Ananda. Scott Zarcinas

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СКАЧАТЬ bums on the seats and the anxious pacing of someone walking past the classroom in the corridor outside. It sounded like Norman’s footsteps, heavy and discordant, like a clumsy elephant constantly tripping over itself. Running a chalk-covered hand through his hair, he tried to pick up from where he had left off. Only he couldn’t remember.

       Suddenly, the image of Angie floated in front of the blackboard like a vision of the Holy Mary. He remembered this morning’s incident in the bedroom, her face contorting with agony, her body doubling over as if she had been stabbed in the stomach, and it made him sick with worry. Despite her words of consolation, he knew Angie was covering something up. She said that she was fine, but she wasn’t; he had seen the alarm in her eyes flashing as brightly as lightning. For whatever reason, she was holding back. Knowing this was more terrifying than the mysterious pain itself. He reckoned he hadn’t felt so frightened since the day he saw Billie die.

       He remembered that day clearly. The sky had been blue and cloudless above Serena, another piping hot day in the summer of ‘75. Michael was playing backyard cricket with Jude, who lived two blocks around the corner and often came over to the house to play, especially during the school holidays. They were both in their swimming trunks (Jude’s red, his yellow) and their eight-year old bodies were tanned and supple. Michael was holding the bat, a new Slazenger he had just got for his birthday, and Jude was tossing and catching the tennis ball, readying himself to pitch it down. Michael knew all Jude wanted to do was hit him in the head with the tennis ball. All he wanted to do was hit the ball over the fence with his new cricket bat. That’s the way it always was that summer.

       Jude’s end was the clothesline. Michael’s end was the back wall of the house, where he was tapping the bat on the ground and waiting for Jude to deliver the ball. They were separated by no more than fifteen yards. They were also as far as they could get from his mum’s precious vegetable garden in the bottom corner of the yard. Hitting the ball into the vegetable garden was instantly out, no questions asked, followed by an immediate change of innings. Michael really wasn’t too concerned about that. He was going to hit Jude a lot further than the tomatoes and the cucumbers – he was going to hit him over the fence and out of the yard.

       Michael tapped the bat on the ground and watched his cousin. Jude had a knowing grin on his face. He was wandering near the edge of the vegetable garden at the top of his run-up, which Michael thought was ridiculously long. It was obvious Jude wanted to cause some serious harm with the ball. Michael wasn’t worried. He tapped his Slazenger on the grass again and waited.

       Jude wasted no time. He ran in and delivered the ball as hard as he could. Michael watched it hit the grass and take a nasty kick, jumping straight for his head. There was no time to take a swipe with the bat. He jerked his head backward, but the ball seemed to follow him, chasing him like a large demented wasp. It shot barely an inch past his nose and clattered into the wooden boards of the back wall. He had escaped instant humiliation by the barest of margins.

       Michael picked up the tennis ball and threw it back to Jude. After a brief flurry of words, something to the effect that Michael couldn’t hit the ball if he tried, Jude went back to the top of his run-up. Michael tapped the Slazenger on the ground, talking to himself and making sure he concentrated properly this time. The last thing he wanted was to be brained by a bouncer from Jude; he’d never hear the end of it. Jude ran in again and sent down another fast delivery, which Michael swung at and missed. The ball passed just over the top of the rubbish bin and thumped into the wall again, much to Jude’s obvious delight.

       Jude mocked him once again. Michael threw the ball back and gritted his teeth, saying nothing, hoping to wipe the cocky smile off his cousin’s face. Jude ambled to the top of his run-up for a third time, strutting with confidence. Michael wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and tapped the Slazenger on the ground, thinking that if Jude bowled another bouncer he was going to hit it so far Jude was going to get a sun burnt palate watching it pass over his head. Jude steamed in and fired down his fastest ball yet, thundering it straight for the spot between Michael’s eyes. This time Michael saw it coming, and he got into position early. He stepped back, lifting the bat high, and then connected beautifully with a perfect pull shot. He watched the ball sail in a high arc over the backyard fence and out of sight. In baseball terms, it was a homer. In backyard cricket terms, it was six-and-out. But he didn’t care; the stunned look on Jude’s face made it all worthwhile.

       Jude mumbled something Michael couldn’t quite hear and stormed over to the corrugated iron fence, pressing his eye against a rusty hole to search for the ball on the other side. The next door neighbor’s house belonged to an old man in his seventies who lived with his wife and retarded son. They had a Great Dane called Belvedere, which roamed their back garden like a sentry but was as harmless as a mouse. Sometimes he escaped by digging a hole beneath the fence and then went charging around the streets of Serena scaring the willies out of little old grannies until his owner managed to recapture him. Michael liked Belvedere. He threw biscuits and chunks of meat over the fence for him whenever he could, but for reasons he never knew, Jude always seemed wary of him.

       Over by the fence, Jude was visibly excited by something he could see through the hole. Gesticulating wildly, he shouted for Michael to come over. Michael dropped the bat and rushed over to join him, eager to see what was happening on the other side. Jude peered through the hole again, and then took his eye away from it, looking directly at Michael with an expression of utter disbelief.

       “Someth’ns wrong with Billie,” he said, hushed and afraid. Billie was what he called the Great Dane because he couldn’t quite manage to say Belvedere without tripping over his tongue. “I think he’s dyin’, Mikey.”

       Not knowing what to expect, Michael quickly peeked through another rusty hole. The midday sun had heated everything it touched like a devilish King Midas, so the act of pressing his cheek to the fence was like laying his face onto a barbeque hotplate. He ignored the pain to see what Jude was raving on about. What he saw made his skin crawl. Belvedere was lying on the ground writhing in agony, foam drooling out of his mouth like washing suds, eyes rolled back and his legs and tail and body shaking feverishly. Billie was dying, that was for sure.

       Five minutes later, Michael pulled his eye away from the hole, the skin of his right cheek and eyebrow scalding red. Billie was twitching no more. If this was death, he thought, it was horrible. He suddenly felt dizzy and he had to suppress the violent urge to vomit. His breathing was short and shallow and he desperately needed to sit down.

       Jude, on the other hand, was positively joyous. His blue eyes were gleaming and the smile on his face was as broad as the fence. He was jabbering excitedly, as if it were the best thing he had ever seen.

       Michael was suddenly furious. With every word Jude uttered, he could feel his head begin to throb. Hitting him over the head with the Slazenger would have had the same result. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, then did something he had never done before – he punched Jude flush in the face, a right hook that connected with his cousin’s jaw as well as his bat had connected with the ball. He immediately regretted what he’d done. His hand now hurt like hell.

       Michael braced himself for the expected retaliation. They were going to have their first punch up and he was not looking forward to it. To his surprise, Jude did nothing at first, just gaped in shock, then gently rubbed his jaw and glared at him. Coldness washed over his face. Michael was about to say something, maybe even apologize, but he saw something in his cousin’s eyes that was as frightening as watching the death of Belvedere – seething hatred. His voice suddenly evaporated like sweat in the midday sun.

       “You’ll regret you ever did that,” Jude said, then turned around and sulked away.

       Michael watched him disappear around the side of the house, rubbing his jaw. Later that night, Michael lay in his bed tucked beneath the faded yellow sheet, feeling quite lost, feeling quite ashamed at witnessing СКАЧАТЬ