The chill from the corrugated tin roof seeped through my clothes and skin to my spine. Above me the grey clouds were closing in, squeezing out any hint of blue sky.
I’d been lying on the flat part of the Mechanic’s Hall roof since about lunchtime.
After I left Benny lying on the grass, I rode back into town, wandering in a daze through Winter Creek’s few back and side streets. All I could see was Benny’s face and the bike’s wheel spinning.
When I’d heard my name being called over and over, I slipped down the side of the Mechanic’s Hall, stashed my bike in the old outside toilets out the back and climbed onto the flat part of the roof.
From up here I watched my grandmother cutting laps in her Subaru, yelling my name out the window and Gray and Mr Agar walk the streets, checking behind shops. Grandpa drove through Winter Creek at the same speed he drove around the lamb paddocks. He bellowed ‘Callum’ and ‘CJ’ out the open window. Jilly stood in the back of the ute, front legs on top of the cabin, tongue hanging out.
I looked at the sky. A cloud so grey it was almost black swallowed a smaller one. I didn’t want to be on the roof when it poured. But where else could I go? Mum had dumped me because of Nic. And when she heard about Benny, she wouldn’t want to see me again. Ever. Christos would take Mum’s side.
And my grandparents might think they’d always love me, but they couldn’t, not after today, and not when they learned the truth about Nic.
Once I could have gone to Nic, Maddie, Michael, even Lochie. But not now. The only place I belonged was with him—Woosher. Maybe that was all that was left to me.
Without thinking, I stood and walked to where the flat roof joined the main, steep roof. Spots of rust covered the tin. Most of the nails were flat but some jutted out. I stepped from the flat to the peaked roof and climbed, scrambled, leaning forward and using the nails as a kind of toe hold. When I reached the top, I dragged myself onto the metal capping, and using my hands to balance, squatted first, then stood, arms outstretched.
From here, I could see all of the Winter Creek—the highway, the school, the servo, a terrier sniffing the rubbish bin outside the milk bar.
I looked down, past the patches of rust and holes in the gutter, to the concrete path between the hall and the paling fence.
I took a slow, deep breath.
With my father.
Dead.
I lowered my hands to my side and lifted my gaze.
Drizzle drifted down, coating my face.
Thunder cracked away to my right, near the hill overlooking Winter Creek. The hill where Grandpa had lived before the fire killed his mum.
I swore and crumpled to sit on the roof. Wood groaned. I kicked the roof with my heel. Better if I ran, took off to a place where no one knew me. Or Mum, Woosher, Nic or Benny. Somewhere a lifetime away. Darwin, Broome, maybe Cairns. First I’d go back to Marrook and pack, hide there until dark, and ride to Millington and catch the train to Melbourne. Or maybe Adelaide. Next I’d train it as far north as I could afford. Easy.
I slid down the roof, nail caps catching on my school uniform. About halfway down I stopped and jumped from the peaked roof to the flat roof. The tin thundered beneath the impact of my feet.
I collected my bike and rode towards Marrook, keeping to the dirt tracks and stock lanes that crisscrossed the paddocks. The closer I came to Marrook, the heavier the rain seemed to fall.
By the time I arrived at Marrook’s gates I was soaked through and mud clung to my school pants. When I was sure the garage was empty, I rode up the drive and left my bike on the back veranda. In my room, I changed into dry clothes and threw as much stuff as I could into my duffle bag. All I had to do was wait until dark, and I figured the best place to do that was in Grandpa’s shed.
The key was in the first place I looked—top drawer of his desk, on a photo of a little kid sitting under a Christmas tree. I recognised Mum from her smile.
Inside the shed, I wheeled the bike past the barrier of drums and boxes and sat on my duffle bag. The sound of rain pounding against the shed roof made me wish I was at home, snuggled under my doona. That thought tightened the steel band that was wound around my chest. I tried to distract myself, but all I could think of were Benny’s staring eyes. And that set off a slide-show of horror images.
The spinning bike wheel.
Benny lying by the road.
The tear in his school trousers.
Nic lying on the change room floor.
His outstretched arms and open hands.
The white sheet on the ambulance gurney.
A wave of nausea flooded through me. I clutched my knees to my chest and rocked to chase the sensation and the images away. Cramp gripped my right thigh.
I thrust my leg straight out to stop the pain and kicked over a box.
The crash echoed in the shed, louder than the rain. Papers, envelopes and books spilt across the concrete floor. I crawled forward and stuffed them back into the carton. The last thing I picked up was a square photo of a guy and a girl.
Even in the gloom I could tell they were standing in front of a ute. The girl was Mum, I knew it. I crept to the shed door and eased it open. The bottom of the door scraped against the concrete floor. A gust of cold air made me shiver. Outside, the rain bounced off the gravel road. Grandpa said he needed rain so I guessed he’d be happy. I sighed and studied the photo.
It was Mum all right. She wore jeans, a yellow T-shirt, a string of coloured beads and a scarf in her hair. She stared up at the guy, her goofy expression the same as the look she gave Christos.
When I studied the guy, my heart kicked against my ribs. He was tall with broad shoulders and a thick, blond mullet. He wore a Winter Creek footy jumper and jeans and held a cigarette in one hand and stubby in the other. His face was turned away from Mum.
He looked like me.
Woosher. My father.
When I stared into Mum’s goofy face I felt sad, but looking at Woosher’ turned head and smirk turned my sorrow into anger.
He sucked. Everything sucked. I screamed. I punched the shed wall. Bright sparks of pain exploded in my hand. The hand I’d punched Frewen with.
‘Callum!’ Grandpa was near the back gate, holding his oilskin coat over his head.
The rain must have covered the sound of him coming home. I darted back into the shed, hitched my duffle bag onto my back and wheeled the bike towards the door. Grandpa stood inside the door, oilskin coat at his feet.
‘Get out of my way.’
He stayed put, but bent and picked up a piece of paper—the photo. I must have dropped it
‘She loved him so much, but he—’
Anger licked at my heart. ‘Was scum, like me. Move, Grandpa.’
Grandpa folded his arms. ‘First, tell me why you’re like Woosher.’
‘You figure it out.’
‘I’d rather you explained it to me.’
‘You should have told me,’ I said, squeezing the handlebars.
‘Told you what, Callum?’ asked Grandpa. His calm voice was making me angrier.
‘Told me that Woosher was driving the car that hit Benny’s family. That Woosher killed Benny’s brother and made Benny ... well—’
‘Who told you?’
‘Frewen—and that sucks. You should have told me.’
Grandpa hung his head. ‘Yes, I should have.’
The rain beat louder on the roof.
‘And you should have told me that Woosher was drunk, and that he was drunk because you dumped him from the footy club.’
‘There are many things I should have told you, Callum,’ said Grandpa. ‘Just like there are things you should have told me.’
‘This isn’t about me,’ I snarled. ‘I hate you for not telling me.’
‘You don’t hate me, Callum.’ He sounded sad. ‘You hate yourself. That’s why you’re here.’
‘How would you know?’ I snatched the photo from his hand and shoved it in my back pocket. ‘You hate me, just like you hated him.’
Grandpa leant against the door frame. He looked tired and old. ‘I didn’t like Woosher much, that’s for sure, but I didn’t hate him, Callum, and I could never hate you.’
‘You will when you find out what happened today.’
Grandpa frowned. ‘What? That you punched Jack Frewen? That’s been coming since you arrived.’
The rain stopped. Water gushed in the gutter. ‘Not that. Benny. Benny’s dead.’
‘Luke Bennett?’
I nodded.
‘Dead?’ said Grandpa.
‘He fell.’
I could hardly breathe. It felt like I’d swallowed a soccer ball. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘Callum—’
I pushed the bike into his leg. ‘I’m going.’
He pushed the wheel aside with his knee. ‘Where?’
‘Anywhere that’s not here. Darwin. Cairns. What do you care?’
‘If that’s what you want.’ Grandpa stepped aside. ‘But before you go, you’d better come tell Luke he’s dead.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘I’m not trying to be funny, Callum. Luke is here.’ Grandpa nodded at the house.
‘Bullshit. He’s dead. I saw—’
‘Luke is in the kitchen eating your grandmother’s Anzacs.’
I shook my head. ‘No. I saw him. Lying there. Just like Nic.’
‘Luke was in shock, mate,’ said Grandpa. ‘He’s bruised and has a few cuts, but he’s very much alive. I promise.’
The bike clattered against a wooden box. My bag slipped to the ground. I slumped onto it. ‘But he...’
Grandpa squatted in front of me. ‘Come see for yourself.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’ Grandpa stood and reached out his hand to me.
The back door slammed behind us.
Nan rushed into the hallway. ‘Oh, Callum, we’ve been so worried,’ she said. Her voice was thick with tears.
‘Callum needs to see Luke, Pat,’ said Grandpa.
‘Of course.’ She guided me to the kitchen.
Benny was sitting beside his dad. There was a huge bandaid on his forehead and his cheek was red and puffy, probably from where Frewen hit him. His right hand was badly grazed.
‘Where’ve you been, Beetle?’
‘Out the back, Luke,’ I muttered.
Benny placed the Anzac biscuit he was holding onto a plate. ‘I fell off Tim’s bike.’
‘I saw.’ I couldn’t look at him or his dad. ‘Benny, I’m sorry. I was angry.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘Luke!’ said Mr Bennett.
Benny shrugged. ‘Frewen sucks.’ His huge smile made me feel weird, like I wanted to cry. I hadn’t cried since everything went to hell.
‘No Benny, I suck.’
‘How do you figure that?’ asked Mr Bennett, his voice soft.
‘It was my fault Luke was hurt. If I had just—’ I stretched my shoulders. ‘Mr Bennett, I didn’t know about my father. About ... well, I understand if you hate me.’ I stared hard at the kitchen floor.
‘Callum, look at me,’ said Mr Bennett, his voice strong.
I lifted my head.
His face was fierce, but somehow soft. ‘Callum, you are not your father.’
The band spread from my chest to my throat and squeezed.
‘Beetle, you like me.’ Benny sat straighter in his seat. ‘You don’t treat me like a retard.’
‘Don’t say that word.’
Benny smiled and reached for an A3-sized piece of paper lying in front of him. ‘This is for you.’
I turned the sheet over and bit my lip. Benny had drawn the two of us in front of the scoreboard at the Winter Creek oval. Both of us were wearing Winter Creek jumpers. My elbow rested on Benny’s shoulder.
Tim, Vinnie and Cooper sat in the old brown lounge beneath the scoreboard. Written on the scoreboard was ‘Best Friends—Beetle and Benny’.
Grandpa looked over my shoulder. ‘Wow, Luke. That is good. You’ve even drawn Vinnie with a hot dog.’
Benny shrugged. ‘He always eats hot dogs at the footy.’
‘Thanks, Benny,’ I croaked, finding my voice.
Mr Bennett stood. ‘We should get going.’
‘Dad, can Beetle come to our place?’ asked Benny, as we walked to their car.
Mr Bennett glanced at me.
‘If it’s okay,’ I said.
‘Yeah. It’s okay.’ His smile was as big and open as Benny’s. ‘Come after school, before footy training.’
‘And it’s all right if Benny comes to footy training?’ I asked.
Mr Bennett rolled his eyes. ‘Try stopping him.’
‘See you tomorrow, Beetle,’ said Benny, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘Sure, Benny.’
Mr Bennett shook my hand. His grip was firm and warm. ‘Thanks, Callum.’
I forced myself to look him in the eye, just like Grandpa had taught me. It was tough, after everything, to hold his gaze.
‘Mr Bennett, I—’
He patted my shoulder. ‘See you after school.’
We watched the Bennetts turn onto the road. I folded my arms and cleared my throat. ‘Grandpa.’
‘Yes?’ said Grandpa, drawing the word out.
‘You know Ms Nugent, Matt’s mother?’
‘I do. Why?’ He looked puzzled.
‘Well...’ I kicked at a stone. ‘How come she hates me so much?’
‘Alice Nugent?’ asked Nan.
‘Remember, she was Alice Carmichael,’ said Grandpa.
‘Oh,’ said Nan.
‘Oh, what?’ I asked.
‘Alice’s sister, Cathy, was Woosher’s girlfriend for years. He dumped her for Maeve.’
I groaned. ‘Is he involved in every drama around here?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Grandpa. ‘Cathy went quite odd afterwards.’
‘Drugs,’ said Nan, shaking her head.
‘You don’t know that,’ said Grandpa.
‘I do so,’ said Nan. ‘Audrey told me, and she’s her aunt.’
‘So Ms Nugent hated Woosher, and now she hates me,’ I said.
‘That’s about the sum of it,’ said Grandpa. He elbowed me and smiled. ‘You can’t say life’s not interesting at Winter Creek.’
The thing was that, right now, I could do without interesting.
The room was white—brilliant white. Mum, Grandpa, Nan, Benny, Tim and Maddie stood around the walls, frowning. Nic stood behind a glass wall, pointing and laughing at me.
My chest was so tight I couldn’t take a proper breath. I looked down. A massive python, its skin the same colour and pattern as our soccer team jumper, was wrapped around me. I couldn’t see the snake’s head. Its coils quivered as it tightened its grip. I tried to fight, to move, but the snake only squeezed harder. I called Mum, Grandpa and the others for help, but they turned their backs on me.