John Marsden - Incurable

When I heard a thump from his bedroom I thought we were being attacked. I grabbed the rifle, which nowadays I kept close at hand. It was behind the kitchen door. I broke out in a sweat, wondering whether to head for the bush or check out the bedroom. Marmie was asleep on the kitchen floor, which was a good sign, so I hesitated. I loaded half-a-dozen rounds into the magazine and slid one into the barrel, all of which was difficult to do quietly. But it did make me feel more confident. Another thump from the direction of Gavin’s room. Marmie opened one eye and yawned. She wasn’t the greatest watchdog in the world but she should do better than this.

I stole out of the kitchen into the corridor, only a metre, and swung open the door of the linen press so I could hide behind it. Standing there put me into a totally different theatre of sounds. Now the vibration of the fridge motor, Marmie’s breathing, the buzzing of the early blowie, the flapping of the fly strips in the doorway… all of these were in the background and instead I could hear a magpie in the distance, beyond the end of the house, a moth flapping against the lead-light window in the door that led onto the little lawn, and the drone of a light plane.

Thump. What the hell was going on? If it was an invasion of the house they’d be doing more than hanging around Gavin’s room kicking the furniture. I decided to take one more step. This could be extremely dumb, but I was getting more and more convinced that the biggest problem in Gavin’s room could just be Gavin. OK, he wasn’t due home until tomorrow, but he was a kid who made his own rules, and besides that, a sleepover at Mark’s was as likely to last one hour as it was the whole weekend.

I took the one step, and as I did heard Gavin’s distinctive voice yelling one of the most powerful swearwords in his vocabulary, and trust me, when it comes to swearing, Gavin has been hanging around Homer too long. I assumed that he was not talking to a terrorist who had climbed through his bedroom window. I sighed, flicked the safety catch forwards, unbolted it and let the bullet in the barrel slide out. I really didn’t feel like a big discussion with Gavin about why on earth he was home when he was meant to be having a good time at Mark’s. But a whole lot of thumping was going on and I couldn’t walk away from that.

I put the rounds into my pocket, propped the rifle against the wall so that Gavin wouldn’t think I was going to shoot him, and went into the room. Where Gavin was concerned there wasn’t much point knocking. He was standing with his head in the corner, like he’d sent himself there already, like he was one jump ahead of the teacher. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was rocking up and down. As I stood there, he drew back, then snapped his head forward into the wall. Now I knew what those thumps had been. I couldn’t hear any Metallica, and neither could he, so it wasn’t their fault. I picked up a cushion and chucked it at him. He spun around and glared at me. If looks could have killed I might as well have lain down then and there and got ready for the autopsy.

I was in the mood to be compassionate, forgiving and understanding.

‘Gavin, what the hell did you do this time?’

He hurled the cushion back, following it with a volley of Lemony Snickets. All hardbacks unfortunately. ‘Ow! Gavin! You little shit! That hurt.’

The ringing of the phone saved innocent blood from being shed. I’m just not sure whose blood it would have been.

‘Ellie! I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon. I left three messages.’

Mark’s mother. I felt like I’d suddenly put on three or four kilos and it was all around the heart. She was definitely not ringing to tell me about Gavin’s lovely manners.

‘Yes, sorry, I was out in the paddocks.’

‘I had to leave Gavin at the house. He said you wouldn’t be far away. Did you find him all right?’

‘Yes, no problem. He’s in his room. I haven’t talked to him though. I thought he wasn’t coming back till tomorrow?’

‘Yes, well, that’s what I’m ringing about.’

I sighed and sat on the little leather stool next to the phone. I could almost hear her lips pressing tighter and tighter together.

‘Ellie, I don’t know what that boy’s problem is, but I think he needs help, and the sooner the better. I’ve never seen anything like what he and Mark got up to today. I know he hasn’t had an easy life, but I’m afraid I can’t have him here again.’

I didn’t know Mark’s mother too well, but I had the impression she was always a bit confused, trying to do six things at once and not finishing any of them. I’d never really thought about it before but it struck me then that one of the things she never quite finished was looking after Mark.

Feeling tired, too tired to be bothered asking her what crimes the boys had committed, I sat in silence, doodling crosses with a blunt pencil.

‘Are you there?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I wish there was someone I could talk to about him, Ellie. I really don’t know how it is that you’re looking after him.’

I understood that she meant I was not ’someone’. I was ‘no-one’, because of my age. I wondered at what age I’d become someone. I felt I was slipping into a sulk, my lips pressing into each other too, and I wanted to be rude and rebellious.

‘Well, I’d better tell you, I suppose. I’ve always been worried about Gavin’s influence on Mark, so up till now I’ve said to Mark that he can play with him but not to sit next to him in class. But I’m afraid Mark is too easily led sometimes. And of course you’ve got to feel sorry for Gavin.’

Grrr. My doodles were turning into sharp pointy things. The pencil was reaching that horrible state where there was so little lead that the wooden ends were scratching the paper, which is almost as bad as fingernails down the blackboard. I didn’t feel sorry for Gavin. Didn’t have the time or energy for it. I don’t think he felt sorry for himself either, although he did feel angry, which is a bit different.

‘So what did they do?’

‘Oh! I can hardly… my neighbours are the Chaus. They’re very nice and we’ve never had any trouble with them and they’ve been so good to Mark. And they have this lovely cat, a little grey thing about three years old, called Missy.’

My heart was heavy now. I knew how these stories always ended, these stories that started with, ‘We had this new car, we’d only had it a fortnight,’ or, ‘My mum had this Royal Doulton vase that her grandmother gave her and it was sitting on top of a bookcase…’

‘They had this lovely cat.’ I formed a great fear for the cat as Mark’s mum continued.

‘And the boys, I don’t know what came over them, but they somehow got hold of this poor little cat and Gavin tied it on the ground… this is awful, Ellie, I don’t know how I can tell you the next bit.’

I didn’t know how I was going to be able to hear it. I was starting to hate Gavin.

‘And Mark’s got this jump for his bike, and it seems like Gavin aimed the bike off the jump, aimed for the cat…’

‘Did he kill it?’ I asked. My voice was husky hoarse.

‘Oh yes. It’s hard to get the full story of course, because of his disability, but I think he landed on it quite a few times.’

His disability. Stuff disability. If Gavin wanted to communicate something, he’d communicate it. He didn’t have any disability.

‘I’ll call you back,’ I said to Mark’s mum, and hit the off button on the phone.

This is my morning routine. I get up at six, and if I’m not awake already the moo clock wakes me. The moo clock was a present from Fi. It’s an alarm in the shape of a cow, black and white, and instead of ringing it moos. Moos, yes, let’s move on. Sometime in the next five to fifteen minutes I slither out of bed, providing it’s Marmie asleep in the middle of my doona. I don’t understand how a small dog can occupy three-quarters of a double bed, but she manages it. If it’s Gavin asleep in the middle of my bed I’m less subtle. I just jump out. I’ve tried to persuade Marmie to sleep with Gavin in Gavin’s bed, mainly because the more they bond the better I think it is for Gavin, but they both seem to prefer my bed.