The Glass Kingdom (12 page)

‘How's Mum?'

‘Upset, of course. But it's your father you should be worried about, old chap.'

‘Ah, fuck him.' He immediately blushed. ‘Sorry, Huw.'

I should say I have never had much tolerance for swearing: not out of prudishness but more the lack of imagination that the use of such blunt words exhibit. In that respect I was a lone voice on the Kingdom, where the vernacular tended towards sentences being lavishly, and I had to admit in some cases quite creatively, peppered with expletives by all and sundry, my own wife included. Demotic, if deficient.

‘He assumed you would be in Melbourne by now.'

‘But you knew better, eh?'

‘I had a notion. You weren't that hard to find.'

‘He'll give me a hiding when he gets hold of me.'

‘We'll see. Have you spent much of the money?'

‘Nah, about a hundred bucks on food and that.'

‘It is my solemn duty to remind you of the code…'

‘I know, I know. I just had to get away from there, that's all. I'll pay it back.'

‘Perhaps you're missing the point.'

‘I'm not staying there, you realise. First chance I get, I'm gone.'

‘I know that, Benji, much as it saddens me. Where will you go?'

‘I was thinking the army.'

‘Now why on earth would you do such a foolish thing?'

‘Travel overseas. Maybe get a diploma or something. Reckon they're the only ones'll have me. It's not like I'm good for anything else.'

‘You underestimate yourself.'

‘Nah, you overestimate me, Huw.'

‘The Kingdom would find a place for you. There are always new attractions to manage. And I will have to retire one day. Perhaps you could take up my mantle, so the name of Voltan may live on.'

‘No offence, but I don't think I'm cut out for what you do.'

‘Well, the offer is there, my boy. I would suggest you throw down some ballyhoo for me, but I think it unlikely that Francis would release you from your penury on his stall.'

‘Fucken Target Ball. Sorry, but that game's the fucken bane of my life.'

‘And yet it is to there that you must return. Will you come back to the Kingdom with me today, Benji?'

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Of course. There's always a choice. We could both jump, no?'

We peered over the edge. It was a long way down. Wisely, he chose to accompany me instead. Matters were not that desperate.

The descent through the valleys of granite was cool and pleasant. We talked of many things, mostly of Benji's desire to see the world, to feel like he belonged somewhere. By the time we reached the car, he had me half convinced that his joining the army was a good idea after all. If only I had known then what I do now, I could have gently dissuaded him during the subsequent years, instead of being complicit in his plans. I could have spared him his disfigurement, his fall. Of all feelings, the one I fear most is regret—not for what I did, but for what I may have failed to do.

Upon our return to the Kingdom, Benji's mother scolded him, but not seriously so, for in Francis's absence she sought every opportunity to ingratiate herself with her son. Although there was no great love between them, neither was there animosity. His contemporaries on the show were less forgiving, and he would have faced a tough time of it in the subsequent weeks had it not been for his father's gross overreaction when he got back from Melbourne.

My good friend Boris the strongman alerted me to the fracas. Cathy and I were relaxing in our trailer when he burst through the door.

‘Francis is killing Benji,' was all he said, and that was enough. I rushed to the scene. A small number of hands had gathered outside the Target Ball stand, which was locked from the inside. The sounds of a brutal beating emanated from within, punctuated by Francis's vile epithets as he cursed his errant son.

Those present were reluctant to intervene, as this would constitute a breach of the code, but I felt no such compunction. For the first time in years I was overcome by a powerful fury, fuelled by indignation. I had known Francis would clip the boy hard round the ear a few times, but this was going too far. Boris assisted me in breaking down the door, though it was not until I shouted at Francis to desist that he paid us the slightest attention.

‘Mind your own fucken business,' he growled, and to my astonishment drove another kick into the curled-up body of his young son. Boris grappled him from behind and within seconds had him locked securely in a full nelson.

I knelt to assess the boy's wounds. He looked up at me, glossy-eyed.

‘I told you, Huw.'

Boris held Francis tightly as I towered over him, barely controlling my rage. To the astonishment of all present, including myself, I threatened to kill him if he ever laid a finger on Benji again, or on his wife for that matter. In for a penny…

Well. That is perhaps an exaggeration—a habit of mine, I admit. What I actually said was that if there were any further incidents of violence towards his family he might one day unwittingly discover the light switch in the Target Ball stand had developed faulty wiring and was live with current. Thirty milliamps is sufficient to stop a man's heart. I am the Master of Electricity, after all.

Francis lost any friends he had that day. Despite Benji's defiance of the carnival code, sympathies on the Kingdom rapidly shifted in his favour. It was his father who was largely shunned by the community. At best, he was treated with suspicion and great caution. He did not seem to care. I felt sorry for Evalisse, trapped in a relationship with such a coward, but there was little that could be done for her. At least he never struck her again, the silver lining to the storm cloud. I have not threatened anyone in such a manner since, nor do I ever wish to again. In any case, I'm not such a terrifying prospect these days.

To his credit, Benji continued to work the Target Ball stand for another few years. He never ran away again and concentrated instead on attaining the basic requirements for entry to the armed forces. I assisted him in this when and however I could. In his spare time he built up his body and by the time he turned eighteen he could almost have taken over from Boris, so fine a physical specimen had he become. He was utterly driven to escape, and he did, eventually, at least for a while.

I missed him, after he was gone. I still do. Benji—the boy who grew up on the carnival, with a cruel bastard for a father and a sword-swallowing erotic dancer for a mother. His path was always destined to be a strange one. He left the Kingdom for good, one fateful autumn day, and he died, that boy, in some foreign desert. I mourn his passing when I think of him. Someone else came back, you see—a man none of us knew, a man utterly changed, a young prince returned from the great war of our time to reclaim his throne. For what, after all, is a Kingdom without a king?

Benji summarily commandeered the Target Ball stand upon his return, forcing Evalisse and Francis into an early retirement, of sorts. They moved into a cottage on the outskirts of Castlemaine, the rent for which was paid for in full by Benji. His mother must have been quietly relieved to be out of the sideshow—as a dancer, she was a shadow of her former self. Through time, her performances had become increasingly lewd and melancholy. Francis protested, but did not press the issue. One look from his son was enough to stifle any complaints. Benji's appearance was positively monstrous. No one pressed him for explanations.

Initially, I was moved by Benji's sudden devotion to his parents' well being. Although he kept his own counsel, I assumed he had returned from his trials an honourable man, wishing to do the right thing.

I soon came to realise this was not the case. His takeover of Target Ball was not done in the spirit of honour or duty. There was an air of spite about his actions, as if he were punishing his parents by snatching away their livelihood, thus rendering them dependent upon him for an income. This Benji had about him the aura of the mercenary.

With Francis and Evalisse out of the picture, Target Ball began to thrive. There was open evidence of a considerable amount of money being generated through the stall. A new element frequented the attraction, and they all walked away with a prize. Giraffes, wombats, kangaroos—all these creatures were eschewed in favour of the blue koala.

I may be an old fool, but I am not stupid. I know that Ben saw an opportunity in Target Ball that his father most likely considered, in his day, but dared not countenance for fear of violating the code and risking expulsion from the Kingdom. The stall had become a mobile base of operations for some shady business venture. Whatever Benjamin had learned in the army, whatever he acquired a taste for in the desert, he now applied to civilian life. His pursuit of this newfound interest was enacted with a ruthlessness that was frightening to witness.

In the past, a council would have investigated any nefarious business affairs that risked bringing the good name of the Kingdom into disrepute, with the perpetrator facing possible censure. No such committee was convened to deal with the situation at Target Ball. Everyone was wary around Benjamin, and chose to remain silent, although fear was also a powerful factor. It is so easy for the blind to see nothing.

More and more, Benji began to resemble his father, although, in many ways, he had become something much worse than Francis. He was a tyrant, resourceful and determined, and his reign over the Kingdom was absolute.

The past may be lost to me, but I no longer harbour any doubts as to what the future holds. Our history is replete with examples of what occurs when an individual becomes obsessed with the acquisition of wealth and power. When he falls, and he surely will, ruination awaits us all, and perhaps we deserve it.

It doesn't really matter, in the end. I won't remember any of it. If I am still alive in twenty years, God help me, and I sit down to look over these words, it will be akin to reading a book of someone else's life. The Kingdom, Voltan, little Benji—I will recall nothing of their exploits. We will be crumbling statues in some antique land, edges worn smooth by the desert winds, forgotten.

Yo, Mekong Delta don't just sit back an' watch
Imma bad motherfucker, leave you holding your
  
crotch
You ain't got crabs, girl, that there's the Midas touch
Mekong Delta in da house, just kicked it up a notch.

It be mad boring driving in this country. The radio in Steph's car is cheeks, you can't even get Triple J and it's not like Star FM plays much in the way of Oztang. It's all fucken ads and little-girl pop music and I mean where in the name of fuck'd they get those DJs? Pop a couple of caps in those fake-ass motherfuckers, do the world a favour.

Heads up, here comes the big city of Nowra. Woo, now we're rollin'. Heard there was some dinosaur I oughta speak to, might be able to assist me with my transportation situation. And sho' nuff that must be the place over there with all the broke-ass old cars piled up in stacks and a couple of decent looking rides parked out front. Hard to port, captain, or is it starboard—I never did know the diff. Damn, boy, check out the rims on that Commodore. Oldie but a goodie. Gold paintjob, too. That'll do nicely. Ride be
pimpin'
.

Jay-Z may be content to cruise around in his Bentley,
An' that's the kinda dope ride I'll entertain
  
eventually,
But an Aussie hip-hop artist's gotta remain hardcore,
Hit the blacktop behind the wheel of a fucken
  
Commodore.

Stegosaurus comes out wiping his hands on the old oily rag, got a beard on him like Osama bin Laden an' he's wearing a pair of denim dungarees just like the ones I always wanted 'cept you just gots to be rockin' those bad boys bare-chested. Clocks me eyeballin' the golden chariot an' shakes his head as if to say no way, Keyser Söze, you ain't got the chedda for wheels like that, so throw that shit out yo' head, boy. Changes the fucken record an' flips to the B-side when I flash my roll. Smiles like Christmas come early an' says I can drive her on out of there for three bills straight up. Tell him he's dreamin', dawg. Ride be trill an' all but I mos def gots goods to exchange, you feel me?