Darkest Night, Brightest Star
Author: Barry Jonsberg
Date: 2025-01-10 00:00:00+00:00
Description: What makes a good man? Morgan Pickford isn't sure yet, but he's doing his best to find out, even though it's complicated. A life-affirming YA novel about fractured families, tough talk, masculinity, finding friendship and overturning expectations from an internationally acclaimed, bestselling Australian author. Two things that are true and one that is a lie: I think my mother is dead and alive. I think if I work hard I will be very good at something. I've tried to please my dad but I don't think I ever will. Thirteen-year-old Morgan lives with his dad and his older brother, Mitch. He hasn't he
Publisher: Allen & Unwin

Also by Barry Jonsberg

Smoke and Mirrors

A Little Spark

Catch Me If I Fall

A Song Only I Can Hear

Game Theory

Pandora Jones (Book 1) Admission

Pandora Jones (Book 2) Deception

Pandora Jones (Book 3) Reckoning

My Life as an Alphabet

Being Here

Cassie

Ironbark

Dreamrider

It’s Not All About YOU, Calma!

The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2025

Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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ISBN 978 1 76118 038 5
eISBN 978 1 76150 564 5

For teaching resources, explore allenandunwin.com/learn

Cover & text design by Astred Hicks, Design Cherry

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

For Teddy and Mo

Table of Contents

COVER PAGE

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DEDICATION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1

My new English teacher had a head like a potato. No hair. Some strange bumps. A few marks you don’t find on most faces.

‘I’d like to start with an icebreaker,’ he said to the class. ‘So we get to know each other. On the piece of paper I’m going to hand out, I’d like you to write your name and then two things that are true about yourself and one that is a lie.’

He gave us examples. And advice: make the lie something that sounds as if it could be true. I am an alien from outer space would be stupid because it can’t happen. I once fell off my bike and broke my leg. That’s okay.

I didn’t really get what he was on about, but I wrote:

I think my mother is dead and alive.

I think if I work hard I will be very good at something.

I've tried to please my dad but I don't think I ever will.

The teacher took our pieces of paper and read through them. Then he called a boy to the front and told him to read the three sentences he wrote to the class. The idea was that we had to ask questions and guess which was the lie. Take a vote. I couldn’t see the point and I wasn’t going to ask questions. I spent the time repeating Don’t pick me over and over in my head.

Mine was the fourth name he called.

‘Morgan Pickford?’

I shook my head when he told me to step up to the front. He asked again. I shook my head again. For a moment I saw his eyes go hard. Then he smiled. But I think the smile was the lie.

‘Well, I’m not in the business of forcing students to do something they really don’t want to,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take part, Morgan? You might find it fun.’

I didn’t even shake my head at that.

‘Karen Allbright?’

She did it, but afterwards a couple of other boys said no. The teacher with the potato head blamed me for it. I could tell. I’m good at knowing when I’m to blame for something. At the end of the class, he kept me back. I knew he would. It was lunchtime, so I wasn’t going to be late for my next lesson.

‘You don’t like talking in front of the class, Morgan?’ he said. I think it was a question, but I wasn’t sure.

‘No.’ Maybe I should’ve said Yes. I was confused.

‘One assignment this term will be an oral presentation,’ he said. ‘But if you have a good reason for not doing it – and by that I mean you’ll have to provide a medical certificate for panic attacks, that kind of thing – then we can find an alternative means of assessment. Do you understand?’

Sometimes it’s easier to nod, so I did.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I will be in touch with your parents at some point to sort things out.’

He glanced down at my piece of paper.

‘Dead and alive. Is your mother Schrödinger’s cat?’ he said. Then he laughed for a long time, so it must’ve been a joke. If it was, I missed it, so I stood there, but his eyes were back on my paper. After a while he looked up and smiled. It worked better this time.

‘You can go, Morgan.’

I got to the door before his voice stopped me.

‘Your statement,’ he said. ‘If I work hard I will become very good. I hope you will work hard in this class, Morgan.’

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to tell him that that one was the lie.

2

I’m thirteen, but this took place when I was eight.

‘What happened to Mum?’ I said.

I remember I was in bed, the bottom bunk, because my brother Mitch was five years older than me so he got the best one. He still is five years older than me. He’d come to bed hours after and I wouldn’t normally hear him climb up. Sometimes the creaking would get into my dreams, though, and I’d find myself climbing old stairs or something. Maybe swaying back and forth on a rocker on a porch, watching the sky do things that can only happen in dreams.

Anyway.

Dad was in my room. I don’t know why. I’d always have a shower, brush my teeth and take myself to bed. Sometimes I’d play a game on my phone. Sometimes I’d read a comic. Scroll the internet. But Dad was never there. Until this time. I don’t know why I asked. It just came into my head and was out of my mouth before I knew it. It was a question that popped.

Dad stopped at the door and turned to me. I couldn’t read his face.

‘You don’t have a mum,’ he said.

‘Everyone has a mum,’ I said back.

‘No.’ He came and sat on the edge of the bed. I propped myself up on an elbow to see him better. ‘Everyone has a mother. You never had a mum.’

I thought about this, but not for very long. In my mind I shrugged.

‘What happened to my mother?’

‘She’s dead.’

He was going to say something else but maybe he was having trouble finding words, because the silence lasted for quite a long time. I waited.

‘She’s dead to us,’ he said, but it came out as more of a mumble.

I never asked many questions (still don’t) and most times I wouldn’t have kept going, but this time I did.

‘Does that mean she’s dead to us but not to other people?’ This was a strange thought and I didn’t know how that could work. Dad sighed and pushed hair back from his eyes.

‘We won’t talk about this again, Morgan,’ he said. ‘Just this one time, okay?’ But it seems he didn’t need me to say yes because he carried right on. ‘Your mother walked out when you were about two years old. Said she was going to the shops, but never came back. I was starting to get worried but then I saw the letter she’d left on our bed. When I read it I knew she was gone for good. And that was okay.’ He stood up and bent his back like he was stretching out aches. ‘Because someone who could write a letter like that … well, we didn’t want her back, mate. We didn’t want her back. And so she’s dead. You see? She might be breathing somewhere. I don’t know and I don’t care. But as far as we are concerned, she’s dead as a doornail. That’s the end.’

And he left my bedroom. I stayed there for a while, propped up on that elbow, and thought about what he’d said. It didn’t make much sense. I didn’t have any idea what a doornail was. But I knew I couldn’t ask again. When Dad says something, he means it. The word Why? kept going through my head, but no answers came. There weren’t any. There still aren’t.

In the end, I tried to forget about it. Even then I knew that sometimes things just are. And there’s no point knocking yourself out wishing that they weren’t.

It was probably a month or so after that that my training started.

3

I had three choices. Australian rules, rugby or soccer.

My brother Mitchell plays rugby. He’s a prop. I’d watched him many times and Dad said he was promising, though I never found out what it was he’d promised. But I knew that sport wasn’t for me. I’m short, don’t have muscles you can see and in rugby you spend all your time smashing into people. I don’t think I’m a wuss and I can put up with pain, but this didn’t seem like a good idea. AFL was the same. I couldn’t kick very far and that game also involves smashing into people. I chose soccer. Yeah, you could still get tackled, but it was less violent than the others.

I think Dad may have been disappointed because his face screwed up a little when I chose, but then he nodded.

‘You’ll be a winger,’ he said. ‘You’re fast. Not tall enough to be a target man and you don’t have the body for a defender. Midfield is a possibility.’

He looked me up and down.

‘Yup. On the short side,’ he said, but really he was talking to himself. ‘There have been plenty of fine players who were short. Diego Maradona was only five foot four and he was probably the greatest of all time if you take Pelé out of the equation. And Lionel Messi, obviously. He’s a short-arse but also the world’s greatest living player. Wasting his time in America if you ask me, but … Yeah. Winger.’ Then he seemed to realise I was there and said, ‘Come with me.’

We went to the back of the house. It’s not really a garden because there isn’t much that’s green there. Some weeds struggling up through cracked concrete. Dad is a gardener. He runs his own business and has two people working for him. But he doesn’t bother with ours. He once said to Mitch that you can always tell a professional gardener because their own gardens are shithouse. Then he laughed.

Dad went into the shed and sorted through stuff, then came out with a battered soccer ball and handed it to me.

‘This is your new best friend,’ he said. ‘While you’re in the house or garden it will either be at your feet or under your arm. You understand?’

I nodded. Dad crouched down so our faces were at the same height.

‘Do you know how Maradona, Messi and Pelé became the greatest soccer players the world has ever seen?’ he asked. I shook my head. ‘Practice. They started young and they were driven to have perfect control over the ball. That doesn’t just happen, Morgan. It comes with hours and hours of practice, never giving in. Work. It’s all about work.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Tonight, look up Argentina versus England in the 1986 World Cup quarterfinal on YouTube. Watch Maradona’s second goal. It was voted goal of the century. He dribbled almost the whole length of the pitch, beating half the England team before slotting the ball home. It was …’ Dad shook his head. ‘… amazing. If you want to get anywhere near that level of skill, then you have to put in the hard yakka. Starting now.’

He took the ball and dropped it at his feet.

‘We’ll start with basic juggling skills,’ he said. He put his right foot on top of the ball, scraped it back and then got his toe under, kicked it into the air. He tried to kick it again, but the ball hit the ground.

‘You see what happened there? My balance was wrong. I want you to kick that ball five times before it hits the ground. After five, you catch the ball in your hands. Understand?’

‘Yeah.’

He put the ball at my feet.

‘Let’s see,’ he said.

I tried. The first time I couldn’t even get my foot under the ball and get it into the air. The second time I kicked it twice but then lost control.

‘Concentrate,’ said Dad. ‘This is the easy part. It’s gonna get way more difficult than this.’

I gave it another go. This time I made it to three before it hit the ground.

Dad nodded.

‘Better.’ He kicked the ball back to me. ‘I want you to do this until you can do the full five, catching the ball in your hands at the end. Then I want you to do the same with your left foot. You’re a natural right-footer, but you’ll need to train your left as well. All the best players can play with both feet. Think you can do that, Morgan?’

I didn’t, but I nodded again.

‘Don’t come back in until you’ve done it with both feet. Two reps, okay?’

I didn’t do it. I spent hours and I did it with my right foot. It was the left that was the problem. The most I got to was three. But then it was dark and I couldn’t see anymore, so I went back in. Dad and Mitch were watching an AFL game on the television. My dinner was cold, covered with a tea towel. I put it in the microwave but when I ate it there were cold bits mixed in with really hot stuff.

‘Did you do it?’ asked Dad. He didn’t take his eyes from the screen.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then we’ll go for ten tomorrow.’ He groaned at something on the screen. ‘And there’s a pump somewhere in the shed,’ he added. ‘Keep that ball inflated. Your new best friend, remember?’

‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘Dribbling practice.’ He laid out five orange cones along the length of the garden. ‘I want you to weave in and out of the cones with the ball at your feet. As quickly as you can.’

I tried, but it was hard to keep the ball close to me. A few times I kicked it too far and had to get it back before I could go through the cones. When I reached the end I had to turn and take the ball back through. Dad wasn’t impressed.

‘Way too slow, Morgan,’ he said. ‘And your control is crap. It’s gotta be like the ball is tied to your toes with a piece of short string. Do it again.’

It was a bit better the next time. Not a lot, but a bit. He made me do it twenty times. At the end the muscles in my legs were burning. Dad had a stopwatch and when I got to the end of the routine he checked it.

‘I’ve seen tortoises move quicker,’ he said. ‘But at least the last one was a slight improvement. Now do it with your left foot.’

I was really tired, but I knew better than to argue.

That was hopeless. Maybe because I was aching so much, but mainly because my left foot wouldn’t do what I told it to. Dad grunted.

‘Maradona would be turning in his grave,’ he said. ‘But it’s early days, Morgan. Remember what I said? Practice. More practice. And when you’ve done all that, practise again.’

I had my hands on my knees and my lungs were straining to take in air. But I nodded anyway.

‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘Now I want you to do the ball-juggling routine with both feet. Ten times in the air. Twice.’

What with my aching legs, I wasn’t sure I could even do my right foot. I also had homework to do. I told Dad. He made me sit down on one of the garden chairs. Green plastic. Splintered at the back so I had to be careful. Then he sat on the other chair, right in front.

‘Listen, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I left school in Year Ten. It wasn’t for me. The stuff they teach you doesn’t have nothing to do with the real world. All that History and Maths you can’t never use later. You know what I’m saying?’ Then he held up his hand, though I hadn’t said anything. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I want you to finish Year Twelve. But all I’m saying is that school is important but it isn’t all-important. Yeah? Take me. After I dropped out of school I got work helping out someone who did gardening jobs. Mowing grass. Taking garden rubbish to the tip. Chopping down some trees. Got paid peanuts, but I saved. Bought myself a second-hand wheelbarrow, then a shovel and a rake. Found a mower left on someone’s nature strip. No motor. One you pushed along. Didn’t even have a grass catcher. Stripped it down and fixed it up. Then I made up some flyers, posted them door to door. Got a few jobs. Used that money to buy other stuff. Shears. Eventually a chainsaw and then a ride-on mower. See, I was fierce, Morgan. Fierce about making a go of it. Wouldn’t let nothing stand in my way. Cut a long story short, in fifteen years I got a business. Got people working for me now. And this is just the beginning. Next year I’ll have franchises, be a millionaire, and that’s not something they teach you in school. Can’t teach you in school.’

He put his hands on his knees and stood up.

‘Ten times, Morgan. Both feet. Then you can do your homework. Think where you might get to if you put in the hard yards now. This isn’t play. This is work.’

He pointed a finger at me and went inside.

It took a long time and I didn’t even get three with my left foot. But I got a run of ten with my right and then another run of seven. I figured it was close enough. But

I never got the homework done and Dad never asked me.

If you want my life from eight to thirteen, that was pretty much it. Sometimes helping Dad and Mitch with the gardening work. But mostly there in the backyard, juggling a ball in the air. After a year, Dad made me do that using my feet, thighs, chest and head. Then there was the usual running through lines of cones, practising corner kicks and other set ball situations, or sprinting to build up my stamina. Dad had one of those machines that go beep.

I didn’t get proper football boots until I was ten. I didn’t join any club. Dad said the Football Australia programs talked about kids having fun and learning at their own pace. He didn’t see the point in that. I’d play when I was thirteen. I’d come out of nowhere and blow everyone away.

It didn’t quite work out like that.

4

I didn’t have a friend until I was thirteen and I reckon that’s down to me being quiet. School is where you’re meant to find friends, but I never did. As far as I could see, there were three types of kids – the ones who were loud and made everyone laugh, the normal ones who talked and joked, and those like me at the bottom of the pile who never said very much.

I didn’t say much because I had nothing to say. That’s the truth. All I knew about was gardening work and soccer. No kid’s interested in gardening, never mind mowing grass and trimming bushes, which was all I ever did. I couldn’t blame them. Some of the other students must’ve been keen on soccer because they sometimes played it in the schoolyard, but talking about dribbling through cones would’ve marked me out as stupid. And I never joined in the games. Partly because I was so quiet that no one thought to ask me, but also because Dad had said I couldn’t. He’d been very clear about it. Something about picking up bad habits.

Meeting Gray was all about those hours of practice in my backyard.

I was sitting on a bench in the schoolyard, a sandwich in one hand, watching some kids play soccer. There weren’t any nets or anything, just lines chalked up on the wall. Everyone was chasing the ball around, not playing in any positions, just trying to smash it into the goal. I could almost hear Dad snorting in my head.

Anyway. One kid got in a shot and the goalie stuck out his foot, kicking it straight to me. It rolled up to my right foot and I flicked it into the air, juggled it three times and then kicked it back into the game. I had the sandwich in my mouth and carried on eating. It didn’t taste good. I took a look inside. Cheese and some pickles. I don’t like pickles, but as I make my own lunches I suppose I only had myself to blame.

A shadow fell across the sandwich.

‘Good ball control, mate.’

I looked up but even then I couldn’t see the kid properly. The sun was behind him and it was kinda dazzling around the edges of his head. It was like his hair was on fire. Or like those pictures you sometimes see of the sun during an eclipse, a dark patch edged in bright yellow.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He sat next to me, so I still didn’t get a good look at him. I guess I could’ve turned my head, but that seemed rude to me. I try not to look at people.

He laughed. ‘I mean, you were sitting there, bit like a statue, no offence, and then the ball comes to you and … boom, you’re doing a Kylian Mbappé. Juggle, kick it back like it’s no big deal and carry on eating. That’s cool.’

I took another bite of my sandwich.

‘My name’s Gray.’ Out of the corner of my left eye I saw a hand hovering. I shook it. There was quite a long silence. ‘And you are?’

‘Morgan,’ I said. ‘Morgan Pickford.’

‘You play soccer?’

I shrugged.

‘I love the game,’ said Gray. ‘I mean, I’m a soccer tragic, a nerd. But I can’t play worth a shit. I try, don’t get me wrong, but I’m slow, can’t tackle and my heading is woeful. So basically I just watch local teams and tell them where they’re going wrong. I’m good at that, not that they listen. So. Do you play or not?’

‘A bit,’ I said.

‘Striker?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe a winger.’

‘Play for a team?’

I shook my head.

‘You don’t say a lot, do you, Morgan?’

I shrugged.

‘Thing is,’ said Gray, ‘I know the game. I know what footballers should do, just can’t do it myself. Know what I mean? So if you need any tips, you know, with technique or something, well … maybe I could help.’

‘My dad is my coach,’ I said.

‘Okay. But if you need another eye, then I could be it. I’m sure your dad knows what he’s doing, but it doesn’t hurt to get a second opinion, does it?’

‘I guess not.’ But I knew that was never going to work. Dad wanted full control. This was something he’d never share.

‘Think about it.’

He stood. This time I could see what he looked like. Thin. Medium height. Blond hair sticking up in tufts. But it was his eyes that made me stare. Pale blue, like something put in the washing machine for too long with too much bleach. But it was more than the colour. I got this weird thought that his eyes were made of kindness. He stared at me like he really saw me. I blinked and that weird thought blinked out as well.

‘Catch you, Morgan,’ he said. Then he smiled.

‘Okay.’

For my thirteenth birthday I got a ball, leather boots, shin pads and a kit in Australian colours. I didn’t get anything else. My birthday was on a Sunday, so we were out in the backyard at nine in the morning. Me, Dad and Mitchell.

‘Happy birthday, Moron,’ said my brother. He always calls me Moron. It’s because it sounds like Morgan. Mitch is eighteen and he’s huge. He’s huge because he spends all his spare time in the gym, messing around with weights. It helps with his rugby but I think it’s also because he likes being big. He wears singlets even when it’s cold so everyone can see his muscles. His shoulders are nearly as wide as I am tall. He could break me in two if he wanted.

Mitch stood at the end of the garden, in front of a small goal that Dad had set up. Dad tossed me the ball.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘One on one. Mitch here is the defender and you’re through on goal, Morgan. All you have to do is get past him and get the ball into the net. Remember what I taught you. Ball control. Keep it close to your feet, use that centre of gravity. Are we ready?’

I wasn’t really. Mitch had a look in his eyes and I could hardly see the goal behind him, he was that big.

‘No holding back, Mitch,’ Dad called. ‘Let’s see what he’s made of.’

I don’t think my brother needed to be told. He didn’t hold back with anything. I tried to keep my breathing steady. I tried to focus.

The first time it went perfectly. To be honest, I think a bit of luck was involved. I had the ball on my right foot and made to swerve around Mitch to his left, but I kinda lost control. The ball went to my left and I had just enough balance to change direction. Mitch didn’t get anywhere near it. I side-footed the ball into the open goal. Dad clapped.

‘Good job,’ he called out. ‘Sold him a perfect dummy.’

Mitch got the ball out and threw it past me to the other end of the garden. My brother was annoyed. I didn’t like the look he gave me. After all, it wasn’t my fault that he’d gone the wrong way, but I think he blamed me anyway.

The second time didn’t work out so well. I had a feeling it wouldn’t. I tried a stepover as I got close to Mitch, but I don’t think he was too bothered about where the ball was going. He only cared about where my body was going. He caught me just below my left leg. The world turned upside down and I hit the ground so hard I could feel it in every part of my body. From a long way away I could hear Dad shouting.

‘Get up, lad,’ he said. ‘Be a man. Get up.’

I didn’t think I could. I planted my hands on the ground and tried to push up. But my legs couldn’t do it. They wobbled as if they didn’t belong to me. So I slumped back down, on my hands and knees. Mitch hooked his hands under my arms and lifted me up. Even then, my legs were like jelly and I couldn’t breathe.

He whispered in my ear. ‘Didn’t get past me that time, did you, Moron?’

It took a while, but I made it to my feet. Dad put both his hands on my shoulders.

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘That kind of tackle is always gonna happen in a proper game. And when it does I don’t want you rolling around like some kind of fairy. Do you hear? You get up, brush yourself off and carry on with the game. Who knows? While you were lying there feeling sorry for yourself, there might have been a goal-scoring opportunity. Never play for a penalty, never wait for the ref ’s whistle. Get up and be a man.’ His eyes bored into mine. ‘This is what it’s like, son. It’s the defender’s job to stop you, however he can. It’s your job to get past him. And never show weakness. You hear? Never. Now, get back up, and let’s do it again.’

I did. Finally. And although Mitch hit me again with hard tackles, I didn’t stay down. A good few times I had the ball in the net. Dad was right. It was a battle between me and him. And I won.

Later, though, as I showered and saw the yellow bruises, like ugly flowers on my left thigh, I knew that it was just one battle. The war was far from done.

5

‘I’ve enrolled you at Sheldon’s Soccer Club,’ said Dad. ‘The Under Fifteens. There’s a training session tonight. Six p.m. We’ll get in some practice at home after school, so you’re warmed up good. Yeah?’

I nodded. I didn’t know whether to be glad or scared. Until now, all my soccer had been in the backyard. I didn’t know if I was ready. But I couldn’t say anything to Dad. He’d think I was weak.

‘Oh, and I’m coming to your parent–teacher night tonight, so stay at school after you’re done. I’ll meet you there.’

It was hard getting my head around that. Dad never came to parent–teacher nights. Never. He’d get the invites because I’d hand them to him, but he’d stick them straight in the bin and we wouldn’t talk about it again. I didn’t know what was different this time. But then Dad told me.

‘Pain in the arse,’ he said. ‘But I got a call from two of your teachers. Miss Carter or something, and some guy who said he teaches you English.’

Miss Carlisle who taught me Soc Ed. And Mr Simmons with the head like a potato.

‘I told ’em I was busy, had a business to run, and could they just tell me over the phone but they said they had to see me face-to-face. You in trouble, Morgan? What are they gonna say, huh?’

‘Dunno,’ I said. But I thought I did know.

‘Okay. But if they’re gonna say anything about you, then I want you there as well. All right? Your side of the story. I don’t trust teachers. Never have.’

I was a bit worried when I went to school. It’s hard there at the best of times and I knew that Dad could make things worse. It would depend on his mood.

Gray came and sat next to me at lunchtime. For once, there wasn’t a soccer game in the yard.

‘How’s it going, Morgan?’

‘Okay.’

‘Did you see the international on TV yesterday? Man, what a game. One down with eight minutes to go, scored in the ninetieth and then got the winner with the last kick of the game. I mean, shit.’ He put his arms in the air. ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi.’

I told him I was going to the soccer club on Tuesday night. I don’t know why I said anything. It was unlike me.

‘I know Sheldon’s,’ he said. ‘It’s a good club. Mind if I come along to watch?’

I shrugged. It’s a free world. But if I have to be honest, I felt a bit glad and a bit scared. Glad because it would be nice to have someone there other than Dad, but scared because I didn’t want Gray to see me fail. I couldn’t figure out why I felt that.

Dad wasn’t in a good mood when I met him at the school gates.

‘Had to leave Mitch in charge,’ he said. Mitch got into the family business as soon as he left school. I think the school was glad to see the back of him. Trouble seemed to follow him around. I knew Dad wanted me to join both of them when I left school. He told us once that he wanted a sign with Pickford and Sons on it. He smiled when he said it, like he was seeing it in his mind. But that was only if I didn’t become a professional soccer player. It was a back-up plan.

‘New customer,’ Dad continued. ‘And it would be just like Mitch to knock off early, leave the job half done.’

I think Dad had given up on Mitch becoming a pro rugby player. He still played and he was still good, so Dad said. But no one else could see his talent. Mitch sometimes got angry at that. And if he failed, then I knew that all Dad’s hopes would turn to me. I could sometimes feel the weight of it on my shoulders.

‘Right, let’s go see this teacher. Miss Carlton?’

‘Carlisle.’

We had to wait for ten minutes outside her classroom while she finished off talking to some other parents, and Dad fidgeted and mumbled, glanced at his watch. Anger was making him move around. Finally, the parents stood, shook Miss Carlisle’s hand and left. Dad and I stepped in and sat on the other side of her desk.

‘Ah, Morgan,’ she said, giving me a smile. She turned to Dad. ‘And you must be Mr Pickford.’ She put out her hand and Dad shook it. Briefly.

‘How’s he getting on?’ said Dad.

‘To be honest, not as well as I’d hope,’ said Miss Carlisle. She glanced down at her teacher’s roll book. There was a whole list of names and grades in it but they were upside down and I couldn’t read them. ‘Morgan seems to be falling behind with his work, I’m afraid. He owes me a couple of assignments, and despite reminders he still hasn’t submitted them.’ She looked straight at me. ‘Is there any reason why you haven’t done them yet, Morgan?’

I lowered my eyes. I always do that when someone looks straight at me. I try not to, but I can’t help it.

‘Dunno,’ I said.

‘Well, you must know,’ said Miss Carlisle. ‘Is it too many assignments in other subjects? Do you not understand what you’re expected to do?’

‘What’s he missing?’ said Dad.

‘Well, the latest assignment was on part of First Nations history. Just eight hundred words, but so far I’ve not seen one.’

‘What’s First Nations history?’

‘Indigenous history. Specifically, this was an assignment on the Stolen Generation.’

‘You believe in that?’ said Dad.

For a moment, Miss Carlisle looked confused. Like the question didn’t make sense. She straightened in her chair.

‘Sorry. Do I believe in what?’

‘The so-called Stolen Generation.’

Miss Carlisle took a deep breath.

‘Do I believe that Indigenous children were forcibly removed from their parents and their culture? Yes, I believe it, Mr Pickford. I believe it because it’s a fact.’

‘Facts depend on who you’re talking to,’ said Dad.

My teacher, already stiff, got a bit stiffer.

‘The definition of a fact is that it doesn’t matter who you’re talking to,’ said Miss Carlisle.

Both adults in the room were getting angry. I had to do something before it got ugly.

‘I’ll do it by Thursday, Miss,’ I said. If I spent lunchtimes in the library I could get something in. Evenings weren’t too good for me. After practice, I’d try to get stuff done but I nearly always fell asleep.

Dad sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

Miss Carlisle unfroze a bit and smiled. But just at me.

‘That’s fine, Morgan. And if you need any help, you know where to find me.’

‘Anything else?’ said Dad.

‘I’m sure Morgan and I will be able to sort it out, Mr Pickford. Thank you for coming in.’

There was no handshake to finish. Dad walked right out and I trailed behind him.

‘Waste of time,’ said Dad. ‘I hate teachers.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘So where’s this English teacher? Let’s get this over with and head home.’

I took him to Mr Simmons’s room. He wasn’t with anyone, so we got straight in. His head still reminded me of a potato, but I was used to him by now. Mr Simmons got up and shook Dad’s hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

Dad grunted.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Morgan’s progress in English,’ said Mr Simmons, sitting back down. ‘He’s missing an assignment, a creative writing piece. If he doesn’t get it in, I’m worried he could fail.’

‘I’ll get it in,’ I said.

Mr Simmons smiled. ‘Glad to hear it, Morgan. Soon, yes?’

I nodded.

‘By the end of the week?’

I nodded again.

‘Is that all?’ said Dad.

‘Just one other thing, Mr Pickford. There is an oral presentation coming up this Thursday. All the students have to stand in front of their classmates and give a talk.’

‘On what?’

‘On a subject of their own choosing.’

‘And?’

‘And I know Morgan is worried about talking in front of his peers.’ Mr Simmons locked his fingers together. ‘I did email you about this, Mr Pickford. I asked for authorisation that he could miss this assignment. Ideally a doctor’s note, but failing that, something from you. Even a verbal agreement that I can find an alternative means of assessment would be okay. You did get my email?’

Dad frowned. ‘I get a lot of emails,’ he said. ‘I miss some. I must’ve missed yours.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Mr Simmons. ‘But I don’t want Morgan to be scared of coming to class, so if you could just …’

‘Scared? You think my son is scared?’

Mr Simmons unlocked his fingers.

There was a silence. My teacher looked like he was thinking.

‘Scared was maybe the wrong word,’ he said finally. ‘Nervous, perhaps. Or apprehensive.’

‘My son isn’t scared.’

‘Like I say, probably a poor choice of words …’

Dad turned to me.

‘You’re not scared of talking in front of the class, are you?’

I shook my head.

Dad went back to Mr Simmons. ‘See? He’s not scared.’

‘But …’

‘You could talk about Diego Maradona,’ Dad said to me. ‘Any subject. That’s right, isn’t it?’ He turned back to my teacher.

‘Of course,’ said Mr Simmons.

‘You know everything about Maradona,’ said Dad. ‘You could talk about him for hours, yeah?’

I nodded.

‘Okay, then,’ said Dad. ‘He’ll talk about Diego Maradona.’

Mr Simmons looked at me.

‘Are you sure, Morgan? I mean, the subject is fine but if you don’t feel you—’

‘We’re done,’ said Dad. ‘Anything else?’

‘No …’

‘Good. Come on, son.’

Again, there was no handshake as he left. But as we got into the corridor, Dad turned and put his hands on my shoulders.

‘Never tell anyone you’re scared, Morgan. You hear me? Never.’

I wanted to say that I hadn’t used the word. But I just nodded.

‘I hate teachers,’ said Dad.

6

I packed my kit bag.

I had no idea what to expect. A soccer club sounded … worrying. There’d be kids there, and adults who weren’t my dad. And the word ‘club’ made me … what had Mr Simmons called it? Nervous. Or something beginning with A. I thought maybe everybody would laugh when they saw me play. A club means something that normal people can’t join. I wasn’t normal, true, but who would want me?

Dad drove me but Mitch stayed at home. I was glad. When we got there, there were kids running around on the pitch. Warming up. Or maybe just having fun. There was lots of laughter. We went to a woman who sat at a table, marking things on a clipboard. Dad paid some money and asked where we could find the coach. The woman pointed out a short man who stood at the edge of the oval, watching the kids. He had a tracksuit on. It was purple and didn’t fit him very well. We went up to him.

He had a face that had smiled a lot. He shook Dad’s hand but he talked to me.

‘Welcome, Morgan. Welcome to Sheldon’s. Ready for some fun?’

I nodded.

‘What do you think your best position is, Morgan?’ He laughed. ‘Or maybe you’re here to find out, hey? What do you say?’

‘He’s a winger,’ said Dad. ‘He’s fast and has great ball-control skills.’

The man in the tracksuit laughed again.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘The Under Fifteens could do with a decent winger. Two, if I’m going to be honest.’ Then he crouched down. ‘But we’ll see, hey, Morgan? Have a kick around, get to know the guys. What do you say?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good. Okay works for me.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The changing rooms are over there.’ He pointed. ‘You’ve got a kit, yeah? Boots and everything?’

‘Of course,’ said Dad.

‘Excellent.’ The man glanced at my bag. ‘Don’t bother with shin guards or anything like that. We’re going to do some warm-ups and then we’ll play a few five-a-side games. No contact stuff. Sound fun?’

It didn’t, but I nodded anyway.

‘Good lad. Off you go.’

It felt … what’s the word? I was having problems with words. Lonely. It felt lonely, walking to the changing rooms. All the other kids were out on the field, running around. It felt even lonelier in the changing rooms, which were empty. I put my boots on and changed into my Australian national kit. A couple of the other players had shirts and shorts like mine. That was good because I already felt like the odd one out. Stepping into the sunshine felt like walking into danger.

Then I saw Gray. He was sitting in the bleachers, and waved at me. Gave a big thumbs up. I didn’t give him a thumbs up back. The coach, Damian – everyone apparently called him by his first name – introduced me to the whole group. I guessed that all the others had been together for some time, because they didn’t seem very friendly. Like I was an extra that was … extra.

We spent half an hour running around, warming up. Then we did some passing practice. The coach then put us into four teams. There were more than twenty players, so a couple of the teams had six a side. But no one seemed to care too much.

‘Guys,’ Damian said. ‘We’re going to play a couple of five-a-side games. Twenty minutes a game and then we move teams around. This is just for fun, okay? And you know the rules. No tackles where you make contact with the opposing player’s body. You must win the ball cleanly. Any rough play and you get a time-out on the sidelines. What do you say?’

Dad didn’t look too impressed. I knew what he was thinking. Soccer was a contact sport. If you couldn’t take the physical contact, you were a fairy. But he didn’t say anything.

The coach clapped his hands. ‘Okay. Yellow and Red teams, you take that pitch.’ He pointed to the furthest part of the oval. ‘Green and White on the other.’

We’d been given coloured bibs. I was on Team Yellow. I followed the rest of the players in yellow and red onto the far pitch. One kid walking beside me kept muttering to himself. ‘What do you say?’ ‘What do you say?’ The guy’s driving me nuts. He didn’t say anything to me until we stepped onto the pitch.

‘You any good, mate?’

I shrugged.

He did a couple of stretches to loosen his hamstrings.

‘Where’ve you played before?’

‘I haven’t. First time.’

He whistled. ‘Okay. Bit of advice. This no-contact stuff is pretty shit, really. All it means is that if you’re fast, you’re going to be all right. Kick it past the opposition and then run like hell.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You look fast. Are you?’

I shrugged.

‘Right-footed?’

I nodded.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Take the right wing and we’ll see what happens.’ He smiled. ‘I know most of the kids here and they’re generally shit. Just remember. Kick and go, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘My name’s Craig, by the way.’ He stuck out his hand and I shook it. There was silence. ‘And you are?’

‘Morgan,’ I said.

‘Good to meet ya. Come on. Let’s kick some butt.’

I noticed the coach standing on the sideline. He was difficult to miss in that bright purple tracksuit. But then the game started and I forgot about him.

It didn’t take long to realise Craig was right. Most of the players weren’t very good. In five-a-side you’ve got to spread out because if you don’t there are all these gaps to run into. The red team didn’t seem to get it. Three of them kept chasing the ball wherever it ended up, so when Craig got the ball he passed to me on the right flank and there was only one opposition player between me and the goal. It was easy. When he tried to close me down, I remembered what Craig said and just kicked the ball past him and ran. In the end I didn’t even have to shoot. I just ran the ball into the open net.

The coach blew his whistle and ran onto the pitch, beckoned the players to him. When we’d gathered he put his hands on his hips.

‘Youse guys,’ he said. ‘How many times have I told ya, hey? How many times? Don’t chase the ball like headless chooks. Stay in position, otherwise you’re gonna be cut apart. You hear me?’

There were mumbled grunts.

‘What have ya gotta do?’

‘Stay in position.’ This was mumbled as well.

‘Okay,’ said the coach. ‘Sort yourselves out and let’s have a proper game. What do you say?’

It was a better game after that. Not much better, but a bit. We won seven–one and I scored four. Craig was probably the best player on the pitch. He seemed to have time on the ball and he could look up and see where the best pass was going to be. He stayed pretty much in midfield. Like I say, I scored four but to be honest it didn’t feel good. Most times it was just running the ball into the net after Craig put me through on goal. Would’ve been harder to miss.

We played a couple of games like that and then the coach gathered us together.

‘Okay, guys,’ he said. ‘How about a proper game before we do the winding-down routines, yeah? Eleven a side, contact allowed. What do you say?’

Turned out there were twenty players after a couple of kids had to go home, so we were ten a side. I was on the yellow team with Craig. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there were a few girls in both teams. Dad wouldn’t be pleased. He reckoned it wasn’t a game for girls.

We went one down after about five minutes. Our goalie dived over a weak shot from outside the area and the ball trickled into the net. After that, Yellow team got better. I had a couple of runs down the right flank and put in a couple of crosses, but no one got on the end of them. Then, with ten minutes to go, I got the ball just inside our half. I looked up but there were no players running into space, so I put my head down and ran. I slipped past one defender, cut inside another and ran to the edge of the area. When I glanced up there were still no teammates around, so I slowed down. One defender, a big guy but really slow, came in to tackle, so I dipped my shoulder, sold him a dummy and cut inside onto my left foot. The defender slipped onto his arse. Their goalie ran towards me, narrowing the angle, so I chipped him. It was kinda perfect, the ball curling into the top left corner. One–one.

Craig patted me on the back as we ran back for kick-off.

‘Great run, mate,’ he said. ‘And great finish.’

And that’s how the match ended. One–one. We should have won, though, because in the last minute I did another mazy run along the touchline, rounded the keeper and slid the ball back for Craig who was unmarked with an open goal in front of him. He tried to slam the ball home and ballooned it over the bar. It was kinda funny in a way, especially the look on his face. He told me he was sorry. I told him I didn’t care.

The coach applauded as we walked off after the final whistle.

‘Good game, Morgan,’ he whispered as I went past.

Dad had his arms folded.

We did some warm-downs after and the coach took me to one side.

‘You’ve got pace, Morgan,’ he said. ‘And, more importantly, time on the ball. Thought I’d give you a go in the second elevens next Sunday. What do you say?’

‘Okay,’ I said.

Gray came into the change rooms as I was getting out of my kit.

‘Whoa, dude.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Man of the match. That chip over the keeper. Bent into the top corner. Sweet as.’

‘Thanks.’

Even some of the other kids gave me a smile and a Good job as I walked to the car. I felt … I felt happy. Yeah. I felt happy.

Dad was quiet as we drove home, but it was the kind of quiet that seemed dangerous. Like it could explode at any moment. So I didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask him what he thought of my first game, but I knew he’d tell me when he was ready. It turned out he was ready when we’d pulled into our drive and he’d turned the engine off. He leaned back in the seat but didn’t look at me.

‘That last run of yours,’ he said. ‘When that dropkick missed an open goal. What were you thinking, Morgan? I mean, what were you thinking?’

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t really understand the question, to be honest. I hadn’t been thinking at all. But I couldn’t tell Dad that.

‘You threw away the match,’ he continued. ‘Just gave it away like it didn’t mean anything.’ This time he did turn to me. ‘I’m disappointed,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed in you. You know better. If someone tackled you fair and square or the keeper pulled off a great save, well, okay, I’d understand. But you had the goal at your mercy and instead of wrapping up the match you passed to someone who’s nowhere near as good as you. What was that about?’

I could’ve told him what that was about. Craig had really helped me with his passes. He deserved a goal. I’d tried to give him one. But I reckoned Dad wouldn’t like that, so I said nothing.

‘Don’t ever do that again,’ Dad continued. ‘You hear me?’

I nodded.

‘You’ll die before you give away a certain goal. Say it to me.’

‘I’ll die before I give away a certain goal.’

‘You’d better mean it.’

And Dad got out of the car. I sat there for a moment before I got my bag out of the boot and followed him into the house.

That night I dreamed of the chipped goal. The way it felt as it left my boot, the way it bent and dipped through the air. The congratulations from the rest of Yellow team. The smile on the coach’s face. But most of all, I dreamed of the look on Gray’s face and the way he clapped his hand on my shoulder.

7

I spent all of Wednesday and Thursday lunchtimes in the library and got my Soc Ed assignment done. It wasn’t eight hundred words. In fact, it was just under five hundred and quite a bit of it came from the internet, but I hoped Miss Carlisle wouldn’t notice.

Most of that time, though, was spent on my oral presentation for Mr Simmons, which was due on the first lesson after lunch on Thursday. I knew pretty much everything about Diego Maradona, but I also knew that without notes I’d dry up. So I put down the basic stuff on yellow slips of paper. He was born in 1960 and died in 2020. He was one of the two joint winners of the FIFA Player of the 20th Century award and was nicknamed El Pibe de Oro, the Golden Boy, in his home country, Argentina. He won the World Cup in 1986 after scoring both goals in the quarter final against England. The first he punched into the net – a goal that became known as the Hand of God – but his second was a sixty-metre dribble that took him past five England players and was voted Goal of the Century by FIFA voters. There was other stuff. I hoped I’d be able to remember it.

I’d thought about writing it all down and learning it off by heart. I knew Mr Simmons wouldn’t let me just read from pieces of paper. He’d said that over and over to the class. But there was no way I’d remember all those words. It wouldn’t work. So I hoped that the slips of paper would jog me if I froze. I was pretty certain I’d freeze.

I sat at the back of the class and watched as other kids did their presentations. Most of them weren’t very good, but they did them. You were supposed to talk for four or five minutes. I reckoned I’d be lucky to get to two. I say I watched, but to be honest most of the time I was thinking about what it was going to be like to get up there, with kids staring at me and waiting to hear what I had to say. So when my name was called I was already covered in a layer of sweat. It made my skin itchy.

I got up and walked down the aisle to the front of the class. My legs felt like they weren’t mine and I banged into some kid’s desk as I went past. Sent his book and pens to the floor. He said something to me as I thought about picking them up, but I didn’t hear it. I didn’t pick up his things either. I held on to my slips of paper like they could save my life. Maybe they could. When I got to the front of the teacher’s desk I turned around. Slowly. I really wanted to keep my eyes on the floor, or better still, on the slips of paper, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked up at the class.

Suddenly my throat closed up, like there was something hard stuck down there. It was that row of faces, all looking at mine. I forgot how to breathe and my right leg started to shake. Take a deep breath, I said to myself, but that didn’t work because, like I say, I’d forgotten how to. There was a ringing in my ears. It was faint, but annoying. I shook my head but it didn’t go away. I looked down at my first slip of paper. Obviously my body must have remembered something, because I didn’t pass out. Air was getting to me somehow. The slip of paper shook and I couldn’t see the words, even though I’d made them big.

The silence was the worst thing. Apart from the ringing in my ears and the thumping of my heart and the rustling of the paper and the beat of my right foot against the floor, all I could hear was … nothing. It was a nothing I was meant to break. Diego Maradona. Diego Maradona. Diego Maradona was one of the greatest footballers of all time. Just say it.

‘Diego Maradona was …’ My voice sounded weird. It was small and I wondered if anyone else could hear it. The thought made me stop. Now my left leg was starting to go. I was a jelly, up there in front of everybody, with nothing to say. A drop of sweat hit the slip of paper and smudged a couple of words.

‘Diego Maradona was one of the best,’ I said. Best at what? I’d missed something important.

‘At football. He was really good. He …’

I shifted to the next slip. It had his stats on it.

‘The Hand of God,’ I said.

Someone laughed. I needed to put my hand on something to keep me steady, but there was nothing there.

‘The Hand of God,’ I said again. ‘When he scored.’ Who did he score against? ‘Handball. Against England.’

‘He died in …’ When had he died? I knew this. ‘He died,’ I said.

There was more laughter. I wiped the sweat from my forehead but it didn’t make any difference.

‘Diego was one of the greatest. He had problems with drugs. Lots of them. But he was, like … great. Thank you.’ The words tumbled out.

I walked back to my seat. Surrounded by silence.

Mr Simmons said, ‘Thank you, Morgan. Next up is Fiona Claridge.’

I didn’t hear the rest of the presentations. I just kept my head close to my desk. Some of my slips had fallen to the floor but I didn’t bother picking them up. I could see the yellow out of the corners of my eyes. They seemed like something dead or dying.

Mr Simmons asked me to stay behind at the end. I knew he would. He didn’t make me go to the front of the class. He came up to my desk when all the others had gone, took a chair and sat, facing me. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

There was a long silence.

‘That was possibly the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,’ he said finally.

I didn’t say anything.

‘Can I tell you a story, Morgan?’ he said.

I nodded. What else could I do?

‘Five years ago, I went into my first ever class. As a proper teacher, I mean. It was a Year Ten class and it had … what can I say? Some challenging students. Another teacher had given me the heads-up.’

He laughed and this time I looked up.

‘I had a lesson prepared. Boy, had I prepared it! I knew what I was going to say because I’d been over and over and over it. But when I got into the classroom …’ He put a hand to his potato head and sighed. ‘It all went, Morgan. Poof. Like it had never been. I stood there, in front of the class and they were looking at me, you know? Like it was my responsibility to say something, get the lesson started, tell them what to do.’ He laughed again. ‘Probably so they could ignore me, but, hey, it was my responsibility. It was my job. And I couldn’t do it. I looked at them and my heart started hammering as if it was trying to get out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I started shaking. Does this sound familiar?’ But he didn’t wait for me to say anything. ‘And I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. There was nothing there to start with. And some of the kids started laughing and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t blame them. I was meant to be in charge and I wasn’t. I wasn’t.’

He took a deep breath.

‘To be honest, Morgan, just thinking about that brings it all back. I was terrified. Shit-scared.’

I looked up at him again. Teachers didn’t swear. I’d never heard one swear. This was strange.

‘I don’t know how I managed to get through that lesson. Maybe I’ve blocked it all out. But I got through it. No one died.’ He put his hands on my desk. ‘Well, I did, but only metaphorically. Look at me, Morgan.’

I hadn’t realised I’d dropped my head again.

‘What you did took courage. That’s what I say to myself when I think back to my first few months teaching. I wasn’t knocked out. I kept standing. That’s what you did today. You did it, Morgan. And you should be proud.’

I knew what he was trying to do and I liked that he was trying it. But it was just words. It was kindness. I knew I had failed.

‘Tell me about Diego Maradona, Morgan,’ he said.

So I did. I talked for five minutes. With some help from Mr Simmons when I got stuck.

‘You’ve got a C,’ he said when I was done. ‘A for bravery, C for the assignment. Okay? It’s a pass.’

I nodded.

‘You can go, Morgan,’ he said. When I got to the door, his words stopped me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being scared, you know. It’s part of being human.’ I didn’t get what he was saying, so I didn’t say anything. ‘But I still need that creative piece.’ He smiled. ‘Get it to me when you can.’

I left.

8

The argument woke me from a deep sleep. Hard words from downstairs bounced up to my room, snuck under the door and hit my ears.

I lay in bed listening, but I couldn’t work out what was being said. It was like a rumble of noise, sometimes building, sometimes dropping down again. But I know when anger is growing, so I got out of bed and carefully opened my bedroom door. Its hinges squeak, but there was no way that they could be heard above the noise. I took a couple of steps down the stairs and sat down. I still couldn’t hear all the words, but I could hear enough. Dad and Mitch. There were a lot of swear words, but I won’t write them down. Not the very bad ones. They didn’t really do anything, anyway, those bad swear words. They were just like those bright sprinkle things you put on cakes.

‘The business is shithouse, Dad,’ Mitch was yelling. ‘You go on like this and you’ll be bankrupt in six months. You hear me? It’s (couldn’t hear)… toilet.’

‘And what (couldn’t hear)… hey, Mitchell? You know nothing about business, so don’t you tell (???)… Wasn’t for me, you’d never earn a cent. Lazy (???)… too much time (bad word) around in the gym—’

‘Dad (???)… hand over fist. Gotta lay off at least one of the men, not enough work for (???)…’

‘I am not (bad word) sacking anyone.’ This was very loud and very clear. ‘You hear me? If I was gunna lay someone off it’d be you, yer lazy piece of shit, but I’m not gunna do it. Not gunna happen.’

‘Why? You like paying out wages you can’t afford? Think you’re some kind of hot shit (???) businessman? There’s not enough work out there, Dad. What there is, we could probably do between us. You can’t afford the others.’

‘We got? We got? Since when did you (bad word) hire people, huh? Since when did you build a business up from scratch, with nothing but (???)… tell me how to run a business.’

‘Dad.’ Mitch’s voice got lower, so I missed quite a lot of the next bit. ‘Basic money. We got (????) coming in and going out we (???)… genius to work out (???)… if you got two thousand a week in and three thousand out, then (???)… all I’m saying.’

The door downstairs opened and I froze. If someone was coming upstairs they’d see me sitting there, listening. I didn’t know if anyone would care. I didn’t know if anyone would even notice me, given I’m always in the background. Like wallpaper or something. But the thought scared me anyway. I didn’t move, though.

Dad’s voice now. Very loud and very clear. ‘Let me tell you something, Mitch. I will not sack anyone. My business … not yours or ours, mine… will grow. I will not take a backward step. Yeah, we’re goin’ through a slow patch—’

‘Slow?’ I could hear Mitch better now with the door open.

‘Slow. Yeah. So instead of giving up, you should be (bad word) out there getting more work for us. You know, doing something for once rather than sitting on your arse pretending you don’t know (bad word) all.’

‘Your advertising is shithouse, Dad. You think leaflets and word of mouth is going to get us more work? You’re a (bad word) dinosaur.’

‘(Bad word) you, Mitch.’

‘Right back at yer, Dad. You know what?’

‘What?’

‘You’re scared. You’re scared shitless that you’re not the brilliant self-made man you crack up to be. So you stick your head in the sand and piss around while you go broke.’

‘I AM NOT SCARED.’ The loudest yet. ‘I AM SCARED OF NOTHING AND NO ONE. DO YOU HEAR ME? NOTHING.’

‘Sure, Dad. I hear you. Even though your head’s in the sand.’

I got to my feet and snuck back into my room, closed the door and slipped under the covers. I didn’t need to hear any more. And they seemed to be done, at least for the time being.

I wasn’t worried. Dad and Mitch had really bad arguments all the time and I knew that when I got up in the morning they’d be exactly the same as normal. It was strange. You’d reckon the things they said to each other would be hard to forget and even harder to forgive. But it didn’t stick in their heads. They forgot about it. Joked around like none of it had happened.

So it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep again. But as I did, one thought kept buzzing in my head. Dad is scared. Dad is scared. I didn’t know if that was true. Mitch had said it to hurt him and he knew Dad’s weak spots, so maybe it wasn’t.

But maybe it was. And if Dad was scared then I didn’t know him at all. And that scared me.

Friday lunchtime I sat in my normal place. I’d forgotten to make my lunch and I had no money to go to the canteen. My fault.

The counsellor came and sat next to me. I knew she was the school counsellor because she had given us talks in class, but I couldn’t remember her name. I didn’t know why she was sitting next to me.

‘Hello, Morgan,’ she said.

‘Hi.’

‘How are you today?’

‘Good.’

I wanted her to go away but I didn’t know how to tell her.

‘That’s great to hear.’ She put both hands on her knees and stared off at the soccer game going on in the yard. I could see her from the corner of my eye. There was silence for quite a long time.

‘Do you know what week this is, Morgan?’

I couldn’t remember exactly. Most weeks at school are like every other week at school.

‘Week three?’

The counsellor laughed.

‘No. I didn’t mean that. I meant that this week is RUOK week. Do you know what that is?’

I was pretty sure I did, but explaining it would be too much trouble. Plus, I might be wrong.

‘No.’

‘It’s the week when we ask each other if the other person is okay. You know, checking up that no one is sitting on troubles that might be damaging them. Getting things out in the open or simply letting someone know that you care and that you’re there for them.’

‘Okay.’

She patted herself on the knees.

‘So, I’m going round the school, checking that everyone is fine. Are you okay, Morgan?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ But there was something in her voice that told me she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know what it was, but it was there. I thought this was strange because I was okay. Apart from forgetting my lunch.

‘You seem to spend a lot of time by yourself, Morgan.’ She’d shifted in her seat and her head was now turned to me. I kept my eyes straight ahead. ‘Do you have any friends at school?’

I shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘One.’

‘Who’s that?’

I nodded towards the soccer game. Gray had the ball, although by the time I’d finished the nod, he’d lost it. Some kid took it off his toes. Gray was right. He wasn’t any good. But he was smiling like his face was going to split in two as he trotted back to his own goal.

‘Who? Gray?’ asked the counsellor.

‘Yeah.’ I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I thought it might make her go away a bit quicker.

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Gray is a lovely boy. He’d be a great friend to have. He’s … sensitive.’

She stood and brushed her skirt down. I don’t know why. It’s not like she could’ve got any crumbs on it or anything.

‘Well, I’d better move on, Morgan,’ she said. ‘But if you need anyone to talk to, then you know where to find me, yeah?’

‘Talk about what?’ I said.

‘Anything at all,’ she said. ‘Any time, any subject. My door is always open.’

I think she expected me to say something, because she didn’t walk off. But I didn’t really know what to say. Then something came to me.

‘Are you okay, Miss?’

She laughed.

‘I’m good, Morgan. Thanks for asking. You have a lovely day now, and remember what I said.’

‘Okay.’

When she’d gone, Gray came and sat next to me.

‘What did Miss Farter want?’

‘Farter?’

‘The counsellor. Miss Farmer but everyone calls her Farter.’ Gray laughed. ‘It’s a woeful play on words and no one can remember who made it up, but it’s stuck.’

‘She wanted to know if I was okay.’

‘That’s her job,’ said Gray. ‘Helluva job, that. I mean, what qualifications do you need to go around a school asking if kids are okay? I could do that. Piece of piss.’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Then again,’ Gray continued, ‘when some kid says no, I guess that’s when she earns her money.’

‘Who’d say no?’

‘Me,’ said Gray. ‘Year before last. She asked me if I was okay and I wasn’t. I was a long way from okay.’

Was I supposed to ask why? I didn’t know, so I kept quiet.

‘Miss Farter is actually pretty cool,’ said Gray. ‘She helped me out loads.’

‘What with?’

‘My identity.’

That made no sense to me. I was pleased when Gray changed the subject.

‘See how I lost the ball then? Told you I was crap at football. I’m embarrassing.’

I knew I should say something to that. No, you’re not embarrassing? I sure as hell couldn’t agree he was. But I couldn’t work out what to say after that. Maybe that I was the one who should be embarrassed because I couldn’t keep up a conversation worth a shit.

‘Mind if I come along to watch the game on Sunday?’ he said.

‘How’d you know I’m playing?’

‘Asked What-do-you-say Damian. He told me.’

‘Sure.’

Gray stood and took a couple of paces, then turned back to me.

‘Are you okay, Morgan?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said after a few seconds. He looked at me again with those eyes that seemed to see your insides. ‘Not yet, you’re not.’

Mitch met me after school. He drives this big-arse ute with outsize knobbly wheels. It’s got a Bogan Mullet sticker across the top of the windscreen and it makes a lot of noise. I knew he wasn’t meeting me to be nice. He wanted something.

We drove off in a cloud of fumes and he didn’t seem to care about the forty speed limit.

Ten minutes later we stopped outside his gym. He picked up a canvas bag from the ute’s tray and handed me a bundle of leaflets.

‘Here ya go, Moron,’ he said. ‘Three hundred leaflets. Get them into letterboxes around this area, okay?’ He wagged a finger in my face. ‘And no dumping them in the nearest rubbish bin, ya hear? When you’re done, wait here and I’ll give you a lift home.’ He shifted the bag onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll be about an hour and a half.’

And he disappeared into the gym.

I looked at one of the flyers. It had Pickford Gardening Services at the top, with Dad’s mobile underneath. Beneath that was a list:

Garden rubbish removal

General landscaping

Lawn mowing and maintenance

Tree pruning and removal

No Job Too Big Or Small

It was a hot afternoon and I was already sweating. I’d be worse by the time I got these done. Dad would’ve told Mitch that we should both do it, but that was never going to happen. I kept the bundle in my left hand, plucked a leaflet out and held it in my right. Then I started walking.

I was twenty minutes in, and sticking a leaflet into a letterbox when an old woman appeared from a garden bed by the front gate. She must’ve been crouching down because I didn’t see her until she popped up. It was a bit of a shock, but better than the dogs I’d come across. Some of them wanted to kill me. You could see it in their eyes and the way their teeth flashed behind the fences.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What’s this?’ She took the leaflet from me. Then she handed it back again. ‘Need my reading glasses,’ she said, ‘and they’re inside. What does it say, young man?’

‘My dad’s business,’ I said. ‘Gardening services. Mowing lawns, taking rubbish away. That kind of thing.’

‘Gardening.’ She looked at me with wet eyes. I’m not big, but she was even smaller. ‘You work with your father?’

I nodded.

‘So you know about gardening?’

‘Well …’

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’d welcome your advice.’

I could’ve said I was the last person to give advice, but she was really old and I didn’t want to be rude. So I stepped inside.

She pointed to a raised garden bed. Some straggly plants peeped over the edge. They looked sick as.

‘Bird’s eye chillies,’ she said. ‘Had a bumper crop last time, but these are poorly. Leaves drooping. I think they’re dying. Any idea what’s wrong with them?’

I crouched down. I don’t know why. Close up or far away, I had no idea. But it seemed the right thing to do. The plants were dying. That much was clear. The leaves hung down like they were thirsty, like nothing was getting through to them.

‘I water them,’ said the old woman. ‘But I don’t over-water them. I’ve put on fertiliser and I sprayed them with insect killer. But nothing has done any good.’

I reached out and touched one of the leaves. Again, not because I thought it would tell me anything, but because it was something to do. A small puff of white burst from under the leaf, drifted and twirled in the air. I jerked my hand back. I hadn’t expected it. Then I saw that some of the white had landed on my hand. It was as if the leaves had dandruff. But this dandruff was alive. I crouched lower and saw that, underneath, all the leaves were covered in this fine white dust. None on the top, just below.

I got up.

‘I think you’ve got something eating this,’ I said.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘What? Like I say, I’ve tried insect killer.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s white.’

‘Mould?’

‘No. I think it’s an insect.’

We stood together and looked down at the plants.

‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it another spray and if that doesn’t work …’ She looked up at me and smiled. Her face was covered in wrinkles and her teeth were very white. ‘It’s not the end of the world, is it? A few plants. But thanks for looking, young man. I appreciate it. I really do.’

‘No worries.’

She cocked her head to one side.

‘You’re Sean, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘My name’s Morgan.’

‘Are you sure?’

This was such a weird question that I couldn’t think of an answer.

I left. I still had two hundred leaflets to deliver and I knew if I didn’t get back to the gym by the time Mitch got out, I’d have to walk home. That was a long way and it was hot.

Lying in bed that night I did a google search on my phone. I checked out images. It wasn’t difficult to find.

Spiralling whitefly. Not a fly, but a sap-sucking bug. Leaves spiral patterns of white eggs underneath the leaves of plants, making them difficult to spot unless you’re looking for them.

I read about their life cycles. They’re normally introduced by bringing in infected plants. Insecticides don’t do much good. Use neem oil or white oil to coat them and suffocate them. Diluted dishwashing liquid sometimes works if you soak the plants.

I got out of bed and went downstairs. Dad and Mitch looked up from the game on the TV as I passed the front room.

‘Hot date, Moron?’ shouted Mitch. Dad laughed.

There was a torch in the shed, but its batteries were very low. The dim light meant it took some time to search through Dad’s gardening supplies but I found what I wanted eventually. A bottle of white oil. Judging by the dust I reckon it must’ve been there for years but I also figured stuff like that doesn’t go off. Does it? I put it into the pocket of my pyjamas and took it to my room.

That night I dreamed of spiralling whitefly.

How weird is that?

9

Most of Saturday was taken up helping Dad and Mitch with some gardening work. They did the stuff with chainsaws and I lugged what they cut down to the back of the truck. Then Mitch and I drove it to the tip while Dad cut the grass. Dad’s business ran seven days a week, but on weekends it was just the three of us. Dad paid the other two workers for five days a week but he couldn’t afford to pay them for Saturdays and Sundays.

That night, we had some football practice so I’d be ready for the game on Sunday. Mitch wasn’t really interested. I think he was tired after the day’s work, so I wasn’t on the painful end of too many crunching tackles. I was okay with that.

Afterwards, Dad gave me a poster and told me to pin it underneath the top bunk, so I could see it when I was lying in bed. Mitch didn’t sleep on the top anymore. For years I’d wanted to be up there, but when he went into the other bedroom I couldn’t be bothered. I liked the way the bottom bunk kept me gathered in, like a cave or something. Safe.

The poster. Well, it was just a sheet of ordinary paper; I think Dad had printed it out from the internet. It had a picture of a sky full of stars. The words read: The darkest night produces the brightest stars.

‘Think about this,’ Dad said. ‘If you are to be the brightest star, like Diego Maradona, then you must go through the dark bits first. The practice. Working hard even when you don’t want to. You understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Nobody gives you nothing in this world, Morgan. Whatever you get you have to earn.’

I couldn’t see the poster when I went to sleep, even though it was just above my head. But I knew what it said.

I didn’t get much of a kick in the soccer game. The Sheldon’s Under Fifteen second team versus Burbridge second eleven. Craig was our captain and I was pleased to see him because I didn’t know too many of the other kids. As we reached the centre circle, Craig brought us all into a huddle. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders and leaned in so our heads were almost touching.

‘Listen up, guys,’ said Craig. ‘Burbridge are a useful team. I’ve seen a few of their games and they’re really solid defensively.’ He laughed. ‘They’re solid because most of their defenders are built like brick shithouses and they’re not afraid to get physical.’ He patted me on my shoulder. ‘But they don’t have the skills we have and they don’t have the pace. Whenever you get the chance, spread the ball to the wings, to Morgan here and to Joe on the other flank. If we get in behind them we’ll do some damage. Yeah? Understood?’

There were nods all round.

‘Okay,’ he continued. ‘Hands together, let’s give them hell.’

We joined our hands in the centre of the circle we’d made with our bodies and brought them down in a big swoop. Then we trotted up to our positions on the field. I watched the opposition team line up. Craig was right. Some of their defenders looked like they’d spent hours in the gym. Their shirts bulged. It was as if I had four Mitches in front of me waiting to break every bone in my body. But I wasn’t that worried. I’d faced that stuff before in my back garden and I’d survived.

Maybe I’d have something to thank my brother for.

Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. The first time I got the ball I was on the halfway line, my back towards their goal. Next thing I was on the ground and the referee had blown his whistle. I’d been pushed in the back. It felt like I’d collided with a train.

‘C’mon ref,’ yelled the defender, his arms raised. ‘Hardly made contact there and he went down like a sack of potatoes.’ He reached down and helped me to my feet but when he spoke close to my ear, no one else would’ve been able to hear. ‘Ya can’t run with a broken leg, mate. Something to think about.’

It became clear early on that I was being man-marked closely. Sometimes that one big guy, sometimes two. They’d pull my shirt when I tried to turn them and if I got away from that they’d just take my legs from underneath me. Sometimes the ref blew for a foul, sometimes he didn’t. I could see Dad on the touchline going crazy, waving his hands in the air, but I couldn’t tell if he was angry with the referee for not giving fouls or angry with me for going down so often.

I guessed I would find out.

At halftime we were losing one–nil and we’d barely had a sniff at their goal. Coach Damien and Craig brought us together.

‘They’re playing Morgan out of the game,’ said Coach, ‘but that creates space elsewhere. Joe, I want you to roam between the left flank and the centre. Get in the pockets, yeah? What do you say?’

It worked, but it meant I didn’t get much of the ball in the second half. With ten minutes to go, Craig played in Joe who beat the goalie with a shot into the bottom corner. One–one. After that, Burbridge gave me more room, probably because their coach had worked out our coach’s tactics. It was into the last minute when I got my chance. Craig played a long ball behind the defender and I knew it was perfectly weighted. I ran past the defender like he wasn’t there, took the ball just before it went out of play and cut inside. Their defence had come back, but I swerved past one and suddenly there was just the goalie to beat. I was going to score. I knew exactly where I was going to place the ball.

Then I was on the ground and I had no idea how I got there. Our team went up for a penalty but the ref waved away the claims. The whistle blew and we had drawn. We shook hands with the opposition after the game. One of the bulldozer guys grinned at me. ‘Need to stay on your feet, mate. Not dance around like a pansy.’ I didn’t say anything back.

Gray caught up with me after I’d changed.

‘Decent game, that,’ he said. ‘Brawn versus brains, but the real difference was that last chance. Stone-cold penalty but, hey, sometimes you get them, sometimes you don’t. I hope you gave the ref heaps. Told him he should’ve gone to Specsavers.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You ever come up against players like that? The ones who think they’re hard as nails and are only interested in playing the man, not the ball?’

I had, but only against Mitch. Not in a proper game. Then again, this was my first proper game so I didn’t have much to go on.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘Thought not. Given space, you’re like a rat up a drainpipe. Fast as. But you’ve got to learn how to play against teams that just want to spoil. That’s all about how to stay on your feet, even when they’re doing everything they can to knock you down. Especially then.’

I nodded.

‘You looked a bit lost out there sometimes,’ he added. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

I shrugged.

‘If you want help,’ said Gray, ‘then I’ve got a mate who knows all the defender’s tricks. Shirt tugging, nudges, even the word in your ear some of them are fond of giving. I could talk to him, if you like. See if we could get in some practice, sharpen up the physical side of your game.’

‘I don’t know.’ I couldn’t see how that was going to work. Dad wouldn’t let anyone else come round to our house. Especially someone who was supposed to help with my football. There was only one coach allowed near me.

‘Think about it.’

‘Okay.’

Dad put my kit into his truck without saying a word but I didn’t like the way his silence sounded. Does that even make sense? I told him I would walk home and he didn’t argue. Just drove off. I knew I was only postponing his verdict on my game, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t in the mood.

Gray put an arm round my shoulder.

‘Going straight home?’ he asked.

‘Nearly,’ I said. I told him what I wanted to do.

‘Mind if I come with you?’

I shrugged. It’s a free world. Everyone says that.

The old woman wasn’t in her garden, but her gate was unlocked and she answered the door after a minute of knocking. She looked at me and Gray as if she’d never seen either of us before. That was true of Gray, of course. Then she screwed up her eyes and smiled.

‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘Sean.’

‘Morgan,’ I said. ‘I looked at your plants last week.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you got a spray bottle?’ I said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A spray bottle.’

She put a finger to her chin.

‘Well, I’ve got a surface cleaner spray that’s almost done,’ she said. ‘I could empty the rest out. Why do you want it?’

I pointed at the plants in the garden bed. They seemed even worse, like they’d given up and were just waiting to die.

‘Spiralling whitefly,’ I said. ‘I might be able to get rid of them for you.’ I’d brought the bottle of white oil to the game with me.

While I was spraying the underside of the leaves, the old woman brought out lemonade, and she and Gray sat in garden chairs. Judging by the laughter, they were having a good time. I made sure that I’d got a film of oil on every surface, then I handed the bottle to the woman.

‘Give it a week,’ I said. ‘Then spray them again. Cover all the leaves. The whiteflies are hard to get rid of, so you might need to do it a few times.’

I didn’t drink the lemonade and I didn’t take the fifty dollars she tried to give me. I was tempted. Fifty dollars for five minutes of work was nuts. But …

‘Might not work,’ I said. ‘Can’t take money for something that mightn’t work.’

‘You’re a rare one, Sean,’ she said. ‘Gives me hope for the future.’

I had no idea what she meant, so I didn’t reply. And I was tired of telling her my name.

‘Maybe you could come back in a week,’ she said. ‘Check to see if the chillies have recovered. If they have, I’ll pay you.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said.

‘I’d like you to come back,’ she said. ‘This garden is getting a bit too hard for me at my age and there are some other things you could help me with. Like my irrigation, which seems to have given up the ghost. What do you think? I’ll pay you, obviously.’

‘We’ll be back, Mary,’ said Gray. ‘Irrigation’s not a problem, is it, Morgan?’

I shook my head. But I wondered why she wanted me. I mean, she had Dad’s flyer. I’d given it to her, though it didn’t mention irrigation. Maybe she’d lost it or couldn’t find her glasses.

I had no idea what irrigation even meant.

Dad didn’t say anything about the match until we’d finished dinner. He’d brought home some fried chicken. Mitch was out somewhere.

‘Crap game, Morgan,’ he said. ‘Really crap game.’

I’d hoped I’d got away with it, but I guess that was never going to happen.

‘I should have had a penalty,’ I said.

‘Should have, should have,’ said Dad. He waved his hand like he was brushing away flies. ‘Yeah, the ref was blind, but most are anyway. The point I’m making is you should never have gone to ground in the first place.’

I didn’t really understand. I couldn’t have stayed on my feet. When you’re running fast and someone nudges you, you have to fall over. There’s no choice involved. But I couldn’t tell Dad that, so I waited.

‘How many times have you watched that Maradona goal, Morgan? The goal of the century against England in the 1986 World Cup.’

I shrugged. I’d lost count.

Dad pointed a finger at me. ‘You think those defenders weren’t trying? That they just waved Maradona through? “There you go, mate. Don’t mind us!” They tried to foul him, Morgan. They’d have done anything to knock him on his arse, probably been happy to take a red card afterwards, but they couldn’t get near him. And do you know why?’

I thought I did, but Dad didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Because his balance was perfect. He rode those challenges – yeah, got the slight nudge, but he didn’t go to ground. He kept going. Nothing was going to stop him from scoring. Nothing. He didn’t do what so many players do nowadays – fall to the floor as if they’ve been shot, roll around like freaking fairies. So let me ask you this. Are you a fairy, Morgan?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t act like one. Toughen up, princess, because you were an embarrassment out there today. You hear me? An embarrassment.’

I thought about defending myself, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

‘I hear you, Dad,’ I said.

There’s a streetlight across the road from my bedroom window. Sometimes it’s on and sometimes it’s off. Tonight it was on.

The poster was above my head as I lay in bed. The light meant I could see it. Not proper stars, but if I tried really hard they seemed like them.

I dreamed of the old lady, lemonade, flies and Gray. It was a strange dream. Even stranger when a woman I didn’t know came into it. She had dark hair and eyes that had seen too much pain. I thought it might have been my mother.

I didn’t have a mum, but I did have a mother who was both dead and alive at the same time. And I was glad she’d turned up, even if it was only in a dream.

10

Gray sat with me most lunchtimes. We watched the game going on in the yard, if there was one, and talked all things soccer.

I told him things he probably didn’t know about Maradona. Even stuff about Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. He must’ve known some of it, but I just carried on talking, which doesn’t happen very often, and Gray sat there, listening. He only spoke when my words dried up.

‘It’s a bit of an obsession with you, isn’t it, Morgan? This Maradona thing.’

‘He’s the greatest ever,’ I said.

‘No doubt,’ said Gray. ‘But he played in a different era, often against players who today wouldn’t be called fully fit and professional. It’s a different game now, that’s all I’m saying. Makes it hard to compare. Anyway, maybe you shouldn’t model yourself on someone from the past.’

This was a strange idea. If I was going to model myself on someone, why not the best? I put this to Gray.

‘Why model yourself on anyone?’ he said. ‘Why not just be Morgan Pickford? Or don’t you think he’s good enough?’

‘You’re weird, Gray.’

He laughed.

‘Do you know, that’s the first time you’ve ever said anything about me, to me? First time you’ve made a judgement. Weird, huh? Sure. That’s a fair comment.’

We sat for a minute or two in silence.

‘Know what, Morgan?’ he said finally. ‘I think we’re becoming friends, you and me.’

‘Because we’re both weird?’ I said.

‘Because likes attract,’ he said.

I failed my Soc Ed assignment. Miss Carlisle kept me behind one day and told me what I’d done was plagiarism. She had to explain what that meant. Then she said that if I could put what I’d written into my own words, she would give me another chance. Otherwise I’d definitely fail the subject. I think she tried to make it clear that she was doing me a really big favour because she asked that I not tell anyone about this second chance. I nodded. I wasn’t going to say that no one, apart from Gray, talked to me anyway, so there wasn’t much chance of it slipping out.

I promised I’d try. But to be honest, failing the subject didn’t scare me much. I knew Dad wouldn’t give a rat’s.

So on Friday lunchtime I went to the Learning Resource Centre. My English teacher said it used to be a library but then someone took away all the books and put in rows of computers and gave it a different name. I should’ve done the assignment for Miss Carlisle, but I looked up irrigation on the internet instead.

It seemed really hard. Some of the kits they sold at Bunnings had things like irrigation solenoid valves, and I had no idea how to put in stuff like that. I hoped the old lady had a simple system, attached to a standpipe. If so, I might be able to do something with it. Even then there were sprinklers, hosing and tap timers that I’d have to get my head around. By the time the bell went for the end of lunch I’d worked some things out. The Soc Ed assignment wasn’t one of them.

I’d been to soccer practice at Sheldon’s on the Tuesday and Thursday evenings and spent some time working on keeping my balance at speed. I got the feeling that maybe I was thinking too much about what my body was doing, rather than trusting it. As Mitch liked pointing out, thinking had never been my strong point.

So I tried to work on instinct and I got better.

Gray helped as well. He arranged for his mate, Rajeev, to meet us at a local park after school, and Rajeev defended against me for an hour or two, while Gray gave me tips on how to read body language, like how a dip of the shoulder might indicate where another player might be positioning himself. Rajeev was physical, tugging at my shirt, trying to unsettle me, put me off my game. It was tricky at first.

But I think I got better.

I was going to play for the Under Fifteen second eleven again on Sunday.

‘You know,’ said Gray, ‘I’ve watched you play for quite a while now, and do you know what I think is missing from your game?’

I shook my head.

‘Fun,’ he replied. ‘You don’t seem to be having any fun while you play.’

‘It isn’t about fun,’ I said back. ‘It’s about work.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Do you know what Bill Shankly said?’

‘Who?’

‘He was the manager of Liverpool Football Club, in the old days.’

‘And?’

‘He said football is not a matter of life and death. It’s much more important than that.’

Gray raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything else.

I had my best game on the Sunday, even though we drew again.

It helped that I wasn’t man-marked because that gave me the space to run at the defence. My first goal wasn’t quite like the famous Maradona one but it wasn’t a million miles away, either. I picked up the ball just inside the opposition half and dribbled past three defenders. The goalie came out to narrow the angles, but I sold him a dummy and slotted the ball into the open net. The second came from a corner on the left. The defence headed it out, but I was waiting on the edge of the area and volleyed it through a tangle of defenders. Two up at half-time.

The second half wasn’t as good. They pinned us back in defence and scored two goals from scrambles inside the area. Sloppy goals that we shouldn’t have allowed. Our goalie gave the defence heaps about it. The game moved into the last five minutes and we conceded yet another. This time there wasn’t much that could’ve been done. A cracking shot from twenty-five metres that gave the keeper no chance. Two–nil up to three–two down. Craig didn’t look happy as he put the ball on the centre spot and kicked off again.

I scored the equaliser with a couple of minutes to go. Another mazy run down the right and I took a shot that hit the defender and bounced back to me. I didn’t miss the second time, and suddenly we were back on equal terms. More importantly, I had a hat-trick. In fact, I came close to making it four with virtually the last kick of the game. I slipped past a couple of players, nutmegged the last defender and cracked a shot against the underside of the bar from a narrow angle. The ball bounced away towards the byline and the ref blew for the end of the match.

Everyone clapped me in as we went back to the changing rooms. Dad clapped louder than anyone. But Damian and Gray didn’t seem to have their hearts in it. I felt really good about myself. Why weren’t they as pleased?

I found out when Gray and I walked to the old woman’s house after the game. Dad had patted me on the back and told me he’d order in a bucket of chicken to celebrate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him in such a good mood. Gray and I walked for ten minutes before he said anything.

‘Hat-trick,’ he said. ‘Congratulations, man.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘But you let the team down.’

I was so shocked, I stopped walking. Gray carried on for a couple of steps and then turned back to me.

‘I what?’ I said.

‘You let the team down,’ he said again. ‘Listen to me, Morgan. That game was there for the taking. You know, in the last few minutes. But you blew it.’

‘I scored all three of our goals,’ I pointed out.

‘Yeah, I know. Great stuff. But when it really mattered you only thought about yourself.’

This wasn’t making any sense. But Gray was really … well, he seemed angry.

‘That last shot, where you hit the bar. The angle was way too hard. And you looked up. I saw you. You must have seen two of your teammates completely unmarked in front of goal. A simple pass inside and it would have been a tap-in. Four–three. Game won. But you went for glory.’ He put his palms up. ‘You were selfish. And that cost the team the win.’

I could feel blood rushing into my face. Was this fair? Was it my fault if other players weren’t as good as me? No one else looked like scoring. And I remembered what Dad had said when I tried to gift Craig a goal in that practice match at Sheldon’s. I could only trust my own skill and I had nearly scored the winner.

‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

‘Oh, hey,’ said Gray. ‘It might not be all sorts of things. But one thing is certain. It’s fair.’

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I hate arguments. I’d been pleased with the way I’d played, but I didn’t want to upset the only person in the world who I might call a friend. And maybe, just maybe he was right.

I’d have to think it over.

The old woman only had tubing connected to a standpipe. On the one hand, this meant I could probably fix it. On the other hand, it meant I should fix it and that was going to take time. And money.

I turned the tap on. It was a bit stiff but I reckoned some lubricant could probably sort that. Then I followed the tubes around the garden. Some of the sprinklers were broken from the pipes, while others just didn’t work. A few dribbled water nowhere near the plants. Some of the flower beds weren’t near any sprinklers at all. Gray followed me around.

‘Should be pretty straightforward, hey, Morgan?’ he said.

I grunted. I hadn’t forgotten his words from earlier and I sure as hell hadn’t forgiven them. Then I thought I was probably being childish.

‘Never done this before,’ I said, ‘but I should be able to work it out.’

Mary brought us some more lemonade and this time I did drink it. Gray chatted to her like they were old friends while I looked up supplies on the Bunnings website on my phone. Tap timer about forty bucks. Polytube around twenty. Variety of sprinklers and connectors, thirty. This stuff was expensive.

‘I think I can do it,’ I said, ‘but it’s going to cost a lot.’

‘How much?’

‘About a hundred just for supplies.’

She laughed and took a sip from her lemonade glass. She’d put proper lemon slices in it as well as a few ice cubes. It might even have been homemade lemonade. I’m not an expert.

‘I think I can afford that, Sean. Plus, what? Another hundred for you to do it?’

‘I’ll do it for nothing.’

‘Why would you do that?’

I shrugged.

‘He’s a nice guy,’ said Gray. ‘Just a lousy businessman.’

‘I’ll give you a list of things you need to get from Bunnings,’ I said.

Mary reached into her lap and picked up her purse. It was a big, ugly thing and looked like it had been around for a hundred years. She took out four fifty-dollar notes and handed them to me.

‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I’d rather you bought them. To be honest, I don’t get out much these days and I wouldn’t know what to look for, even with a list. Could you do that for me, Sean?’

I took the money, but I didn’t put it in my pocket. She didn’t know me. Not really. Why give a stranger two hundred dollars when there’s a good chance you’ll never see the money or the stranger again?

She leaned over and patted me on the leg.

‘I trust you,’ she said.

‘Why?’

She smiled. ‘Because we’re family, Sean. And if you can’t trust family, who can you trust?’

I glanced over at Gray, but he just shrugged.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said to her.

‘Will you do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent.’ She got herself to her feet, but it seemed a bit of a struggle. ‘Now come and look at my bird’s eye chillies. They’ve perked up no end.’

‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,’ said Gray as we were walking home. ‘You know, what I said about the match.’

‘You didn’t,’ I replied. Then I thought about it. ‘Yes, you did,’ I added. ‘But it’s okay.’ I thought it was, too. What had Dad always told me? Toughen up, princess. Maybe that was true of feelings as well. I needed to be tough in every way.

‘Need help with getting Mary’s irrigation fixed? We could do it together.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I don’t think she’s dealing from a full deck, mate. Know what I mean?’

‘She keeps calling me Sean.’

‘Yeah, she called me that a couple of times. I think there might be a screw or two loose there. Anyway, need help?’

‘Thanks, Gray. But no. This is something I’d really like to do by myself. Because … because …’ But I couldn’t think of a reason, so I just shut up.

‘That’s cool, mate. Let me know how it goes. You never know. You could end up on the TV gardening show with that guy. You know. The one with a beard you could hide a wallaby in.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gray,’ I said. I’d said that to Mary as well. Should I be worried about myself ?

‘Am I the only kid who watches free-to-air gardening programs?’ said Gray. He held up his hands in horror. ‘What’s the younger generation coming to, I ask myself ?’

I still didn’t know what he was going on about, but this time I kept quiet.

Bunnings was on the way home, so I dropped in and got the stuff I needed. I kept the receipt, which was for eighty-nine dollars and twenty cents. I put the box of fittings in a corner of the shed. Later we had fried chicken with chips and gravy. Mitchell was around for once and he ate most of it.

‘Good game today, Morgan,’ said Dad. ‘A hat-trick and a coat of paint away from a fourth. If the rest of your team had been any good you’d have won easy.’

He wiped gravy from his chin and picked up another piece of chicken.

‘You kept on your feet, had some cracking dribbles and scored all three,’ he added. ‘Maradona himself would’ve been proud.’

‘Should I have squared the ball for someone else?’ I asked. ‘You know, when I hit the bar.’

Dad snorted.

‘What for?’ he said. ‘So someone could’ve missed a sitter? Nah. It’s not your fault if the other players are shit. Not your responsibility. You were man of the match. Worry about what you do and let others take responsibility for their own failings.’

‘If I’d passed instead of shooting we might have won.’ I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to push this with Dad, but Gray’s words had stayed with me.

‘If, if, if,’ said Dad. ‘If your aunt had balls she’d be your uncle. The point is, if any of the other players had been half as good as you, you’d have crushed that team. Their fault. Not yours.’

I thought about saying if, if, if back, but that was definitely not a good idea.

At least there were no dishes to wash up. That was always my job. This time I could just stick the empty buckets in the rubbish bin, which was fine by me.

The day before my mother turned up at the school gates, I had a game of soccer with Gray and Rajeev in the local park. I wanted to practise dribbling, but they weren’t interested. They just wanted to have a kick-around and laugh. One time, I went past Gray and was about to tap the ball into the goal when it hit a divot in the ground and bobbled up. I made an air shot, ended up on my bum.

The two of them nearly peed themselves laughing. I thought they were laughing at me and maybe I deserved it.

‘Not laughing at you, mate,’ said Gray when they’d calmed down a little. ‘Well, actually that’s not true. We were laughing at you, but not because of the miss. It was the look on your face after. Man.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘It was like someone had died. I mean, man! The greatest tragedy in the world.’

‘The ball hit a divot, but I still should’ve scored.’

Gray put his arm around my shoulders.

‘Yup. You should’ve. But you didn’t. Jeez, Morgan. Lighten up, dude.’

At the far end of the park I could see Mitch cycling past. He has this mountain bike which he sometimes attaches to his truck when he wants to go riding. He reckons it helps with his general fitness. I could see him watching me as he rode past. He should’ve been watching the road.

I ran home after the game and picked up the box from the shed. Then I ran to Mary’s house. I figured that I could do with improving my general fitness.

It took only an hour and a half to get the irrigation done. I’d forgotten to buy the lubricant spray for the sticking tap, but Mary had some lying around in a battered old shed. Getting the timer to work was the biggest problem as the instructions weren’t very clear. I asked Mary what programs she wanted, but she just smiled at me and nodded, so I had to decide. I did two fifteen-minute sessions, one in the morning and one in the evening. When I put the system onto manual override for testing, it all worked really well. I tried to give Mary the receipt and the change. One hundred and ten dollars and eighty cents. She didn’t take any of it.

‘Oh, no, Sean,’ she said. ‘I must pay you.’ She pulled out another fifty bucks from her purse and pushed it into my hand.

‘I can’t take this,’ I said. ‘It’s way too much. And anyway, I liked doing it.’

And I had. It felt good to have built something that worked. It felt good to have done it all by myself.

But Mary just patted me on the hand.

‘You’re a good boy, Sean,’ she said. ‘Buy that skateboard you always wanted.’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘It was a skateboard, wasn’t it, Sean?’

I shrugged. I had a feeling it wouldn’t matter what I said.

Mary wandered off back into the house, like she’d forgotten I was there, leaving her purse on the small garden table. I put the money back into it, but then realised I couldn’t leave it out there for anyone to steal. So I opened her front door and left the purse on the floor inside.

When I got home, Mitch was sitting in an armchair watching a video on his phone. He glanced up at me.

‘What were you doin’ in the park, Moron?’ he asked.

‘Just mucking around,’ I said.

‘Who’s the raghead?’

‘What?’

‘And who was the guy with his arm around you? Looked real cosy, that, Moron. Real cosy.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I turned to go off to my room.

‘You be careful who you hang with, Moron,’ said Mitch as I left. ‘I’d be very careful if I was you.’

Rajeev wears one of those bandage type things around his head. I forget the name of them. But it doesn’t look anything like a rag.

11

The woman stood on the opposite side of the road as I left school on Tuesday. I wouldn’t normally notice something like that. Plenty of men and women wait for their kids when school lets out. But she was staring at me. I mean, staring. And when I met her eyes, she looked away.

I started walking and she kept pace with me, but still on the other side of the road. It was weird and I didn’t really know what to do. Then I made up my mind.

I crossed the road and she looked over her shoulder and then from side to side as if checking for an escape. That was even weirder. I mean, it wasn’t me doing the stalking.

She didn’t look anything like the woman in my dream. Apart from the eyes. Her hair was streaky blonde and there were small lines around her mouth and nose. Like she’d spent a long time worrying. But I knew she was my mother. I don’t know how I knew. I stood a metre or so away from her.

‘You’re Morgan Pickford, aren’t you?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘I’m your mum,’ she said.

I thought about saying that she might be my mother but she wasn’t my mum, but I didn’t.

‘This is probably a shock for you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She laughed but it came out a bit strange. ‘I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to talk to you, but …’

She looked over her shoulder again.

‘Your dad doesn’t pick you up from school?’ She tried a smile but that came out wrong as well. ‘I mean, I haven’t seen him and I’ve been watching for a while now and …’

Her words were drying up.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘To talk. That’s all, Morgan. Just to talk.’

‘Okay.’

She did the glancing bit again.

‘Not here,’ she said. ‘I can’t …’

My mother had trouble with words. Maybe I got it from her.

She took out a pen and a piece of paper from her bag, wrote something on it, handed it to me.

‘My number,’ she said. ‘Give me a call, Morgan. Please. I’d love to chat with you … somewhere a bit more private. I’m back, you see. I’ve been away, but now …’

She ran a hand through her hair.

‘Call me if you want. But I think it would be better if you didn’t say anything about this to your father. I mean, I’m just saying that probably wouldn’t be … wise. Just at the moment. Okay?’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ll let you get going then.’

And she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and took off down the street, in the direction she’d come from. A couple of times she glanced back. Gave me one of those strange smiles. I watched until she’d disappeared.

Then I tore the piece of paper into bits and stuck them in the nearest bin.

Dad was late home that night and not in a good mood. I’d cooked some baked beans and sausages, but he didn’t want them.

‘Got a call today, Morgan,’ he said.

For a moment I thought it might have been my mother. I felt my shoulders tense.

‘A Mrs Guy. Mary Guy. Dotty old bat. Kept asking for someone called Sean. I was going to hang up, but she said some kid had done gardening work for her. A kid with my business card. That you, Morgan?’

I nodded.

‘Mind explaining?’

I knew it didn’t matter if I minded or not, so I told Dad about doing the leafleting, meeting the old lady, and the irrigation work I’d done for her.

Dad nodded, but it wasn’t the kind of nodding that made you feel good. It was more like the kind of nodding that meant trouble.

‘And how much did you charge her?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’d better not be lying to me. So what was it? Cash in hand that should’ve been mine, but you took, yeah? Extra pocket money.’

‘No. Didn’t take any money.’ I was going to point out that I didn’t get pocket money, so the ‘extra’ bit didn’t make sense.

‘Why?’

I shrugged. It was too difficult to explain.

‘Sit down, Morgan,’ said Dad, pointing to a chair at the dining table. I did. He went off to his truck, came back with a booklet and a pen. He put them down on the table and sat opposite me.

‘How much time did you spend working for her?’

I thought quickly. I had an idea where this was going. I tried to work it out in my head. Probably two and a half hours, all told.

‘An hour,’ I said.

‘To fix irrigation? An hour? That’s all?’

‘It was just a couple of broken pipes. More like half an hour.’ I knew Dad only charged in hour units.

He looked at me like I might be lying again. Then he wrote something in his book, tore out the sheet and handed it to me. It was a bill from Pickford Garden Services. One hour’s work. Eighty dollars. He’d written in Mrs Guy as the client name.

‘You take this to her and you come back with the money. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is a business, Morgan. Not a charity.’ He waved his hands around the kitchen. ‘You think if I get a sparkie in to do some electrical work in the house, he’s just gonna do it for nothing? Huh? That is not how the world works.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘And another thing. You should’ve passed that work on to me. You hear? Told me what she wanted and I could’ve gone round and given her a quote.’ He slammed the book shut and pointed the pen at me. ‘You’ve cost this firm money, Morgan, and it won’t happen again. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then scoot.’

‘You want me to go now?’

‘You got anything better to do?’

I had homework, but that wasn’t anything better.

It took Mary a bit of time to work out who I was when I went round. Then she smiled.

‘You’re Sean, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good to see you, son.’

I felt bad giving her the bill, but she just smiled, got that old purse and handed me a stack of notes. I sorted through them and took out a fifty, a twenty and a ten.

‘How’s the reticulation going?’ I asked.

‘The what?’

‘The watering system.’

‘Do you think you could look at it for me, Sean? I think it’s broken.’

It wasn’t broken. It was working fine. She tried to give me more money, so I pretended to look through her purse again but didn’t take anything.

When I opened her front gate to go, she asked me if I knew anything about lemon trees. I told her I didn’t.

‘Pity,’ she said. ‘I’ve got these brown spots on the leaves.’

‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ I said.

‘Thanks, Sean,’ she said. ‘You’re a good boy.’

I ran home. It was getting late and it looked like it might rain.

Dad grunted when I gave him the money. Grunted and put the notes into his wallet. I went to bed early and looked up problems with lemon trees on my phone. Turns out lemon trees can have lots of problems.

Everything fell apart during the game the following Sunday. Everything.

It was a tight match, goalless coming up to half-time, but I was on form. My feet were moving nicely, balance good. Sometimes that doesn’t happen and I have no idea why. But today was going well. Until.

Craig played a diagonal ball through the defence and I was onto it. The pass was maybe slightly over-hit, so it was going to be a close thing whether I got to the ball before the goalkeeper. Fifty-fifty. But I knew I was fast. Then again, so was their goalie. We reached the ball at the same time and he dived to gather it at my feet. Then there was nothing. I’d heard somewhere that you see stars, but I didn’t see anything. One moment I was watching the ball, the next was darkness.

I woke up in the back of an ambulance. Some guy in a uniform was bent over me and he smiled when I opened my eyes.

‘Hey, Morgan,’ he said. ‘Good to have you back with us. How are you feeling?’

I tried to sit up, but then I felt like I was going to be sick, so I lay back down. The need to spew went away, but then I felt really dizzy. Somewhere at the back of my head there was a pain. I closed my eyes. It was slightly better with my eyes closed.

‘Not great,’ I said. But my voice didn’t sound like mine. It came from a long way away.

‘Take it easy,’ said the guy. ‘Do you know what happened to you?’

I tried to shake my head but it hurt too much.

‘Crashed into a goalpost,’ he said. ‘Helluva smack, apparently, and I reckon you might have a bit of concussion. We’re getting you to a doctor right now to have you checked out.’

I felt his arm on my shoulder.

‘Just relax,’ he said. ‘You’re in good hands and you’re going to be fine.’

‘Where’s Dad?’ I said.

‘I think he’s following in his car. He got held up at the ground, but I’m sure he’ll be with you soon. Just rest.’

I probably dozed a bit. But I tried to remember what had happened. I had been going for the ball. I was about to get it. After that … nothing. No memory of a collision. Or any contact at all. The pain in my head was making it difficult for me to think. I knew I’d get the full story later. I was so tired. I thought I’d never been that tired.

The doctor shone a light into my eyes, which hurt. He also tested my hearing, but didn’t tell me why. I was feeling better by now and could sit up in the hospital bed without feeling like my head was going to explode. The doc got me to push against his hand and he also asked me to stand up for a moment and take a few steps. I did, but my legs felt all wobbly and he made me sit down again. Then he asked me all these weird questions. My full name, my date of birth, the names of my parents. I could only tell him Dad’s. He even asked what state we were in.

I don’t reckon he was testing my general knowledge. He was checking to see if my memory was all good. I think it was.

Dad rocked up after I’d been there half an hour. I’d never seen him looking so scared, and that made me scared. He was all sweaty and his face was red and there might have been tears in his eyes. It was probably sweat, though. Dad wouldn’t ever cry.

The doctor talked to him while I was there, which was good. At least I’d know what was happening.

‘I think your son has a mild concussion,’ said the doc. ‘He’s suffering from dizziness and a headache, and he says he might vomit, though so far that hasn’t happened. There’s no indication of confusion or memory loss, which is a good sign. However, I think we should keep him in for a bit longer to do some more tests.’

‘What kind of tests?’ asked Dad.

‘I’m inclined to do some brain imaging, just to make sure there’s no bleeding or swelling in the skull. I see no sign of a fracture, but I think it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

‘Brain imaging?’

‘Yes. If Morgan was a little older I’d go for cranial computerised tomography. A CT scan. But this is not recommended for children, so I’m going to go with magnetic resonance imaging, an MRI. This will produce detailed images of the brain, to see if any damage has occurred.’

The doctor smiled at me.

‘Nothing to worry about, Morgan. I’m sure your concussion is mild and you’ll be feeling loads better in no time. But, like I say, better safe than sorry. Okay?’

I was going to nod, but was worried what that would do to me.

‘Whatever needs to be done,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t care what it costs.’

‘There’ll be no charge,’ said the doc. ‘You have a Medicare card, I take it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then we’re all good to go.’ The doctor patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll just go and get that sorted, Morgan. You take it easy, all right?’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He’d told me not to be worried, but that was easier said than done. What if the brain machine found out I was really sick? It sounded serious to me.

I lay on that bed for an hour before a nurse came and wheeled me away. In that time, Dad filled me in on what had happened. He was behind the goal I was attacking, so he had a good view of it all. I went over the goalkeeper and straight into the goalpost. Headfirst. He reckoned you could probably hear the crack from the other end of the pitch. I dropped like I’d been shot. For a second or two, no one moved and then everyone was running towards me, the players, the coach, Dad and some spectators.

‘Some kid got there before me,’ Dad said. ‘Blond hair sticking up all over the place. He was kind of blubbering and he held you in his arms before someone told him that was a stupid thing to do and he should wait for a doctor or a paramedic to see if you could be moved. So he laid you back down. Do you know him, son?’

‘No,’ I said.

Dad grunted.

‘Well, he was all over you. Real upset.’

They put me into this weird machine. It was like something out of a science fiction movie. A white tube. They laid me down on this stretcher thing, put headphones on me and I slid into the tube. I was told to keep still and that even with the headphones I’d hear some weird noises. They weren’t wrong. There were all these strange buzzing and clicking noises and some loud bangs, like something was coming apart in the machine itself. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore them.

When it was all done they took me back to the cubicle I’d been in. Dad was still there. My headache was a bit better but I didn’t feel like talking. So Dad just sat and we waited. And waited.

The doctor finally came and said that everything appeared okay on the machine and that I could go home. But he said I’d have to take a couple of days off school and that someone should stay home with me to see if I got any worse.

‘Any sign of increased headaches or dizziness or vomiting and you bring him straight back, okay?’ said the doc. ‘I think he’s going to be fine after a couple of days. But sometimes concussion can take a week or two to go away entirely. So in the meantime, plenty of rest and no physical exercise.’ He looked at my soccer kit. ‘And definitely no sport until he’s feeling one hundred per cent.’

I felt good enough to walk out of the hospital, but a nurse stuck me in a wheelchair and took me out in that.

Dad’s truck was parked in an emergency bay and there was a police car behind it. They weren’t there for illegal parking. They told Dad he was accused of assault occasioning bodily harm and wanted to question him.

There were no handcuffs and they didn’t take him down to the station, but they followed us home after Dad explained that I’d just been in the emergency room.

Dad helped me get up the stairs to bed and wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Then he went downstairs where the police were waiting. He closed the living room door, so I couldn’t hear anything. I thought about sitting on the stairs, but I probably wouldn’t have heard anything there anyway. Plus, I was too tired to move.

So I lay on my bed and stared at the poster above me.

It stared back.

12

I got the story much later from Gray.

When I’d been knocked out, Dad had come onto the pitch with everyone else. Turns out I was moving and even opened my eyes after a minute, though I don’t remember that. Then Dad went looking for the other team’s goalie. Gray said the kid looked like he was going to shit himself, that he was pale and trembling. Dad, it seems, got in his face and asked if his father was anywhere around. The kid pointed out the adult standing next to him. Dad punched the goalie’s dad in the face. Twice. Then Damian and some other adults grabbed Dad and pulled him away. Said it took all of their strength because Dad was straining to get free and yelling at the guy that he was going to kill him.

‘I hate to say this about your dad,’ said Gray, ‘but he was kind of nuts. I mean, the goalkeeper’s dad had done squat. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t even the goalie’s fault. It was a fifty-fifty ball and he got to it cleanly. You just went over his arms and into the post. A freak accident. Nothing you could’ve done. Nothing the goalkeeper could’ve done.’

The keeper’s dad had to go to hospital, too. He was probably in a cubicle close to mine. Got a broken nose.

I looked up what might happen to Dad. Turns out jail was one thing that could happen.

Gray texted me a lot over the time I was off school. He asked if he could come round to see me, but I reckoned that wasn’t a great idea. I didn’t know why I wanted to keep Gray a secret from my dad. It didn’t make much sense to me, but I felt it was the right thing to do. Then he wanted to ring me, but I put him off that as well. Dad had taken three days off work to look after me – said it didn’t really matter since business was still slow and he was paying guys to do what work there was anyway. But I could tell he didn’t like not working. He likes control. Anyway, the reason I didn’t want Gray to call was that Dad would hear my phone and want to know who was calling. He knew better than anyone that no one rang me normally, unless it was a wrong number or someone trying to sell me stuff I didn’t want. And, like I say, I didn’t want him to know I had a friend.

So we texted.

How you feeling, buddy?

Okay. Not too bad.

Miss you at school. Must be your sparkling conversation.

Yeah. Right.

Seriously. Most people want to talk about themselves. That includes me. So it’s great I’ve got a friend who only wants to listen to me talking about me. If you didn’t exist I’d have to invent you.

You’re weird.

Takes one to know one. No more headaches?

Nah. All good.

Looking forward to playing again?

Not sure.

Understandable. That was a freak accident. Would’ve scared anyone. I was scared and I was nowhere near.

Not scared.

Sure you are. You’d be even weirder if you weren’t.

Not scared.

Whatever you say, matey. How about when you feel better, you come round to my place, meet my family? My mum cooks a mean spaghetti carbonara.

Dunno. Maybe.

There you go with that sparkling conversation again.

Sorry.

Do not EVER apologise for being Morgan Pickford, you hear?

Why are you my friend?

I had all these reasons for asking, but I would never have asked him this to his face. Texting was a bit like my bottom bunk. It made me feel safe. Gray was fun, full of laughter. He liked people and he was confident. All of the things I’m not. He could’ve done so much better than me.

It was quite a long time before he replied.

Because I think you’re like me. And I’m a big fan of me.

What does that even mean?

What it says.

I left it. Gray was smart and no one could accuse me of that. But his smartness often meant I couldn’t work him out.

Maybe I didn’t need to.

I took the whole week off school, even though I was feeling loads better on Tuesday. Dad didn’t care about me missing school, but I think he was glad to get to work on Thursday. So I had the house to myself for the end of the week. I looked up some more stuff on lemon diseases and found something that seemed to fit.

Alternaria Brown Spot.

I looked up treatments for it. Waded through loads of scientific language that I didn’t understand, but eventually came up with liquid copper fungicide, which you could get from Bunnings for just under twenty bucks.

All of which didn’t take up too much time, so I had plenty left to think. I kept replaying the through ball, the keeper coming towards me, the way I felt sure that I would be able to get to it first. Then nothing. Seeing the ball, then nothing. It was like some kind of crazy gif, going round and round, and I couldn’t find a way to pause it, let alone shut it down. My hands trembled but I didn’t think that had anything to do with concussion.

I thought about Mrs Guy and her garden. She seemed to live by herself, though I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t seen anyone else at her house. I just felt like the garden was all she had. And Dad was right, she was a bit crazy, but she had always been kind to me. And to Gray. What was her life like?

It was silly, thinking like this, but as I said, I had time and not much else to do with it. What did it matter to me what an old woman did or thought or felt? It didn’t matter at all. And Gray. Why did I want to keep him a secret from my dad? Him and Mrs Guy and the fact that my mother was back and wanted to talk? Maybe it was as simple as needing something to keep secret, even sad-arse secrets like those. Dad knew everything about me. Except the things I kept in my head.

And now the fact that my hands would tremble when I thought about what had happened to me. I had to keep that locked in my head as well.

Mitchell brought a woman home with him on Friday. They must’ve come straight from the gym, because they were both carrying sports bags and Mitch looked really sweaty.

She was a bit scary, to be honest. Lots of lycra, and what wasn’t lycra was skin-tight anyway. It seemed rude to look at her. I tried to look just at her face, but that was scary too. She had jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail, hanging straight as a ruler. And she had on loads of makeup. A bright red mouth with big puffy lips. She didn’t have cheeks, just bones sticking out. Sometimes I’d get pictures on my phone of influencers and they were identical to her. It was hard to imagine what she might look like when she got out of bed in the morning, without all the extra … stuff.

‘Hey, Moron,’ said Mitch as they came into the front room. ‘Meet Harley. Harley, Moron. Moron, Harley. Now piss off.’

I did. I was glad to get out of there. I went to my bedroom, Harley’s laughter in my ears. I lay in my bunk and pretended I was safe.

13

I had the worst dream.

I was running down the wing, the ball at my feet. I skipped past a defender or two and then I was faced with a goalkeeper moving towards me. I stopped as he got closer and I could see the look in his eyes. Like there was no surrender. Him or me. One of us was going down. I started shaking. I couldn’t control my body. My legs felt like jelly, dancing and jittering. It was quiet, apart from the buzz of blood in my ears. As he got closer and closer, I glanced over my shoulder. The other players were like statues, staring at me. Gray was behind the goal and he was staring too. The whole world was focused on me, and the trembling only got worse. The keeper was on top of me now and I couldn’t move. My muscles jerked like crazy but they wouldn’t do what I wanted them to. I was stuck there. A target.

Then everything turned upside down. I heard a crack and when I opened one eye I could see blades of grass. And blood. And what might have been brains oozing into the ground.

I jerked up in bed, panting, my pyjamas soaked in sweat. It took ages for me to relax enough to lie back down. But I didn’t dare close my eyes. If I slept I knew I would be back there, unable to move as first a goalkeeper and then a post loomed towards my head, getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

I stared at the poster and waited for morning.

Mitch turned up to breakfast with Harley, which surprised me. She wore a pair of Mitch’s pyjamas and she was without make-up. It was like she was a different person.

Dad rocked up a couple of minutes later, and judging by the expression on his face he was surprised too. Mitch introduced them and when Harley bent her head towards her cereal bowl, Dad gave my brother a wink. Mitch grinned.

Harley didn’t eat much and then took off to the bathroom. Dad laughed as she left the room.

‘You dog,’ he said to Mitch. ‘Kept that quiet.’

Mitch grinned wider.

‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much when they’re throwing themselves at ya. Know what I mean?’

‘I hear you,’ said Dad. ‘Who is she anyway?’

‘Ah, just some slut I met down the gym.’ Mitch picked up a piece of toast, took a huge bite. ‘No one important.’

‘I hope you took … care,’ said Dad. ‘Having a kid wouldn’t be great timing right now.’

‘All sorted,’ said Mitch. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

Dad laughed again. No one had paid me any attention, which was good. Sometimes it helps to be invisible in your own family. Then apparently I became visible, because Dad turned to me.

‘It’s game day today, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive you, all right?’

‘I still feel a bit dizzy,’ I said.

Dad wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

‘You’re good,’ he replied. ‘Best to get back on the horse, know what I mean? Yeah, you had an injury, but that happens all the time. In every sport. Dust yourself off, get on with it, okay?’

Mitch leaned over and punched me on the arm.

‘Yeah, Moron,’ he said. ‘You’re not scared, are you? What are ya, a pussy?’

There was a long silence. I wanted to rub my arm, which hurt, but I couldn’t do that. The silence was like a weight.

‘No,’ I said finally. I tried to make my voice strong, but I don’t think it was.

I didn’t get to play.

Dad was told he was banned from the ground, after the fight he’d started. Coach Damian looked a bit nervous when he told Dad, and I could understand why. Dad’s face went purple and the muscles in his arms bunched. He took a step towards Damian, who backed away. I couldn’t hear much of what was said but it became clear after a while that the coach wasn’t backing down. I stood off to the side and prayed that Dad kept his fists at his side. He was already in trouble with the police. Another fight would drop him deeper in it.

Maybe Dad thought the same, because after a minute or two he stepped away. It was like he was forcing something inside him not to explode. His breathing was hard and heavy. His fists were clenched and it was obvious he wanted to punch something.

‘You’re okay to be here,’ he said to me. His mouth was tight. ‘I’m not, it seems.’ He put a hand on my shoulder and bent slightly to meet my eyes. ‘I’ll get Mitch to pick you up in a couple of hours,’ he said. He glanced towards the playing field. ‘Show ’em what you’re made of. You hear me?’

I nodded.

‘You’re a Pickford,’ he continued. ‘And a Pickford never backs down. You understand?’

I nodded, even though I could have pointed out that he just had.

‘Okay,’ said Dad. He walked to the car park without looking back. When he drove away it was with wheels squealing and engine roaring. Like he was taking it out on the car.

Damian came up to me and asked how I was feeling. I shrugged.

‘I didn’t know if you’d be here today,’ he said, ‘so I didn’t put you in the team. Are you okay with that, Morgan?’

I was more than okay with that, but I shrugged again.

‘Perhaps you could do some warm-ups,’ he continued. ‘A light routine and see how you feel. What do you say?’

I didn’t want to do that but I didn’t know how to say no.

‘Okay,’ I said.

But I didn’t. I watched as the players warmed up. A couple waved towards me. One of them was Craig. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hey, Morgan,’ said Gray. He gave a wide smile. ‘Good to see you back, my friend. So you’re playing?’

I explained what Damian had told me and he nodded.

‘Maybe we could have a game in the park, later,’ he said. ‘Me and Sanjeev are going to have a kick-around and you’d be welcome to join us.’

‘Maybe.’

We sat on the bleachers and watched the match. Our team won two–nil and Gray kept up a running commentary, pointing out poor movement into spaces and woeful defending. I nodded from time to time, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the game. I kept thinking how good it was that I wasn’t out there, having to face players running at me. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever get out there again.

And I couldn’t imagine how I would tell Dad that.

Gray walked me to the car park after the game, his arm draped over my shoulder. I saw Mitch’s ute parked at an angle, my brother and Harley leaning against the bonnet watching as I walked up. They were both laughing, his hand around her waist. She was wearing lycra again and even at a distance I could see her make-up plastered back on.

‘Your brother’s got a girlfriend?’ asked Gray.

‘Yeah. Some slut he picked up from his gym,’ I replied.

He took his arm from my shoulder and stopped. I turned to face him.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Did you just call her a slut?’ Gray’s face was dark with anger. ‘Tell me I didn’t hear you right, Morgan.’

I put my hands out to my side, palms raised.

‘Not what I called her,’ I said. ‘It’s what Mitch said.’

‘And it’s what you just called her. Jesus Christ, Morgan.’

I had no idea what was bothering him.

‘What’s your problem?’ I asked.

Gray laughed but there wasn’t much humour in it.

‘My problem. Really?’ He took a step towards me. ‘You must know how disgusting that word is, Morgan. How vile and disrespectful and … and … wrong. I mean, come on, man. You’re not stupid. You might think you are, but you’re not. And I never had you down as a bogan. So are you? Tell me. Are you a chauvinistic arsehole?’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ I said. Okay, ‘arsehole’ I got, but I’d never heard the other word.

‘That you hate women, that you’re someone who thinks women are inferior, that men are the superior gender, that a woman can be judged because of her sexual habits.’ Gray was getting angrier by the moment. ‘I guess,’ he continued, ‘you think your brother’s a player or a stud and therefore to be admired, but she’s a slut and beneath contempt. Can’t you see how revolting those double standards are?’

I was stunned by his anger. I didn’t know where it came from. He didn’t know Harley. Did he? So why would it matter so much to him?

‘It’s just a word,’ I said.

‘No.’ He was almost shouting. ‘It’s more than just a word. It’s an offensive label. A state of mind among toxic men. It’s … it’s … it’s wrong on every level, Morgan. Jesus, tell me you understand.’

But I didn’t. Not really. Not fully. I mean, there was a part of me that knew what he was talking about. But I didn’t hate women. I didn’t think they weren’t as good as men. Yeah, I knew Dad thought that, but I wasn’t like him in every way. If I was going to be honest, I should have said that I wasn’t in any position to think I was better than anyone else, man or woman. Because I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t as good as anyone around me, at home or in school. But I couldn’t find the words to say it, not there and then. I was surrounded by his anger and I felt alone in the centre of it.

I watched as Gray walked off. He didn’t look back and I could see by the way his body moved that he was still burning with anger.

I wished I could understand people.

I kept walking to Mitch’s ute. They were both still grinning at me as I came up but I couldn’t find a smile in return. Mitch opened the back door for me and I got in, fastened my seatbelt. My brother started the car as Harley climbed into the seat next to him. Loud rap music blared from the speakers. Mitch was proud of his sound system. It had cost a lot of money and you could hear it from far away.

He turned it down and met my eyes in his rear-view mirror. He was still grinning like a lunatic.

‘Cosy with your mate there, Moron,’ he said. ‘Saw you with his arms around you. Young love, hey?’

Harley burst out laughing. She turned in her seat and looked at me over the headrest. I didn’t say anything.

‘Just be careful,’ Mitch continued. ‘Like if you’re in the shower after a game and you drop the soap, don’t bend down to pick it up, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘What’re you talking about?’ I said.

That just made Mitch laugh even harder.

‘Harley knows his sister, mate,’ he said. ‘They were at school together. Your … pal… well, he’s a raging homo. An arse bandit. Shirt lifter. But I guess you knew that, didn’t you, Moron? My gay brother. Shit!’

14

It probably took Mitch about two seconds to tell Dad when he got home, because I’d only been in my bedroom for a minute before Dad burst in.

‘Is this true, what Mitch said?’ He looked angry. Dad was always angry these days. ‘That your friend is a homo? I mean, is that right, Morgan?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? He’s supposed to be your mate and you don’t know? I find that hard to believe.’

But I hadn’t known. I still didn’t know. Just because Mitch said it didn’t mean it was true. But I reckoned it wasn’t a good idea to share that thought with Dad. I didn’t think it was a good idea to say anything.

‘So, what?’ Dad continued. ‘Are you a homo too?’

‘No.’

‘You’d better not be, Morgan. You’d better not be.’ He stuck his finger into my face. ‘And you’ll have nothing to do with him in the future. You hear me? Nothing. Jesus Christ. Is he in any of your classes?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I’ll make sure it stays that way.’

And then he was gone. I lay on my bed and stared at the poster above me. The darkest night bit made sense, but I couldn’t find a star anywhere, let alone a bright one.

Over the next day and a half I spent as much time as I could in my room. I had to go down for food a few times, but no one said anything to me. In fact, Dad ignored me completely, like it was my fault that Gray was a homo. If he was. I wasn’t interested in playing any video games and scrolling the internet on my phone didn’t appeal. So I spent a lot of time thinking, though I didn’t want to. About soccer mainly, because I didn’t want to think much about my friend. Not that Gray was my friend anymore. He was angry at me for a word I’d used. Like that was something real bad, when he was gay and hadn’t told me. I mean, if anyone had the right to be angry it should’ve been me.

I tried not to think about Gray, but his anger had made me curious. So I looked up the word ‘slut’ on Wikipedia and it said, a term for a person, usually a woman or girl, who is considered to have loose sexual morals or who is sexually promiscuous. It originally meant a dirty, slovenly woman and is rarely used to refer to men. That didn’t seem so bad to me. Not bad enough to get as angry as Gray had. The more I thought, the more unfair it seemed.

I thought about Mary and how I hadn’t gone back to help her with her lemon tree. I thought about my mother as well. I tried to imagine where she might be living and what she was doing, but I couldn’t come up with anything. So I gave up on that and watched soccer highlights from the weekend’s Premier League games on my phone.

That was boring too.

Mostly I tried to sleep, but even that was hard.

I sat on my normal bench at Monday recess. No one was playing soccer, but a few kids were playing Four Square, so I had something to look at.

I didn’t see Gray until he was standing in front of me.

‘Morgan,’ he said. ‘I want to apologise about Saturday. I was over the top. I thought about it all weekend and I know you didn’t mean to be horrible or offensive. You didn’t know the connotations of that word and I should’ve …’

He stopped talking when I stood up.

‘Are you a homo?’ I asked.

‘A what?’ He kinda snorted.

‘A homo. My brother’s girlfriend Harley said she knows your sister and that you’re a homo. Is it true?’

‘Did she really use the word “homo”?’

‘Yeah.’ It was Mitch who had used it but I wasn’t going to explain all that.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I know I wasn’t expecting him to laugh. Which he did. For quite a long time.

‘How wonderful,’ he said when he’d calmed down a bit. ‘Homo, hey? Didn’t know people still used that word.’ He smiled. ‘You should tell your brother’s girlfriend that there are more creative terms for being gay.’

‘Are you?’

He looked at me with those eyes that seemed to see straight into the heart of you. Then he sighed.

‘Yes. I’m gay,’ he said. ‘I’m queer. I’m a homo, Morgan. Why? What difference does it make?’

And I hit him. I didn’t mean to. I hadn’t planned it. I didn’t even realise I’d hit him until he went down and my knuckles started to throb. I was having difficulty getting air into my lungs. I stood there panting like some kind of animal.

Gray got to his feet. A small trickle of blood ran from his right nostril. He wiped at it with one hand, looked at the stain on his fingers as if he couldn’t quite work out what it was. Then he lifted his head.

‘Are you okay, Morgan?’ he said.

I didn’t understand the question. My eyes were fixed on the blood trail that had now reached his lips. Somewhere, deep down, I knew I had made that. I just couldn’t work out why.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

He shook his head. A small fleck of blood landed on the concrete to his right.

‘No, you’re not.’ His voice was sad, like he wasn’t angry with me. He was disappointed. That just confused me more. ‘You’re not okay.’

I took a step towards him. Maybe I lifted my hand. I can’t remember.

Then everything went crazy. Kids were yelling and screaming and a teacher appeared from nowhere. He pinned my arms to my side, dragged me off. Other teachers came running.

I was crying and I didn’t know why.

I sat for the longest time in a room by myself. It was the place where they put the bad kids, the ones who swear at teachers or have fights in the yard. I hadn’t sworn, but I’d had a fight. Well, sort of. A fight takes two. I guess that made me a bad kid.

There was a framed poster on the wall opposite my chair. It had a picture of the school and the words Respect, Tolerance, Duty and Learning in big letters at the bottom. Someone must’ve thought it was a good idea, but I couldn’t see the point. It didn’t seem likely to me that bad kids would look at that picture and change their ways. It just reminded you why you didn’t fit in.

After about half an hour I was taken into the principal’s office. I was surprised to see Dad already sitting there. I sat next to him and we both looked at the principal on the other side of the desk. There was a window behind him and we had to squint a bit because the light came over his shoulder straight into our eyes. I didn’t look at Dad.

‘Would you care to explain, Morgan?’ said the principal. He had a bushy moustache and he sat up very straight. I remembered someone once said he’d been in the army before he’d got the job at my school. His desk had a sign with Mr Whitfield, BA Hons, B Ed printed on it in gold letters.

‘Explain what?’ I said.

Mr Whitfield sat up even straighter.

‘You attacked another student,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me why.’

I shrugged.

‘Why did you hit Gray McNeill, Morgan?’

I shrugged again.

Dad shifted in his chair.

‘Is this Gray kid the … homosexual?’ he asked me.

I nodded.

Dad put his arms up, spread his fingers.

‘There you go,’ he said to the principal. ‘This kid probably made a pass or something at my son. Is that what happened, Morgan?’

‘No.’

Dad seemed disappointed, which was a bit weird when I thought about it.

‘Anyway,’ he said to the principal, ‘my son was just defending himself.’

Mr Whitfield leaned forward, locked his fingers together.

‘Is that true, Morgan?’ he asked. ‘Did Gray attack you first?’

‘No.’

‘You hit him first?’

‘I hit him. He didn’t try to hit me.’

The principal leaned back. He looked at my dad as if he expected some support. I could’ve told him not to bother.

‘I’m trying very hard to understand, Morgan,’ he said. ‘Did Gray say something to you? Something that would explain why you hit him?’

‘He said he was sorry for what he’d said to me at the weekend.’

‘He apologised to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you hit him even though he was saying sorry?’

I shrugged.

‘This is very serious, Morgan,’ said the principal. ‘You do know you will be suspended over this?’

This time Dad leaned forward in his chair.

‘You’re gonna suspend my son for defending himself ?’

‘He wasn’t defending himself, Mr Pickford. Morgan just admitted that. Your son attacked another student for no reason. You must see that that is totally unacceptable.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s unacceptable,’ said Dad. He pointed a finger, jabbed at the air. ‘That you allow homosexuals to … to … interfere with my son. What kind of a school are you running here?’

‘What has the victim’s sexual orientation got to do with anything, Mr Pickford?’

‘It’s got everything to do with it.’ Dad’s voice was getting louder by the second. This was never going to work out. It was best to keep quiet and hope Dad didn’t punch Mr Whitfield. That wasn’t looking good either.

‘We pride ourselves on being an inclusive institution. All students are equal in our eyes, regardless of whether they are gay, straight, trans or non-binary.’ Mr Whitfield placed his hands flat on the desk. ‘That’s the kind of school we are running here, Mr Pickford.’

Dad was turning red. I could see from the corner of my eye.

‘What the f … hell is non-binary?’

‘It’s a term referring to those who don’t identify as being a particular gender. They don’t see themselves as either male or female.’

Dad laughed but not because he thought anything was funny. ‘They don’t ever look between their legs?’ he said. ‘What kind of crap is that?’

‘It’s about identity.’

‘It’s about bullshit,’ said Dad. ‘You can’t choose whether you’re male or female. You just are. Never heard anything so stupid in my life.’

Mr Whitfield stood.

‘This conversation is getting us nowhere, Mr Pickford. Your son is suspended for two weeks and will return to school only after a mediation session in which an apology to the victim is offered. Is that clear?’

Dad stood as well. I did the same.

‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before my son says sorry,’ said Dad. He grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. This is a waste of time.’

15

Dad had to go back to the job he was working on, but he dropped me at home and told me he’d get fried chicken for dinner to celebrate. I didn’t know what he wanted to celebrate. I didn’t want fried chicken. I don’t like it. Never have. But I tried to look like I was happy.

The empty house had echoes all through it. I’d never noticed that before. I supposed I should’ve been feeling good to be at home alone, not having to put up with stupid classes. Like I was on holiday. But I didn’t. I mean, I was alone at school. No one talked to me there, except Gray, and he wasn’t going to after what I did. But I didn’t feel lonely at school, maybe because I could watch other kids doing stuff, even if they didn’t want me to join them. But my house felt like it didn’t want me either. That it didn’t like me. How weird is that?

I was sitting in the front room when Mitchell rocked up. He didn’t know I was there because I didn’t have the television on or anything. I was just sitting on the couch looking at the wall. He went straight into the kitchen, his mobile against his ear. He was angry. I could tell by the way he walked. Then I could tell by the way he shouted.

‘You’re dumping me, you piece of shit! Let me tell you something, Horely. Let me tell you …’

And he did. Without stopping to take a breath. Told her that she should have been grateful to have him as a boyfriend, that she was … well, she was lots of things, none of them nice.

I thought about sneaking up to my bedroom, but I knew he’d see me, so I decided to stay still. If I was lucky, he’d storm out without noticing me. But I hadn’t had much luck recently.

Seems Harley hung up on him, because he took the phone away and stared at it like he wanted to smash it. I could see the muscles in his arm bunch. Then he turned, saw me and took a step back.

‘What the hell you doin’ here, Moron?’

‘Nothing.’

This time he took a couple of steps towards me. I would have shrunk back but I was on the couch. He looked at me for a long time, like he was deciding whether to say something or just hit me.

‘Get up,’ he said finally.

‘Why?’

‘Don’t answer back, Moron. Just do it.’

So I got up. He turned his back on me and walked to the kitchen door. Stepped out into the back garden. I followed him. He went to the shed, picked out the football and slammed it into my chest.

‘We’re going to play,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘You’re doin’ it again. Just do what I say.’

He stormed off to the other side of the garden in front of the little goal Dad had set up. He crouched down, hands on his thighs, and looked at me. But it was like he didn’t see me. I had never seen him so angry and I thought I’d seen him at his worst. This was going to end badly. Even if I felt okay about kicking a ball about, I wouldn’t want to do this. But I didn’t feel okay. I looked at the ball against my chest and knew that I would never play again. Not today. Not ever.

‘What you waitin’ for?’ He took a step towards me. ‘Try to get past me, Moron.’

‘No.’

‘What did you say?’

‘No.’

Then he was right in my face. I had to force myself not to step away.

‘You. Will. Do. What. I. Say.’

‘No.’

I didn’t even see the punch coming. It took a few seconds for the pain to hit, by which time I was on the ground. There was dirt in my mouth and I think I’d bitten my tongue. I could feel a throbbing over my left eye.

‘Get up.’

It took a while. I had to crawl over to prop my hands under my body, push up and get my legs under me. But I stood, swaying a little.

‘Play.’

‘No.’

He hit me again. I found myself staring at a small patch of dirt and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see his legs as they went towards the kitchen door. It was harder to stand this time. Took a couple of minutes. And the walk to the kitchen seemed to take forever. When I got into the house, Mitch was gone. I could feel the emptiness in the place again. I stumbled to the bathroom, checked myself out in the mirror. There was a lump over my left eye and I could see the bruising starting. Purple and brown and yellow, spreading even as I watched. My eye was closing as well. In a few minutes I wouldn’t be able to see anything out of it.

I lay back on the couch and stared at the wall again. With one eye.

‘What happened to you?’ Dad clutched a couple of grease-stained paper bags. The smell of fried chicken made me feel a bit sick.

‘Tripped,’ I said. ‘Fell into the coffee table.’

‘Helluva shiner you’ve got there, son.’ Dad took the bags into the kitchen, got a couple of plates out. ‘You need to be more careful,’ he added over his shoulder.

‘Yeah.’

He put a plate of fried chicken onto my lap, turned the television on.

‘What you been doing with yourself today?’ he said. ‘Apart from headbutting coffee tables.’ There was a news program on so he turned it over to a soap. He didn’t like soaps but it was better than the news.

‘Nothing.’

He just grunted.

I tried to eat the chicken, but it was hard with my sore tongue, even though it had stopped bleeding. There was a cut on the inside of my lip as well and the coating on the chicken legs felt like sandpaper against it. When I looked at the leg, at the meat under the crumb, it seemed slimy and grey. I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. I swallowed hard. But I really had to force myself to take another bite.

Mitchell didn’t come home that night. Or he hadn’t by the time I fell asleep, which was late. Past two in the morning. The left side of my face really hurt. The streetlight was on and I could make out the poster pinned on the bunk over my head. That made me feel a bit sick as well.

It wasn’t difficult shoplifting at Bunnings. I guess they have cameras, but the place is so huge it’s gotta be hard to cover everything. The aisle that had liquid copper fungicide was full of people checking out fertilisers and other stuff that did God knows what. Meant I could slip the bottle in my pocket without much chance of getting caught. It was just under twenty bucks. I would’ve paid for it, but I didn’t have just under twenty bucks. I didn’t have any money.

It was a bit weird walking to Mrs Guy’s while all the other kids were on their way to school. To be honest it was a bit weird just walking. I couldn’t see anything out of one eye and maybe that concussion was back because I felt kinda dizzy and once or twice I thought my legs might give way. I had to stop and rest often, but I got there.

There was no one home. I knocked about five times. I tried the front door and it was locked. I had this idea that maybe Mrs Guy had had an accident and was lying in there. So I tried looking through the windows but I couldn’t see anything. There wasn’t a second storey in the house, so I guess I covered most of the place, but it was dark in there, no lights on, so I couldn’t be sure she wasn’t inside. Then again, maybe she’d just gone to the shops. In the end there wasn’t much I could do, so I walked around the garden. I reckoned that I could spray the lemon tree while I was there – the old spray bottle I’d used for the whitefly was still on the outside table. But I couldn’t find the tree. I went through the garden over and over, but there was nothing there that looked anything like a lemon tree. Not that I’m an expert, but I image searched and still came up with nothing. It was on my sixth lap that a woman came through the front gate. She had a phone in one hand.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, but it wasn’t a friendly question.

‘I’m helping Mrs Guy with her gardening,’ I said. I held up the bottle of fungicide for proof.

‘And your name is?’

‘Morgan. But Mrs Guy calls me Sean.’

For some reason, this seemed to help. She didn’t look at me like I was about to steal something. Not that there was anything in the garden to steal. Certainly no lemon trees.

‘And why aren’t you in school?’

‘Suspended.’

‘What for?’

I looked at her. I didn’t know what business it was of hers. Anyway, I didn’t want to tell anyone that I’d been fighting. Dad was proud of me but I wasn’t.

‘I’ll come back,’ I said. ‘When Mrs Guy is home.’

‘She’s not coming home,’ the woman said.

Here’s something else that’s weird. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I didn’t know Mrs Guy. Not really. She was just some batshit-crazy old person who’d tried to give me money. And I’d helped her a bit, but that didn’t mean we were close or anything. Yet the thought that she was dead made me sad.

‘She’s not dead,’ said the woman. Maybe she’d read my face. She sighed. ‘Would you like to come next door and I’ll explain?’ Then the woman smiled. ‘You might be suspended from school, but I’m a decent judge of character. Even with that black eye, I think you’re okay. Come and have a drink and I’ll tell you what’s happened to her.’

I shrugged. It’s not like I had anything to do and I was curious.

The woman’s house was neat and tidy. There were some kids’ toys in the corner of her front room, but children didn’t seem to be about anywhere. Maybe they were at school. She went into the kitchen while I sat down on the couch, and came back with cordial in a couple of glasses. There were ice cubes chinking in them. She handed me one.

‘What happened to your face?’ she asked.

‘Tripped and hit a coffee table.’

‘Ouch.’ She sat in a chair opposite me. ‘I saw you in the garden … Morgan, did you say that was your name?’

I nodded.

‘I was going to call the police,’ she continued. ‘Now that house is empty, I’m worried someone will break in, steal whatever’s left there. Or maybe squatters will take it over.’

I didn’t know what squatters were.

‘What happened to Mrs Guy?’

The woman sighed.

‘I was woken up in the middle of the night a week ago. The police. They’d found Mary wandering the streets. She was dressed in her nightie.’ The woman brushed something from the corner of her eye and swallowed. ‘Apparently, she’d wanted to go to the supermarket to get some lemons. God knows why she wanted lemons. And it was four in the morning. Nothing was open, obviously. That’s what she told the police. Luckily, she still remembered where she lived. So they brought her back.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

‘Mary has dementia, Morgan. You know what dementia is?’

‘When you’re old and a bit crazy.’

The woman laughed but I didn’t think I’d said anything funny.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said. ‘It’s a brain disease, Morgan. It eats away at your memories. Sometimes you forget who your family are and you can’t think clearly.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘You’re right. It mainly affects the old, though not always. Anyway, Mary has had dementia for a few years, but recently it’s been getting worse.’

‘I told her my name was Morgan, but she always called me Sean.’

‘Yes. Sean was her son. Maybe there’s something about you that reminded her of him. Or maybe she thought you really were him. It was difficult recently to know what was going through her mind.’

‘Where’s her son now?’ It was sad, what had happened to her, but maybe the real Sean could look after her.

‘Dead, I think. No, actually I’m pretty sure.’

I waited.

‘I was Mary’s only friend, really,’ the woman continued. ‘We’ve known each other for the last eight years, since I moved in here. Before I had my kids. She was a lot better then – you know, in her mind. And she told me all about Sean.’ She sighed. ‘She was so proud of him. Her only relative in the world, as far as I know. But Sean was … he was … not a nice person, Morgan. He’d only come to see his mum when he wanted something. Money, mostly. Then he was gone for months, turned up again when he ran out of money, took off again. I met him once and he wasn’t friendly. I got the impression he thought I might have been after Mary’s money myself.’ She laughed. ‘He thought the whole world was like him – only out for what you can get.’ She paused and looked out of the window, like she was trying to get her thoughts sorted. ‘Mary told me he’d died. She was so upset. Cried in my arms for hours. A drug overdose. At least that’s what I suspected. Then, a few months later, Mary kept telling me how she was looking forward to her son coming to see her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her he was dead. In her head, at least, he was still alive and who was I to make her suffer again?’

‘So where’s Mrs Guy now?’

‘I don’t know, Morgan.’ She put her glass down on the coffee table by her chair. ‘I took her in that night the police came calling. Got my kids to bunk up together, so she’d have a bed to sleep in. The police said they’d get in touch with social services, who would sort out a place for her to be looked after. They took her away the following day. I couldn’t look after her, Morgan …’

I didn’t know why she said that. It wasn’t like I thought she should.

‘I mean, my own mother is not well, one of my children has special needs and … and …’ She spread her arms out. ‘No way. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t heartbroken when I saw her driven away. It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever known. She waved at me out of the car window …’

The woman looked as if she was going to burst into tears. She excused herself, left the room for a minute or two, and came back dabbing at her eyes with a wad of toilet paper.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Anyway, social services said they’d let me know when they’d found her a permanent place, but I haven’t heard anything since then.’

I wanted to leave but didn’t know how to. The woman was upset and I got this weird thought that I was helping in some way. Maybe I was just someone to talk at.

‘Lemons!’ The woman snorted. ‘Towards the end there she was obsessed with the bloody things … sorry, Morgan. I think she was going back to her childhood. She told me she’d grown up on a farm where citrus was harvested. Maybe we all go back to our childhood at the end. Where things were happy and made sense. I don’t know.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said.

It was almost like she’d forgotten I was there. She jumped to her feet and smiled.

‘Of course, Morgan,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you out.’

I stopped halfway down her path and turned around. She was still at the door.

‘I’m sorry about Mary,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I’m her friend. Is she yours too?’

I thought about it.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

16

I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I just walked. The pain in my head was a little better and the dizziness seemed to have gone. After half an hour it started to rain, but I kept walking anyway. Once you’re wet it doesn’t make any difference.

I sat on a bench in the park where I used to play soccer with Gray and Rajeev. The place was empty. It was quiet, apart from the steady beating of the rain, and sorta peaceful. Like I was the only person in the world. For a while I thought about what I’d do if I really was the only person in the world. It would be easier in some ways. No problem about food, what with all the supermarkets being full and no one to buy anything. Yeah, the fresh stuff would rot quickly, but the canned food would keep me going for a long time. Anyway, I could learn to plant my own crops. Electricity would go off after a while but I could do without television and computers and phones because there wouldn’t be any point to them anyway. I would be alone, but that wasn’t anything new. I reckoned the world would be a good place to be in. No wars. No global warming. None of the nastiness that people seem to bring. I could get a dog and he would keep me company. Dogs don’t expect anything. They just like being around you. Yeah, that sounded good.

I think I was crying, but it’s difficult to tell when every part of you is pouring with water.

I guess I stayed there for an hour or so. I only left because it was time for school to let out and I didn’t want to see anyone. So I walked home. I thought maybe Dad would be home because of the rain, but the place was empty. I should have had a shower and got changed out of my wet clothes, but they weren’t bothering me anymore. Plus, I didn’t want to go dripping puddles all over the house. Dad wouldn’t be happy with that. So I sat in the shed. It was dark and there was a leak in the roof, but more water didn’t worry me. I thought about growing up in a place with lemon trees, running around with my dog, picking the lemons when they were ripe and heavy, feeling the sun on my head. I thought so hard about it I was almost there. It made me smile.

My phone buzzed and broke my dream. I pulled the phone from my pocket. It was strange that it was still working, with the soaking it had gone through.

A text message. From Gray.

Can we talk?

I didn’t know what to do. His message made no sense to me. Not that it made any difference, because my battery died right after. Probably a good thing. I had no idea what I could say to him. Or if I should say anything at all. I left the phone on the concrete floor of the shed. I didn’t think I’d be needing it. But I did pick up a half-empty spray can of paint. Black. I don’t know why. Then I left. The rain had stopped and it was starting to get dark. I liked the dark. If I couldn’t have lemon trees with sun, the dark would do just fine.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but the big sign outside my school had the same picture as I’d seen when I was waiting to get suspended. It had the same words as well. Respect, Tolerance, Duty and Learning. I looked around but I couldn’t see anyone. There were a couple of cars in the car park. Maybe teachers working late. But there was no one moving around. I got the spray can out of my pocket and gave it a good shake. There must’ve been a little ball or something inside because it rattled like hell. If anyone was around they’d be certain to hear it. But I didn’t care. And no one came up.

I wrote BULLSHIT across the words on the sign. Well, I tried, but there wasn’t enough room for the last letter. So it said BULLSHI and I had to put the final T above it, across the picture of the building.

I couldn’t even do that right.

Then I left the can under the sign and walked home. Dad and Mitch were in now, but I went straight up to my bedroom. I realised I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day. But, to be honest, I couldn’t be bothered with eating. So I just got out of my damp clothes and lay on the bed, staring at the poster above me. No one came to see me. That was okay. I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone.

I was hoping I’d feel better after writing on the school sign. I tried to feel better. But really I didn’t feel anything.

I wondered where Mrs Guy was now. I wondered if she remembered me. Probably not. She was batshit crazy.

Maybe I was as well.

When I woke up, the sun was pouring through the window. I wanted to check the time, but I didn’t have my phone and couldn’t remember where I’d left it. So I got dressed and went downstairs. No one home. That was good.

I found a box of cornflakes, and the milk in the fridge smelled a bit weird but I reckoned it was probably okay. Couldn’t find the sugar. I ate two bowls and felt a bit better. I had a shower and felt better still. I stood out in the back garden and looked at the sky. It was clear. I knew I had the whole day ahead of me and that felt strange because I had no idea how I would fill the time. I hadn’t had to worry about that before. It was just school. I didn’t have that now and it felt … hard. There were, what, twelve hours before I could go to bed and I didn’t know what to do with them.

I remembered where my phone was, so I charged it up a bit. The message from Gray was there, but I still didn’t know what I should do. Then I thought that maybe he would come to the house if I didn’t reply. Dad would go crazy if Gray rocked up outside. So I messaged back.

What do you want to talk about?

He replied almost immediately.

Everything. Meet me today at the park where we play football. 4 pm. Just talk, Morgan. That’s all.

It crossed my mind that maybe he’d turn up with a few friends and beat the crap out of me. I guessed he had a good reason. But I didn’t really care, so I just sent him back a thumbs-up emoji. Then I went walking again. I had seven hours to kill, and walking was as good a way as any of passing the time. At least it wasn’t raining.

I bumped into my mother at about ten o’clock. She was coming out of a shop and I saw her and tried to hide behind something, but it was too late because she’d seen me. I suppose I could’ve run, but I couldn’t see the point. So I waited.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘What happened to your face?’ She looked like she was going to touch me but stopped herself just in time.

‘Walked into a lamppost,’ I said. I was tired of the coffee table story.

‘Have you put ice on that eye?’

‘No.’

My mother put down her shopping bags and folded her arms.

‘Morgan, I know you don’t want to talk to me,’ she said. ‘You’d have rung me if you did. But I’m asking you now. Please come back to my apartment. I can put some ice on your face, try to bring the swelling down. Give you a painkiller if you need one. I promise I won’t try to keep you there. I won’t force you to talk. After I’ve looked at your eye you can leave without saying a word to me if that’s what you want.’

Here’s the thing. I suddenly thought I did want to go with her. Partly it was because I still had hours to fill, partly because I was curious why she’d suddenly appeared after all those years. But mainly because I knew it would piss off my father. I didn’t know why I wanted to piss off my father. Not that it would even do that, because he wasn’t going to know about it. I’m not good at thinking things through clearly, so I just thought I’d go with my gut.

‘Okay,’ I said.

She smiled and picked up her bags.

‘It’s just a couple of minutes away,’ she said.

Her apartment was small but tidy. She sat me down in a dining-room chair and went into the kitchen, coming back a minute or two later with a bunched-up tea towel. She told me to hold it gently against my eye. It was freezing but it felt good, and my cheek stopped aching almost immediately.

‘Frozen peas,’ she said, pointing at the tea towel. ‘Versatile little suckers, frozen peas.’

Then she went off again to the kitchen, opening up the fridge and some cupboards. The whole apartment was so small that I could see what she was doing. Sandwiches and a glass of milk. That was okay. I realised I was starving. Cornflakes don’t cut it. Not even two bowls.

She brought the plates and the glasses back, put them on the dining table and then went into her bedroom. She didn’t stay long, but came back out and paced around the small room, which I now realised was the lounge as well as the dining room. There was a small television in the corner and a couch that looked like it had seen better days. A couple of pictures on the walls. Just past the TV there was a sliding glass door. I could see the sky.

My mother stopped pacing and stood in front of me.

‘Morgan,’ she said. ‘I hate to ask this, but would you mind if I went out onto the balcony for a few minutes?’ She looked embarrassed and glanced down at the floor. ‘I’m a little nervous, you see, and … well, it’s not a good thing for a nurse to admit, but I smoke.’ She held up a hand even though I hadn’t said anything. ‘Not many,’ she continued. ‘Probably four or five a day, normally when I’m stressed. And I’m stressed now. You could stay here or you could join me. If you don’t mind the smoke, that is.’

She was kinda babbling. I didn’t care if she smoked. Why would I? I stood and picked up the plate of sandwiches. Holding the frozen peas to my eye I couldn’t manage the glass of milk as well, but she picked it up. I followed her out onto the balcony. Like the rest of the apartment, it was tiny. But maybe it just seemed that way because of the flowers and plants. She had planter plots everywhere – on the railings and on the floor. There was colour everywhere. The plants left just enough room for two metal chairs and a small outdoor table. There was a concrete ceiling above us, probably the apartment on the next floor, but it kept the balcony covered. My mother was already taking a cigarette out from a pack and jiggling a lighter in the other hand. When she lit up and took a drag she gave a little sigh. Maybe pleasure. Maybe relief. She brushed at the air with a hand, like she was trying to keep the smoke away from me. I thought about telling her it didn’t matter, but I didn’t. I took a bite of the sandwich instead. It was cheese and some kind of sauce. It was good.

‘You should put a cold compress on that eye every day until it starts to get better,’ she said. ‘It’s best if you get ice onto it straight away, but better late than never.’

‘You need to move that plant,’ I said, pointing to one with purple flowers and droopy leaves. It was right in the corner, under the ceiling. ‘It’s not getting enough light.’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

‘How do I know you’re my mother?’ I asked. I mean, I’d thought she was the first time I saw her, she’d said she was and I couldn’t think why she’d lie, but it seemed a fair question. I’ve never been any good at seeing the ways families look like each other. Dad reckons I’m like Mitch, but I can’t see that. Not just because I don’t have his muscles or that he’s tall and I’m kinda small. Our eyes are the same colour, yeah, but his face doesn’t look anything like mine. I looked at my mother. Maybe there was something there. Her mouth, something about her nose. But it was difficult to tell. Her eyes were all screwed up because of the cigarette smoke and she had lines that crossed most of her forehead. She looked like a stranger. Then again, she was a stranger.

She told me my middle name and date of birth. Then Mitch’s middle name and date of birth, not that I could remember his. It wasn’t really proof, but it was good enough. Okay, she was my mother. I didn’t know what that meant to my life.

‘Tell me about yourself, Morgan,’ she said. She took another deep drag on her cigarette. I pointed at it.

‘Can I have one of those?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

‘I haven’t seen you or heard anything from you in over ten years,’ she said, tapping ash into the nearest plant pot. ‘Tell me about your life.’

I had to think this through a bit. She hadn’t heard from me? I didn’t know she was alive and I hadn’t heard anything from her. I told her this.

‘I sent you birthday and Christmas cards and presents every year,’ she said.

‘Never got them.’

She stubbed out her ciggie in the pot. I didn’t think that was very good for the plants, but I didn’t say anything.

‘Your father,’ she said.

Ten years of birthday and Christmas presents. I wondered what they were, whether they’d been any good. Funny. I hadn’t missed them because I didn’t know they’d ever existed. Now I felt a bit sad.

‘Just so you know,’ she continued, ‘your father had my contact details all the time. I hadn’t forgotten you, Morgan.’ She reached out for her cigarette packet but then took her hand away, brushed hair from her eyes. ‘Trust me, I hadn’t forgotten.’

‘So why did you go?’

She did the thing with the cigarettes again, like it was a constant struggle not to take one. Then she leaned back in her seat.

‘That’s a tricky one to answer,’ she said finally. ‘Tricky without telling some … home truths … that probably I shouldn’t go into just now.’ She thought a bit more. ‘Your father and I were headed in different directions. He was going down a path and I didn’t want to follow. I couldn’t follow him there. Does that make sense?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Okay.’ She rubbed at her forehead. ‘We weren’t meant to be together,’ she added. ‘Perhaps that’s the simplest way to put it.’

‘So me and Mitch weren’t meant to be together with you?’

‘No! I mean, yes you were … are … I mean … it’s just that …’ She gave up the struggle and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m your mother, Morgan. I loved you and Mitch. I still do. That will never change.’

‘I don’t get it,’ I said.

She seemed to come over all sad after I said that. I didn’t know why. I didn’t get it. Nothing much of what she’d said made any sense.

‘Perhaps now’s not the best time to explain,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of the best way of phrasing it; get the right words that will do the least damage. Maybe we can talk again.’

I guessed that was possible, but I didn’t say anything.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘you still haven’t told me anything about your life. School, hobbies, friends, girlfriends.’ She smiled when she said that last bit.

I shrugged.

‘School’s okay,’ I said. ‘Not very good at it. Don’t have any friends, girls or boys.’

She looked sad again, took another drag on her cigarette. It was getting really smoky on that balcony. I could feel a tickle at the back of my throat.

‘What do you do for fun?’

‘Nothing.’ I could’ve told her that I used to play soccer, but that had never been fun and, anyway, I didn’t play now.

‘Nothing?’

‘I have to go,’ I said. Her mouth twisted a bit when I said that. ‘Thanks for the sandwich.’

‘I’ll show you out, Morgan.’

And she did. When I stepped into the sunshine, she asked if I still had her mobile number. I told her I didn’t. She offered it again, but I said I knew where she lived if I ever needed to talk.

Didn’t seem likely to me.

There were still a couple of hours before I had to meet Gray. I thought maybe I just wouldn’t show up. I wasn’t sure I was in the mood for more talking. But then I remembered that maybe he’d come to my house, so …

I dropped by Mrs Guy’s place but it was still blank and empty. No sign of the next-door neighbour either. I tidied the garden a bit and checked the irrigation, which was all good. The bird’s eye chillies were doing okay as well. I left pretty quickly. It seemed sad.

So I walked to a park that I’d only been to a few times in my life. It had a lake and there were ducks there. I sat on a bench right by the water and wished I had some bread to throw to them. A couple of old people rocked up and they’d come prepared. I liked the way the ducks fought over the bits of bread, how they kept changing direction whenever a new piece hit the water. One old lady gave me a couple of slices to throw and it was fun. I made the bits really small so the slices would last and I felt kinda down when the last of it had gone.

I thought it must be cool to be a duck, just swimming around in circles and getting bread thrown at you.

Then I went to the place where I was meeting Gray. I’d be way early but if you’re just sitting on a bench it doesn’t really matter where you do it.

I watched as Gray made his way towards me. He was still in his school uniform. He sat next to me on the bench and for a while we didn’t say anything.

‘What happened to your eye?’ he said eventually.

‘Stepped on a garden rake,’ I said.

He laughed.

‘It’s called karma,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Justice. What goes around comes around.’

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I kept quiet.

‘I heard you got suspended,’ he continued.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry.’

This struck me as a strange thing to say and I couldn’t think of anything in reply.

‘Mr Whitfield called me into his office. Sat there like he had a pole stuck up his arse. Said there would be a mediation session when you were due back at school. Wanted me there, so you could say sorry for hitting me.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I told him I didn’t want an apology.’

‘Why?’

Gray sighed. ‘What’s the point?’ he said. ‘It’s just words. And an apology that’s forced … well, that’s no apology at all. Anyway, I told him that you had already said you were sorry so it wasn’t an issue. Move on.’

I thought this over, but it was hard to know exactly what he meant. Then again, Gray was a lot smarter than me, so that wasn’t surprising.

‘But I hadn’t said I was sorry,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Gray sighed, pulled out his phone, brought up our text messages. He held the screen to my face.

I’m sorry.

Can we talk?

What do you want to talk about?

Everything. Meet me today at the park where we play football. 4 pm. Just talk, Morgan. That’s all.

I couldn’t remember sending that first text. But there it was. Then again, most of that time was pretty fuzzy. Obviously I had.

‘I don’t remember doing that,’ I said.

‘You don’t remember saying you were sorry?’

I shook my head.

Gray sighed again.

‘So what are you saying, Morgan? That you’re not sorry for hitting me?’

‘No … I mean, yes. I … I didn’t mean to. I just did it, I don’t know why. I wish I hadn’t.’

He chuckled.

‘Not the most heartfelt apology ever recorded,’ he said. ‘But I guess it’s a start.’

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘You must be really mad at me,’ I said after a while.

‘Yeah.’ Gray took out a packet of mints from his pocket, offered me one. I shook my head, so he popped one into his mouth. ‘It hurt like hell.’ He pointed at my face. ‘I guess you know the feeling. But …’

I thought that he wasn’t going to continue, the pause was that long.

‘… but that pain goes away. It’s not the first time I’ve been punched for being gay. It probably won’t be the last. In the end, though, it’s the emotional pain that’s the worst, Morgan. Yeah, I’m hurting in all kinds of ways. I thought we were friends. And friends don’t do that to each other.’

Now, here’s something strange. I didn’t really want to talk. Before he came to the park I had no idea what he wanted to say. But then all these questions came into my head. Questions, thoughts I couldn’t remember ever thinking.

‘Why were we friends, Gray?’ I said. ‘I never understood.’

‘I told you. I think we’re the same. Likes attract, remember?’

‘Yeah. I remember,’ I said. ‘You think I’m gay as well, don’t you? You wanted to be friends so we could be together. But I’m not gay. You were wrong.’

It seemed a long time since I’d put so many words together.

Gray sat for a while in silence. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him, head down, crazy blond hair stuck up in its normal mess. Then he lifted his head.

‘Listen to me, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I will tell you the truth as I see it.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Homophobic people always seem to make this assumption that gay men have the hots for every man. Doesn’t matter if that man is gay or straight, great personality or boring, attractive or unattractive.’ He laughed. ‘Whatever that means. But it’s not like that. No one ever thinks that a heterosexual man wants to screw every woman in the world. Listen. I’m not attracted to you in that sense, Morgan. Not in the slightest. Believe me. You are definitely not my type.’

I wanted to ask him what was his type, but he was on a roll.

‘You said I thought you were gay. I had no idea, Morgan. People talk about this gaydar thing – this ability that they reckon gay people have to spot other gay people. I have no idea if it exists, but if it does I sure don’t have it. So, trust me, I made no judgement about your sexual orientation. That’s your business and it’s got nothing to do with me.’

He stopped then, and stared straight ahead. Like he was running through all these thoughts and I’d kinda disappeared. But he still hadn’t answered my question.

‘So if you didn’t know whether I was gay or not, why did you think we’re alike?’

He laughed then. It was like I’d said something really funny.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘If I’m gay and you’re straight, we’ve got nothing in common? Seriously? We like football, we find the same things funny …’ He glanced at me. ‘Sometimes. We have people we care about. People we can’t stand. Cut us and we bleed the same colour of blood. We worry about the same kinds of things. Jesus, Morgan. Gay people aren’t a different species. The only difference between me and a straight person is who we’re physically attracted to. That seems kind of unimportant to me, in the grand scheme of things. Don’t you think?’

I couldn’t think that quickly. I’d do it later. But then a point came to me.

‘That’s maybe true,’ I said. ‘Maybe’ probably didn’t cut it. Gray knew what he was talking about. ‘But that’s the same for Mr Whitfield and you’re not friends with him. So why me?’

‘Because we’ve both suffered, you and me. We have similar insecurities. We think the world has judged us and found we’re not worth much. It’s that pain we have in common, Morgan. And that’s why I thought we could be friends.’

‘But not now.’

Gray shrugged. ‘I’m doing my best here, Morgan. If I thought there was no chance of rescuing our friendship I wouldn’t have suggested meeting up.’ He laughed. ‘But come on, man. You could try to meet me halfway, you know?’

I tried to think about it, but all I got were pictures in my head. Mitch’s fist coming towards me, the sharp pain, crawling in the dirt, trying to get my legs to work, spitting out blood and soil, my brother’s legs moving away from me. I wondered if I was turning into him, and shivered. The thought was scary.

‘I’m sorry, Gray,’ I said. ‘I’m really, really …’ But then the words ran out. They seemed weak compared to a fist.

Gray put an arm across my shoulder.

‘Friends, Morgan?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah.’

There was a police car outside my home.

I thought it must’ve had something to do with Dad and him punching that keeper’s dad at the game. I hadn’t heard anything about that since.

Turned out I was wrong.

I put my key in the door and when I opened it there were two police officers standing in the hallway with Dad. One of them – a woman – turned as I came in. She didn’t smile.

‘Are you Morgan Pickford?’ she asked.

I nodded.

‘What happened to your eye?’ she asked.

I was getting very tired of that question, so I just shrugged.

‘Morgan, we need to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About the criminal damage you committed at your school,’ she said.

17

We sat in the front room. There were still a couple of cardboard buckets on the couch. They had grease stains on them, though there wasn’t any chicken left inside. It made the room smell.

‘You have no evidence that my son has done anything wrong,’ said Dad.

‘We have CCTV footage,’ said the male police officer. ‘It’s actually very clear evidence.’

That shut Dad up.

I sat on the couch. Dad sat next to me, knocking the buckets onto the floor. The female police officer took the chair opposite.

‘Morgan,’ she said. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. ‘Can you tell me why you did this? You spray-painted a … rather unfortunate word on a sign at your school. That is criminal damage. But I want to know if you have something to say before we decide how to proceed.’

I’d almost forgotten about the spray-painting. I mean, it had only been last night but it seemed like a dream. When I thought about it I could remember taking the can from the shed, going to the school … But I didn’t know why I’d done it. I couldn’t find anything to say.

‘Maybe we should have a solicitor here,’ said Dad.

The female officer held up her hand.

‘Please, Mr Pickford,’ she said. ‘This is just a chat, okay? Nothing official, nothing to be used in evidence. Just a chat.’

Dad leaned back.

‘You’re thirteen, yes, Morgan?’

I nodded.

‘And you were suspended recently from school, is that right? For attacking another student?’

Dad leaned forward.

‘That was—’

‘Please, Mr Pickford. We’re just trying to understand some of the history here. You’ll get your chance to talk, believe me.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was suspended for hitting another student.’

‘And spray-painting graffiti was a way of expressing your … anger at being suspended.’

I had no idea if that was true or not. I tried to think back. What was I thinking when I shook that can? Was I angry? I didn’t think so. I couldn’t remember feeling anything at all. So I shrugged.

‘Have you ever done anything like this before, Morgan?’ This was the male officer.

‘No,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘We didn’t think so. There’s nothing in our records.’

‘He’s a good kid,’ said Dad.

‘I’m sure,’ said the woman. ‘But good kids don’t normally go around defacing property. At least not in our experience. So we’re just trying to get a handle here.’

‘Will I be arrested?’ I asked.

‘You’re a juvenile,’ said the woman. ‘We try not to arrest juveniles, unless it’s a very serious crime. Not that what you did wasn’t serious.’ She smiled then, which made me feel a little better. Not much, though. ‘You committed a crime, Morgan, and that needs addressing. But I don’t think we’ll be arresting you. That’s one of the reasons why we are having this chat. It’s up to you, really.’

‘I don’t know why I did it,’ I said. I wanted to tell the truth. This was scary. I couldn’t ever remember talking to a police officer before. And all these thoughts about being locked up in prison came to my mind. I’d seen loads of TV programs where it happened. I didn’t want to be in a cell with a toilet where everyone could see you having a piss. I didn’t want to be stripped naked, have someone look up my arse to see if there were drugs in there. I felt like crying, but I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I kept it in. Maybe they’d think I was faking it.

I wanted to die. It hit me suddenly. What a strange thought.

‘Okay, Morgan,’ said the man. ‘Maybe you can think about it, all right?’

‘So what happens now?’ asked Dad. ‘I mean, he’s just a kid. He’s never been in trouble before. And, trust me, I’ll have a few words to say to him when you’ve gone. Can’t we just forget about it, hey? Kids being kids, know what I mean?’

The woman stood. She had a belt on but there wasn’t a gun in it. I’d seen cops in the main street in town and they had guns. I was almost disappointed.

‘Kids will be kids, Mr Pickford,’ she said. ‘I understand. Which is why I’m in the division of the force dealing with juvenile offenders. It’s part of my job to keep them on the straight and narrow. And that often means avoiding court if we possibly can. There are a number of diversion options open to us.’

‘Like?’ said Dad.

‘Like offender/victim conferencing, maybe a written or a verbal caution; sometimes a diversion program means the young person has to demonstrate reparation in some way.’

‘Reparation?’

‘Trying to repair the damage, whether that be physical or emotional.’

‘And who decides?’

‘I do,’ said the woman. ‘What happens next is entirely at my discretion. Which is why I’ve been trying to get some background for your son’s offence.’

‘So what now?’

The woman straightened her uniform, tugged down on her jacket.

‘I’ve talked to the school,’ she said. ‘This is not a victimless crime and their views have certainly informed me about what path to take.’ She turned to me. ‘I will come back here to see you, probably tomorrow morning. Make sure you are available. In other words, stay at home.’ She gave a small smile. ‘And out of trouble, okay?’ She turned to Dad. ‘And I’d like you to be available too, Mr Pickford. We’ll need a parent to be present in any meeting with your son.’

‘I’ve got a business to run.’

But the police officer just looked at him.

‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll be here.’

When they’d gone, Dad took a beer from the fridge.

I waited. I thought his words wouldn’t hurt me too much. I’d toughened up to them a while back. But Dad didn’t say anything at first, just gulped the beer down, crushed the can in one hand and tossed it into the kitchen bin. Then he turned on the television.

I didn’t know whether to tell him I was sorry or whether I should just go to my room without saying anything at all. But then he started talking. It was difficult at first to hear him over the soap opera playing, but I got most of it.

‘You did well there, Morgan,’ he said. I had no idea what he meant. What had I done well? ‘You didn’t make excuses, you didn’t say sorry, you didn’t break down. I was proud of you.’ I tried to get my head around that, but didn’t manage. ‘We are Pickfords,’ he continued. ‘We don’t back down. We support and protect each other. It’s us versus the world. Remember that, son.’

And then he stopped talking and watched the soap. I went to my room.

I’d had nightmares before, but this was the worst. I mean, there weren’t any monsters chasing me or anything like that. But I was walking at night and everywhere was quiet. No traffic noises, no lights on in any of the houses, no sounds at all. And the night was darker than it would’ve been normally. When I looked up I couldn’t see any stars, even though there were no clouds. I walked through silence.

I saw the school sign. It had been covered with a sheet of some kind. So kids couldn’t see the word I’d written there, maybe. I kept walking. And then I found myself on a bridge, but I couldn’t work out how I got there. One minute walking, the next sitting on the side of the bridge, my legs dangling over the drop. I knew that bridge. Me and Dad had driven over it a few times when he was working just out of town. There was a river below. A long way below. But I couldn’t see it in the dream. I couldn’t hear it either.

The only thing I could hear was a voice in my head, but it was very quiet. I tried to listen, but I only caught the odd word and none of it made any sense. Not really.

I wondered what it would be like to let myself go, just give a little push with my hands and drop into that darkness beneath. My hands could feel the cold of the concrete. I didn’t want to jump. I knew that. But I was curious. My fingers gripped the concrete tighter, the muscles in my arms bunching.

And then I was falling. I couldn’t remember pushing off. And it wasn’t even as if I was falling. There was no wind rushing through my hair. It was more like floating in the darkness. But even in a dream I knew I couldn’t float forever. Somewhere there was ground or water rushing towards me. I just didn’t know when we’d meet.

I sat up in bed, my heart racing and the sound of blood pulsing in my ears. After a few minutes, I felt better. After a few more minutes, I drifted off to sleep again and found myself walking through dark streets towards a bridge in a silence that felt heavy and angry.

The police officer turned up at nine in the morning. She told us that there would be a meeting with the principal of my school and the school counsellor.

‘Just the two of them and the two of you,’ she said to me and Dad. ‘And me, of course.’

‘When?’ asked Dad.

The police officer looked at her watch.

‘In about half an hour,’ she replied. ‘I think it is in everyone’s best interests to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Don’t you think?’

We didn’t say anything.

The principal’s office at school. Mr Whitfield sat bolt upright behind his desk. Miss Farter, the counsellor, sat to his right. Dad and I took seats across from him. The police officer drew up a chair at the side of the desk, as if she was a referee or something. We looked at each other for a while, like enemies thinking about how to attack. I could only hope that Dad would keep his temper, but you could never be sure of that.

Miss Farter smiled at me.

‘How are you, Morgan?’ she said.

‘Good.’

‘That’s excellent.’

Mr Whitfield didn’t look like he thought it was excellent. He looked like he was sad that he didn’t have a cane and the right to use it. There was silence and then the police officer spoke.

‘This is what is sometimes been called a Real Justice or Restorative Justice conference. Welcome, everybody. Before the formal part of the conference begins, I would like us to introduce ourselves. I am Sergeant Gabrielle Holmes and I will be facilitating this conference.’

We went round and said our names.

The officer cleared her throat.

‘Thank you for attending,’ she said. ‘I know that this is difficult for all of you, but your presence will help us deal with the matter before us. This is an opportunity for you to be involved in repairing the harm that has been done.’

Everyone looked straight ahead. The principal gently drummed his fingers on the desk.

‘This conference will focus on an incident that happened the day before yesterday on school grounds. Graffiti was sprayed on the signboard at the entrance to the school. Offensive language was employed.’

She leaned forward and clasped her hands together.

‘It is important to understand that we will focus on what Morgan did and how that behaviour has affected others. I must stress that we are not here to decide whether Morgan is a good or a bad person. Our purpose here is to explore the ways in which people have been affected and hopefully work towards repairing the resulting harm. Does everyone understand?’

There were nods all round. Except for Dad. He just kept staring ahead.

‘Mr Pickford?’ said the officer.

‘Yeah,’ said Dad.

‘Good.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Morgan has admitted his part in this incident.’ She looked straight into my eyes. ‘I am obliged to tell you that you do not have to take part in this conference and you can leave at any time. That applies to everyone here.’ She held up a hand. ‘But if you do leave, then the matter may be referred to the court or handled in some other way. Provided you participate in a positive manner, however, this could be finalised today if you comply with the conference agreement. Do you understand, Morgan?’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t understand some of her words, but I guessed that didn’t matter.

‘Good. Morgan, tell us what happened.’

I went all clammy. I wasn’t expecting this. Why did I have to talk about it? Everyone knew what I’d done. Everyone knew I was guilty. Jeez. She’d already said I’d admitted it. Maybe this was to shame me. I could understand that.

‘I sprayed a bad word on the sign,’ I said.

‘What were you thinking about at the time?’

What was I thinking? I don’t think I was thinking anything. But I knew that this wouldn’t be a good answer. I looked round, but no one seemed to want to help.

‘I was thinking whether I could fit the whole word on. Turns out I couldn’t.’

Miss Farter giggled and then coughed. When she took her hand away from her face, there was no expression there.

‘Were you feeling angry? Sad? Any sort of emotion at all?’

‘Not really.’ I shrugged. ‘I can’t remember what I was feeling.’

‘Okay. What have you thought about since the incident?’

It was horrible. Everyone was looking at me. It was like doing that oral presentation for my English teacher, except this time I didn’t even have any notes to help me. I tried to concentrate. Not to remember what I’d been thinking about since I sprayed the sign – there wasn’t much to remember, unless thinking about dying was worth mentioning. I thought it wasn’t. But I was trying to work out what I should say. What people wanted from me. I thought they probably wanted me to start crying, to say I’d been thinking about it all the time and how I knew it was bad and that everyone was upset, me and Dad, but also everyone at the school, all the kids who’d look at the sign and see BULLSHIT written there, all the teachers. But I also knew that Dad would be angry if I did any of that. It was us against the world. That’s just the way it was.

But I didn’t want to go to court.

Words have never been my friend. I needed them on my side now.

‘I’ve thought I shouldn’t have done it.’

‘Why?’

Because of all this. But I didn’t think saying that was a good idea, so I just shrugged. Then I thought I’d better say something.

‘I’ve caused a lot of trouble,’ I said.

‘Who do you think has been affected by your actions?’

Was this never going to end?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Everyone, I guess.’ I tried to sit up straighter. I could never sit up as straight as Mr Whitfield but I wanted Dad to see I wasn’t scared. Even though I was.

‘How have they been affected?’

Why didn’t she ask them? How was I supposed to know? My mouth was dry and I was starting to feel dizzy. If I fell onto the floor, would they feel sorry for me and stop this? I decided I’d try to answer this one, but if it kept going I’d tell them I was sick.

‘They’d be upset because it’s not nice to be told your school is bullshit,’ I said.

Miss Farter did that giggling thing again, and stopped herself. But when she looked at me I could see kindness in her eyes.

The police officer asked everyone else questions then. What was your reaction, how did you feel, what was the hardest thing for you? At least I could keep quiet. I knew I was supposed to listen, but the principal went on for so long I think even the police officer was getting bored. When she got to Dad I thought he would go apeshit, but I reckon he was thinking along the same lines as me. Get this done. Give them the answers you think they want. But never show weakness.

He gave one-word answers to most questions.

Then she turned to me again.

‘Is there anything you want to say at this time?’

‘No,’ I said. Then I remembered my manners. ‘Thank you.’

She turned to the principal.

‘What would you like to happen as a result of this conference?’

He went on again for a long time, but in the end it came down to cleaning the paint off the sign. I would’ve agreed to that from the beginning. It seemed weird that we had to go through all of that before coming to the point we would have come to in one minute if someone had just asked.

It was Miss Farter who suggested I clean the sign after school finished, so other kids couldn’t see me doing it. She also said the school would provide the stuff to clean it with.

The police officer then said something about how she wanted to be sure about what we’d understood before she wrote up the final agreement, that I was going to clean up the sign and that this whole thing would be over and done with. We all nodded. Then she said she wanted to give everyone a chance to say anything before we were finished. Mr Whitfield looked like he was going to give it a go, but in the end he kept quiet.

The police officer stood.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for your contributions in dealing with this difficult matter. Congratulations on the way you have worked through the issues. Please help yourselves to some refreshments while I prepare the agreement.’

There was coffee and tea for the adults, orange juice for me. Plus sandwiches. I ate as much as I could. Then I signed the agreement, and Dad and I left.

‘Waste of time,’ he said when we got to the car.

18

Dad went to work, so the house was empty all day. I didn’t know where Mitch was. I hadn’t seen him since he beat me up. I guessed someone would tell me where he was at some point.

My phone buzzed. There was only one person with my number. Who used it, anyway.

Hey, Morgan. Wanna have a kick after school’s done?

I was never going to want to kick a football, but now wasn’t the time to talk about it.

Can’t.

Y not?

I could’ve given any number of reasons. Don’t feel like it. Too tired. Got to help Dad. But for some reason I decided on the truth.

Cleaning up the school sign.

My phone was quiet for the longest time.

That was you?

Yeah.

I could see the little symbol telling me was writing something. It went on for ages.

Whoa. Awesome. We all wondered who’d done that. I nearly pissed myself when I read it coming in. Respect, Tolerance, Duty, Learning, Bullshit. Genius, my friend. So what time you cleaning it?

Four.

Need help?

I wished there was a shrugging emoji. There probably was, but I couldn’t be bothered finding it.

Sure.

See you there.

Miss Farter met me at the sign, gave me some cloths, a face mask and a bottle of something that would get rid of black spray-paint. Well, we hoped it would. Gray rocked up a few minutes later. He seemed to be in a very good mood.

‘How are you, Miss Farmer?’ he said.

‘I’m fabulous,’ she replied. ‘And you?’

‘Living the dream, miss,’ said Gray. ‘You’re good to go, by the way. We’ve got this now.’

‘I would love to, Gray,’ said the counsellor. ‘Especially since this is unpaid overtime. But leaving two minors with powerful solvents might be a recipe for disaster. And possible lawsuits. I’m here until you’re done.’

‘You are the gift that keeps on giving, Miss Farmer.’

‘And you’re the smart-arse that keeps on being smart.’ She pointed to the sign. ‘Sooner you get cleaning, the sooner we can leave.’

It didn’t take that long. Not with two of us. I mean, you could still see smudges of black across the whole sign and some of the paint underneath my paint started to come off as well. But at least when we were done no one could see BULLSHIT.

Gray pointed at the sign.

‘You’d think a tolerant institution could put up with being called bullshit, Miss Farmer,’ he said.‘I think we’ve exposed some serious double standards here.’

‘Put the solvents and cloths down, boys,’ she said, ‘and get out of here, before you test my sense of humour to breaking point.’

But she was smiling all the way through. She really liked Gray. It was obvious.

When we turned around, the principal was right behind us.

He folded his arms and gazed at the sign, tilting his head to one side. Then he looked at us. For a moment I thought he was going to smile.

‘Good job,’ he said finally.

‘Thanks,’ said Gray.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds and then we walked away.

‘Want a kick now, Morgan?’ said Gray. ‘I’m not sure Rajeev is around. Something about a family gathering, but we could get some practice in. I could pick up a ball from my house. It’s on the way.’

‘I’m never playing football again,’ I said.

That stopped him in his tracks. Then he started walking again. He whistled.

‘That’s … sad,’ he said finally.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I do. Want to get a burger and chips? I got paid yesterday and it’s burning a hole in my pocket.’

I wasn’t going to turn down food. Particularly since it wasn’t fried chicken.

We sat in a cafe. It had all these bright colours on the furniture and on the walls. Like it was trying to tell you that happiness lived there.

Gray chewed on an onion ring.

‘Why are you giving up soccer, Morgan?’ he said through a mouthful. ‘Was it that accident?’

I thought about it. That’s when it started, but I wasn’t sure it was the whole reason. I thought about Dad and all the time spent juggling a football, running through cones. But that wasn’t the whole reason either. The more I thought about it, the more I realised there wasn’t one answer. It just felt … right.

I couldn’t explain this to Gray, but he deserved some kind of an answer. Football had brought us together. Then I’d torn us apart. Now we were back and I didn’t want to break us again. But I didn’t know the words.

‘Do you know that bridge out east, Gray?’ I asked. ‘The one with the big drop, about two kay out?’

He stopped chewing then, went to take a drink from his milkshake, and paused. His eyes … I don’t know. They looked inward. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that was the feeling I got.

‘Yeah,’ he said. His voice was quiet.

‘I had a dream about that bridge last night,’ I said. Why was I talking about that? It didn’t have anything to do with soccer or giving soccer up. It didn’t have anything to do with anything. ‘I was sitting on the edge of the bridge and then the next thing I was falling … no, that’s not right. I was floating. And everywhere was dark and the voices in my head had stopped. It was … it was peaceful, Gray.’ I picked up my burger, then put it down again. We were both playing with our food. I don’t think I’d ever spoken so many words all together. It felt strange. Strange, but okay. ‘I liked that floating bit,’ I said. ‘But I was also afraid of it ending. I’m not making any sense. Sorry.’

Gray looked at me.

‘Am I crazy?’ I asked. I wanted someone else’s opinion and God knows there weren’t many people who could be bothered to give one.

‘No crazier than the average person,’ said Gray.

I finished my burger. I remembered that Gray had asked me why I’d given up soccer, and that I hadn’t given him even one reason. It had something to do with the bridge and my dream, but I couldn’t put it all together.

‘I was happy when I was floating,’ I said. ‘That’s it. I was happy. Nothing to worry about. No one to bother me. No school, no football, no arguments, no … nothing. I want that. I want to float.’

Gray finished off his milkshake. He made that slurping noise when your straw is trying to get the last little bits from the bottom. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Are you okay, Morgan?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Dad came home from work around five forty-five, had a shower, grabbed a couple of beers and headed out to the back garden. He told me to come along, so I sat on the cracked plastic chair and waited.

‘Want a beer, son?’ He held out a can and I took it. The beer tasted nasty and I wondered why so many people liked to drink the stuff. Maybe you got used to it. Maybe if I drank a few cans it would turn into something nice.

‘Mitch has left home,’ Dad said. ‘Got a job as a security guard in the shopping centre.’

I nodded. Mitch would make a good security guard. I’d been in the shopping centre a few times when there was trouble. Sometimes drunk people, sometimes people grabbing things from stores and making a run for it, sometimes purse snatching. Mitch has muscles and I think he likes hurting people. A job as a guard would give him reasons to do that. He’d feel like a hero instead of someone who just likes hurting people.

‘He’s house sharing with a couple of mates. Regular money means he can pay his share of rent and bills. He’s coming round in a couple of days to pick up the rest of his stuff, maybe his bed.’

‘Okay.’

Dad finished his beer, crumpled the can and dropped it at his feet. My can was still nearly full. He looked around.

‘This place is shithouse,’ he said. ‘I always said that you could tell a professional gardener because their own garden looks like crap. But … this place could be all right if we put in the work. What do you say, Morgan? We could do it together.’

‘Sure.’ I didn’t think it would happen. Dad had said this a couple of times before but nothing ever came of it.

‘To be honest, it’s good that Mitch has got a job,’ Dad said. ‘There’s not enough gardening work at the moment, so it helps that I don’t have to pay him. Just a dip, of course. The work’ll pick up. Never a good time of year, this. Not much rain, so lawns don’t need cutting.’ He shrugged. ‘Are you drinking that?’ He pointed at my beer, so I handed it over. He finished it in seconds, did the crumpling thing again. ‘Yeah, it’ll pick up.’ He gave me a thumbs up. ‘This time next year we’ll be millionaires.’

I gave him a thumbs up back. But I’d seen other gardening companies driving around. They had shiny trailers with new ride-on mowers on the back. Big logos. They seemed to be doing okay.

‘Isn’t there practice at the club tonight? Seven o’clock, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I can drop you. Can’t stay because the bastards have banned me, but I can drop you there, maybe pick you up after.’

This was the time to tell him, to say that I wasn’t going to be playing football again. He’d say I was scared, that I was a sook, and I’d have to say I wasn’t and we wouldn’t agree. Dad wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t understand either. I didn’t want another fight.

‘Sure,’ I said.

At least I didn’t see any of the other players when Dad dropped me off. They were already out on the field. I could see Craig giving some heading tips to a couple of the other players. They couldn’t do it for more than a couple of goes. I watched for a minute. Maybe I was trying to see if there was anything there that made me want to join them. There wasn’t.

I put my kit bag under a tree in the car park. It would probably be safe there. And if it wasn’t … well, I wasn’t going to be needing it again. Then I started walking away from the lights on the field, away from the players and What-do-you-say Damian, away from all the noise. Into the darkness.

The bridge was exactly the same as I remembered it. Just one lane each way and hardly any traffic. It had been there forever and I guess it must’ve been busy at one time. But the town that it led to had lost a lot of people over the years. I didn’t know why. Something to do with a factory closing down, maybe.

It was full dark. I walked along until I was in the centre of the bridge, ducked under a railing and sat on the edge, legs hanging over the side. I looked down. Carefully. But I couldn’t see the river beneath. I couldn’t hear it either. Dad was right, there hadn’t been much rain recently – not after that one downpour when I got soaked.

I didn’t know what I was expecting. It wasn’t anything like my dream, but it was quiet and peaceful. If I closed my eyes, which I did, I could almost believe I was floating.

I heard the footsteps before I saw anyone. There were no lights on the bridge, just reflective strips that would pick up car headlights. I felt the muscles in my arms tighten.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Gray.

‘Sure.’

I couldn’t see him properly until he’d ducked under the railings and sat at my side. His hand nearly touched mine.

‘Just in case you’re worrying,’ he said, ‘that I’m a stalking homo with dubious motives, then you can relax.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘I was at the club and saw you get dropped off. Saw you leave your gear in the car park, walk off. I was …’ He sighed. ‘I was curious. And maybe a bit worried. I wanted to see where you were going, so I followed. Sorry, Morgan.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘This is the bridge in your dreams, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I thought you were coming here. I mean, after a while it was clear you couldn’t be going anywhere else.’

‘I’m not here to kill myself,’ I said.

‘Good,’ said Gray. ‘That would’ve been...disappointing.’ He laughed for some reason. ‘I was here three years ago. Sitting exactly where you’re sitting now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I had come to kill myself.’ He turned his head towards me. I could see that much. ‘I didn’t, in case you’re wondering.’ He shook his head. ‘Jeez. Eleven years old and I wanted to end it all.’ It was like he was talking to himself.

We didn’t speak for a minute or two. I was trying to work through what he’d said. I wanted to ask him why he’d wanted to die, but I couldn’t find the right words. Again. As it turned out, he didn’t need me to ask.

‘It was a bad time for me, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I’d realised I was … different. That I was gay. Yeah, that word. Different. I felt like I was the only person in the world who’d ever gone through that realisation, the only person who didn’t know what the hell it all meant. I was like someone on the other side of some fence I’d never known existed, looking at everyone else, wondering why I was apart. I know better now.’

He sat for a while.

‘I told my parents that I thought I was gay. I used that word, “thought”, even though it wasn’t thinking, it was knowing.’

He shut up then, and leaned forward, putting his head onto his chest.

‘What did they say?’ I asked.

He lifted his head.

‘Dad was all right. Not happy, I couldn’t say that. He didn’t let off fireworks or anything. But he was all right. Mum …’ He lifted his hand, waggled it side to side. ‘Not so much. She didn’t say anything, though. But the way she looked at me after that … like I was a … disappointment, that I was someone she didn’t know, had never known. That killed me, Morgan. It killed me. Gay kids have had worse reactions from their parents. I know that now. But at the time, it seemed … it seemed like the end of the world.’

‘What did you do?’

‘It changed me. This is difficult to explain, but I’ll do the best I can. Coming out to my parents was hard.’ He snorted. ‘I hate that phrase, by the way. “Coming out.” Like gay people are, I don’t know, trapped. Or that coming out is as simple as that. Stepping through some door that straight people have built.’ He shook his head. ‘Even the word “straight” pisses me off, with all that implies. Look. Never mind.’ He laughed. ‘What was your question again?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Oh, yeah. I “came out”. I told my friends. I told my teachers. Basically, I said, I’m gay. What’re you going to do about it?’

‘What happened?’

‘They did something about it. I lost some of my friends. That hurt, even though I could say to myself that they were never friends in the first place. I was eleven, Morgan. It’s hard to deal with that shit when you’re eleven. It’s hard … never mind.’

‘Why did you want to kill yourself ?’

‘Oh. All sorts of reasons. Some of the kids at school were shitty. You know, chants in the playground. Hey, you probably don’t know. Anyway, I got hit a few times. Kids who were trying to show they were … I don’t know. Normal. Who knows what goes through their minds? I tried to ignore it. But sometimes things are impossible to ignore.’

‘I hit you.’

‘I know. But I was able to deal with it better. Experience … it changes you, Morgan. And I’m fourteen now. I know who I am.’

‘So you wanted to die.’

‘Yeah. I came here one time. Sat exactly where you’re sitting. And … it just seemed too hard, this business of living. It seemed like it would be so much better if it all just stopped. You know what I’m talking about. Just floating. Not having to worry about anything. Drifting. No voices in your head. Just floating.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘No idea. No, that’s not true. I remember thinking, Why would I do this? It wouldn’t change who I was. Who I am. All it would do was maybe make some homophobic arseholes think twice. Maybe Mum would be sad. Maybe she’d think she could have dealt with things better. And probably no one would’ve, even then. This thing about living or dying wasn’t about them. It was about me. And I shouldn’t care what anyone else thought. Just get on with living.’

I sat and listened to the silence. Even now, I couldn’t hear the river beneath us.

‘Is it better now?’ I asked. ‘I mean, being gay and not caring what people think?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gray. ‘It is better. Not because being gay has really changed anything for me. I’ve never had a relationship. In that sense. But I think I’m okay. I think I’m a good person. I think I have things to offer people. When I sat on this bridge, three years ago, I saw things differently. Now, I’m okay. Screw ’em, Morgan. Screw ’em all.’

We sat for a while. I could only hear my breathing and Gray’s.

‘Did I tell you about Mrs Guy?’ I said finally. ‘Mary?’

I repeated what the neighbour had said. He sighed.

‘Yeah. I thought she had dementia. What a shame. I can’t imagine what’s it’s like to lose your memories. Memories are who we are, when it comes down to it. Take them away and … I don’t know.’

We sat for a minute or two without saying anything.

‘We should go see her,’ said Gray.

‘We don’t know where she is,’ I said. ‘And what would it matter? She doesn’t know who we are.’

‘We know who we are,’ said Gray. ‘And maybe this neighbour knows where she is. If not, it can’t be too hard to work it out. I mean, there can’t be that many options. Let’s track her down. Go visit.’

I thought about it.

‘I’d like that,’ I said.

19

Mitch came and picked up his stuff. There wasn’t much of it. It all fitted into the back of his ute and he didn’t say anything to me while we loaded it up. When he’d strapped everything down, he shook Dad’s hand and finally looked at me.

‘What happened to your eye?’ he said.

‘Tripped and fell onto the coffee table,’ I said.

‘You should be more careful.’

‘Yeah.’

And then he was gone.

Maybe I should’ve felt relief. But I didn’t. I felt kinda sad. It was supposed to be the Pickfords against the world.

Dad told me he was due in court the following week. The case had come up and he said he was going to plead not guilty. I wanted to ask him why he thought he wasn’t guilty when dozens of people had seen him hit a guy in the face twice, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.

Dad said he was going to represent himself in court.

I didn’t think that was a good idea either. I had visions of him losing it at the judge and getting himself in deeper. It struck me that of the three of us, Mitch was the most violent, but he was the only one who wasn’t in trouble with the police. Sometimes it’s difficult to make sense of the world. Most times, actually.

Gray got me a job. A Saturday job. Five hours, because a thirteen-year-old couldn’t work more than that. And it was only twelve bucks an hour, which Gray told me was outrageous, but I didn’t care.

It was a garden centre run by his uncle. We met up after school and went to the place. It wasn’t a big nursery, but there were plants everywhere and some garden ornaments and stuff keen gardeners would need. On the way, Gray told me what he was thinking.

‘You know the thing about you, Morgan?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t seem to find joy in anything.’ He held up his hand. ‘I mean, I know you must, but you just don’t show it. Like …’ He spread his arms out. ‘… I think I’ve only ever seen you smile once. Not when you were playing soccer, even when you scored that brilliant goal. Remember? Dancing through the defence like they didn’t exist. Classic. But you had a face like a smacked arse. I was thinking, if I’d scored that goal I’d be leaping around screaming. But it didn’t seem to touch you.’

‘When did I smile?’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that. I had a feeling I’d smiled in a dream, but that didn’t count.

‘When you fixed Mary’s plant. You know, that one with the white dust on it. I saw you looking at it and it was so much better. It was going to live. You smiled then.’

I didn’t remember that.

‘Smiling suits you,’ he added. ‘You should do it more often.’

‘Haven’t got much to smile about right now,’ I said.

‘True. Which means you need something. Plants. You’ve got a thing for plants,’ said Gray.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Trust me, you do.’

Turned out the nursery was run by Damian. What-do-you-say Damian. I’d had no idea he was Gray’s uncle – no one had mentioned it at the club, but maybe that wasn’t surprising. He was bent over a computer in the nursery’s office, but smiled when he saw us.

‘Gray, my least favourite nephew,’ he said. ‘And Morgan, my most favourite winger. How are you guys?’

He knew why we were there. Gray had put in a good word. Damian pointed out that working at the nursery on a Saturday meant I couldn’t play in some games, so I was forced to tell him that I’d given it up. He frowned.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘You have natural ability. Would’ve made a fine player in time. Maybe a great one. Still, I have to respect your decision. A knock on the head like that can mess up your confidence. If you change your mind, though, you’re always welcome at Sheldon’s. What do you say?’

I nodded, though I knew there was no chance of me changing my mind.

He showed me around the nursery, said I’d be doing light stuff, like taking plant deliveries, watering some of the stock, and helping out his wife, Denise, who’d be in charge while he did his soccer coaching. Maybe helping customers put small plants into the backs of their cars. He also said I’d need a letter from my dad saying he was okay with me working. I thought I could probably talk Dad into that.

I was to start that Saturday at ten am, finish at three in the afternoon, with half an hour for lunch. Damian said he’d pay me for that. So it was sixty bucks for the day. I’d never earned anything before. It seemed like a fortune.

When we left, Gray pulled out his phone and brought up a TV program. Handed the phone to me.

‘Gardening Australia,’ he said. ‘With the amazing Costa unpronounceable-Greek-last-name. You’ll love it, Morgan. ABC iview. You just need to set up an account, which is free, and you can watch all the episodes whenever you like.’

I watched for a few minutes. The main guy had this crazy beard and shaggy hair. It was impossible to tell what he looked like underneath it all. He wore weird overalls and was really cheerful. It must be tiring being that cheerful. I handed the phone back.

‘Yeah. No thanks,’ I said.

‘Morgan. This’ll help your job. You reckon you don’t know much about plants, so you need all the information you can get. This …’ He tapped the screen. ‘… is your one-stop resource. What these guys don’t know about plants isn’t worth knowing.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Watch an episode or two. All of the presenters are grade A, genuine, made-in-Australia nerds. All of them must have been bullied like crap at school. These are our people, Morgan.’

We walked in silence for a few minutes.

‘Think of it as homework,’ he said.

‘I don’t do homework,’ I said.

‘But this is the kind of homework that actually helps you.’

I thought about Mrs Guy and her garden. I thought about the pile of dirt and weeds that was the back garden at home. I even thought about my mother’s planters. Maybe it would be worth checking out an episode or two.

But I didn’t tell Gray that.

I told Dad about the job that evening. But telling him about the job also meant I had to tell him that I was giving up football. He immediately saw that working Saturdays meant I could only play when games were on Sunday. Maybe I could’ve just nodded, let him think I was still going to play then, but I had to tell him sometime. Now was as good as any.

‘I’m not going to play anymore, Dad,’ I said.

He stiffened when I said it, like someone had just smacked him round the back of the head.

‘Say what?’ he said.

‘I’m giving up football.’

He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, Morgan. I’ve seen you play and you’re good. You’re better at football than Mitch is at rugby. Not that he plays that anymore. You could be a professional if you put in the work. A legend, like Lionel Messi. Do you have any idea how much that guy is worth? Millions and millions. That could be you, son, down the track.’

For the first time, I wondered whether that was something that Dad wanted for me, or for himself. Did he just want to have a rich legend of a son to make up for what he didn’t have? He’d tried with Mitch. Perhaps I was his last chance at success. I remembered what Mitch had said, that time when they had their argument and I was listening on the stairs. Dad was scared. Maybe he was scared that his life would turn out to be worth nothing. I shook my head to get rid of those ideas. They were too hard to deal with.

‘Are you scared?’ said Dad. He crushed his can more violently than ever. ‘Is that what this is? You get a smack on the head and now you’re shitting yourself ?’

‘I’m not scared,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want to do it.’ I remembered what Gray had said. ‘There’s no joy in football for me.’

Dad snorted.

‘Joy? What are you talking about? Joy?’ He plucked another can from the esky at his side. ‘What kind of bullshit is that? To hell with joy, it’s all about work. We’ve been over this.’

‘I want to make a go of this job,’ I said. ‘If I do well, then maybe when I’ve left school I could make a future in gardening. Like you, Dad.’ I hadn’t planned to say any of this, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew it was the best way of dealing with him. ‘You remember telling me that you started with nothing and built up a business just by your own hard work?’

Dad relaxed. You could see it in the muscles of his arms.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘That’s what I want to do,’ I said. ‘School is a waste of time.’ He nodded. ‘I mean, I’ll finish Year Twelve and all that,’ I continued, ‘but working, working outside is what I want to do. Maybe in a few years’ time, we could have a business together. Pickford and Son – you doing the landscaping and me working with plants.’ I was pleased with myself. I mean, it was all crap, but it was the only kind of crap that would get Dad on my side. His eyes took on this soft look, like he was picturing the future and was pleased with what he saw. ‘Both of us, Pickfords against the world,’ I added. Then I shut up. Sometimes it’s good to shut up when you think you’re ahead.

‘You’re not afraid of getting hurt, then? That’s not the reason for giving up football?’ This was important to him.

‘Not scared,’ I said. ‘I just want to do something else with my time. I can earn money.’ I pointed around the garden. ‘Get started on this garden. Buy some shrubs or something with my pay.’

Dad nodded slowly.

‘How much are you getting paid?’ he asked.

I told him and he whistled.

‘That’s slave labour.’

‘Yeah, but I can build up the pay in time. Like you did with the odd jobs. Turn it into something big.’

‘I’ll take fifteen dollars for rent,’ he said.

I didn’t say anything.

‘Soon as you start earning you have to pay your way in the world. That’s life, son.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

Dad signed a short letter. I had a job.

Gray was right. All the people on Gardening Australia looked like nerds. I watched a couple of episodes on my phone that night. The bearded guy was good but I still wondered what he’d look like if he took a razor to his face. Probably no one would recognise him in the street. Maybe that was why he had the beard.

Anyway, they knew their stuff. I didn’t think I’d ever get my head around the names they gave some of the plants. It was in a foreign language, though they’d normally give the Australian name right after. It was hard following it, but I guessed they must’ve known nothing about plants at some point in their lives. I could learn. If I wanted to know stuff, I could learn. I didn’t want to know about Shakespeare, but bugs that could eat your lettuces were another story.

I got to work early that Saturday. Half an hour.

Denise was really friendly and spent most of her time smiling. She showed me around the nursery, told me the different sections – flowering plants, climbers, native trees and other stuff that I didn’t remember later. Then she gave me a sandwich and a Coke. There was a small cafe in the nursery for when people got tired of browsing and wanted a cup of tea or a piece of cake. I told her I didn’t have any money to pay, but she waved that away. Said for twelve bucks an hour, the least I could get was a bit of food thrown in.

The time went really quickly. I put some plants out on display and did some watering. They had a system with sprinklers, but Denise said that some of the plants needed a good drenching and that was best done by hand. It was kinda boring, but also strangely peaceful, standing there with a hose and letting the water spray over everything. I didn’t mind it. One time this woman came up to me and asked about a plant close to where I was. I looked around for Denise but she was nowhere to be seen.

The plant had Gardenia written on the label, but there was no other information.

‘I’m just wondering,’ said the woman, ‘whether this would do well in a pot.’

‘I’ll check my database,’ I said. ‘One moment.’ I then ducked behind a big shrub and whipped out my phone. When I came back the woman was moving in circles around the plant.

‘Gardenias,’ I said, ‘have the most brilliant-smelling flowers and are well suited to growing in pots. They mainly like full sun but are okay with some shade, especially if it’s very hot. They prefer humid conditions and don’t like drying out.’ There’d been more stuff but I couldn’t remember that now.

‘Oh, lovely,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll take two.’

I took the plants to the desk and Denise rang them up and took the woman’s money.

‘Thank you, young man,’ the woman said to me. ‘You were very helpful.’

‘My pleasure,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your plants.’

Then I took them to her car and put them in the boot. When I got back, Denise smiled at me.

‘You’re a natural,’ she said.

I’m a cheat, I thought.

My mother rocked up ten minutes before I was due to finish. Was it coincidence or was she stalking me? I didn’t think it was worth asking.

‘Morgan!’ she said, like she was totally surprised to see me there. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘Started today,’ I said.

‘I’m here to get a plant or two for my balcony,’ she said. ‘Walk with me, please.’

She was a customer. I worked there. I didn’t have much choice.

‘That plant died,’ she said after a while. ‘You know, the one you said needed more sun. I forgot and now it’s cactus.’ We walked on for a minute or two. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘Gardenias,’ I said. ‘They have lovely-smelling flowers and grow well in pots. They like full sun but are okay with some shade, if it’s very hot. They prefer humid conditions and don’t like drying out.’

She smiled.

‘Sounds like that’s just what I need.’

She bought one and a bag of potting mix. She asked me which mix she should use, so I told her the one with Premium on it. I had no idea if it was any good, but it was four dollars more expensive than the regular, so I figured there must be a reason for the price difference. I put them into the boot of her car.

‘Would you mind coming back to my apartment and potting it up for me, Morgan?’ she said.

‘I’m working.’

‘When do you finish?’

I glanced at my phone.

‘Five minutes.’

‘I can wait for you.’ She must’ve seen I wasn’t keen. ‘Please, Morgan.’

I shrugged. I didn’t have anything planned.

20

It didn’t take long to pot up the gardenia. I dumped the soil from the dead plant into a bin bag that my mother held open, filled up the pot with new mix and then bedded in the gardenia. I remembered something from the Gardening Australia show and I loosened up the root system so it would be easier for it to grow. Then I watered it in and took it to the corner of the balcony where it would get the most sun.

It felt … good, doing that. I hoped it would flower. Weird, but in some way I cared for it.

‘Gotta go,’ I said.

She appeared on the balcony with a glass of cordial, a plate of sandwiches and a packet of potato chips.

‘Please stay for a while, Morgan,’ she said. ‘I would really like to talk to you.’

‘Nah …’

‘Remember the last time you were here?’ She looked all nervous again. ‘I said I didn’t have the words to explain … why I left and why I’m back now. I think I’ve got them now.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been over it. Rehearsing, if you like. I just need an audience, Morgan. An audience of one.’

I sat down. I could listen. Didn’t mean I had to say anything. My mother sat in the other chair.

‘Last time,’ she said, ‘I babbled on about being on different paths, your father and me. Something about how I couldn’t follow where he was going.’ She smiled. ‘What crap. So this time I thought I would tell you the truth as simply as I can. This is important to me, Morgan. It kills me to think that you and Mitch thought I just … abandoned you, took off without giving a stuff about either of my kids.’

Just like Dad, I thought. All about how she was feeling. This was to make herself feel better. But I didn’t say anything.

‘I left,’ she continued, ‘because I didn’t have a choice. Your father was … he was violent towards me, Morgan.’ She held up a hand. ‘He was never physically violent, never hit me. You need to know that. But violence takes many different forms. He told me I was worthless. That I was stupid, that I had no skills, that without him around I was nothing. And you know what? It worked. I felt worthless. I felt like I was nothing.’

She stared straight ahead. I could see a gleam of wetness in the corner of her eye. She sniffed.

‘Have you ever heard the phrase “toxic masculinity”, Morgan?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s where men – some men – have this belief in their own superiority, all these hormones racing through their bodies that make them feel tough and … and … better, especially when it comes to women.’ She sighed. ‘And it’s toxic because it poisons everyone around them. It poisons the men themselves, even if they’re not aware of it. That’s your father. He is – I should say was, since maybe he’s changed, I wouldn’t know – a toxic male. If he could hear what I just said, do you know what he’d say?’

Bullshit, I thought.

‘He’d say bullshit. Because my opinions could never be as valuable as his. Never. Not possible. He’s right, even when he’s wrong. Especially when he’s wrong.’

I looked at the sandwiches but I didn’t feel hungry.

‘One day,’ said my mother, ‘I told him I wanted to become a nurse. I’d always wanted to be a nurse, ever since I was a kid. I was thinking I’d do the qualifications part-time. Mitchell was eight and at school but you were only two and needed me. I figured I could do my training and then, when you were off to school full-time, I could get a job as a nurse. Maybe even do nights so I could be at home for you during the day.’ She picked up a glass of water, took a sip. ‘I was happy being a mum, but I always knew that it wasn’t the only thing I was. I couldn’t spend my life just cooking and cleaning and looking after you two – you three. It’s okay, it’s important, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not all that life has to offer.’

She took out a cigarette. Lit it. I think she’d almost forgotten I was there.

‘Your dad said … he just said it wasn’t going to happen. I’d have to forget it. When I pushed him, he made it very clear that I was never to question him again. He was so angry. I’d got decent grades at school. I could become a nurse, but he just said no. Like my future was his to decide and nothing to do with me. That’s when I knew, Morgan. That if I didn’t get out then, I’d never get out. I’d end up a lonely woman, living in fear and knowing I could have been so much more than he let me. I wrote him a letter and I left.’

The sun was coming through and lighting up the new plant. It was probably my imagination, but I could almost see it drinking in the sunshine.

‘You didn’t take us,’ I said. ‘You could’ve taken us with you.’

My mother gave a strangled cry, got up and went inside. I didn’t know whether I should leave, but I thought that would probably be rude. So I sat there. She came back a few minutes later, her eyes all red. She had a crumpled tissue in her right hand, the cigarette still burning in her left.

‘Yes,’ she said, like there hadn’t been any interruption at all. ‘I could’ve taken you and Mitch. And I can’t count the times since when I’ve wished I had. But … I didn’t think it was safe. Your father had very strong ideas on how children need their dad. He wanted to be a role model.’ She laughed. ‘A role model. So I knew he would track me down, take you back at all costs. Hey, I was useless apart from cooking and cleaning, and he was always right. He wouldn’t give up. His pride wouldn’t let him give up. And I thought … I thought, isn’t it just better to go? For you and Mitch. You wouldn’t see the tension, you wouldn’t see how he treated me. It would be … safer for you.’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘And you have to understand I had no money, no place to stay, no means of looking after myself, let alone two children. At least you had a roof over your heads and food on the table. That’s what I thought then. Now I think maybe I was wrong.’

I waited. I understood a lot of what she was saying. How Dad made decisions for me, how everyone was out to get him and how he had so much to prove to everyone. That he was tougher, bigger. What had Mitch said? That Dad thought he was a hot-shit businessman and nothing would convince him otherwise.

My mother lit another cigarette from the butt of the last one. It didn’t seem likely that she only smoked … what had she said? Four or five a day. If she couldn’t tell me the truth about that, how could I believe other things she said?

‘The thing with that idea of masculinity,’ my mother continued, ‘is that it can get passed on from one generation to the next. I saw Mitchell, you know. The day before yesterday. I was at the shopping centre and there he was, in his security uniform. I tried to talk to him. You know, like I talked to you that first time. Told him I was his mother and that I’d like to have a conversation.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He called me a bad name. And then he walked away.’ She sighed. ‘I think it might be too late for him. He’s an adult now. I’m hoping it’s not too late for you, Morgan.’

I didn’t know what to say to that.

‘Yeah. I left all of you. Moved away, worked in some really crappy jobs for a while, but eventually I became a nurse. I love my job, Morgan, and I’m good at it. When I thought the time was right I applied for a job here in town. Got a position at St Mary’s.’

St Mary’s was the hospital I had gone to when I had the accident at the game. It’s the only hospital for a hundred kay, so I guess that wasn’t much of a coincidence.

‘I’m here to stay, Morgan,’ she said. ‘I’m renting this apartment and it’s only got one bedroom, but I know of a two-bedroom in this complex. If …’ She turned slightly to meet my eyes. ‘If you need somewhere to stay then I could rent it. We could be together.’ She held up her hand. ‘No pressure. Just saying, you know? There’s a place here with me if you want it or need it.’

‘I’ve gotta go,’ I said.

This time I got up and let myself out. My mother didn’t try to stop me.

I went back to the nursery. I had sixty bucks in my pocket – well, forty-five if you took out the rent I owed Dad – and I knew what I wanted to buy. Murraya. Costa had talked about it in one of the shows I’d watched. It’s a flowering shrub, often used as a hedge when it grows up a bit and you keep it cut back from time to time.

I got there just as it was closing. Denise gave me a big smile.

‘Morgan! Hate to tell you, but you’re a week early for your shift.’

‘I want to buy some murraya.’

‘I love it,’ said Denise. ‘You earn money and then you plough it right back in here. You’re the odds-on favourite for employee of the month.’

I bought two plants and a pack of soil improver, at Denise’s suggestion. That should’ve come to sixty bucks, but she gave me a twenty per cent discount because I was on staff. When she did the sums at the desk that still came to forty-eight dollars. I told her I only had forty-five and she gave it all to me for just forty.

‘I’m not the best businessperson,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell Damian.’

I gave her a thumbs up.

‘And how are you getting this home?’ she asked.

I hadn’t thought about that. Denise sighed.

‘Stick it my car,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

I had no idea where Dad was. Maybe working on someone’s garden. Maybe down the pub with his mates.

I took the stuff out into the backyard and then found a mattock in the shed. There was a spot on the fence line that would be perfect for the murraya. The ground was shithouse though. I hit it with the mattock and it hardly made a dent. I took off my jumper and tried again. Then I took off my shirt. It was starting to get dark but I kept going. Bit by bit, I made a hole. I thought it was big enough, but then I made it deeper. And then deeper still. There was no point doing this unless I did it properly. Finally, I was able to shake the plant from the pot and put it into the hole. I teased the roots and then realised I’d forgotten the soil improver, so I took it out again, sprinkled the bottom of the hole with some improver and some loose soil. I could’ve done with some potting mix but we didn’t have any, so I packed the stuff I’d dug up around the base of the plant, stomped it flat with my shoe. Then I stepped back. It looked all right. One down and one to go.

It was past eight by the time I finished. I gave both plants a good watering-in and then took a picture of them on my phone. I went inside. Dad still wasn’t home, so I found a couple of slices of old pepperoni pizza in the fridge and heated them in the microwave. They were a bit like cardboard but I didn’t really care. I left the fifteen dollars on the kitchen table.

I had a shower and went to bed. I was so tired. My muscles hurt like hell, but it felt good to be tired because of the work I’d done. It felt like I deserved the sleep that was heading towards me.

I took out my phone and looked at the picture I’d taken. The murraya were small but they would grow. In a year or two, as long as I looked after them, gave them water and fertiliser, they’d become a hedge. With flowers. And it would be my hedge. One I’d planted and cared for.

I sent the picture to Gray and told him I’d planted them in my back garden. He replied within a couple of minutes.

You just need to grow a beard you could lose a wallaby in and you’d be a dead ringer for Costa. Think you could do that, Morgan?

He’d made that joke before. I didn’t bother replying, but I did get up iview on my phone. I watched a couple more episodes of Gardening Australia. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because when I woke up at three in the morning my phone’s battery was cactus.

21

Dad cooked breakfast for us on Monday morning. Bacon, sausage, baked beans and fried bread. It was better than cornflakes, but I couldn’t eat all of it.

‘This is what your rent money got us,’ said Dad. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it? To know that your work has put food on the table.’

And it did. Somehow the sausages tasted better than normal.

‘It’s a big day for us,’ said Dad through a mouthful of bacon. ‘First we have to go to a stupid meeting at your school so they can let you back in to waste your time in class learning bullshit. Then I’m in court at ten, listening to bullshit. We need the calories to get through that.’

‘Dad. Why are you pleading not guilty?’

He looked a bit angry when I asked. ‘Because I’m not guilty,’ he said. ‘I was provoked. It’s what they call mitigating circumstances.’

I looked up mitigating circumstances on my phone later. From what I could tell it didn’t have anything to do with being guilty or not guilty. It just meant there might be reasons why it wasn’t as bad as it seemed at first.

I pushed a piece of fried bread around my plate.

‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea to have a lawyer, rather than you defending yourself ?’

I’d looked that up last night. Dad was being charged with something called assault occasioning bodily harm. This was when the victim suffers an injury severe enough to need medical help or time off work. Dad had broken this guy’s nose. He’d been in hospital at the same time as me. I’d looked up the sentences Dad might get as well. Up to two years in jail or a fine of five thousand dollars. Possibly both. I’d also read that pleading guilty would probably mean that you wouldn’t get the maximum because you wouldn’t be wasting court time, and admitting it would show you took responsibility for what you’d done. It seemed to me like Dad was making things worse for himself.

‘A lawyer?’ Dad snorted. ‘Bloodsuckers. Listen to me, Morgan. All those guys, the lawyers, the judges, all of them. They’re on the same side. Defence or prosecution? Same difference. They’re the wealthy and we’re the poor. A lawyer wouldn’t be interested in us. He’d just be interested in making money. I can do a better job. I will do a better job.’

‘But—’

Dad slammed his hand down on the table. The salt shaker toppled over, rolled to the edge and fell onto the floor.

‘Don’t question me, Morgan! Don’t ever question me. I know what I’m doing.’

I didn’t say anything else. But I’d lost what little hunger I had.

The meeting at school didn’t take long. Dad didn’t say anything, but he looked good for once because he was wearing a jacket and a tie, and Mr Whitfield seemed impressed. A bit. I was tempted to tell him that it was only because Dad was due in court for beating someone up.

Anyway, the principal said that the victim had decided he didn’t want a formal apology but that my actions were still unacceptable. He went on about how the school didn’t tolerate violence under any circumstances and that he would be monitoring my behaviour closely. He obviously had my graffiti spraying in mind as well, but he didn’t say anything about that because it had been dealt with by the police officer.

I was allowed to come back to school the following day.

‘Waste of time,’ said Dad as we got into his car afterwards.

The court seemed so … official. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different.

We had to check in inside and it took twenty minutes before we entered a courtroom. I took a seat behind Dad, who had a desk to himself on the left of the room. There were a couple of people at the desk to our right – the prosecutors, I imagined. Well, one of them at least. At the front of the room, higher than the rest of us, there was a woman and a man with glasses. One must’ve been the magistrate. Or maybe both were.

Dad had to give his full name and address and then the magistrate – it was the woman, apparently – read out the charge of assault occasioning bodily harm and asked whether he pleaded guilty or not guilty.

‘Not guilty, Your Honour,’ said Dad.

‘And I believe you are representing yourself, Mr Pickford,’ she said.

‘That’s correct.’

‘And you are certain you wish to do that?’ The magistrate leaned forward. ‘In my experience, counsel for the defence is best given by … a professional.’

‘I’m all good,’ said Dad.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate, but her voice suggested she thought it was anything but. ‘We will proceed. I would be obliged if the prosecution would lay out their case.’

A man on the right stood and spoke for about five minutes. He gave the date and time of the soccer game and that, as witnesses would testify, the defendant came onto the pitch after a player was injured and punched another spectator twice, the father of the goalkeeper who had been a part of the accident. This resulted in the victim suffering a broken nose, which required hospital treatment. He finished by saying that the attack was unprovoked.

My father stood then.

‘Your Honour …’ he said.

‘Please sit down, Mr Pickford,’ said the magistrate. ‘Your turn will come, I promise. In the meantime we will hear the case for the prosecution. You will be able to cross-examine witnesses the prosecution calls, but not before the prosecutor, Mr Ogilvie, has finished. Do you understand?’

I thought for a moment that Dad was going to argue the toss. He stood, swaying a bit, then sat down.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Mr Ogilvie, please call your first witness.’

That was the guy Dad hit. Someone left the courtroom and came back with him. As I understood it, the witnesses could not watch the case and they could not talk to each other outside. They came in one by one and left after giving evidence. Mr Google can be very useful.

The man stood at the witness box and took an oath that he would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Then he sat and took a gulp of water. He didn’t look at my dad.

The prosecutor stood.

‘Mr Sanderson, please tell us exactly what happened on the day in question.’

Dad stood.

‘Objection,’ he said.

The magistrate sighed.

‘Really, Mr Pickford? On what grounds?’

Dad looked around as if for help. There wasn’t any.

‘It’s prejudicial, Your Honour,’ he said.

‘Sit down, Mr Pickford.’

Dad sat.

Mr Sanderson said that he was watching the game because his son Brent was playing. He talked about how his son, had challenged for the ball with another player and that this other player hit his head against the goalpost, knocking himself out. He told how everyone was really worried and they came onto the pitch to see if they could help. The opposition player was on the ground and no one knew if he was going to be okay. Mr Sanderson said he was also there to comfort his son, who was in tears because of what had happened. He described how an ambulance was called and that a man approached Brent and asked who his father was. When he had been identified the man punched him twice in the face, breaking his nose.

‘Is this man who punched you in the courtroom, Mr Sanderson?’ said Mr Ogilvie.

‘Yes. The defendant, Mr Pickford.’

‘Did Mr Pickford say anything to you before he hit you?’

‘No.’

‘And how were you affected by this attack?’

‘I was taken to hospital with a broken nose. But that wasn’t the only consequence. My son was badly affected by the incident. He still has panic attacks and he has given up soccer.’

‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

The magistrate leaned forward again.

‘You may cross-examine the witness, Mr Pickford.’

Dad stood.

‘Mr Sanderson,’ he said. ‘Did you tell your son to take out the opposing player – my son, Morgan?’

‘No.’

‘Did you indicate by word or gesture that he should try to hurt him?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I put it to you that you did.’

‘You can put what you like,’ said Mr Sanderson, ‘but it’s not true. It was a freak accident and everyone was worried about your son. No one wanted him hurt.’

‘Did you smile at me when my son was knocked out?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. There was no reason for anyone to smile. Someone was hurt.’

Dad looked down at the notes in his hand. I wondered if he’d watched too many television courtroom shows. Maybe he hoped that Mr Sanderson would break down and admit to … admit to … well, something. Instead, the witness just told Dad he was wrong and Dad didn’t seem to know what he should do next. So he sat down.

The prosecution called a couple more witnesses. What-do-you-say-Damian was one. He told the same story as Mr Sanderson. Freak accident. No one’s fault. Then Dad punched someone and had to be dragged away before he hit him some more.

My father gave cross-examination another go, but he hadn’t learned much from the last time.

‘I put it to you that you were so far away that you couldn’t possibly say who was responsible for what happened.’

‘I was two metres away,’ said What-do-you-say-Damian. ‘You hit him twice. It was unprovoked.’

‘And your eyesight is good?’

‘Twenty-twenty,’ said Damian.

The other witnesses didn’t add anything new. Everyone had seen the same thing. Dad didn’t even ask them questions. I watched him. He seemed to shrink into himself as the time passed. I felt sorry for him.

Maybe the prosecutor did as well, because it didn’t seem like he was trying too hard. If this was a boxing match, the referee would’ve stopped it.

‘Mr Pickford,’ said the magistrate. ‘I believe you haven’t called any witnesses in your defence.’

‘Yeah,’ said Dad. ‘They’re all on the same side. No point. But I would like to make a statement in my own defence.’ He sat down and then stood up again. ‘If it please Your Honour,’ he added.

For a moment a smile passed over the magistrate’s face but she quickly smothered it.

‘Please give your statement, Mr Pickford.’

Dad read from his notes. It didn’t take long. He said that his son was brutally attacked by a goalkeeper with the help of his father. Everyone at the football club was out to get his son because he was so much better than every other player. His son, Morgan, was the real victim here and if there was any justice the goalkeeper and his father would be standing trial, rather than a person who was only defending his family’s honour.

Then he sat down.

The magistrate looked to the prosecutor. I think she raised an eyebrow.

‘Do you wish to respond, Mr Ogilvie?’

‘No, Your Honour. I don’t believe that will be necessary.’

‘Very well.’ The magistrate asked my father to stand. She took some notes from the man to her left and read through them. Then she cleared her throat.

‘Mr Pickford,’ she said. ‘I find you guilty of assault occasioning bodily harm. Let me explain how I have come to this judgement. The prosecutor’s task was to prove that you assaulted the victim without consent by inflicting unlawful force or violence. Furthermore, this caused the victim to sustain actual bodily harm. Mr Ogilvie also had to prove that you intended to cause the victim actual bodily harm. In other words, it wasn’t accidental.’ She put down her notes. ‘Mr Pickford, the prosecutor successfully proved all these points and you failed to muster any defence. Provocation was never an issue in this case, though it might have an effect upon sentencing. However, you also failed to prove that there was any provocation for your act. Do you understand?’

‘Your Honour, you’re wrong—’

‘Do you understand, Mr Pickford?’

‘Yes.’

The magistrate took another page from the man to her left. He was obviously the guy who helped her out with the law. I’d read that magistrates aren’t lawyers and sometimes need help.

‘Your refusal to accept responsibility for your actions and the fact that you assaulted someone in full view of impressionable children inclines me towards a custodial sentence, Mr Pickford. I’m talking a possible jail term of two years …’

I don’t know who jolted more when she said that, me or Dad.

‘… but I’m also aware that you have sole custody of a thirteen-year-old, and that has to be taken into consideration. I have received information that the mother of your son, your ex-wife, has offered to provide custody should you be incarcerated …’

This time it was only Dad who jolted. He spun around and looked at the faces in the public gallery. I did the same. My mother was not there. I thought that was for the best.

‘… but I do not believe this to be necessarily the best solution for the child. I have also taken into consideration that you have no prior criminal record and therefore have decided not to send you to jail. Mr Pickford, you are fined the sum of five thousand dollars. Case closed.’

We drove home in silence. Well, mostly. As we were pulling into our driveway, Dad muttered to himself.

‘Might as well have been jail. I don’t have five K.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

He turned off the engine and slumped forward so that his head rested on the steering wheel.

‘They take everything,’ he said, but his voice was really quiet. ‘They stack all the cards against you and then screw you into the ground.’ He glanced at me. ‘I might be able to get five K for the ute, but then I can’t earn a living. What am I gonna do, Morgan? What are we gonna do?’

I don’t think he expected me to give an answer, but I tried.

‘We’ll survive,’ I said. ‘It’s the Pickfords against the world. That’s just the way it is.’

But even that couldn’t get a smile out of him.

Later we sat out in the back garden. I watered the murraya while Dad put beers into the esky. There was no food in the house but I don’t think either of us felt hungry. If there was one good thing about losing the case, it was that we wouldn’t be having fried chicken tonight. He was on his second beer when he brought up my mother. I knew he would.

‘You knew your mother was back, yeah?’ he said. He didn’t look at me when he asked, which I knew was a danger sign. But I was tired of lies and excuses and hiding.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘You’ve talked to her.’

‘A couple of times. Went to her place once. No. Twice.’

He screwed up the can, fished another one out.

‘You didn’t think to tell me?’

‘You didn’t ask.’

Dad sighed, took a long gulp. Once more I saw him as … smaller somehow. Like the strength had been taken out of him. For one crazy moment I wondered whether I would have to be the strong one in this family. That made no sense.

‘What did she want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what a shit person I am.’

I went over the conversations with my mum in my head.

‘Pretty much,’ I replied.

‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘She walked out and I’m the shit one. The one who brought up two kids on his own, with no help from anyone. Who worked his balls off to keep a roof over the heads of you and Mitch while she … whatever she did.’ He got another can of beer. ‘Just like today. I’m the wrong one whatever I do. And I’ve tried my best, Morgan. I’ve tried my best. But they crucify you for it.’

I couldn’t think what to say to that.

‘She wants you to go live with her.’

‘She said something about it,’ I replied.

‘And will you?’

I’d decided on honesty. Both with saying things that might upset him but also with things that wouldn’t.

‘She’s a stranger,’ I said. ‘Why would I live with a stranger?’

Dad just grunted. At other times – maybe even yesterday – he would’ve lost it having this conversation. But now he just grunted.

‘You should also know that I’m friends with Gray again,’ I added. He looked at me then.

‘The homo?’

‘Yeah.’

Dad got up and paced around for a minute or two. Then he stood by the murraya, looked down at them like it was the first time he’d noticed them.

‘You did this?’ he asked.

‘Planted them yesterday,’ I said.

‘They look good.’

We both stared at the plants for a few minutes before Dad spoke again.

‘So are you a homo as well, Morgan? Is that what you’re saying?’ He laughed. ‘God knows I should expect it after everything that’s happened. I mean, what else can I be hit by?’

‘I don’t know, Dad,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so. But I know that Gray is a good person, that he’s not interested in me as anything other than a friend and … well, that’s it.’

But Dad just walked off into the house. Maybe that was better than I could’ve expected.

I stared at the murraya as the sun went down. I thought I could see some new leaves starting but that was probably just my imagination.

22

For a while, I was popular at school. Word had got around that I was the kid who’d spray-painted BULLSHIT on the school sign. At recess some students came up and gave me high fives. One even took a selfie with me.

I think I preferred it when I was invisible.

Gray came and sat next to me when it had all quietened down.

‘You’re an influencer now, Morgan, hey?’

I shrugged.

‘And you did it without social media,’ he added. ‘Will you remember me when you’re rich and famous?’

I didn’t say anything to that either.

‘I found out where Mary Guy is,’ he said. ‘Want to go visit her?’

He told me he’d gone round to her house and talked to the neighbour, the one who’d told me about the dementia. Social services had finally got back to her, and told her where Mary had been put.

‘Golden Sunset Residential Home,’ said Gray. ‘It’s on the outskirts of town.’ He laughed. ‘Why do they give these places names like that? I mean, Golden Sunset? Really? How about Death Is Just Around the Corner or The Place You Will Never Leave? At least that would be honest, rather than something that sounds … I don’t know, bright and cheerful. But is probably totally shit.’

I thought about how sad I’d felt when I thought Mary was dead.

‘We could do that,’ I said.

‘According to the neighbour,’ Gray said, ‘most people in those kinds of places never get visitors, even when they’ve got family. Mary will only have her neighbour to come see her and that probably won’t last long.’

‘She won’t know who we are,’ I said.

‘She might. Dementia is difficult to predict, according to Google. But even if she doesn’t, it wouldn’t make any difference. We’d still be someone talking to her. You know, showing that she hasn’t been forgotten. Even if she’s forgotten everyone else.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘How about Saturday after you finish work? I rang the place and they said that would be fine.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

Gray patted me on the shoulder.

‘You’re a good person,’ he said. ‘I want to be like you when I grow up.’

Mr Simmons, aka Potato Head, asked me to stay behind after class. It was the last lesson of the day. I nodded.

He pulled up a chair next to my desk when all the kids had gone.

‘It’s good to see you back, Morgan,’ he said. I didn’t say anything and the silence stretched for ten or fifteen seconds. ‘I mean, we are a school that welcomes respect, tolerance, duty and learning. Hang on, I think I’ve forgotten a word in there. Can you help me out, Morgan?’

He was smiling, but I didn’t know what to say.

‘I’m just kidding,’ he said. ‘But I did want to talk to you about catching up on the work you’ve missed. Then again, you missed a couple of assignments even when you were here. I’m worried you’re going to fail. And I want you to know that I will help in any way I can.’

I remembered what I’d said to Dad. I was tired of the hiding. Mr Simmons had always been nice to me and I didn’t want him to think that somehow I could pass his class. It was never going to happen.

‘I don’t think I’m going to do the assignments, sir,’ I said. ‘I can’t see the point.’

‘Because a pass is better than a fail?’

‘It’s no difference. I’m leaving at the end of Year Ten anyway.’ I know I’d said to Dad that I would see out school to the end of Year Twelve, but I hadn’t meant it. I wasn’t smart. School, especially in Years Eleven and Twelve, wasn’t for the likes of me. It was a waste of time.

Mr Simmons scratched his head.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Off into the world of employment, hey? Or are you thinking maybe an apprenticeship in some trade?’

I hadn’t thought about that. I just wanted to be outside, working with my hands. I told Mr Simmons that.

‘I understand, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I really do. We’re studying Macbeth at the moment and I would bet that you can’t see any point to learning about some old guy who died four hundred years ago and told stories that have bugger-all to do with your life in the twenty-first century.’

‘Yeah.’

The sun was coming through the window and the classroom smelled of farts and sweat and boredom. I didn’t want to be in here talking to a teacher, no matter how nice.

Mr Simmons tapped his fingers on my desk.

‘I could go on about how Shakespeare deals with things that are universal both in time and space. Ambition, greed, love, hope, the nastiness and majesty of human nature. But I’m not sure I would convince even myself.’

He sure as hell wasn’t convincing me. I didn’t understand most of what he was saying.

‘Can I tell you a story, Morgan?’

I wanted to say no, maybe ask him what part of I want to be outside he didn’t understand. I wished I’d just said I would do his stupid assignments and saved myself all this. But I nodded.

‘Before I became a teacher,’ he said, ‘I was a delivery driver for a well-known pizza company. You’ve seen them, puttering along the roads on their little mopeds with pizza bags strapped to the back. I did that for two years after I left school. I wanted to be working outside, you see. I’d had enough of classrooms and learning. I wanted money in my pocket so I could buy things.’

If there’s anything more boring than listening to an old person telling you what their life was like when they were young, then I couldn’t think what it was. Maybe Macbeth.

‘The money was crap,’ he continued, ‘but I didn’t care. Then one day I delivered some pizza to a guy who’d been my teacher in high school. He asked what I was doing with myself. I told him. And then he said something I’ll never forget. We spend nearly our whole lives working, Andy Simmons. In most cases, we rent out our time to other people. How much is your time worth, do you think? How much is your life worth?’ Mr Simmons looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry to keep you behind, Morgan. I know you’d rather be anywhere else. But just give me a few more minutes.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘I thought about what he said. Then I thought about what I wanted from life – you know, in terms of what would make me happy. And I thought: marriage, kids, a house of my own, a decent car, some holidays from time to time.’ He laughed. ‘Nothing original there, I’m sorry to say. And then I worked out what I would need to earn to buy those things and maintain them. As a pizza delivery guy I couldn’t even afford a wreck of a car, let alone the other things. If you ever get bored, Morgan, look up the prices of things you want to own and work out how much you’ll need to work to afford them. I knew then that I needed to sell my time for more than I was getting delivering pizzas.’

I nodded. The less I said the sooner this would be over.

‘I need to be clear about this, Morgan,’ he continued. ‘I’m not dissing people who deliver pizza. If a job makes you happy then I’m all for that. Better a job you enjoy than one you hate, even if it makes you a lot more money. But I didn’t really like delivering pizza. Could I do it for the rest of my life? Obviously not. I needed to value my time and sell it for more. So I studied to be a teacher because it’s something I like, something I think I’m good at and it pays much better.’

‘I couldn’t be a teacher or anything,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got the brains. You know that, sir. I’m never gonna earn much.’

‘Do you know what work you want to do, Morgan?’

‘I want to work with plants, gardening, whatever.’

‘Wonderful. So you could be a labourer, just digging up soil for other people. Or you could be an arborist or a landscaper or a horticultural conservator or a plant biologist or a … hell, I don’t know, Morgan. Probably you don’t know yet, and that’s good. But the most interesting and the best-paid jobs all need one thing. Do you know what that is?’

I shook my head.

‘Qualifications. They’re the ticket for a job you may love, rather than a job you put up with.’

‘I’m not brainy.’

‘You’re not stupid. You don’t give up. I still remember your oral presentation on Maradona. You could pass my course easily. You could pass Year Twelve. Do a VET course. And then you’ve got more options. Selling your time, remember?’

‘Schoolwork’s boring.’

Mr Simmons laughed.

‘Yup. That’s life. Most of what we do when we’re working is the same. I like teaching. The admin is boring. I put up with the boring to do what I love to do.’

He stood and arched his back, like it was giving him pain.

‘I hereby release you, Morgan, from this boring talk. But think about what I said. Please. And remember. I will do whatever it takes to help you through the course. All I ask is a bit of effort from you. Is that too much to ask?’

Probably, I thought. But I didn’t say anything.

Dad wasn’t home when I got back from school. I opened the freezer. It was nearly empty, but there were some frozen chips and a couple of chicken kievs that would do for dinner. It was just a case of sticking them in the oven when he did get home.

I went into the garden and checked on the murraya. There was a caterpillar munching on one of the leaves, so I picked it off and chucked it over the fence into next door’s yard. I looked around. I could see how the place might look with a lot of work and some plants we couldn’t afford. Yet. A lawn in the centre, some more hedges around the border, obviously, beds of flowering plants and maybe a water feature in the corner – one that made nice noises as the water fell. I checked them out on the Bunnings website. Way too expensive. I’d have to work for months at What-do-you-say Damian’s nursery before I’d be able to buy one. With Dad’s fine he sure as hell wouldn’t have the money.

But I had one thing that didn’t need cash. My body. I changed out of my school uniform, found the mattock and started digging the patch where I thought the lawn would go. If I could get that ready, then I’d be able to start putting down grass, probably at the weekend. A box of grass seed would only set me back about seven bucks and would be good for the size of lawn I was planning. Turf would be better and it would be instant, but we couldn’t afford that.

I spent three hours digging and then levelling the soil. I say ‘soil’, but it was mainly big clods of earth with stones mixed in. I managed to get up some bits of concrete and I put them in a pile by the shed. I’d think of a way to get rid of them later. I only managed to get about a third of the area done by the time it was getting dark, but I was pleased. And tired. I could do the rest in the next couple of days after school.

I leaned against the mattock and looked at what I’d done. I didn’t even know Dad had come home until I turned around. He was watching me from the kitchen door. He glanced at me, then at the bit I’d dug, and stepped back into the kitchen. I followed.

‘I thought we’d have chips and chicken kiev,’ I said. He was facing away from me. ‘I’ll put the oven on.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Dad. ‘I’m going to the pub.’

He went straight out. I heard the ute’s tyres crunching the stones on the driveway. I turned on the oven. I was starving, so I put both kievs in. While I waited for the food to cook I watched a couple of episodes of Gardening Australia. They were pretty interesting, but didn’t have information on grass seeds. I had to google that.

I went to bed at nine. Dad still wasn’t home but that didn’t bother me. I knew he probably wouldn’t be back until after eleven. For a couple of minutes I stared at the poster pinned up on the underside of the top bunk. Then I took it down, crumpled up the sheet and shoved it under my bed. Dad wouldn’t notice it was gone and probably wouldn’t care anyway. I was sick of it. I knew all about the darkest night but I also knew no star was ever going to appear.

I had a weird dream. I was way older, a man, and I was planning out gardens at some place that had loads of land. It might have been a park somewhere. All these other men were following my instructions, but something was worrying me and I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I suddenly understood. I hadn’t been home. I’d forgotten to go home for years, and Dad wouldn’t know where I was. I became panicky. So I got in a car and drove, but when I arrived at the house, he wasn’t home. There were cobwebs all over the front door – the kind of cobwebs that you see in films but don’t exist in real life. I walked around the place and it was falling apart. Things were crumbling and flaky. Except for the back garden. The murraya were tall and neatly clipped, the lawn a deep green and freshly mowed. Flower beds burst with colour.

But Dad was nowhere to be seen.

I drove around the streets of the town and then out to the bridge I’d sat on, that night Gray sat with me. Dad was walking across the bridge. Somehow I knew he would be. And he wasn’t really walking, more like stumbling. I stopped the car and came up behind him. He didn’t react, even when I put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Hey, Dad,’ I said.

He turned then, but there was nothing in his eyes.

‘Who are you?’ he said.

23

Over the next two nights I finished the digging in the back garden. Then I found a falling-apart sieve in the shed and put some of the earth through it, spreading the loose stuff over where I’d dug. What I really needed was topsoil, but …

On Friday after school I went to Bunnings and bought a packet of grass seed. I still had the five dollars left over from my pay and I’d found a two-dollar coin down the side of the couch. On the way home, I was passing my mother’s apartment and decided to stop. I didn’t know if she’d be home, but she was, and she was pleased to see me. I felt a bit bad about that. I didn’t want her to think I’d decided to move in with her.

We went outside onto her balcony again and she showed me the gardenia. It had a couple of buds coming out, and that made me smile. What had Gray said? I only smiled over plants. Maybe he had a point.

‘It’s looking good,’ I said.

My mother sat in one of the chairs. There were no cigarettes around.

‘I’m so glad you came by, Morgan,’ she said.

‘How did you know about my dad’s court case?’ I asked.

She sighed.

‘The local newspaper,’ she said. ‘Page two. There’s not much in the way of real news around here.’

‘You told them I could stay with you if he went to jail.’

‘I thought they should be in full possession of all the facts.’ She didn’t meet my eyes.

‘It’s almost like you were trying to get him sent to jail,’ I said.

She met my eyes then.

‘No. Not at all. I would never do that. No matter what happened between us in the past, I wouldn’t …’ She held up her hands. ‘I was trying to help, Morgan.’

‘And now he knows you’re back. He’s … not happy about that.’

My mother leaned forward now, reaching to take my hands over the small table, but I took them away before she managed.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘I am not trying to drive a wedge between you and your father. I’m not … angling for you to move out of your home and into mine. This isn’t about me trying to get revenge on your father or … I don’t know, reclaiming things I gave up a long time ago. But I would like to get to know you, Morgan. You are my son. That’s all I ask. To get to know you. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

I thought about Dad. He’d sold the ute yesterday and I don’t think he got what he wanted for it. He didn’t say anything to me – he hardly ever said anything to me anymore – but judging by his face it was like he’d given up the most precious thing in the world. He still had his ride-on mower and rakes and hedge clippers and other bits and pieces, but he couldn’t take them anywhere. This morning, before I went to school, he had a job pruning a neighbour’s hedge. He walked to their garden and was back in forty minutes. As I left the house, he was starting his first beer of the day.

I was going to tell him that next year we’d be millionaires, to try to cheer him up. But I didn’t. Maybe Mr Simmons was right. I’m not stupid.

I was sitting opposite my mother, but all I could think about was my father, alone in the house. Alone. Mitch hadn’t been back to visit since he moved out. As far as I knew, he hadn’t phoned either. It was just me and Dad. One Pickford down and now just two of us against the world. It was … sad.

‘I won’t move in with you,’ I said. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘But we could see each other?’

I thought about that. This stranger, who had given birth to me. Maybe she didn’t always have to be a stranger. I didn’t have many people who wanted to spend time with me. Gray. And maybe Mr Simmons, though he was paid to do it. What-do-you-say Damian, possibly. My world, I suddenly saw, was very small. Perhaps it didn’t always have to be that way.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I guess I could come round sometimes. Check on your plants.’

My mother smiled. It was like a weight had been lifted from her.

‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘And maybe I could cook you a meal sometimes. Maybe you could meet my partner.’

‘Your partner?’

‘Rosemary. She’s a nurse too.’ My mother waved her hands towards the apartment. ‘We have separate places. For the time being.’

Gay people were all around. Who knew? Certainly not Dad, and I wasn’t going to tell him.

I sprinkled the grass seed over the area I’d prepared and gave it a good soaking. It didn’t have the best conditions to grow – there were still too many clay lumps despite the sieve – but I thought it had a chance. It was exciting.

My shift at the nursery went really quickly. It was pretty much what I had done the previous week – lots of watering, moving small trees to new spots, but Denise also showed me how to take cuttings from some of the plants. It was one of the ways they kept the stock up rather than just buying in. She also showed me the nursery’s orchid section. They had about a hundred in a special shade house, but only a few were in flower. I was amazed by the colours. Some had little frills on the petals and looked like they had been painted by hand. Denise said they were cattleyas, but they had other types like dendrobiums and vandas and oncidiums. I don’t think I had ever been so blown away by a plant. I knew I had to buy one, but then I looked at the prices. Most were way more expensive than my entire wages. So I just took pictures. In bed that night I would look up how to take care of them.

Gray came about five minutes before my shift ended. I finished up, got my pay and bought a pot of bird’s eye chillies. It was only ten bucks. Then we started walking to the old folks’ place. Gray said it was a twenty-minute walk.

‘How’re you going with your classes, Morgan?’ he asked.

I think he was just trying to make conversation, but it was a weird question coming from a kid.

‘What, you’re my parent now?’ I said. Then I realised that my father wouldn’t ever ask that question.

He laughed. ‘Just asking.’

‘I’m failing.’

‘Which classes?’

‘All of them.’

Gray whistled. ‘That takes some commitment, my friend. I mean, all of them. You don’t believe in half measures, do you?’

I shrugged.

Then, maybe just to make conversation, I told him what Mr Simmons had said to me. All the stuff about putting a price on your time and how you needed bits of paper from school to show you were worth it. I thought again about those orchids. You had to be seriously rich to be able to afford them. Maybe Mr Simmons had a point. But all it did was show that I couldn’t ever afford some of the things I wanted. That was a bit sad.

‘He’s the English teacher with the head like a potato, yeah?’ said Gray.

‘That’s him.’

‘I could help, you know.’

‘With what?’

‘With your homework.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe I’m blowing my own trumpet, but academically I can hold my own.’

‘Why?’

He jumped in front of me and then started walking backwards so he could keep eye contact.

‘Because, my friend, Mr Potato Head is right. Qualifications can help and they sure as hell can’t hurt. So what have you got to lose, hey? We can whip up some assignments without breaking a sweat, you and me.’

I just grunted, but that didn’t put him off.

‘What’s the English assignment on?’

‘Macbeth.’

He laughed.

‘“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Nothing. Let me help, Morgan. I could come round to your place and we’ll throw something together in no time.’

‘You couldn’t come round to my place,’ I pointed out. ‘Dad doesn’t get along with homos.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Gray stopped walking backwards and took his place at my side. ‘Your father the homophobe. I’d forgotten that, in my excitement. Well, come to my place then. Or we could work in the library. Sorry. The Learning Resource Centre.’

‘You’d write my assignments for me?’

‘Oh, no. No, no, no. Uh, uh. That’s not gonna happen. But you can write them with my help.’

‘It’s a waste of time.’

‘Riiiight.’ He drew the word out for ages. ‘I’d forgotten how time-poor you are, Morgan, what with not playing football and not doing homework. All of that not-doing must eat into your spare time.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘The offer’s there.’

‘Okay,’ I said. It was easier that way.

The nursing home – or the old folks’ place, or whatever they call it – was like a big school building, all brick and tiny windows. It had walls around it and an iron gate, maybe to stop old people from wandering out into the traffic. There was a sign over the gate.

Golden Sunset Residential Home

Underneath, in smaller writing, it said:

Where People Matter

‘Apparently they don’t matter anywhere else,’ said Gray. ‘Probably true, in my experience.’

We went through the gate, across a big area of lawn that had flowers around the edges. I recognised asters, begonias and geraniums from the nursery but there were loads of others I didn’t know the names of. I stopped to take a picture.

‘Come on, Costa,’ said Gray.

We found the office, and a woman in a uniform took us down a long corridor.

‘I’m really pleased Mary’s getting some visitors,’ she said. ‘She’s a dear old soul. Are you boys family?’

‘Friends,’ said Gray. ‘And Morgan here was her gardener as well.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely. Now, I hope you won’t take offence but I’ll be sitting in with you during your visit. We obviously take the welfare of our clients very seriously and—’

‘We understand,’ said Gray. ‘You don’t know us and she’s vulnerable.’

‘Exactly.’ We walked on a few more metres. ‘You do know she suffers from dementia, don’t you?’ said the woman. ‘So don’t be too distressed if she seems confused or can’t immediately place who you are.’

‘We understand,’ said Gray again.

Mary was sitting in a chair by the window when we came into her room. There wasn’t much in the room – a bed, a chest of drawers and the chair. But the walls looked newly painted and there were a couple of bright pictures hanging. Mary turned her head when we came in. She seemed older now. I mean, she’d always looked old, but now she’d shrunk somehow, like Dad. Smaller. Wasted. And tired. Very tired.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Who have we here?’

Gray walked up to her and crouched down a bit so she could see his face.

‘It’s me, Gray,’ he said. ‘And Morgan, the kid who did your garden. Remember us, Mary?’

But it was like Gray had asked a really difficult question. Mary’s eyes screwed up in concentration. She examined his face and then turned to me and smiled.

‘Sean,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d come home eventually.’

‘I bought you a plant,’ I said. I offered her the bird’s eye chilli, but she looked at it like she didn’t know what it was for. I put it on the floor close to the window. It needed full sun if it was ever going to have chillies, but I guessed there wasn’t much chance of that. Not unless the staff here looked after it and watered it. I imagined they’d be too busy for that. Ten bucks down the toilet, probably. But I wasn’t sorry I’d got it. And at least the woman in the uniform knew it was there. Maybe she’d keep it alive.

‘What have you been doing, Sean?’ said Mary. She pointed to the bed. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it.’

I sat down, but I didn’t know what to say. I could’ve told her about school and the work I was doing at the nursery, but I didn’t think that her son would’ve done anything like that. What had the neighbour said? He was into drugs. I didn’t know about drugs, and anyway, I couldn’t imagine that’s what Mary would’ve wanted to hear. But then Gray sat next to me.

‘Sean’s been doing amazing things, Mary,’ he said. ‘But he’s too shy to tell you.’ And then he went on to make up all this stuff about Sean travelling the world, being successful, getting married but never ever forgetting his mother or what she meant to him. I couldn’t have made up that stuff in a million years. And it was crazy anyway. You’d have to be an idiot to believe it. But then I looked at Mary’s face. She was smiling like this was the best thing she’d heard in her life. I thought maybe she’d ask why she’d never met this wife he was talking about, but she didn’t. I guess when your mind is coming apart, details like that don’t matter. Or you’ve forgotten them as soon as they hit your ears. When Gray finished, Mary had her hands clasped together like she was trying to hold on to joy, not let it slip through her fingers.

‘And what about you, Mary?’ said Gray. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I’ve been tending the lemon trees,’ she said. ‘But there’s something wrong with them.’ Her face changed. It looked like she was on the edge of tears. ‘I go round and round the orchards but I can’t find them. There’s no lemons anywhere. And there were always lemons.’ She sighed. ‘More lemons than we knew what to do with. Couldn’t sell them all, we had so many.’ She put one wrinkled hand to her face and brushed away what might have been a tear. ‘They’re gone, Sean,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they are. Can you find them for me?’

I had no idea what to say. Neither did Gray.

‘We need to go now, Mary,’ he said. ‘You’re tired and you need your rest.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I am tired. Who are you again?’

‘I’m Gray. I’m a friend of Sean’s.’

‘Ah yes. He’s a good boy, Sean.’

‘We’ll come and see you again, okay?’

Mary had turned her face to the window.

‘That would be nice,’ she said.

We’d almost stepped out of the room when she spoke again.

‘Sean.’

I turned.

‘You’ll find the lemons for me, won’t you?’

I paused for a moment.

‘I’ll try,’ I said.

Dad wasn’t in when I got home and he hadn’t left a note.

I went into the backyard and looked to see if any blades of grass were peeping through. I don’t know why. I’d only planted them yesterday. I did find a couple of birds pecking at the dirt. I chased them off but I knew they’d be back.

I left thirty dollars on the kitchen table.

Now Dad was pretty much out of work, half my pay seemed fair.

24

I tried to leave school at the normal time on Monday, but Gray wouldn’t let me. He made me follow him to the Learning Resource Centre. There weren’t many students there, which didn’t surprise me.

‘How did your dad get on in his court case?’ he asked as we sat at a computer terminal.

‘The local newspaper?’ I replied.

‘Yup.’

I told him and he whistled.

‘Close thing. What would you’ve done if he’d gone to jail?’

I told him about my mother and her offer to take me in. He whistled again.

‘You keep things close to your chest, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that. Think you’ll go live with her anyway?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s my father and he needs my help, now more than ever.’

He shrugged.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Weird, but okay. However, fascinating as all this is, it doesn’t get the baby ironed. What’s the assignment title for Macbeth?’

‘No idea.’

‘Didn’t think so. Which is why I asked Mr Potato Head. He gave it to me. Okay, head down, bum up, Morgan. Open up Word.’

I’d forgotten my network password, but even that didn’t stop him. He found an IT guy who logged me on. Gray pushed over a piece of paper. It had the essay title on it.

‘Type this into your document,’ he said.

Sometimes you know there’s no point arguing, so I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine it would make any difference. This was a question on Macbeth and I had no idea what happened in Macbeth. Turned out that didn’t stop Gray either. He told me all about the play and what the question was asking me to do. Then he suggested I look at certain parts in the book that would help me with the answer. I didn’t have a copy, but that didn’t stop him. I was beginning to feel nothing would. He’d brought his own along. I read some and none of it made much sense. Gray explained in plain English. Then I started the assignment.

It took a couple of hours, but finally I had about five hundred words. I knew that was a long way short of what Mr Simmons wanted, but as Gray pointed out, I wasn’t going for an A grade. I just wanted a pass. He didn’t write it either, but he did help me with the right words. When it was finished I felt tired. But at least it was done. Gray immediately emailed it to my teacher.

‘I’d print it out,’ he said, ‘but I don’t trust you to hand it in.’

He had a point.

‘Okay,’ said Gray. ‘Tomorrow we work on another assignment, probably for another class.’

‘It’s boring,’ I said.

‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Sure is. See you here at the same time tomorrow.’

I got a C-minus grade. Mr Simmons told me the following day.

‘Skimpy,’ he said, ‘but shows some understanding of the play.’ He smiled. ‘Just two more assignments to go and you’ll be up to date.’

Gray met me outside my classroom at the end of the day. It was almost like he didn’t trust me to go to the Learning Resource Centre by myself.

‘What are we working on today?’ he asked.

I was so far behind with homework that I didn’t know exactly how many assignments in other subjects I was missing, so I told him the one I knew about. The Stolen Generation, though I had no idea if Miss Carlisle, my Soc Ed teacher, would still accept it.

‘The Stolen Generation!’ said Gray. ‘Brilliant. I did an assignment on that last year. Aced it.’

‘Can I use it?’ Any time saved in the Resource Centre would be welcome from my point of view.

‘You mean copy? No chance, my friend.’ He gave a broad smile. ‘Your work, remember? But I can certainly help.’

‘It would help if I copied it.’

He laughed. ‘Sorry. I have standards, Morgan.’

‘I wish you didn’t.’

That made him laugh even more.

I got five hundred words done on the Stolen Generation. Most of them were my own. Turned out Miss Carlisle did accept it. I got a C-minus for that as well.

I told Gray my idea on Thursday, just after we finished a Maths assignment. I was aiming for a C-minus, but ended up getting a C.

Gray listened, and he didn’t say anything when I was done. He must’ve thought it was a stupid idea. To be honest, it seemed stupid to me, and I was the one who’d thought it up. Then he sighed.

‘You know something, Morgan?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I thought I could read you, and then you come up with something like this.’

‘Yeah. It’s stupid.’

‘It’s beautiful. It’s genius.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’d tell you I love you, Morgan, but you’d get the wrong idea.’

I shrugged.

‘You know what else I think?’ he added.

‘No.’

‘I think Morgan Pickford has a heart as big as a mountain, but he’s never had the opportunity to show it.’

‘And I think you’re full of shit.’

He laughed.

We walked to the nursing home after that, and saw Mary for a few minutes before she fell asleep. Then we talked to someone high up, the chief nurse or something, in her office. Well, Gray talked and I sat there. The woman said she’d help as much as possible. Afterwards we went to the nursery. Got there just as it was closing. There were more arrangements to make, transport to be organised, money to be sorted. Gray did all the talking again, which was probably just as well. What-do-you-say Damian and Denise said it wouldn’t be an issue, though the price of it nearly took my breath away. Gray offered to pay half, but I wouldn’t let him. In the end, Damien and Denise agreed that I could pay it off out of my wages. It would take months, especially since I was now giving Dad half of what I earned. Then it was just a matter of getting it all to work.

I didn’t stay behind at school on the Friday. Gray was keen but I told him I’d caught up enough that week, and I was tired. He made me promise that we’d keep going next week. Told me he wanted to be a teacher when he left school. Maybe he was getting in some work experience. He might be excited about working on crappy assignments but I was bored shitless, though I had to admit it felt good to be making some progress.

Dad was sitting on his chair in the back garden drinking a beer when I got home. He pointed at the patch of earth.

‘Your grass is starting to come up,’ he said.

He was right. It was a faint blush of green, but it was a start. In a few weeks it would be a proper lawn. I smiled.

‘Tell me about your plans for the garden,’ said Dad.

So I sat and told him. The plants, the water feature, the flower borders. It was the longest speech I’d given to my father in … years, probably. He sat and nursed his beer, nodding from time to time.

‘It’ll cost,’ he said when I was finished.

‘Doesn’t have to be done all at once.’

‘Need help?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’d be good.’

‘I might have a job,’ Dad said. I waited. ‘One of the gardening service companies that operate around here. You know the ones. Big franchise.’ He gave a laugh and put his beer down. ‘Used to be my main competitor. I guess that’s …’

‘Ironic,’ I said. Gray had taught me that word.

‘Yeah. I told them I have a criminal record, but they’re okay with that, they said. It’s a start, Morgan. I’ll save, get another ute, start up the business again.’

‘This time next year we’ll be millionaires,’ I said.

He laughed. Twice in less than a minute. That had to be some kind of record.

‘Make it two years.’

We sat for a while in silence, looking at the tiny shoots of grass poking their heads above the soil.

‘You’re a good son, Morgan,’ said my dad.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

‘You could’ve given up on me, but you didn’t,’ he continued. ‘We’ll get through this, you and me.’

‘The Pickfords against the world,’ I said.

‘That’s just the way it is,’ we said together.

25

I finished work early because there was so much to do. There’d hardly been any customers, so Denise didn’t have a problem with that. Gray turned up at about one in the afternoon. He’d made a trip to the supermarket and came along with four heavy plastic bags. We found two sack trolleys and loaded up the nursery’s truck. It was hard yakka, and before long Gray was sweating. I was okay. All that work I’d put into my back garden meant I’d toughened up physically. When everything was loaded, Denise closed the nursery for half an hour so she could drive us. Damien was out at a soccer game, and there were no other employees, so she put a chain across the entrance. I thought that was nice. Kind. There was a possibility she’d lose some money by helping us but she reckoned it didn’t matter, especially since I’d just put three hundred bucks into the business. Well, I hadn’t exactly. But I would. Twenty dollars a week. So that meant I would pay it off by … some time. I’m not crash hot at maths. I’m not crash hot at anything.

On the way, Gray opened up another plastic bag and pulled out a small sheet of metal. He was really pleased with it, said he’d had it engraved at the local shopping centre. I had to admit it looked good.

‘Details, mate,’ he said to me. ‘It’s the little details that matter.’

We got to the home about two-thirty. Gray had rung ahead and everything was arranged. Mary was in the residents’ lounge and would stay there until we rocked up. Denise helped us unload the truck and then drove off. I looked at the garden bed and then I looked up at the sky. Clear blue. No clouds. No shade. More hard work, and I was looking forward to it.

It took us about an hour, and by the time we were done, Gray was drenched in sweat and on the point of collapse, even though we were wearing big floppy hats to keep the sun off. My arms ached. Most of me ached, to be honest, but it felt good. I said that to Gray.

‘No,’ he panted. ‘None of this feels good, Morgan. It feels like shit. I feel like shit.’ He took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Next time you get a great idea, count me out, okay?’

‘You think this is hard, you should try my back garden,’ I said.

‘When hell freezes over.’ He took a long drink from his water bottle.

‘Think of the muscles you’re getting,’ I said.

He gazed up at the sky. There were only a couple of clouds on the horizon, fluffy white with a tinge of grey.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘A sixpack and biceps you could crack walnuts on. One ripped homo! Maybe you’ve got a point.’

He started unloading his plastic bag.

‘I’ll finish up,’ he said. ‘Go check on Mary and I’ll see you in there.’

Mary was in the residents’ lounge as arranged. The same nurse we’d seen before took me to her. The place was kinda sad. All these old people were sitting around and as far as I could see, no one was talking to anyone else. Most were slumped in chairs, staring at the walls or mumbling to themselves. It seemed like a place where everyone was waiting for something to happen. Death, I guess.

A clock on the wall said ten to four. I sat in a chair opposite Mary, but she didn’t seem to know I was there. She took one look at me and then her eyes wandered. It was like no one was home.

‘How are you, Mary?’ I asked.

She didn’t say anything, but her fingers were twisting around each other, like she was knitting or something.

I tried again. I’ve never been good at conversation, but it didn’t really matter. She had no idea who I was and she wasn’t saying anything. After a few minutes, she raised her eyes to a big television on the wall, but even then I don’t think she knew what she was watching. It didn’t really matter, because the sound was turned down.

Gray arrived ten minutes later and he tried to get a conversation going, but had about as much success as me. So we watched the other residents for a while. Most of them were older than Mary, as far as I could tell. Some stared at the television, some sat at tables looking at nothing in particular. One person was trying to do a jigsaw puzzle, but when I looked closer he wasn’t getting the pieces to fit. He just put them in a pattern that, to him at least, seemed right. The whole place smelled of loneliness.

Then someone put on some music. I couldn’t see where it came from and I didn’t recognise the song. It sounded way old.

And Mary started to sing. She knew all the words and she had a sweet voice, like she must’ve been really good back in the day. Gray and I just watched and listened. She had forgotten so much, but the words to the song were still there, somewhere in the back of her mind. A tear rolled down her cheek as she sang.

When the song finished she stared at the television again. A cartoon had come on but no one bothered to change the channel. I guessed there was no point. It was just moving shapes.

A nurse came up to us a few minutes later. She patted me on the shoulder and told me the cleaners had finished with Mary’s room. Gray got to his feet.

‘Come on, Mary,’ he said, grabbing the handles of her wheelchair. ‘Let’s take a trip down memory lane.’

I walked ahead while he wheeled her down the corridor to her room. I held the door open while Gray pushed her in. It was smothered in darkness inside, the long curtains over the window closed. He moved the wheelchair until Mary was facing the drapes, her head about a metre away.

Gray nodded to me. The time had come. I wasn’t feeling good about this. All the work we had put in, never mind the expense, and the odds were that Mary wouldn’t understand anything, probably wouldn’t see anything. But we’d come this far and there was no going back. I stepped up and drew open the curtains.

For a few seconds, none of us could see anything. The sun poured in and blinded us. Then the view outside settled, came into focus. Gray and I turned at the same time and looked at Mary’s face.

For a while there was nothing written on it. Then she smiled and suddenly it was like she was there, in the room with us – or maybe in some other place, I don’t know – but she was … there. Her eyes met mine and her smile got brighter.

‘Oh, Sean,’ she said. ‘You found them. You found them.’

We looked out the window. Five lemon trees, planted in the bed outside her room. We were looking at an orchard. A small one, yeah, but an orchard. When they’d been in the nursery they’d had no fruit on them. They did now. All the lemons that Gray had bought at the supermarket dangled from the branches like strange decorations. Tied and wired. The window seemed filled with a mass of green and yellow. I opened a small pane and the smell of citrus drifted in. In a moment, the room smelled of sunshine.

Mary put her hands together. I’d never seen so much joy in one person’s face before.

‘My trees,’ she said. ‘My beautiful trees.’

And then she said nothing; she just stared. I don’t know if she saw the metal sign that Gray had planted at the base of the closest tree. The Sean Guy Orchard. I suppose it didn’t matter if she read it or not. The trees would still be there, the sign would still be there, long after Mary had gone. The nursing home had been grateful for the donation and had promised that the garden staff would look after them. In a year or two, the trees would grow and thicken and have their own fruit.

The place needed growing things. It needed life.

Gray and I crouched by her wheelchair and watched as Mary went back to her childhood. Her eyes darted from one tree to another and her mouth moved as she spoke words we couldn’t hear to someone we couldn’t see. She smiled the whole time.

We stayed for another half-hour and she didn’t say anything else. Maybe there was nothing else to say. That was okay with me.

Finally, Gray tapped me on the leg.

‘We should go, mate,’ he said.

I nodded.

When we got to the door, Mary spoke.

‘Thank you, Sean,’ she said. ‘You are a good boy. I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mum,’ I said.

And then we left. Gray was crying. I had no idea why.

When we reached the front gate it started to rain. The clouds had gathered in no time, it seemed, and a storm looked likely. That would be good for the lemon trees as they need a lot of water. It would also be good for my lawn and the murraya. It had been a time since we’d had any rain and the earth needed it. Gray put an arm over my shoulder and sighed.

‘Great timing, huh?’ he said. ‘I work my butt off in the blazing sun and then the temperature drops when I don’t need it. We’re gonna get soaked.’

‘Quit whining,’ I said.

‘I like whining,’ he said. ‘I’m good at it.’

We walked in silence for a few minutes as the rain got harder.

‘Wanna have a kick, mate?’ Gray asked. ‘Me and Rajeev are meeting at the park.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Sure. Since when did football stop for rain?’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Come on, Morgan,’ he said. He poked me in the arm. ‘A bit of fun, that’s all. I reckon we’ve earned it. In the immortal words of Uncle Damian, what do you say?’

I thought for a while.

‘Maybe,’ I said.

He laughed.

‘Answer me something else,’ he said. ‘Are you okay, Morgan?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

His arm tightened over my shoulder.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I believe you are. Now you’re okay.’

Acknowledgements

Writing a book means spending a lot of time alone, staring at a screen. But bringing the book to publication cannot be done without the hard work of others. I would like to express my gratitude for the support of my entire family but especially the contribution of my wife, Nita. She is always my first reader and can be relied upon to tell me when I might be going wrong. In addition, it was a comment from her that sparked the inspiration for this book. She came home from work one day (she is a teacher) and told me that one of her students, unidentified obviously, had said to her: I’ve spent my whole life trying to please my dad but I don’t think I ever will. We agreed that this comment was sad and moving in equal measure. I started Darkest Night, Brightest Star the following day.

On the subject of gratitude, thanks are also due to Scot Gardner, writer and friend, for reading the first draft and making positive and constructive comments. Ira Racines is my go-to for all things related to gay issues and he had much to say about my character, Gray, and how he might navigate the world of toxic masculinity that Morgan inhabits. Thank you, my friend.

Especial gratitude goes to my editor, Kate Whitfield at Allen & Unwin. She has a keen eye, superb attention to detail and diplomatically steers me in the right direction when I tend to go astray.

For those interested, the saying the darkest night produces the brightest stars has been attributed, with some variation of phraseology, to a number of people, including John Green, Martin Luther King Jr and Fyodor Dostoevsky.

About the Author

Barry Jonsberg has won numerous awards for his books, both nationally and internationally. He has been published in twenty countries and translated into many languages. In 2019 his bestselling novel, My Life As An Alphabet, was made into an award-winning film, H is For Happiness, released throughout the world to great critical acclaim.

WINNER: Victorian Premier’s Literary Award

WINNER: Gold Inky Award

HONOUR BOOK: CBCA Book of the Year

SHORTLISTED: Prime Minister’s Literary Awards

‘In My Life as an Alphabet, Barry Jonsberg has an uncanny ability to take on the persona of a very special 12-year-old girl and to keep the reader totally entertained from chapters A to Z.’

The Courier Mail

WINNER: Indie Book Awards

WINNER: NT Chief Minister’s Awards

WINNER: KROC Awards

SHORTLISTED: Adelaide Festival Awards

NOTABLE BOOK: CBCA Book of the Year Awards

‘The kind of coming-of-age story readers will latch onto with a love and enthusiasm that is boundless … Jonsberg has raised the already very high bar. Give this book to everybody – it is urgent fiction and a true must-read.’

Books + Publishing

SHORTLISTED: Queensland Literary Awards

‘Full of frank humour, biting wit, magic, and social media … readers will wildly enjoy this book.’

Books + Publishing

SHORTLISTED: Chief Minister’s NT Book Awards

SHORTLISTED: NSW Premier’s Literary Awards

NOTABLE BOOK: CBCA Book of the Year Awards

‘A lively tale of a father-daughter relationship, a celebration of creativity and a moving story of splintered families.’

The Age

SHORTLISTED: Indie Book Awards

NOTABLE BOOK: CBCA Book of the Year Awards

‘Superb, compelling reading. Though the place we arrive at by the end is clever and unexpected, what mostly reverberates is the importance of being open to what it might mean to be human. Highly recommended.’

Reading Time