Chapter 23
THE BITTER END
CHARLIE
The Tool Shed is noticeably quieter than last Saturday night.
There’s still a steady flow of guys, but the dance floor isn’t pumping. Xander’s boycott seems to have hit us. To save money, Curtis tells Noah to go home early.
When I head out the back to ask Curtis if he wants us to start packing up, he’s in the loading dock, leaning into the window of Ahmed’s car, which is idling in the alley behind the bar.
‘… love you even when you’re a jerk, even when we fight,’ Ahmed is saying.
‘I’m sorry too, baby,’ I hear Curtis say. ‘I love you too. Get your things from Kayla and Tenille’s and I’ll see you at home.’
Ahmed blows him a kiss and drives off.
‘You guys made up, then?’ I ask.
Curtis shoves his hands in the pockets of his black leather pants, sighing heavily. ‘We did, Charlie,’ he says. ‘We never stay mad at each other too long.’
‘Happy for you,’ I say. ‘Hey, listen, if me staying with you guys isn’t a fit anymore …’
Curtis flaps his hand at me. ‘Don’t be silly, boy. I love having you with us. Ahmed does, too. He’s very fond of you. You make him laugh, and he likes having someone to fuss over. We never had kids, so it gives him a chance to dote on someone.’
‘But that thing he said, about taking in strays …’
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Curtis says. ‘Trust me, if I booted all you boys out, he’d needle me about taking in new lodgers. Don’t give it another thought.’ He puts his arm around me.
‘Why do you do it?’ I ask. ‘If I had a nice house, I wouldn’t want anyone in it.’
Curtis nestles me under his arm. He’s wearing a skintight black polo and I can see his nipple through the fabric. My cheek is inches from it. I want to bite it.
‘I just want to protect you,’ he says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Every single one of you. I’ll never forget the men who took care of me when I was young and lost in the big city. I want to do the same. Take every bullet for you. Shield every one of you.’
Curtis kisses my head a second time and I let my mouth roam over to his nipple, sucking it briefly through the fabric. He doesn’t stop me.
‘I wish you could, too,’ I tell him. I want to say I wish you knew how much it means that someone wants to save a nobody like me, but I can’t.
I look up at Curtis from his pectoral, and see his eyes are as teary as mine. He yanks me upwards in a strong, bone-crushing hug, until my mouth meets his, and he kisses me hard, with tongue, tears splashing on my cheek.
‘Sorry,’ he says, wiping his mouth. ‘That was a mistake. We shouldn’t kiss again, okay?’
‘I … didn’t start it.’
‘I know, I did,’ Curtis admits. ‘Not feeling so good tonight. I’m not perfect. Forgive me for it.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You okay?’
‘No, I’m lousy,’ Curtis says, boulder shoulders sagging.
‘Real. Freakin’. Lousy. Watching people believe lies about who you are feels like getting stabbed in the freakin’ heart.
’ He gestures to the front of the bar, where Vince is stacking empty stools.
‘If this boycott is a blip, we’ll survive it.
And if it’s not a blip, we’re gonna go under. ’
‘You could back—’
‘No, I won’t back down,’ Curtis says. ‘I created something I believe in. If it doesn’t work, I failed. But I won’t be something I’m not, just because a narcissist holds a gun to my head. I never have. I never will.’
He presses the button to close the loading dock roller shutter and flicks the light off.
Curtis lets me off early, too, leaving him and Vince to close up.
I blast Rage Against the Machine on my drive home. The damage one dude can do while thinking he’s the hero is breathtaking. I practise arguments with Xander in my head. I envision myself giving him an end-of-romcom serve in public, then throwing him out of the bar and everyone stops and claps.
When I get home, the front door is ajar.
I get a spasm of fear. Have we been broken into?
I kick the door open with my Converse and leap back, in case there’s a robber lurking on the other side, but the door hangs open harmlessly.
Then I hear the sobbing: deep, guttural.
‘Rex?’ I call, stepping inside. ‘Is that y—? Oh fuck! Oh fuck! What happened?’
The pool of blood is streaked across the dining-room floor, like a body was dragged through it. There’s a smell like someone threw bleach everywhere.
Rex is in his work gear, slumped on the sofa alone, sobbing into his bong.
‘Rex, talk to me!’ I shout. ‘What happened here? Whose blood is that?’
Rex pulls on the end of his orange hi-vis shirt like he’s trying to tear it off. ‘Something happened to Zeke,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry. I think he might die.’
My head spins, not from the blood, but knowing it belongs to Zeke. ‘Where is he?’ I demand. ‘Zeke?!’ I call down the corridor. ‘Where are you, dude?’
‘The ambulance took him,’ Rex mumbles. ‘Your mate went after him, too. Hammer.’
‘Hammer was here?’ I splutter. ‘Did they fight? What’s the blood from? Was he breathing? Conscious? Say something, Rex.’
Rex mumbles about him and Zeke double-teaming a random bottom.
Zeke spilled poppers into his mouth, fell over and hit his head.
Hammer was banging at the door, wanting to see Zeke, and Hammer called the ambulance.
The bottom high-tailed it out of there in an Uber.
Rex says the paramedics said Zeke’s heart was having trouble beating.
‘He was alive when they left,’ he assures me. ‘But unconscious.’
I grab my car keys from my pocket. ‘What hospital is he in?’
‘Charlie’s,’ Rex says. ‘They took him to Charlie’s.’
Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital – Charlie’s, to everyone who lives in Perth – is a massive, multistorey hospital with a big emergency department.
I park crappily and sprint across the dark road between the carpark and the hospital as a light rain falls.
I pull my hood up and follow the big lights of the EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT sign.
I rush into a weary queue in front of the triage nurse.
Before I’ve even progressed one spot in the line, a hand touches my arm. I turn, expecting a security guard, and instead see a tall, athletic guy with a big Mad Hueys hoodie drawn up over his head, keeping his face in shadow.
‘Hammer!’ I blurt out.
I have never hugged Hammer, but in that instant, with Zeke’s life threatened, there is something about seeing someone I know from home here in the city.
We hug.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask. ‘Is Zeke okay?’
In a much quieter voice that makes me realise I’m shouting, Hammer says, ‘Zeke’s in emergency. Maybe come outside. I’ll fill you in.’
We find a spot outside the emergency department doors, under cover from the rain but still chilled by the wind.
Hammer explains he called Zeke to talk but he wasn’t answering, so he drove over to speak to him in person.
He heard a thud and someone screaming for help, so he booted the door open to find Zeke bleeding on the floor.
He said Zeke spilled some chemical on himself – which I immediately recognise as poppers – and his heart was doing these big, hectic pounds then falling still, so Hammer called an ambulance.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Zeke’s lips were blue.
‘I followed the ambulance here,’ Hammer says. ‘They took him straight into ED.’
‘How long has he been in there? Is he alive, conscious?’
‘I asked, mate,’ Hammer says. ‘I don’t know yet. The nurse said they’re short-staffed and someone will update me as soon as they can.’
I can’t stop thinking that the last conversation I had with Zeke was not just an argument, but one where I tried to wound him as badly as I could.
I shout into the rain. No words, just pain.
‘I don’t want Zeke to die,’ I say quietly.
‘Me neither, mate,’ Hammer mutters. ‘He might be okay. We gotta hope.’
I keep having visions of a doctor coming into the ED and announcing that Zeke has died, from blood loss, or amyl overdose, or the head injury.
I light a smoke. We could be waiting minutes or hours.
‘Lucky you were there,’ I say, breathing smoke into the rain. ‘What made you come to our house? Must’ve been urgent.’
Hammer pauses a fraction of a second too long. ‘You really wanna know?’ he asks, his voice more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it. The energy between us has changed.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Hammer scuffs his shoe on the wet concrete and dislodges a pebble from the crack. ‘I wasn’t feeling so good, mate.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Wanted to end it,’ he grunts. ‘Someone’s gonna tell everyone about me. It’s over. Kept thinking about stepping straight off my balcony. I can’t take this anymore, man.’
Then my big, brawny bully wraps his arms around my midsection, head on my chest, and sobs like the little boys he used to beat up.
My shock absorbers, already fried, can’t handle this. Zeke was right. Matt was a cricketer and Hammer’s a footballer, but they’re alike in the most crucial way: their self-image can’t handle their truth.
I couldn’t save Matt.
I put my arms around Hammer and pat him on the back.
‘Hammer, I know we’ve never been mates, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ I say. ‘And for the record, I’m not the one who sent those DMs.’
A fresh sob chokes in Hammer’s throat, but he doesn’t reply.
I get this sudden rush of terror. What if words don’t help, and he does something stupid anyway?
Now I understand Curtis. Why he ran after Hammer yesterday.
Why he takes all of us stray boys in. Why he wants to protect us all.
‘At least you have some warning,’ I say.
‘I was sixteen when Alicia Stratton outed me. I had to deal with that shit, and I survived it, okay? I had no friends who had my back, nothing. You’re twenty-four. You have friends who will help you.’
‘None of my friends know about me,’ Hammer murmurs into my hoodie.
‘I meant me and Zeke, meathead.’
‘Oh.’
‘No ending things, okay?’ I say. ‘I’m done with people around me ending it. I don’t want a single guy to ever kill himself ever again if I can help it. Never do that, okay?’