his call. ‘I’m guessing they’ve been driving drunk, and none of them look old enough to hold a driving licence. Their cars look expensive. The kids’ average age is about sixteen, so I’m guessing the cars are stolen. They’re throwing beer cans at a woman and child on the beach. It’s ugly.’
‘We’ll have someone there in minutes, sir,’ the operator said. ‘Can you stay on the line?’
‘Sure. You’ll hear everything that goes on.’ Ten or eleven youths were staring at him now, with the uncertainty that stemmed from being drunk and out of control and seeing someone acting in control. They could turn on him, he thought, but he had a window of opportunity to stop that happening. They didn’t know who he was, he sounded authoritative, and they were too drunk to act fast.
‘If those cars are stolen,’ he said, loudly but calmly, ‘then you all have a major problem. The police are on their way. You can stay and get arrested, or you can go now.’
They stared at him in silence, drunk and still aggressive, but obviously trying to think. One took a menacing step forward.
Guy didn’t budge. His face stayed impassive. ‘The road into this beach is a one-lane track,’ he said, conversationally, as though informing them of something important they should have remembered. ‘If you try and drive out, you’ll meet the police coming in. They’ll block your way.’
There was a further uneasy silence. Then, ‘Hey, Jake, I’m off.’ One of the kids at the back of the group sounded suddenly scared. ‘It’s my old man’s car. If I’m found in it I’ll be grounded for years. As far as I’m concerned you pinched it. Not me.’ He turned and stumbled away, half-running, half-walking, heading northwards along the beach. Around the headland were more beaches and bushland, where maybe he could hide himself and then head home to be innocent when his father found the car missing.
‘Geez, Jake, my old man’ll do the same,’ another said, already backing and starting to run. ‘Mac-wait up.’
‘But you guys’ve got the keys,’ Jake yelled, and hurled another can after his retreating mates.
Some of the other kids were backing away now. Half seemed inclined to stay with Jake. The others seemed inclined to run.
‘We’re on our way,’ the policeman said on the other end of the phone line, and Guy nodded and held the phone helpfully out towards the kids.
‘The police are on their way. This officer says so. He’d like to talk to you. Jake?’
‘Go to hell,’ Jake yelled.
‘Is that Jake Marny?’ the officer asked.
‘I’ll ask him,’ Guy said, and held out the phone again. ‘He says are you Jake Marny?’
‘Geez-he knows us. The cops know us,’ one of the kids yelled, panic supplanting aggression in an instant. And that was enough for them all. They were stumbling away, heading after the first two boys. For a long moment Jake stared at Guy, murder in his eyes, but it was the drink, Guy thought. Underneath, Jake was nothing but a belligerent kid-and a kid alone now, as his friends deserted him. He picked up another can and hurled it, but he didn’t have his heart in it.
‘What will you do, Jake?’ Guy said, and Jake turned and found all his mates had gone without him.
He turned and ran.
The police arrived before Guy had made it up to where he’d parked his car. He told them what had happened, briefly and succinctly, and left them to it. They’d radioed in the registrations of the cars as soon as they saw them. They knew the kids.
‘You’ll take care of Mrs Westmere and Henry?’ they asked.
‘Sure,’ he told them, and headed up the track to find them.
They’d reached his car. Jenny was leaning back on the bonnet, still hugging Henry, her face buried in his hair
‘Jenny?’
She looked up, and he saw that her face was rigid with tension and with anger. She was fighting back tears.
The little boy was huddled against her, and clinging. His body language was despairing.
Guy had never had anything much to do with children. He’d met Malcolm’s kids, beautifully dressed and with precocious social manners. He was godparent to their youngest, and sometimes he even took them gifts.
‘Thank Mr Carver,’ their father would say, and the appropriate child would smile.
‘Thank you, Mr Carver. This is a cool present.’
They were well-trained, well-adjusted kids, with two solid parents and all the advantages in the world.
But this mite…He was too thin. He was wearing some sort of elastic wrap on one of his legs and around his chest. His face was scarred and it was creased with crying. But now he faced Guy with the same sort of determination Guy saw in his mother. He wouldn’t show the world he was upset. He blinked back tears and gulped.
Guy’s heart twisted. This had nothing to do with how he felt about Jenny. Here was a whole host of other emotions.
He didn’t get involved.
Too late. He looked from Jenny’s face to Henry’s and back again, and he was so involved he knew that from this minute on nothing would be the same again.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said, and something about his voice made Jenny’s face change. Her defences slipped a little.
‘We were going to have a picnic,’ she whispered, and he reached forward and took the basket from her grasp. It suddenly seemed to be unbearably heavy. He would have liked to take Henry, too, but Henry was clinging to his mother as if he’d never let go. ‘Jack’s been delivering Christmas presents. He dropped us off at one, and was going to pick us up at three. But…’
‘But?’
‘But I reckoned without Henry’s scarring,’ she whispered. ‘Those kids…They arrived about fifteen minutes after we did. They were dreadful-weren’t they, Henry?’
‘What happened?’
Jenny shook her head, but Henry, surprisingly, took over. ‘We had a ball,’ he said. ‘Mummy threw it to me and I missed it, and it rolled along the beach and ended up near one of the men’s beer cans. When I went to get it he said I was deformed. He said, “Get lost, you ugly, deformed little s…”’
Henry’s words were spoken almost exactly as he’d heard them. Guy heard the vindictiveness in the child’s bleak recital, and he flinched. He tried to find his voice but it wasn’t there. There weren’t words.
He wanted to-
‘Don’t,’ Jenny whispered, and he knew she was reading the primitive desire that was starting to build-to launch himself back down the beach and punch Jake and his mates until they bled.
It would achieve…nothing. And the police were there. They’d be taken care of.
‘Why do you think they said that?’ he said at last. He didn’t recognise his voice. He didn’t recognise his feelings. Dumb fury and more…
‘I don’t know,’ Henry whispered.
‘I don’t know, either.’ He was fighting desperately for the right words here. For any words at all. ‘It surely isn’t because you’re deformed, Henry. You’re wearing an elastic bandage and you have a couple of manly scars. That doesn’t make you deformed.’
‘The boy kicked me.’
‘He was probably jealous,’ Guy said, swallowing his anger with a huge effort.
He set Jenny’s picnic basket on the ground and hauled it open, inspecting its contents with a critical eye. It gave him something to do. Independent or not, afraid of relationships or not, he wanted to hug them and hold them close, but he knew they’d accept no such gesture. And such a gesture wouldn’t help. Nor would violence. He had to come up with something better.
‘I thought so,’ he said, feeling his way. ‘There’s pink lemonade in here. And great food. They only had beer. Jealousy makes people say funny things. Do you think that’s it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Henry said, staring down at the pink lemonade. ‘That’s silly.’
‘Not as silly as calling you names.’ Guy took a deep breath and turned his back to them both. ‘When people have been angry about things they’ve called me names, too. A lady burst into tears at a swimming pool once. She called me a poor thing. She was stupid. I’m not a poor thing at all. Take a look at this.’
