Thrill Seekers (4 page)

‘Thank God,’ whispered Russ.

I rolled my eyes, but inside I was saying the same. Douggie was the only one who
was disappointed that our trip into the river had been cancelled.

The policeman reeled us in and tied us to the back of his boat.

‘That’s the river, boys,’ he said. ‘You kids have got no business out there. What on earth did you think you were playing at?’

‘Explorers,’ Douggie called with a grin.

Jacko shouted over him, ‘Nothing, we weren’t doing nothing wrong.’

‘Do your parents know you’re out here all by yourselves?’

‘Sure.’ Jacko lied so easily.

‘Hmph,’ grunted the policeman. ‘They should know better. The river’s no place for kids. You fellas stay put till the tide changes. There’s a serious dive going on here, police work. I don’t want to be wasting time looking for you. Now, or ever.’

Then he left us alone and went back into the boat’s cabin where we heard the static of the police radio.

Jacko laughed and pretended it was a great joke to be tied up to a police boat, and I reckoned it was pretty tough too. Something to show off about to the other kids in the street when we got back. Russ went quiet and sat staring at the spot where the divers came up every now and then.

‘What do you reckon they’re looking for?’ he asked.

‘A body, probably,’ said Jacko, like it was nothing.

Then Douggie started singing the theme from that old TV show Gilligan’s Island we watched on cable sometimes, which made us all laugh and sing along. We sang that one, then the Neighbours song, and the one from Home and Away, then Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and some ads from TV, till we ran out of songs we all knew except for hymns, and that was way too daggy. So we
talked about all the best motorbike stunts we’d ever seen, and how we were going to try them on our pushies. We talked about how we couldn’t wait to be old enough to drive, how school sucked and how our footy team just had to play better next year. Till we couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days and I was so thirsty I would have drunk creek water if it wasn’t salty and full of cholera, but still the policeman didn’t let us go. The tide was really low, black mud covered in an oily slick of rainbow colours, stretching out on each side of the creek.

‘We could swim in and mud-walk home,’ Russ tried again. ‘Come and get the raft back later.’

‘Forget it,’ said Jacko.

So we did, but I thought it was a good idea myself. It was boring sitting there and I was getting that hungry, I considered eating a catfish raw. I just wanted to be at home with a vegemite sandwich and an
enormous cup of green cordial. Russ’s head disappeared between his knees and Jacko was gritting his teeth, the way he always did when he was angry.

Douggie and Steve were lying on their bellies, paddling their bare legs in the water behind, dunking their hands and checking how long they could see their fingers before they disappeared in the brown. The water finally started flowing towards home again, sloshing back over the mud.

Then one of the divers came up and shouted something I couldn’t quite make out. Something like, ‘We’ve got her.’ The guy on board got all excited and threw over a net attached to a pulley by a long rope. The diver in the water tugged off his mask and swiped at the red marks on his forehead, rubbed his eyes. He looked over at us and called out, ‘Get those bloody kids out of here.’ Then he wriggled his mask back on and dived under again.

We sat up and watched. ‘They’ve found something,’ whispered Jacko. The rope
on the net stretched taut and the diver resurfaced. He waved to the policeman on the boat and yelled, ‘Right to go.’

Jacko was practically jumping off the raft, he was that excited. ‘We’re going to see it fellas. We’re going to see a real live body. Make that dead.’ He laughed.

I didn’t feel like laughing though. My guts were twisting right up to my throat. Russ’s face had gone whiter than bread, and Douggie looked like he’d had his eyelids removed, his eyes were so wide.

The man on the boat started grinding on a winch. It looked like it was heavy.

I realised I was holding my breath and had to force myself to take in some new air.

‘Get those kids away!’ the diver yelled as he swam to the boat’s ladder.

The other one bobbed up too. ‘For God’s sake Mal, what are you thinking? Let the boys go.’

‘Might do them good,’ he said. But he shrugged and stopped winching. He shouted at Jacko to untie the rope and reeled it in.

‘Go straight back, you fellas. No mucking around. You hear? And tell your father he should have more sense. It could be one of you I’m bringing in. You got that! Get home!’ He sounded angrier than he needed to be, we hadn’t done anything wrong.

The divers scrambled onto the boat, flapping awkwardly in their flippers. They stood with their hands on their hips, watching me and Russ row around in clumsy circles until we finally got the raft pointing in the direction of home. Then they retreated to the cabin.

Once we were going straight, rowing was easy. Looking behind over my shoulder, I saw the man with the badges working hard, winding fast. I saw the top of the net rising from the water. It looked empty.

‘There’s nothing in it after all,’ said Jacko, disappointed.

But it wasn’t empty, it’s just that what was in it wasn’t very big. The net lifted out of the water like a deflated balloon. In the bottom there was a small shape, black and pinky-blue, curled in the muddy ropes that held it. A small arm, no bigger than Beck’s, fell through a gap and hung down towards the water. As if it was waving us goodbye.

Once we’d rounded the bend Jacko made jokes about the police and how stupid they were, and boasted about how great and cool it was to have seen a body. How it made us heaps tougher than anyone. But to tell you the truth, I was never so happy to see my backyard and the cubby smiling at us from the bank. After dragging the raft up through the mud onto the grass, we lay panting and dirty beside it. Douggie rested his head on my belly and I was too buggered to shove him off.

I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at the murky brown ripples of the creek rushing in with the tide. It flooded
over the mud and lapped at the mangroves, washing away the oil slicks and covering the black. The current sure was strong. Soon I couldn’t see any mud at all, just water racing past like it was going somewhere and needed to get there in a hurry. Like it wanted to take us all on that raft and make us ride with it, faster and faster, wherever it wanted to take us.

Music is thumping, bass heavy and almost visible on the cloud of smoke swirling around the entrance to the gig. As soon as I get inside, the slime of three hundred dancing people’s sweat and the stink of cigarettes saturate my skin. I grin at Pete. It smells like a great night. The floor is slippery with spilt drinks and spew, and it’s only half-past eight. Best of all, no one even checks our dodgy ID cards. The suspension dance floor is bouncing to the thud of stomping boots and a couple of fellas are mid-brawl near one of the bars, surrounded by a circle of shouting, clapping onlookers.

Angie and I edge our way around the fight to the loo. My bladder feels like a water balloon and makeup is dribbling down my chin. Sweat oozes behind my knees into my tights as I ease them down so I can pee. My black velvet dress clings to my back and droplets of milky, foundation-stained perspiration drip from my nose. Sure the floral halter-neck dress my mother wanted me to wear would’ve been more appropriate, weather-wise, but I’d rather be dead than be seen in that thing. She’s got no idea.

I exhale menthol smoke and wipe at my face with satin gloves before chucking the butt in the bowl. It’s hard to look good in Brisbane.

Out at the basins I re-fluff my hair to stop the daggy effect of the damp, redo my eyeliner and lips with the same black pencil, and practise hard looks in the mirror. But no matter how thickly I paint my mask, on the inside I still feel small and lonely.

‘Do I look okay?’ I check with Angie.

She wolf-whistles then says, ‘Watch out Pete.’

She knows how much I like him. He’s sexier than Orlando Bloom.

She also knows my most embarrassing secret. I’m a kiss-virgin. Fifteen and never had a proper kiss. Well, I did kiss Douggie from down the road once, at a party when I was thirteen, but it was playing spin-
the-bottle
so it doesn’t count. And Douggie, URGH! Tonight though, I’m in with a real chance. Pete and I have been really close lately, always holding hands and stuff. Sure he says he’s gay, but that’s just because he hasn’t kissed me yet. If only he’d let me, I’d drift away on his dreamy grey eyes forever. I make a vow to myself that I’ll kiss him before the night is over.

Angie and I weave our way across the seasick dance floor to where the boys are waiting. They’re near the right hand speaker in front of the stage. It’s our
pre-arranged
meeting place, where everyone from school is hanging out, everyone who
wants to party. The boys in torn jeans and t-shirts, with packets of smokes rolled up in their sleeves, showing off their muscles; the skins in Docs and braces; the folkies with dreadlocks, green teeth and the best dope; the surfies in board shorts and peroxided hair; the sluts with big boofy hairdos and pierced bellybuttons, trying to come on to all of them. And us.

Screaming at the top of her lungs like her guts are about to bust, a rock chick is flashing her undies, doing high kicks in her old school uniform, gripping onto a glowing fluoro tube.

‘Hey!’ I shout at Pete, my lips tickling his ear. ‘It’s her. She stole the light from my kitchen.’ We cack ourselves, holding each other and rolling on the floor. I almost kiss him then, while we’re laughing.

He grew up on a farm. He’s Catholic. He kills cane toads with his bare hands, for God’s sake. He can’t really be gay.

Our cheeks touch and I turn my head so that my lips are almost there. But then Jase turns up with Cokes he’s topped up with gin. He leans over and gives Angie a big pash. She doesn’t look happy about him smearing her lipstick but I’d do anything for a kiss like that. Long and wet and wild. I glance over at Pete, my heart beating out hope in Morse code.

‘Hey! Stop that you two. That’s disgusting. Bloody heteros,’ he says, getting to his feet.

I swallow hard. He doesn’t mean it, it’s just a cover for, for… well anyway, I’m not going to give up.

I throw my bag into the corner behind the speaker where the bottle of gin is stashed, so I can dance. Everyone’s going crazy, throwing themselves around, limbs flailing, animal dancing. But not us. Pete and I hold hands and do the careful
in-together
, out-together move from the film
clip we really like, while Angie and Jase practise neat controlled pogoing mixed in with some robotic arm moves.

It feels good to dance with Pete, touching him, feeling the softness of his hands. But more than that. To dance all together, as part of a mass of sweating moving bodies. All of us out of it. All of us young. Ecstatic faces turned towards the band, smiles plastered, eyes closed, hair spraying sweat.

This is our ball.

I step back and bump into Brian, Douggie’s brother. They live just down the road from my place, and my brother Russ is in their gang. I’ve known them since forever, though we’ve never really hung out. Brian’s not a bad guy but I hate the way he stares at me, like he’s starving to death and I’m a burger with the works. We score dope from him sometimes. ‘Hey,’ I say.

‘Hey!’ he bellows. ‘Great isn’t it?’

‘Too right.’

All his gang are here, cool guys, druggies and rev-heads. There’s Russ, though as usual he’s pretending I don’t exist, Steve, Jacko. But no Douggie. There’ve been some rumours about him; people say he’s flipped out.

Jacko is dancing like a lunatic, throwing his head around, his long hair stinging anyone who gets too close. He’s dancing like he’s angry with his body, like he hates it, beating himself with his fists.

I realise I’ve stopped dancing and that I’m staring at him, wondering about him. He’s not at school anymore. Mum gets petrol at the garage where he works. He’s tough and really sexy in that leather jacket he always wears, big shoulders and a tight little arse in his jeans. Everyone looks up to him. He’s been the king of our neighbourhood since I was ten. I haven’t seen him around much lately though, and when I do he looks totally wasted, with his mouth set in a grimace and pulled down hard in the corners.

He must feel me staring because he stops dancing, stands still among the threshing bodies. Stops. And looks at me.

Pete taps me on the back. ‘Joint time hey?’

‘Sure.’ The second band is setting up so there’s plenty of time for a smoke outside before they come on. We grab Angie and Jase and climb the stairs to the upper floor, making our way out past the stalls into the fresh air on the balcony. The night air is cool on our sweaty skin. I wish Pete would put his arm around me. I try to snuggle my back into him as he leans against the wall, but he edges away.

Jase pulls out a couple of squished joints from his pocket, smooths one into shape and lights up. I’m pretty drunk. Dancing has sent the gin racing through my bloodstream so one puff on the joint starts my head spinning. I keep quiet, pass it on and should know better than to take it back. But I do and that’s it.

‘Urk,’ I groan. ‘I’m going to spew.’

‘Shit, not again. Vomit Queen.’ Jase is disgusted. ‘Give the joint to me, don’t get chuck all over it.’

He tokes the guts out of it and flicks the roach over the railing. Sparks fly and the glow of the embers descends in an arc, past the lights of the city, all the way to the ground.

‘Come on,’ he says to Angie. ‘I’m not hanging around to watch Beck lose her lunch. The band will be almost finished by the time we get down. Let’s go muscle in; get a good spot right up the front. We’ll wait for you guys there, okay?’

‘Sure. I’m coming in a minute. Just got to get it out then I’ll be right.’

I can tell Pete wants to go too. He keeps tapping his feet and looking through the doorway even while he pats me on the shoulder.

This isn’t going to be the night. There’s no way he’ll want to kiss me with vomit on my breath.

No one will.

‘Go on, I’ll be okay. I’m an expert. Just let me spew in peace.’

‘You sure?’

‘Go. Get out of here. I can’t hold it.’ There’s an awful sweetness at the back of my throat.

‘I’ve seen you chuck before.’

‘I know. You laughed.’

‘Alright then. But if you’re not down by the time the main band comes on, I’m coming to get you.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

And promise you’ll kiss me and be mine forever? But I don’t say it out loud; just think it so hard it makes my head ache.

He goes, leaving me clinging to the railing, spinning, waiting for the vomit to make that final leap up my throat. My gullet opens and, like a black fountain, the gin and coke and Mum’s spaghetti come flying out, making a loud splash on the cement below. I heave again and again, getting some in my hair.

‘Spewing hey?’

‘Yeah. Go away.’

‘Want a drink?’

Who is that? I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn. It’s Jacko in his leather jacket, holding a can of XXXX out to me.

‘Urgh, not beer. Don’t suppose you’ve got any water?’

‘Hang on a tick.’ He saunters off down the stairs. I don’t expect to see him again, let alone get any water. I spit and cough and try to empty the last of the gin out of my guts. That’s it. I’m never drinking again.

He comes back. ‘Here you are,’ he says handing me his beer can. ‘Don’t worry it’s water. Filled it up in the dunnies.’

‘Thanks.’ I take a swig, rinse, gargle and spit. ‘Don’t look.’ Not the best thing to do in front of the hottest boy in the neighbourhood, but it has to be done.

I splash the vomit out of my hair but the smell still hangs around. I drink some water, let it settle, and when I feel like nothing else is going to come up, I turn and hold out the can.

‘Here you are. Sorry about the spew germs.’

‘Keep it.’

‘Thanks.’

Neither of us says anything for about five minutes. He just keeps staring at me with a puzzled look in his eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out. The air around us feels hard. I have to say something.

‘Got a cigarette?’ What else do you say to a guy to keep him around? What’s he doing up on the balcony alone anyway? Why’s he hanging around me?

‘You sure you want to smoke after you’ve just chucked?’

‘Yeah. I’ll be fine now. It was the gin that did it.’

‘Yeah. Gin rots your guts. Metho.’

‘So, have you got a smoke?’

‘Sure.’ He pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his jeans’ pocket and flips up the lid. ‘There’s only one left.’

‘Oh. It’s alright then.’

‘We can share it.’

It feels weird putting the cigarette to my lips and having him strike a match under my nose, cupping his hands against the wind and holding the flame there long after the cigarette’s alight, looking at my face like he’s never seen it before.

‘You’re really white, aren’t you?’ He usually has some roast-chook-brown surfie chick hanging on his arm, never the same one for very long. But lately there hasn’t seemed to be anyone.

I pass the cigarette over. ‘I’m Beck. Rebecca. Remember?’

‘Jack. Everyone calls me Jacko.’

‘I know. I live down the street from Brian and Douggie.’

He looks confused.

‘Near the creek. Russ’s sister?’

Then it clicks.

‘Shit really? Hang on. Now I’ve got you.’ He takes a step back, nodding and smiling like he’s got a good secret. ‘I know you. Wasn’t your hair red?’

‘How embarrassing.’ I take the cigarette back from him, brushing fingertips. I shiver.

‘Why do you want to go and make yourself look freaky like that?’

‘I think I look good.’ I don’t want to share anything with him anymore. He obviously doesn’t understand.

‘I just mean, I reckon you’d look okay if you toned it down a bit. Like what’s with the black stuff round your eyes?’ He licks his finger and wipes off a smudge of kohl pencil from under my eye. His fingertip feels warm. ‘And I mean, black lips? What’s that about?’ He’s staring at my mouth.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Marilyn Manson,’ I sniff, turning my head away.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard of him. He’s arse-ugly, man. He needs it. But you, you’re okay, you don’t need to hide behind all that shit.’

I suck hard on the butt, torn between being insulted and flattered. I pass back the cigarette and look up at him through the smoke, letting the silence and the whorls of grey hang between us till I think of something to say.