don’t understand.
I’ve got to see her. If that’s what I am — a murderer — I need to know what happened. What made me do something like that.
I fetch the phone book from the front room. My fingers are shaking as I page through. There’s only one Gupta with anaddress in Kingsleigh. 8 River Terrace. I find it on the town map. It’s halfway between our housing development and the factory, near where the road bridge crosses the river. I fix a route in my head, and as I do so, I can see it, see the paths, and alleys, and roads. I’ve been there before — and now I remember: following Rob, standing in the street, watching the house, the silhouettes in the window … and the burning jealousy smoldering inside me.
“True what they say about these Indian birds, little brother. They know some tricks, they do. Stands to reason. That’s where The Karma Sutra came from, isn’t it?”
A memory of Neisha’s face — her deep brown eyes, her full lips — comes back to me. Suddenly I know there was a time when I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She was there as I chugged down the beer, there when I went upstairs, there when I lay on my bed, unzipped, and put my hand inside my pants.
The feelings are all here inside me. He pushed me out. He didn’t need me anymore. And I was jealous of him, and he liked it. He taunted me. And I wanted her, and it was never going to happen, because he was there. He was always there. Older, bigger, tougher.
Behind me, the dripping of the tap in the bathroom sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
This is stupid. It’s just water, for Chrissake.
I jump up and stride into the bathroom. I wrench the tap around until it won’t go any farther.
“Just stop it, okay? Stop it!” I say out loud.
“You all right up there?” Mum calls up from the front room.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m going out.”
I start down the stairs. She’s waiting in the hallway.
“Where you going?”
“Out. Some fresh air.”
“Don’t go, Carl. It’s going to be dark soon.”
She’s holding a can of lager in one hand. The other hand is by her mouth and she’s gnawing at the edge of her fingernail. The skin’s red and sore. She looks up at me and I realize, with a pang, that she doesn’t want to be alone.
“I won’t be gone for long, Mum. I just gotta see someone.”
She shrugs.
“I’ll be back soon, promise.”
I open the front door, pull my hood over my head, and set off down the road, away from the rec. I keep my eyes down, I only need to see far enough ahead to avoid the dog shit and the puddles. The hood muffles the noise of the housing development, and as I duck into an alleyway, all I can hear is my own breathing and the thudding of my heart.
I don’t see the three lads in my path till it’s too late. Not till I come face to boozy face with them.
They’re older and bigger than I am, wearing new tracksuits and Nikes. Side by side, arms folded, feet planted squarely, blocking the path.
I don’t recognize them, but it’s obvious they know me … and they don’t like me.
The alleyway is narrow, with high wooden fences. There’s just room for two people to pass without going in the mess of nettles and brambles and rubbish on either side. I’ve got no chance.
I look behind me, but that’s my second mistake — I should have piled in with my fists straightaway or just run, run back the other way as fast as I could. Now I’m shoved sideways, squashed into a spiky bush. Razor-sharp thorns tear at my clothes and skin, pulling my hood away from my face. The air’s been knocked out of me and I’m struggling for breath. Panicking.
One of the guys, an ugly dude with half his hair shaved off, is pushing my chest farther back. “On your own? Ha-ha, dumb question. Hey, at least one of you’s dead. Saves us half the trouble.”
I think I might be able to knee him in the nuts, take him out, but there are the other two. Three against one is never going to end
I’ve got to see her. If that’s what I am — a murderer — I need to know what happened. What made me do something like that.
I fetch the phone book from the front room. My fingers are shaking as I page through. There’s only one Gupta with anaddress in Kingsleigh. 8 River Terrace. I find it on the town map. It’s halfway between our housing development and the factory, near where the road bridge crosses the river. I fix a route in my head, and as I do so, I can see it, see the paths, and alleys, and roads. I’ve been there before — and now I remember: following Rob, standing in the street, watching the house, the silhouettes in the window … and the burning jealousy smoldering inside me.
“True what they say about these Indian birds, little brother. They know some tricks, they do. Stands to reason. That’s where The Karma Sutra came from, isn’t it?”
A memory of Neisha’s face — her deep brown eyes, her full lips — comes back to me. Suddenly I know there was a time when I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She was there as I chugged down the beer, there when I went upstairs, there when I lay on my bed, unzipped, and put my hand inside my pants.
The feelings are all here inside me. He pushed me out. He didn’t need me anymore. And I was jealous of him, and he liked it. He taunted me. And I wanted her, and it was never going to happen, because he was there. He was always there. Older, bigger, tougher.
Behind me, the dripping of the tap in the bathroom sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
This is stupid. It’s just water, for Chrissake.
I jump up and stride into the bathroom. I wrench the tap around until it won’t go any farther.
“Just stop it, okay? Stop it!” I say out loud.
“You all right up there?” Mum calls up from the front room.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m going out.”
I start down the stairs. She’s waiting in the hallway.
“Where you going?”
“Out. Some fresh air.”
“Don’t go, Carl. It’s going to be dark soon.”
She’s holding a can of lager in one hand. The other hand is by her mouth and she’s gnawing at the edge of her fingernail. The skin’s red and sore. She looks up at me and I realize, with a pang, that she doesn’t want to be alone.
“I won’t be gone for long, Mum. I just gotta see someone.”
She shrugs.
“I’ll be back soon, promise.”
I open the front door, pull my hood over my head, and set off down the road, away from the rec. I keep my eyes down, I only need to see far enough ahead to avoid the dog shit and the puddles. The hood muffles the noise of the housing development, and as I duck into an alleyway, all I can hear is my own breathing and the thudding of my heart.
I don’t see the three lads in my path till it’s too late. Not till I come face to boozy face with them.
They’re older and bigger than I am, wearing new tracksuits and Nikes. Side by side, arms folded, feet planted squarely, blocking the path.
I don’t recognize them, but it’s obvious they know me … and they don’t like me.
The alleyway is narrow, with high wooden fences. There’s just room for two people to pass without going in the mess of nettles and brambles and rubbish on either side. I’ve got no chance.
I look behind me, but that’s my second mistake — I should have piled in with my fists straightaway or just run, run back the other way as fast as I could. Now I’m shoved sideways, squashed into a spiky bush. Razor-sharp thorns tear at my clothes and skin, pulling my hood away from my face. The air’s been knocked out of me and I’m struggling for breath. Panicking.
One of the guys, an ugly dude with half his hair shaved off, is pushing my chest farther back. “On your own? Ha-ha, dumb question. Hey, at least one of you’s dead. Saves us half the trouble.”
I think I might be able to knee him in the nuts, take him out, but there are the other two. Three against one is never going to end
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