Poritahi
consisted of a melting pot of Housing New Zealand tenants, middle-class
mortgagees, and comfortable homeowners, with the latter two groups occupying
most of the area. Mangle Street was the
road situating the hive of the community: the dairy, bakery, Laundromat, park,
and the local primary school. This
advantageous stretch of land, however, was dominated by ‘Housing’
residents. The ‘Mangle Mob’, as they had
christened themselves by spraying each other with cans of fizzy drinks, were a
pack of Housing kids ranging from seven to twelve-year-olds. They were a fruit salad of imaginative,
boisterous, and colourful kids.
When
whaea Anahera died, three white vans with cleaners, painters, and gardeners came
and went throughout three weeks to erase fifty-six years of her existence in
preparation for new tenants. One week
after that, a big blue and yellow moving truck arrived and unloaded furnishings
that looked nothing like whaea Anahera’s worn, but homely furniture.
That was the day the Thompsons moved into Mangle Street. Pudgy, with greasy dark hair and crooked
teeth, eleven-year-old Billy Thompson was an only child.
At
first, the Mangle Mob readily invited the new boy to join them in their
childhood adventures. But the
invitations declined to wariness when Akinyi raced and beat Billy across the
monkey bars. Akinyi laughed in her
victory, teasing, “Sissy boy! Sissy boy!” Billy dropped to the ground, and yanked Akinyi
by her dangling legs from the jungle gym onto the grass. Billy then dragged her kicking and yelling to
the nearby ditch and tossed Akinyi rolling into the dirty creek, leaving a
litter of broken and crying kids who had tried to rescue Akinyi in his wake.
The
Mangle Mob’s wariness towards Billy turned into fear when Nassir rebuffed Billy’s
command to hand over his last packet of fire-crackers during Guy Fawkes. Billy took revenge by aiming a mini sky-rocket
at him. Even Nassir’s athletic agility
couldn’t outrun or side-step a sky-rocket and the missile struck him square on
his bum. Nassir’s parents rushed their
son to the hospital where the staff treated and bandaged his left
butt-cheek. Nassir made himself ill a
few days later due to his refusal to do a number two, because the thought of
accidentally wiping shit on his bandage was too “freaking gross” for him to
bear.
Fear
turned into hatred the day Billy coerced gentle Jack into letting him play with
Jack’s prized fire engine. Jack had been
engrossed with his toy on the footpath in front of his house that morning and
didn’t see Billy walking towards him. Jack
had received the bright red gift from his father two years earlier, before his
newly-sober mum sent his dad “on a holiday” from which he never returned.
“Don’t
worry, I’ll be careful with it,” said Billy, poker-faced.
With
shaking hands, Jack held out the pristine fire engine to him.
“Please,
don’t wreck it, Billy,” pleaded Jack. “My
dad gave it to me. He said a man of the
house needed a man’s toy.”
Billy’s
expression suddenly darkened, and before Jack could stop him, Billy snatched
the truck from Jack’s hands, smashed it against the concrete and threw it down
a nearby street drain. Jack screamed, staring
in anguished horror at all that was left of his father near his feet - an extendable
miniature white ladder snapped in two.
Late that afternoon, ten-year-old Song and her
parents arrived back to Poritahi from visiting relatives. Song grinned remembering the fun she had at
her cousins’ place as she skipped to the park to seek out more merriment. She hadn’t gotten far when mischievous Sione
and Nassir came hurdling over Mr Tanner’s hedge, almost knocking her to the
ground.
“Ow! Sheez guys, watch it!”
“Sorry
Song,” said Sione. “Have you seen that dick,
Billy?”
“Nah. Why, what’s he done this time?”
Sione
and Nassir relayed what happened between Billy and Jack. Gentle Jack who was the baby of the mob and
wouldn’t hurt a moth. Song knew how
protective the mob were over Jack.
Song
gasped. “I just got back from my
cousins’ house, so I haven’t seen him.”
“Jack’s mum blasted Billy’s
parents, but Billy’s run off,” said Sione.
“The mob’s looking for him so we can smash him.”
“You
wanna come help us look for him?” asked Nassir.
Song felt sad. Of all the Housing kids, she was the most
sensitive. She was the one who cried the
hardest when Billy had hurt her friends.
She cried when her parents had chaperoned the Mangle Mob to the movies,
and Bambi’s mother was shot by the bad hunter, for Chrissake. The thought of poor Jack...and they all knew
what that fire engine meant to him.
Sione
rolled his eyes when he saw Song tearing up.
“It’s okay, Song, you go home,” he said, “we’ll get him and pay him
back.”
Song
nodded wordlessly. She turned to walk
back towards home as the boys took off in the opposite direction. Her desire for adventure at the park had
evaporated.
Lost in her thoughts, Song looked
up and was surprised to see she was in front of the Thompson’s house. She thought of finding a stone to throw at
one of the front windows, but decided against it. It wouldn’t be worth the hiding she’d get if
she was found out. Song was about to
continue towards home when she heard a faint tinkling coming from the other
side of Billy’s fence. Quietly, she opened
the gate and crept forward, following the sound along the wooden slats under
the house. She stopped near the front
left corner when she heard murmuring.
Song crouched to squint between the cracks.
There in the dusky space under his
house was Billy Thompson. Spread on the
dirt floor was a round tablecloth patterned with bright red and yellow
flowers. Arranged in a semi-circle
around the dim light of a silver torch, were: a doll’s cradle; a small table
upon which sat two china cups with matching saucers and a ceramic teapot; and
an old wooden highchair with flaking green paint.
Song
swallowed the gasp that almost escaped her throat. Through the slits, she saw the same grubby,
heavy fingers that had punched Sione’s eye black, daintily raise a delicate cup
to an exquisite porcelain doll’s pursed, ruby lips. The doll had
shoulder-length brown ringlets that bulged from underneath a crimson bonnet
with white frilly trimming; the accessory matched the bulky silk dress.
“Drink carefully now,” Billy said
softly, “so you don’t burn your tongue.”
Billy
gently tilted the cup to the rosy-cheeked doll’s bow-shaped mouth. The doll responded with a blank stare from
big brown pupils that suffocated the white parts of the eyes.
Song
was enthralled with the expression on Billy’s face. Devotion.
“Hey Song, wadaya lookin at? Is it Billy?
Is he there?”
Startled, Song yelped as she fell
onto her backside. She heard the
shattering of china and the shuffling of feet – then silence.
Akinyi and Tessa were walking
towards the Thompson’s gate.
Song heard a sound that sent chills
down her spine. It was a soft whimpering
that reminded her of the time she and her parents had watched as the SPCA
arrived at a previous neighbour’s house to take their injured mutt. Her dad had rang the SPCA after they witnessed
the owner beat the creature with a two-by-four plank. The dog keened as it was carried gently by
the animal helpers to the SPCA van. Blood
trickled from its mouth.
Song sprung to her feet and hurried
away from the sound, towards Akinyi and Tessa.
“N-nah, n-nothing here,” she
stammered.
Song avoided looking Akinyi in the
eye by dusting off the seat of her pants.
She didn’t like lying to Akinyi.
One time at school, Akinyi had given one of the rich boys a beating when
he had made Song cry by teasing her about her “scruddy, poor people’s
clothes”. She was Song’s best friend
after Elsa, who had been her next door neighbour since kindergarten, but was
away in Hamilton visiting her grandparents.
Far, where the hell is the egg?”
said Akinyi through gritted teeth.
Changing the subject, Song
half-heartedly growled, “Sheez, you guys scared the undies off of me.”
Akinyi laughed, “Sorry.”
“We should try looking around the
bridge again,” said Tessa. “He likes
throwing stones at people from there.”
Tessa had been a victim of Billy’s
bridge stone-throwing. Twice.
“I’ve gotta go home,” replied Song,
“sorry.”
Akinyi smiled, seemingly knowingly,
at her friend.
“Okay, see ya later,” said
Akinyi. She turned to Tessa, “We’ll go
check the bridge then, aye?”
Tessa nodded, then turned to Song, “See
ya, Song.”
“Bye guys,” answered Song.
Song watched her friends walk around
the corner, then she swivelled around and stood there, watching the Thompson’s
home. No movement or sound came from
underneath the house. With a sigh, Song shut
the gate behind her and started off home.
She wished she had stayed the night
at her cousins’ place.
Winner of the '2016 Cooney Insurance Short Story Competition' as part of the 'Cambridge Autumn Festival'
