‘Well, this is me.’ I unbuckle, open the car door. ‘Thanks for the ride, hey.’
‘No worries.’ Amie passes out my crutches. ‘You’ve got it all under control from here?’
‘You bet.’ Before I shut the car door, I bob my head. ‘Um, thanks. Thanks heaps.’ I should say more, show my gratitude. My tongue’s thick in my mouth though. SayingI think you might’ve saved my lifeseems a bit overdramatic, but saying anything less feels lame.
She grins. ‘Make sure you show up to your appointment on Wednesday. That’s all the thanks I need.’
Then she’s driving away, and I’m shoving my wound-care stuff into my jacket pocket as I crutch into Mark West’s front yard. Westie’s house is a flat-roofed fibro unit with some shrubby stuff under the eaves. Striped canvas blinds shade the north-facing windows. Wouldn’t look out of place in a caravan park Permanent Residents’ lot, but, hey, it’s not my dad’s house – it looks like paradise to me.
I climb the concrete step to the front door but no one responds to my knocks. Okay. I stand there blinking for a sec, then I remember – it’s Friday arvo. Mark will be at the hall, teaching self-defence class.
Struggling off the step, I turn left to the corner and cross traffic-less Pickering Street. The hall across the street is tall red brick. I make my way around to the back of the building where the rear door stands open. Inside the cool air hits me, reminds me of the hospital air-con I’ve just left.
The light in here is muted, but the sounds of physical training fill the space: people grunting, boxing gloves hitting leather, heavy bags creaking on their chains. About a dozen people – kids, mostly, but a few older guys in training for local bouts – circle around the equipment stations. I smell sweat, and spot Westie: he’s moving around the cavernous hall, checking folks on the punching bags, offering tips.Put your feet here. Twist in the waist. Don’t be afraid to hit hard.My hands itch to grab a pair of gloves, to thump something. But the feeling doesn’t rise out of my usual dark place. I’m just happy to be back here. It feels homey.
‘Ha – the prodigal son returns!’
The voice makes me turn. Della Metcalfe is wearing a black crop top and a pair of hot-pink trackie pants, her exposed skin shiny with perspiration. She raises her gloves so we can fistbump. Then she laughs, shoulders inside my crutches and pulls close for a hug. Her bosom squishes up against my chest – she’s got a lovely bosom, Dell – and it’s bloody nice to see her.
‘Dunno about prodigal,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that when you apologise and say you’re not gonna do the same stupid shit again?’
She pulls back to ruffle my hair with her gloved hands. ‘If you tell me you’ve seen the light and changed your ways, I won’t believe you. And I’ll be pissed.’ She nudges me with her hip, gives me a sly grin. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you to clean up your act, Harris. I like you better when you’re dirty.’
I got a lot of time for Della. Used to have more time, in fact, until she called us quits about a year ago. Della’s into on-again-off-again things, and I was cool with that – it made us a good match. It’s great to see her. Apart from Snowie at the pub, it’s been forever since I’ve spent time hanging out with mates. ‘So you’re helping Westie with training now?’
‘Dick.’ She play-boxes my ear. ‘I helpteachthe class now. Someone had to take over when you left.’
It shows how long I’ve been away that I’m not up with this stuff. ‘Well, I won’t be good for shit for a while.’ I shuffle my crutches. ‘I guess you can spot for me in my absence.’
‘So gracious.’ She rolls her eyes, turns to bellow. ‘Hey, Mark! He’s here!’
Westie swivels and his weathered face lights as he walks over. ‘Ah, great, you made it. You walked over from the hospital, did ya? On crutches?’
‘Got a ride.’ My face warms as I think of Amie.
‘Well, great, good on ya. Dell, can you handle this lot while I nick home and get Harris settled in?’
Della nods, and Westie turns us both out of the hall. We make our way back to his house, where he lets me through to the living room.
‘It’s not fancy.’ Mark blushes as he waves a hand around the little space. There’s enough room for a couch, a big flat-screen on a side table, an ironing board set up at the back of the room, laundry piled on top of that. ‘Not much of anything, really. Just a place to watch the footy on a Friday night – you watch the footy, right? But it’s somewhere to crash, and you’re welcome to it.’
I take the packet from the hospital out of my jacket pocket, settle myself on the couch. Westie’s put a pillow and a pile of blankets on one end. It’s true, it’s not fancy. But it’s not Dad’s.
Which reminds me of the last loose end I have to tidy up before I can relax.
Once Westie returns to the training session in the hall, I use his landline to make a call. Even here, in a comparatively safe space, my hand twitches holding the receiver. I fucking wish I’d grow out of this, but with everybbrrrpp-ing ring my breath gets tighter. I close my eyes, open them again. It’s easier, somehow, to stay cool when I can see the friendly mess around me.
The line connects. ‘Yep.’
My throat swells shut for a second. I force the words out. ‘It’s me. Harris.’
There’s a pause.
‘Yeah?’ Dad’s tone is derisive. He sounds half-ripped already. ‘Well, nice of ya to call. I run around like a bloody chook with its head cut off all week, tryin’ to see ya, they fucking wouldn’t let me in, would they? Next I hear that bloody fat bitch at the hospital has set you up someplace –’
‘I’m staying at a mate’s.’ I keep my words measured, not caring that it sounds rehearsed. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come home. I know I said –’
‘You bloody said you’d be here!’
