Keri Hulme - The Bone People

He has been struck hard and repeatedly across his face.

She looks at the hands still holding hers. Unmarked.

"Joe hit you?" her voice as neutral as she can make it.

He opens his eyes. No, he says silently, No.

"Who then?" anger running in a hot flood through her. "Bloody who?"

He stares through the slits of his swollen lids.

"Who, Sim?"

He moves his head reluctantly, side to side.

"Someone at school?"

The fingers say, No No No-

"Damn it, someone you know? I know?"

The child is still.

"Ah sheeit, kid…."

She stands, balling her fists, raises them in the air, lets them fall.

"You don't want to talk about it, okay. I'll just get you a doctor, ring Joe, and they can take it from there."

He gropes for his pad, not shifting his head. As Kerewin moves to the radiophone he holds a hand up, and she stops, still looking at him in that cold angry way.

NO DOCTOR JOE OK IM OK

"I'll bet," she says.

He holds his clasped hands up.

"You begging?" asks Kerewin sourly.

The hands come undone as he makes an affirmative.

"Well, don't. What's wrong with getting a doctor? You need one. You scared of them or something?"

A limp finger fall

She realises Yes isn't really an answer.

She looks down at him, shaking her head grimly.

Supposing nothing's broken inside, his skull okay and none of his face bones cracked, then it's only cuts and bruises. It won't scar him. He'll heal well and quick enough. And it's late to call a medic out. But what if he's got… fractures, concussion, deeper damage?

"Joe can decide," and the child actually smiles.

Not very much, but enough for her to decide it's a smile rather. than a grimace.

"I don't know, boy, I really don't-"

The operator is surprised.

"Well, I never," he says chirpily, "at home all the time eh?"

"Not quite home, and not quite all the time… leave that in till Joe answers, will you?"

The burr-burr goes on for minutes.

"Anyhow, how'd you know he was here just from me ringing Joe?"

The operator giggles.

"Feedback. One of the good things about this job, y'know. Tass Dansy, you know him?"

"Yeah, by repute."

"Well, he saw Simon staggering along the road near your turnoff, and when he made a toll-call a coupla hours ago, I asked him, he told me, you know how it is?"

With you, I can imagine.

"Mmmm, what do you mean, staggering?"

"Tass's word, not mine. Is the boy all right, or is something the matter?"

"He's okay. Just a minute, please-"

She turns the sound down, and tells Simon, "Come over here." No please about it. The anger still burns.

He has folded himself back over the hearth box He stands awkwardly, and she can hear him hissing with the effort.

Staggering isn't quite the word, but he's limping badly… sweet hell, if I can get hold of the person who's knocked him round, I'll make them rue the day they were-

"Hello?" says a voice in her ear.

"Hello Joe?"

"Uh, Kerewin? Uhh," she hears him rubbing his face, and the discreet clit! as the operator gets off the line.

"Sorry to wake you up man, but you can guess who's turned

up.'

"Uh. Good.'

Even allowing he's tired, stupid with sleep, and still heavy with drink, that is one hell of a pause.

He asks hurriedly into her silence, "Everything's all right?"

"No."

Another silence. She hears the sound of his fingers massaging his face again.

"Has he done something wrong or something?"

"Or something. Joe, you didn't by any chance mean, when you said earlier that you'd had to play heavy father, that you'd bashed him?"

More silence.

"O no way," but the denial sounds wavery. "Sure, I hit him a couple of times, but — "

"Where?"

"Where you normally hit kids."

His breathing has quickened, and the slur from sleep and drink in his voice has gone.

"Not across his face?"

"Hell no… is he hurt there?"

The deep voice has sharpened with concern; the denial is positive. Now it sounds like Joe as she knows him.

"Well thank God for that."

"E?"

"Ah sorry, e hoa. For a horrid moment I thought, well, someone's been playing amateur gestapo, and I thought, I mean-"

"O God… is Himi right there? Can I speak to him? Now?"

The child is weeping. He takes the mike, and taps it three times.

"E Himi, what's the matter? You all right?"

The small click of the child's nail tapping the receiver once, wait for it, twice.

"I'm glad," says Joe simply. Then he scolds, "Why didn't you come home? Why did you bother Kerewin? Why'd you-"

It seems the tinny distant voice berates the child for minutes.

Kerewin, still wild at an unknown assailant, tires of the scolding quickly.

Why bawl the brat out, when maybe it's not his fault, when maybe it happened near here, when he's hurt, and especially, when he can't answer?

She leans over and plucks the mike out of the boy's unresisting hand.

"You're being boring, Joe."

He stops, shocked. "O Kere, I didn't realise that — "

"Shit, man, he's hurt and all you can do is fill his ears with a diatribe? Be a bit realistic… do you want me to get a doctor?"

He says quickly,

"He's very scared of them. I don't think that'd be a good idea Unless he's hurt badly?"

"Weelll, he's bruised. Bruised a lot. I don't think anything's really damaged though. You want to risk waiting for the morning?"

"That'd be best," says Joe promptly. "I'll pick him up before I go to work tomorrow, and we'll go see Lachlan then. For some reason, she's less of an ogre than the others."

"Okay. It's your kid… you want to tell him goodnight? He's not looking particularly happy."

In fact, he's still crying, leaning against the wall in a sagging hopeless fashion.

"Ae. E pai ana, e Kere, e pai ana."

"That's okay," but the thanks in Maori don't, this time, draw the normal emotional response. He could be saying The moon, the moon, going by what she feels.

"Here's Simon," she says.

"I'm sorry," says the man, "I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, when you've been in trouble, to hurt you. I'm really sorry."

The little boy nods, apparently unconscious of the radiophone.

"Take care of yourself, e Himi, and we'll see you tomorrow morning, early. E moe koe, e tama, and kiss Kerewin goodnight for us. E moe koe."

The child holds the mike, staring into it through the blur of tears for quite a time after Joe has hung up.

She washed the boy's face with witch-hazel and warm water, and gave him a mug of hot milk that had honey and some of her manuka brew in it. Then she carried him up the spiral and deposited him on her bed.

It was after she'd collected her sleepingbag that she remembered the limp.

"What's the matter with your legs?"

OK, say his fingers, they're okay.

"Why're you limping then?"

He grimaces. He kicks at the air, a short distance only. But they're OK, the fingers assure her.

"Who kicked you?"

No response.

She shakes her head doubtfully.

"Your legs, boyo… you want some help for them?"

No. He looks at the floor, and then up at her, suddenly smiling. OK, he gestures again, firmly.

But it looked as though he had needed that moment to gather his strength to smile.

"Okay, Simon pake…" and Joe's word for him is right. The brat is as stubborn as they come, when he wants to be.

"You know how to turn that lamp off?"

Yes.

He's leaning against the bed now. She asks again from the doorway, "Who did it, Sim?" His face twists, but he says nothing. She exhales noisily. "So be it. Sleep well, sweet dreams."

But her impatience shows through her voice and gives the words a sardonic ring.