90 Packets of Instant Noodles (5 page)

I was awake all night, waiting.

I found out later that the cops were over at Craggs's within a couple of hours, then they busted Sull. They paid me a visit the next day. I was taken down to the station for questioning. McPhee was there, lording around like King Dick himself. Said he liked the mug shot I'd left them on the CCTV, and laughed. They'd already primed Craggs and Sull, but they still hauled me over the coals—wanted to know everything about the bottle shop and every detail about what happened afterwards: who was there, precise times, the works. I felt like a fucking rat but it was a huge relief to be able to tell them I'd stayed in the car, even if I
was
there, just further away. Hiding in the car. I bet that's what Craggs thinks: that I hid.

I asked the cops about the person behind the counter. That was McPhee's moment of glory, telling me about her
head injury
and that someone had gone psycho in there, vented some kind of dark anger on this defenceless chick, a uni student, he said, ‘working nightshift to pay for her studies.' Eventually, he told me they reckoned she was gunna be okay, said she'd had a bunch of stitches and was under observation in hospital.

He leaned down and put his face close to mine. ‘You 100 per cent sure it wasn't you in there, son?'

I could smell his breath. ‘I told you, I didn't have anything to do with it. I stayed in the car.'

‘The stolen car.'

‘It's his dad's!'

‘Yeah, he stole it from his dad.'

I shook my head slightly. Whatever.

He nodded then, smug as. ‘Yeah, your mates told me you piked out on em.'

I kept my eyes steady on the table.

He paused and said to everyone in the room, ‘I guess this is one of those times you can feel lucky to be such a spineless prick, hey, Joel?'

Dad blew his fucking lid. I'm amazed he didn't punch me out or throw me out or something. Looking back at what we did, I completely deserved anything he could have dished out. But he didn't do anything normal like that—I wish he had, almost. No, what Dad did was worse. He stood by me, but he also agreed with the cops and didn't argue or say anything when they started talking about detention and stuff. I guess I thought he might have tried to stop them when it got to that, but he didn't.

They made it really clear what was gunna happen to Sull and Craggs. The two of them were going down, Sull big-time, because of what happened with the girl. Aggravated assault, that's what they called it. That's when the whole ordeal finally came down on me like rubble from the Twin Towers. I realised what we'd been involved in, and that we were going to suffer the consequences—really
pay
—for what we'd each done. It was Sull I felt the worst for; I felt terrible for him, thinking back over the night. It should never have turned out the way it did—he never set out to do anything like that. Craggs reckoned Sull was never meant to
use
the crowbar, just to scare the chick with it, but fuck, that made it worse somehow, like it was just some sick joke that got way outta hand.

I was freaked out for days afterwards. I couldn't sleep or eat or anything. It was like I'd been pretending I was someone else until then, as though it wasn't really
Joel,
and even if it was, nothing really bad would actually happen. But when the cops and the court got heavy and Dad made it clear he agreed with them, I guess it just hit home. I was going to jail. Juvenile detention, youth remand centre, whatever you wanna call it—they all mean the same thing. Joel Strattan was headed for the slammer. That's when I really felt like I was in a movie, playing the starring role. And the lights were too hot, man; they burned right into me.

The rain dribbles onto the tin roof. Constantly uneven. I can't sleep, I can't sleep, I can't sleep, I can't fucken sleep. I look over at the yin–yang stone and all I can see is the black part, it's taking over everything. I can't even remember what Bella said but all I know is I can't see any fucken stars, that's for sure. I roll around in bed until I'm boiling hot and then I get up, dying to
do
something, but what? I pace the shack, feeling this huge welling pissedoffness in me like I want to break out and run around and shout or something, but there's nothing out there, and just being in here makes me want to break things. Everything is so the same, and there's nothing to
do.
I want to see Bella! I want to talk to her about things, tell her I'm gunna get my shit together. I want to see her play soccer. I bet there's dudes ogling her from the sidelines, especially now with me gone.

I've gotta get some music happening in here. That stupid old granny radio is gunna get smashed shortly. It might get smashed in a second if I don't chill out. Every time I turn it on there's someone droning on about when to plant your petunias or how to prune your lemon tree: it makes me nauseous. I think I'm going schizo out here. My brain is frying and there's no one to help me get perspective. McPhee got what he wanted, I guess: for Joel to fry a fuse. That's what he would have been betting on, for sure.

The rain's getting harder. Now I know why no one builds houses with tin roofs anymore, it's like getting your head drilled in the middle of the night.

The letter from Craggs is lying unopened on the table next to Dad's. I slump down, and focus on it warily. Does it count as a
breach of my conditions,
even reading a letter from Craggs? Do I really want to read this?
I have to read this,
I say out loud, and tear it open before I can change my mind.

I read over Craggs's letter again. I put it down. I read it again.

The envelope is stamped:
Banksia Hill Juvenile Detention Centre.

Fucken hell.

I knew I shouldn't have read it tonight. I wish I'd never got it. He sounds weird—too cheerful—like there's other stuff he's not telling, or bad vibes going on in his head. It's hard to tell because he's always pretty dry, you know. Doesn't let on much.

The rain's so loud now that I can barely hear myself think.

There's a sort of coldness around my foot. I look down. A puddle. On the floor, inside, and I'm standing right in it.

‘Oh for fuck's sake!' I spit, ripping off my sock and almost taking my ankle in the process.

I prise open the jammed cupboard under the kitchen sink and chuck all the rags and sponges I can see onto the water, and my sock for good measure. As I'm feeling around in the cupboard, I come across an old towel wrapped around something. I unwind the towel, keeping the thing at arm's length, just in case.

A torch falls out. A
torch
—finally, something fucking useful! I examine it, as though I know something about torches. It seems in reasonable nick. This could come in seriously handy. I open the battery compartment to rust and bubbled-out acid. I clean it out with the only dry rag left in the place—my other sock. Batteries. Of course: I don't have any. I feel a slump coming on. Something else for the shopping list. I'll have to wait days before I know whether it works.

I look up at the ceiling. Water is almost
running
in along one of the wooden beams.

‘Icecream container,' I mumble, rummaging through the remaining cupboards. I yank my hand back. Big spider web. There's too many surprises in this joint.

I stay away from the cupboards. There's movement in that web. Maybe a bowl will do. A large salad bowl. Cos I've been having so many salads since I've been down here—you know, with rocket and parmesan.

I find a very seventies bowl and line it up so most of the drips hit it.

It takes a while for me to realise that once the drips have
hit
the bowl, they then bounce
out
of the bowl.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, release me.

Newspaper, I think wearily. I need some paper to put in the bowl so the drips are absorbed. I look around. That's not something I've been doing much of, either, funnily enough:
reading the papers.
Craggs's letter catches my eye. It's paper. I snatch it, shove it into the bowl.

It's funny about Craggs. There's this total other side to him. He's got this thing about poor people—street kids and people asking you for money and stuff. Whenever we catch the train into town he ends up giving someone something. A dollar here, a ciggie there. He'll give whatever he's got to whoever asks. I've never seen him say no. Buskers in the mall, he'll sling em a few coins. Little Aboriginal kids running around in a park—if they come over, he'll swap the chat with them, throw their Frisbee back to em, kick the footy, whatever.

These kids approached us in town one day. One says, ‘Gotta cigarette for me, man?'

And Craggs just pulled out his smokes and let them go for it. There were two of them and they took two each.

‘Thanks, brother.'

He didn't say anything when they went off, like it was completely normal.

‘Jeez, man, don't you mind?'

‘Mind what?' he said, looking at me. ‘It's just a fucking
smoke,
Joel-boy.'

‘Yeah and they're about twenty bucks a pack.'

‘Twenty bucks those dudes don't have. You and I can thank our shining stars, sonny-boy,' he said to me, grinning as he slapped me on the back.

I guess I took his point. But it was a hard one to remember the night when I was on my own and three blokes came up to me at the Freo train station. They were the kind of dudes who wear basketball gear even though they don't play basketball. Long and loping and hoody and shiny. Anyway, I didn't hear what they said to me but I just went, ‘Nah,' and swung a 90-degree walk-off. I thought I was going to get smacked. I missed my bus home. I ended up walking most of the way. They probably only wanted a smoke or whatever but...

After that I began to really appreciate how Craggs handled those situations.

I hold the shack's only piece of mirror up to me. It doesn't even get my whole face in. I look pale and flat and uninteresting. Then I add a smile, and it all comes together. I've got an okay face; Bella says my eyes have a sort of kindness in them. There's a bit of ratbag in there, too, but overall I don't look like a shitty person. But I know: I have been. I've been involved in some evil stuff—I've been across a line that almost everybody else does not cross. I can't ever take that back. I can't undo it. It's like I've got a stamp on my forehead that says
juvenile offender,
but it's not like other stamps that you can wash off later. This one's a tattoo. Those things don't come off without surgery.

People say stuff like
Something good often comes from something bad,
but quite frankly I think that's a full load of shit. What good thing can come out of me ruining my life, getting a criminal record, losing most of my mates, freaking Bella out and having to be so far away from her, pissing off my old man, almost getting kicked outta school for The Rest of My Natural Life (jeez, bummer) and screwing up my mind? Uh,
hello,
as the girlies say. Not much, I'd suggest. Not much at all.

I grab a piece of paper off the mouldy stack.