want to make one for Daniel. For his birthday.'

'A scrapbook? Okay.' I watched Brendan nod as he took in my idea. 'That could be good. Yeah.' Jonny and him smiled at one another. 'That could be really good.'

'I mean, I'll photocopy the clippings. I won't just hand it over to him, Gran's scrapbook, that is. I want to make a new one. Make it really special. Give him something to, you know . . .'

'Yeah,' cut in Brendan. 'I might have some stuff you could use too.'

'You're a good brother, Tom,' Jonny said. 'It sounds real special.'

'Well, I think I'll go and have brekkie.'

Brendan didn't say anything, like, have brekkie here. A couple of times after our run he'd made awesome omelettes with ham, cheese and mushrooms but it didn't look like I was going to get them today and that suited me.

'Okay.' I got up and started back.

Ahead, a blue wagon had stopped at the bottom gate leading to the sheds. The driver's door was opening. I signalled I'd open the gates and jogged over, but he was already getting out of the car. I mean she! It was Chrissy Tulake.

Her hair was tucked up in a baseball cap, her long brown legs showing through her shorts, that were certainly short. I felt the blood rush to my groin. How could I ever have mistaken her for a bloke?

'Hi, Tom,' she waved.

'Hey,' I swallowed. 'How're you doing?'

'You're up early.'

'Not really.' Suddenly I felt like a prize jerk standing there in my racing-car boxers. My hairless chest looked hollow and my skinny arms seemed to have grown longer, as if they were dangling around my knees like an ape. At least I'd kept a lid on the movement in my shorts. I saw she was eyeing them. I leant against the gate.

'Cute,' she laughed. 'Racing cars.'

I racked my brains for something to say but my mind was blank except for the odd flash of her standing there with no clothes on.

'I've got this stuff for Jonny?' He's here, isn't he?'

'Yeah.'

'Can you give him something for me?'

'Sure.'

I went through the gate and followed her around to the back of the wagon. She leant into the boot, clanging things into a box. I tried not to perve at the back view but it was bloody impossible not to.

Chrissy tried to lift the box out of the boot. 'God, it's so heavy,' she groaned.

I got on the other side and we dragged it to the edge. A tiny drop of sweat had pooled in the top curl of her lip. I resisted the urge to wipe it. I was resisting a hell of a lot of urges.

'What's this stuff for?' I asked her.

'Tools for some repair, I suppose. I told him I'd drop them round this morning.'

'Oh?'

'Just put it in the entrance,' she told me, pointing to the sheds. 'He'll find it.'

'Sure.' I wrestled my arms underneath the box.

'Will you be okay?' I'm sure there was a smirk on her face. 'Maybe I should help you with it?'

'No, no, I'm fine.' I was going to bloody lift this box if it killed me. I groaned a bit too loud as I picked it up.

'Sure?' she giggled.

My fingers were burning and my biceps felt like they were going to snap. At least they looked good. 'It's not too bad,' I choked.

'Thanks, Tom,' she said, closing the gates behind me.

'Yeah, bye.'

The box was so heavy I couldn't even turn my neck to have one last look at her. I was doing my best not to stagger even though my knees were virtually knocking together. I took a deep breath and concentrated on keeping one foot in front of the other until I knew the wagon was out of sight. Then I dropped it, the tools spilling out all over the ground.

I got back to the house and took a long hot shower until Kylie started banging on the door and I had to hurry things up.

'What were you doing in there?' she said as I opened the door.

'You can't talk,' I replied, trying not to look guilty. 'You spend the most time out of anyone in the bathroom.'

'Do I need to disinfect?'

I smirked at her.

'I wish this house had another bathroom!' she yelled.

I sniffed my way to some clean boxers. Dad and Gran were doing most of the washing, and the rule was I had to put my dirty stuff outside the bedroom so Gran didn't have to pick it up off the floor. That suited me; I didn't want her snooping around in here anyway.

I pulled the bottom drawer of the wardrobe open and there they were, Gran's scrapbooks. I recognised the paper she'd covered them in: fluffy kittens playing with balls of red and yellow wool. A faded print of unicorns with flowing manes covered the oldest one.

I flipped the top book open. 'The Legend of the Brennan Brothers' was the page that fell open. I turned back a few pages. There was a photo of Dad and me together. The caption said, 'Tom Brennan with his father and coach Joe. For the third consecutive year Tom has been named Player with the Most Potential.'

I closed the scrapbook and opened the next. Pasted in the front were three certificates: 'Daniel Brennan, best kicker – under elevens', 'Daniel Brennan, best and fairest – under twelves', 'Daniel Brennan, most tries scored – under twelves'. This was exactly the sort of stuff I wanted.

I pulled one from the bottom of the pile. This book wasn't covered and looked fairly new. I turned to the back – nothing, so I opened the front cover.

The whack came hard and fast and I wasn't prepared.

Staring at me was the photo of Daniel's blue falcon up on its side, leaning against the tree.

'
Football Party Tragedy
,' the ugly black words read.

'A party celebrating St John's Marist College's entry into the Wattle Shield Grand Final has ended in tragedy. Two passengers were killed and a third suffered suspected spinal injuries when the car in which they were travelling hit a tree outside the old scout hall in Booker's Reserve.

'The driver of the car was reported to be a P-plate holder, allegedly with a blood alcohol reading of 0.12. The driver was not injured. The third passenger was transferred to the Royal Prince Charles Hospital in Aralen. All passengers were students of St John's Marist College.'

I sat on the floor in the cave, my fingers running along the smooth wood of the wardrobe drawer.

It was Wednesday night and I was running out of time. I had to have Daniel's present ready by the crack of dawn on Saturday. Tomorrow night was our first rugby match; that just left Friday.

Finding the news article about the accident, seeing the photo of his car, remembering that night like I was there all over again had set me back a few paces. It wasn't until now, two days later, that I could force myself back to the drawer and attempt once more to look at Gran's scrapbooks.

Once, probably not that long ago, I'm not sure I could've gone back at all. But here I was sliding the drawer open.

I took the books out and carefully, page by page, started to remove what I wanted to copy. With each memory I touched, I felt it again – that pain, like a sledgehammer slicing through your heart. It hurt so much but it was a good hurt because it wasn't in vain. This was going to help Daniel. If he had to face a future, then so did I.

'Who are you sticking on the fridge, Gran?' I yawned.

'This, Thomas, is Saint Vitus. The patron saint of oversleeping.'

I tried to keep a straight face. 'So why are you putting Saint Vitus there?'

'Your mother goes to the fridge.' Gran ripped the sticky tape with her teeth. 'This way Saint Vitus and Theresa will make a connection.'

'Right,' I nodded, then said, 'Do you really think Saint Vitus is going to, you know . . .'

Gran frowned like I was about to say something unbelievably stupid. I changed tack.

'I mean, Gran, you've got to admit, Mum has been getting up a bit more.'

'But still not enough.' In a way Gran was right. The last two nights Mum hadn't made it to dinnertime.

'Maybe Saint Vitus has started working on her?' I suggested.

'Well, Thomas.' Gran went back to ripping the sticky tape. 'Perhaps this way Saint Vitus can keep her . . . vertical for longer periods.'

Get Aunty Kath over to give her a roar up, I wanted to say. It'd be snappier than relying on old Saint Vitus.

'Didn't you go for a run this morning?'

'No.' I'd woken up on my bedroom floor at 3 am dribbling over a scrapbook.

'Do you want some breakfast?'

'Yeah, I'm starving.'

'Good.' Gran sounded pleased. 'I'll put some eggs on.'

'Oh, no,' I panicked. 'Weet-Bix'll be fine.'

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

'You know, today I'm going to the Hill Deli to buy one of their home-made lasagnes. I hear they're delicious.'

'Sounds good.'

'Well, seeing you don't like my cooking.'

'Huh?'

'You could have told me. Do you think I couldn't see you fading away those first few weeks? Living on cereal, my goodness, you silly thing.' She actually touched me kind of playfully, ruffling up my hair and tweaking my ear. I started laughing. 'I've got to look after you. You're my growing boy. You've started to fill out the last week. Must be the good Coghill air and the running with your uncle.'

'Maybe,' I muttered.

'If there's a meal you don't like I want you to tell me,' she said. 'I do have a thick skin, Tom. God knows I've needed one.'

'Is Kylie still asleep?'

'She stayed over at Brianna's.'

'Why doesn't she just move in there?'

'She's working hard on some sort of presentation she's giving on Friday.'

'Not another edible one?'

'No, thank goodness! I couldn't stand another fuss like that.' Gran shook her head. 'It's a debate, or a speech. Much simpler this time.'

Friday morning a few of us hung around the lockers talking about the match we'd played the night before. We won easily against a bunch of lightweights from Everley Christian College – if we hadn't there would've been some serious questions to ask. I scored two tries, set up all the others, kicked four out of five, and slotted over a penalty from the sideline.

The Bennie's fellas showed some glimpses. Jimmy, the outside centre, was fast, real fast, and it was virtually impossible for anyone to prop against Wiseman. But as a team they seemed to lack the killer instinct, which was completely different to St John's. I put that down to Harvey, the coach. He was a good bloke, but his attitude needed fixing.

After, in the dressing room, he kept whacking me on the back, saying things like, 'Well done. Everyone looked like they were enjoying themselves, and that's the main thing.'

Wrong!

I'm sure the old man would make him see the light eventually.

'The Everley lock was pathetic,' I said. 'He was as big as a house and did nothing.'

'Did you see Wiseman crunch him?' Jimmy chuckled.

'Yeah. I thought he wasn't going to get up.'

'Do you believe it, they had their footy camp last week,' Rory told us.

'Yeah?' I snorted. 'What a complete waste of time.'

'We've got ours in about four weeks.'

'The old man was telling me,' I said. 'Where is it? At some college?'

'Yeah, it's part of Barton Uni. Where we go is like a conference centre. Excellent sporting facilities.'

'You been there?'

'Nah,' Rory answered. 'Just heard a lot about it from Wiseman. Don't know how many rugby camps he's gone on now.'

'Heaps,' Jimmy answered.

'There's a nursing college at the uni.' Rory nudged me. 'They reckon it's a chick fest.'

'Yeah?'

'They reckon last year, Davin, he was the captain, a big player, scored that many chicks he fell asleep during a training session.'

'Yeah?'

'That could be us, Tom.'

'Doubt it.'

'Could be who?' Brad Wiseman dumped himself down next to us. You almost felt the ground shake.

'Been telling Tom about the rugby camp.'

'It's a good week, mate.' He winked. 'Your old man coming?'

I nodded.

'He's a good bloke,' Wiseman said. 'He shouldn't get in the way too much.'

'I was telling Tom about Davin.'

'Oh yeah, Davin, mate,' he chuckled. 'He got back in the dorm about 5.00 every morning.'

'Talking about Davin.' Rory nudged me again. Chrissy was walking across the grass towards us. Davin must have been who she waved to in church. Her boyfriend.

'Ooh, I want her,' Wiseman moaned.

'Buckley's, mate,' Jimmy told him.

We were all gawking, our jaws slumped on our chins, when Chrissy lifted her hand, gave a big wave and smiled – at me. 'Hey, Tom,' she called. 'Good game, I heard.' I nodded. Speaking was out of the question. 'Hubba, hubba,' Wiseman whacked me on the back nearly knocking me over. 'Go, Tommy.'

Around the corner appeared Kylie and Brianna, deep in conversation. I'm sure Kylie saw me though she acted like she didn't. She knew I was suss of Brianna.

'What's your sister done to her hair?' Rory asked.

'Dunno,' I groaned. 'She spends hours in the bathroom putting shit through it.'

'They're up to something.'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't know.' Rory rubbed his chin. 'Brianna gets this "I'm very important" kind of walk. She sort of swings her arse.'

'You just reckon she's hot,' Wiseman mocked. 'You've always had a thing about her.'

'Piss off, Wiseman.'

The bell rang back to class. But for some reason Rory's words had tightened the knot in my guts.

I had a double period of maths, then lunch. I was in the advanced class with all the geeks. It doesn't matter where you are, the blokes in the advanced maths class are always the ones with poxy skin, bumfluff and bad haircuts – except me, of course. I sat next to Dom, the only other normal human in there. Some of the chicks were okay, but they were so brainy you didn't know what they were talking about half the time.

'My head hurts,' Dom complained as we wandered out. 'I hate having maths on a Friday.'

'I'm going to the canteen,' I said. 'See you down at the field.'

I seemed to be waiting forever in the canteen line. My tummy was growling. I counted my money, wondering if two meat pies, a packet of chips and a chocolate milk would be enough.

A few girls were whispering, and I could've sworn one of them pointed at me. When they saw I was looking they turned away. I watched them through the corners of my eyes and caught one of them nodding, like she'd just realised something.

For a minute I had to remind myself I wasn't at St John's. After a while I'd grown used to the whispering there. But at Bennie's? Nah, I told myself. I was being paranoid.

Then the girl behind tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, you're Kylie's brother, aren't you?'

'So?'

'Just asking.'

No, I wasn't being paranoid.

The rest of the afternoon I felt the knot getting tighter and tighter.

Rory and Jimmy were hanging by my locker after school.

'We're going down to Burger King,' Rory said. 'You want to come?'

I still had half the scrapbook to do but something in Rory's face and the way Jimmy stared at his feet told me I'd better go with them.

We walked out in silence.

Once we were away from kids cramming onto buses and jumping into cars, Rory spoke. 'Your sister got herself a bit worked up.'

'What are you on about?' I said.

'Brianna and Kylie were up to something.'

'Just tell us, Rory.'

'They do that public speaking,' he began. 'It's an extra thing you can do in Year Nine. Anyway, it seems . . .'

He was giving me the shits so I turned to Jimmy. 'What's he on about?'

'Aw?' Jimmy frowned and stared at his feet again. 'Um?' He looked at Rory, who was obviously the spokesman.

'Kylie had a bit of a story to tell.'

I felt the knot snap, my guts landing at my feet.

'If you get what I mean.'

No, I didn't get what he meant. Kylie wouldn't do that – no way.

'Apparently the topic was terrorism.' Rory kept talking. I could tell he was trying to be careful with the words he chose. 'Most people talked about September 11, and Bali and London . . . but Kylie talked about, um – well, she called it domestic terrorism.'

'Huh?' But I got what he was telling me.

'What happened to your family back in Mumbilli and . . . stuff.'

I watched my feet, my black shoes putting one foot in front of the other.

'Why didn't you tell us?' Rory said. 'I mean, I could tell there was something up the first day I met you at the touch game.'

I kept my head down.

'Jimmy's cousin's in gaol. Isn't he, Jimmy?'

Jimmy nodded.

'She had no fucking right,' I muttered.

'I knew, mate.' Jimmy spoke quietly. 'A few of us do. My old girl saw it in one of the papers. You never said nothing about it so I didn't say anything to you. Wasn't your fault.'

My breath panted at the back of my throat. He knew? Jimmy knew?

'We're your mates, Tom,' Rory started. 'We're part of a ...'

'What else did she say?' I cut in. The anger was beginning to bubble in my veins. 'Huh? What other crap did she . . .'

'Apparently she talked about graffiti,' Rory said. 'Graffiti being sprayed on your house.'

'She had no right!'

'Mate . . .?'

'I can't do this,' I mumbled. 'I can't do this.' I turned the corner and started running.

I was suffocating inside my own body.

So that's why Kylie'd been at Brianna's place nearly every arvo and weekend. She was preparing her speech. Preparing to spill the guts of our family. Too busy to even visit her brother.

Words and pictures collided in my head as I imagined Kylie standing up on the stage. I could almost hear her.

I walked all the way home. Over and over, like a TV I couldn't switch off, my head spewed the memories, the other ones I didn't like to think about. Like the morning after Daniel's sentencing. The morning I'd walked out the back door to get some air, to get away from having to look at Dad's sad face staring at the wall in the kitchen, and seen the ugly black letters sprayed along the wall where Daniel and I once played handball. 'SHAME ON YOU, BRENNANS, SHAME.'

It was dark by the time I kicked open the screen door and threw my bag against the cupboards. Dad, Gran, Mum and Kylie were sitting around the kitchen. Kylie's head was on the table. She was sobbing. Loud hiccups shook her spine.

I stood there looking at them, their faces pulled and prised in all directions, their grief sitting in every crevice of their skin. I wasn't going to join them, join their sordid little circle that sat there doing nothing. I was going to walk out of this kitchen and not look back.

'Tom?' Dad stood up. 'Tom?'

'You stupid cow!' I spat at Kylie.

'Tom!' Dad called after me.

But I'd already walked out. I felt the power in my legs, and my heart pounding hard in my chest, as I strode past the picture in the hall that said 'suffer the little children', past the doorway to my mother's hideaway and back out to the night's crisp air.

Kylie wasn't going to destroy us, no way! I wasn't going to let her. Even if it took me all night, I'd finish the scrapbook for Daniel. I'd give him something to hold onto. Something to help him out of that past. Stuff her, I thought. She's not taking us down with her.

Brendan was sitting on the steps outside the cabin, a six-pack by his feet. It was as if he'd been waiting for me.

'You want one?' he said.

I nodded and he chucked me a bottle. I pressed it against my forehead, almost expecting the cold glass to sizzle on my skin.

'I don't know what in God's name got into her,' he said.

'She'd been planning it,' I spat. 'That's almost sicker.'

'She still crying?'

'Howling.'

Brendan glanced at his watch. 'Ooh, that's about four hours now.'

'Huh?' I paced along the strip of concrete outside Brendan's cabin. 'Four hours what?'

'Four hours she's been crying. She came straight home after she'd done that – that bit of theatre,' he told me. 'She was freaking out. Did your grandmother give it to her, or what! I thought she was going to get the old strap out.'

'Good.'

'Kylie's only tough on the outside.'

'What a joke!' I drained the last drop of beer. Its potion swum in my head. 'I just don't get her. Why? Why would you want to do that? Haven't we been through enough? What's her, her . . .?'