Soliloquy for one dead
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by James Phelan
Download the complete article PDF
James Phelan's biography and other articles by this writer
That they were both named Nigel is a distant memory, flotsam fading away. For now, it's the smells of barbecues and cut grass that blow their way, the adventure that lies ahead. These two friends, Jim and Joe, leave their homes and chores behind to ride through evening streets. The sun, still strong, heats their backs as they joke and laugh and weave. Kids are ganging, playing cricket and hopscotch down lanes and dodging cars. Teenagers fix Fords and Holdens kerbside, INXS's new anthem blazing.
Down Church Street the pair meet up with the Yarra, the wind up their tail as a group launches stones at them. They whoop and fang along the riverbank, taking their worn track in the couch grass as if they were late for the time of their lives. Matching haircuts flow blond, skin tanned from the long summer, smiles flash white.
Shorts and t-shirts on the ground, Joe unties a book from his bike and shows his friend.
"Treasure Island," Joe says. "You read it?"
"Not like that, just one with pictures. Dad read it to me, couple of years ago," Jim says.
"Take it in turns to read the chapters?" Joe flicks through the old hard cover as he speaks, appraising the time ahead.
"Sure." Jim pats his mate on the arm and walks nearer the edge. He's prone, ready to pounce. "But first, we fly!"
Joe hides the book amongst their clothes and pushes the bikes into a tangle of banksia.
"Ready, Joe?"
Joe stands to, crouches like a sprinter.
"Ready, Jim."
They run full pelt and leap into the sky, leaving the Earth for a while.
Splash! They drop like cannonballs, entering the water from the heavens.
Jim paddles to the black wattle root he always uses to haul himself out, not at home in the liquid like his mate. He looks up the sheer face of Notts Point, beaming at his – their – courage. Another few jumps and they'll have to find a higher place to fly from. He straightens his jocks and turns around. Scoops up clay to throw at Joe.
Jim scans, eyes darting, up and down, left to right. Eyes widen. Smiles. Joe swims underwater, bobbing up where Jim least expects it. Almost on the other side once, where the sad peppercorn dips into the water.
Several heartbeats pass. Jim's hand is still raised, ready to piff the clay. He's wishing he had his shanghai, but glad he didn't bring it down – he'd lost his change on their first jump, a couple of weeks ago, having stuffed it down his jocks. The week's paper round money, gone. The river was like that, taking things, never to return from that muck that went forever down.
His arm shakes, tired, raised above his head, slung back and ready to fire. The smile remains. Movement – he launches. Fish. Should bring their rods next time; no one fishes here, the fish'd be real dumb.
He stands, unarmed, and feels suddenly alone.
"Joe? Joe!"
He squints to see through the peppercorn's curtain, squats to peep under.
"Come on, dickhead!" he says, kicking his foot through the water. The ripples eddy out, expanding fast, breaking at a snag in its curve.
"Joe?"
Jim slips into the warm brown water that envelops his body, a womb. There's no riverbed here, at least not one a ten-year-old can reach, and he wades to the snag that continues to break the ripples of his entry. His breath holds, he looks, taking it in. Pale. Soft. Skin. A finger, just breaching the surface. Jim sputters. In five years all he'd known was laughs with Joe. A heat rushes up his neck and flares in his jocks.
Jim pulls at his mate's hand. Tugs. Thrashes about with the effort. "C'mon!" He moves closer, can feel his submerged friend against his body, still. His feet find ground and he stands on something hard, smooth, metallic. Foreign. He tugs at an arm, puts his head under and gets some leverage. He sees Joe in a car – almost sitting in the back seat. Bent through the shattered window. It's dark down there but the image of the familiar illuminates. Forever.