Where There's Life - A short story

Davy Jones - 2006

Foreword

A short story dedicated to the abused and forgotten youths caged in the Juvenile Justice Systems of the ‘civilised world’.  The majority of these boys and girls have predictable futures.  They will go one of two ways – they will either become institutionalised recidivists or they will die young.

                                                                            

As this day dawns, it is the last, no tomorrow, only past.

The mantra throbbed over and over inside his scrambled brain.  He was soaking wet - chilled to the bone.  Ragged clothes clung spitefully to his neglected body – accentuating his poor physical condition.  He'd never felt so alone; totally, inexplicably, desolate. Wild thoughts shot through the confusion.  Where the fuck am I? This place is like some sort of bad dream.  I’ve had this dream before, before, before…  He shivered uncontrollably.

                                                           

‘G’day Robbie boy; finally made it then.’  The rich, mellow voice, was oddly out of place in the dirty, run-down, backstreet.

‘Shit bro!  Youse’ scared the shit out of me. Where’d the fuck you come from?’  Rob was visibly shaking.  A streetwise boy, he was always watchful, guarded - deeply aware and fearful of those around him; tonight though, he was out of control, twitching fitfully, jumping at every sound.

The shadowy figure seemed to solidified out of the surrounding darkness; taking time it seemed, to consider a reply.

 ‘Where’d I spring from?  Oh, you know… I hang around here and there, waiting for kids just like you to pass through.”

The stranger’s relaxed manner disturbed the ragged youth.  ‘What are ya, a fuckin’ wog poofta’ or something?  Fuckin’ rock spider,’ his rising voice betrayed his growing panic.

‘Oh, come on Rob, it’s not like that; it’s just me’ job.  Y’know, it’s like, what I do for a living’, retorted the old man, mimicking the boy’s street slang. 

‘And, at the risk of blowing me’ own trumpet, I’d say I’m pretty good at it too,’ the old man added thoughtfully, scratching at a stubbly grey beard.

Rob rocked back and forth, hugging himself, rubbing his bony track-marked arms nervously.  His bulging, watery blue eyes, flicked nervously left and right, looking for a way out – a quick escape.  He felt unsteady, light-headed and stupid.  His dirty, tangled blonde hair, hung damply over his grime-smudged face; a weeping sore glistened darkly on his quivering top lip.  ‘What’s your name then fuck-head?’

The reply was cool, ‘I guess it’s ok if you call me Stone.  Most folks prefer to be on some sort of first name terms.  It makes things a bit friendlier – usually,’ he added.

He trusted no one, especially this old cunt - a stranger - who knew his name; the old man reminded Rob too much of the pigs – the pigs who always made his life a fuckin’ misery.

‘Fuckin’ cold corner you got here ol’ man,’ Rob peered blindly into the depressing, unfamiliar street; his teeth chattered incessantly.  He could see very little past the subdued circle of cold blue light that placed them centre stage in the surreal backstreet.  A low, penetrating wind, stirred the chill night air.  ‘Where’s that fuckin’ wind coming from?’

Stone smiled; he looked purposely both ways.  A harbour fog rolled thickly, lazily, across the black, damp roadway.

‘I suppose it’s what you’d call a through draught.  Blows from all the way down there,’ he pointed a stabbing finger away into the darkness,  ‘right on through to way up there,’ he turned, wagging a thick finger up the road towards the uncertain predawn light.

Rob stared blindly into the rolling fog, its swirling dampness trapping him in a grey death-shroud. 

His shoulders slumped; he wondered vaguely if he could find his way back.  The piercing far-off moan of a mighty foghorn echoed indistinctly from everywhere and nowhere.

‘Fuckin’ dark down there man!  Can’t see a fuckin’ thing.  No street lamps or nothin’, Rob muttered.

‘Bit like life then Robbie boy.  No matter which way you look, you can’t see the wood for trees; the unknown in front and confusion behind.  One minute you’re travelling fine and the next - bang,’ he clapped.  ‘Shit happens!  Yesterday’s history – tomorrow’s a mystery!’

‘You can say that again.  Just live for today, that’s me, Rob replied, half-heartedly.  ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘there was a time I was really struggling; it was winter; the weather was lousy.  I was starving all the time, and had nowhere to doss down.  This bitch, a good sort, came up and asked if I needed a place in a refuge for a few nights.  Mate, I was stoked; all me’ problems solved. 

The second night two other boys came in; young blokes I sort’a knew them from the street.  One was a real head-banger – fuckin’ psycho.  Anyway, I was feeling ok, me’ belly was full y’know; I was warm and dry for a change.  We sat around after our pizza that night watchin’ some telly, just yappin’ you know.  I knew something funny was up; the other two kept getting their heads together – whispering, y’know, body language stuff. 

Then the shit hit the fan; Mick, the fuckin’ head-case goes around behind the bitch and starts stabbing fuck out of her with a steak knife.  Scream mate, you never heard nothing like it; and all the time he’s stabbin’ – stabbin’ – and he’s laughing like a fuckin’ idiot mate.  The screams got all bubbly and blood shot out of her mouth.  She was thrashing around trying to stop the knife – stop the stabbin’.  There was fuckin’ blood everywhere – everywhere mate.  I just sat watchin’ – watchin’ like a dumb shit; it was like, unreal - slow motion.  I was just thinking all the time - fuck it, there goes me’ bed for tonight. 

They went through her pockets, took the few bucks she had, and her car keys.  Then they ran – the bastards’! 

He shook his head sadly.  ‘I just sat there like a fuckin’ idiot for ages.  Then I sort of woke up and decided I’d be better off someplace else before any of the other staff came back.  I stepped over her body mate.  I slipped in her blood, and fell on me’ hands; it was fuckin’ ‘orrible – blood all over me.  I got out of there as quick as you like.  Ended up sleeping with some derros that night, the bastards were so pissed they didn’t notice me anyway. 

Thought I’d got out of there ok for a few days; then the pigs came looking for me.  I went down for that mate!  It cost me another year in lock up – and what for mate, what for?  I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing - I told them so!  No one believed me; no one fuckin’ cared; another year in lock up.  And the nightmares of that screaming bitch and blood, blood, blood.’  His voice became shrill, ‘how fair was that mate – I ask you?’ Stone’s bushy grey eyebrows arched; he smiled oddly, scratching at his fat girth.

Weighing his options carefully, he considered - some decisions were easy - other times they weren’t.  Some folks are born winners; others just born losers.

‘Think you know the streets do you kid?  Sounds like you’ve been living rough a long time.’  Stone spoke calmly, keeping the conversation flowing, questioning Rob’s unspoken secrets.

‘That’s me’ home, most times.  I know where I’m at on the streets.  I can look after me’self y’know.  Gotta watch fuckin’ do-goodin’ ol’ pricks like you, is all.  I can make more cash in a night on ‘the wall’, or selling a bit of dope, than you make in a fuckin’ month’.

 Rob shuffled in circles, an immature human wreck - a parody - shadow-boxing harmlessly at the old man.

‘Guess you might be right there Rob.  What about your parents though, don’t they worry about you?’

Rob burst into a hollow imitation of laughter, a phlegm-filled noise.  ‘Parents, mate.   What the fuck are you on about,’ he barked?  ‘My old lady was a fuckin’ slag.  A fuckin’ druggie hoe!  Me’ old man, I wouldn’t even know who he was; some off-his-face dropkick, a fuckin’ loser just like her!  Probably shagged her stupid then punched her fuckin’ lights out.  That’s what she liked; the rough stuff.  Bet she didn’t even know his name.’  Rob looked around wildly for something to smash.

 ‘A bit down on poor old mum and dad, hum,’ Stone muttered under his breath.  He knew Rob’s sort.  Stone had spoken to a lot of ‘Robs’ over the years.

 ‘What’s the best thing about your life, you reckon, Rob?’  The direct question confused the boy.

‘Don’t know really,’ he shrugged?  Nothing as far as I can see!  It’s a waste of fuckin’ time; a fuckin’ black hole mate, a deep, shit black hole,’ the words hung like an accusation between them.  He ranted on, ‘get off on some ‘H’, or crack, shit like that maybe; smoke some yarndi, you know, puff a little gunja.  Just getting lost mate, just getting lost and out of me’ skull.  That’s what’s fuckin’ best about my life.’ 

He gripped a make-believe joint between his grimy yellow fingers, inhaled slowly - deeply - then exhaled with an exaggerated ‘ahhhh’.

‘What about when you were a kid; surely there must have been something you liked?   Stone waited for an answer; gazing steadily into the boy’s shifty eyes, holding him like a terrified beast in a roo-shooter’s lamp.

Rob broke the invisible bond and cast his eyes down at his scruffy trainers, he muttered, ‘Nothing mate.  I told you; all I remember about being a kid is being fuckin’ battered every way and having me’ fuckin’ head beaten in regular as clockwork.  I cried a lot, you know, I remember crying all the time.  They used me as a fuckin’ ashtray mate – a fuckin’ ashtray!  Do you know what that feels like - ‘a’?   He lifted his T-shirt revealing his pitifully scarred body.  ‘Snot and tears, snot and fuckin’ tears, and fuckin’ hungry all the time’, his body shook with pent-up emotion, ‘I thought life was like that for everyone mate, like that was just normal.  It took me a while to sort it out.  By the time I got round to working it out I wasn’t a fuckin’ kid any more,’ bitterness etched his face giving him a look well beyond his years.

Stone nodded, his shoulders relaxed, his manner softened as he encouraged Rob to continue.

‘Do you know something ol’ man; I never had a fuckin’ birthday or Christmas nor nothin’.  Not fuckin’ one!  Stupid thing was, cos’ I never had anything, I never really missed it.  How stupid is that, ‘a?’

‘What about other kids?  Didn’t you see what they had; how their lives were?’

‘Didn’t like other kids mate.  Didn’t have fuck all to do with other kids.  Other kids never liked me neither; said I stank and was too fuckin’ dirty.  Always wagged school anyway – fuckin’ hated it mate – school and fuckin’ teachers.  Just me and me’ sister mostly, till she died anyway.’

Both were silent now.  Rob gave a deep sigh and stared blankly into a dark, hate-filled past.

‘We was so cold that last night you know, me and her.  We just laid under a stinkin’ rag of a fuckin’ blanket, holding each other; tryin’ to stay warm.  She always looked after me like that.  She’d got some stuff that night and shot up.  It took away the pain she said.  Turned out to be a dirty kit!’ His voice dropped, ‘I can remember her eyes mate, all glazed over and gone to another place.  That’s all she had in life too; stupid fuckin’ cow!  I didn’t know it was bad stuff ‘a’ – it wasn’t my fuckin’ fault mate!’

He hawked deeply and spat green phlegm onto the cracked pavement. 

‘I woke up next to her fuckin’ corpse in the morning, didn’t I?  Cold she was - stiff - and so cold.  There was no one to tell; just me and a fuckin’ corpse for company, hiding, scared shitless, in a broken down squat.  Fifteen she was, mate, sodding fifteen years old, that’s all!’

Rob cried then, hot fat salty tears streaked his grimy face.  His emaciated body convulsed in spasms as the aching memory wracked him through and through.

 The moment of weakness caught him off guard.  He realised, too late, what he had done and quickly slammed shut the emotional shutters, hiding his raw pain from public view.

‘Time the old slag dragged ‘er arse back it was too fuckin’ late,’ he shouted.

‘Do you know what we did then old man?  What we always did when things got too messy - what we always did,’ he rushed on not waiting for an answer.  ‘We did a fuckin’ runner.  Just up and left her there for someone else to find, and clean up.  How d’you like that old man, ‘a, how d’you like that?’

‘How old were you then Rob?’  The question restored the boy’s flagging spirit.

‘Don’t really know mate.  I guess I was seven - eight years old, maybe,’ he shrugged.

Momentarily, they stood, companions - friends in adversity - gazing in thoughtful silence towards the distant, growing light.  Rob shook his head sadly.  ‘At least I made it a bit longer than she did.’

‘How old are you now Rob?’

‘Nearly eighteen I think mate, nearly fuckin’ eighteen.  Soon be legal for boozing and everything ‘a’.  What a fuckin’ joke init’.  I been shooting up, boozing, smoking dope, you know, since I was about ten.  The old cow taught me well.  Everything she knew.  Anything you can stick in your body, the old slag knew all about it.’  Rob’s hacking cough echoed around the dim back streets.

Stone scratched at his cheek.  He looked perplexed.  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, y’know,’ he said quietly.

Rob looked at him, panic growing in his eyes.

‘What do you mean old man,’ he skittered backwards, ‘you’re a pig or something ain’t ya?’

‘Nothing like that Rob, nothing like that at all.  But, like I said, I’ve got a job to do.  That’s why I’m standing here now.’

The alarm on Rob’s face was evident.  He wasn’t sure whether to turn and run or stand his ground and fight.  Trouble was, he couldn’t run, and he certainly didn’t feel like fighting!

‘Look son, it’s my job to guide you on your way, see.  Mostly, I just have two choices, you go that-a-way,’ he pointed towards the dark end of the street, ‘or you go that-a-way.  One road leads ‘down’, and the other ‘up’, as you might say.  You sure ain’t a good candidate for ‘up’!  Trouble is you’ve been through hell already!  So, what am I supposed to do with you?’

Stone looked uncertainly at Rob; shrugging his shoulders in resignation he muttered half to himself, ‘Oh well, you never know,’ he said with a resigned sigh.  ‘Where there’s life there’s hope, as they say’.

                                   

Rob heard the siren’s growing wail, and then the dull slap of running feet; urgent voices, shouting.  He felt the cool plastic facemask and sucked life-giving oxygen into his starved lungs.  Strong hands massaged the frail rib cage above his heart.  He was vaguely aware of someone pulling the empty needle from his puncture-scarred arm.

‘I think he’ll make it,’ said a woman - a stranger with a kind voice and gentle hands.

Warmth seeped through his frigid body; his pale blue eyes flickered open briefly.  The dazzling light blinded him; he squeezed his eyes shut quickly.

 The stretcher straps tightened, and he heard the rustle of the insulated blanket.  Then he was gently floating.

The ambulance bumped roughly over a median strip, the siren wailing its vital message. Lights, blue and red strobed gallantly through Sydney’s early morning traffic snarl.

Another winter’s day dawned cold, crisp and bright.

As this day dawns, it’s not the last, just tomorrow, and the past.  The mantra throbbed over and over inside his scrambled brain.

END