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‘RUN, MARGIE!’ I yell back. Dad grabs me just before I open the flyscreen door. The neighbours never helped when I was a kid, but this isn’t fucking Bendigo. ‘HELP ME!’ I scream out onto the street. ‘CALL THE COPS!’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Dad bellows as he drags me back down the hallway. The nails in the old floorboards cut against my shins. I kick and scream, making as much noise as I possibly can to wake up the quiet neighbourhood.
In the scuffle, Margie’s disappeared—she’s probably run out the back door and out the back gate. Good. She’s out.
But suddenly Dad buckles. He cries out. I turn. Margie has the iron poker from the fireplace and she’s thumping it against his back, a deranged look on her face.
Dad rears up as if the beating doesn’t even hurt. I try to get between them, but he shoves Margie hard, and she falls against the wall. The poker clatters to the ground. I lunge to grab it, but I’m too slow. Dad kicks it across the room.
Sirens. I hear sirens outside now, and I think they’re getting closer. On the floor, Margie clutches her shoulder, pain evident on her face.
Dad grabs the knife as I scramble to my feet. I watch him warily, waiting for him to lunge. He glances over his shoulder at the backyard, to the gate beyond it, and for a moment, I think he’s going to bolt.
No.
He’s not allowed to get away, not this time.
I’m sick of living in fear; sick of thinking I’m crazy every time I feel something’s not quite right.
I see the red and blue lights flash outside as a police car pulls up. Dad drops the knife and bolts towards the back door. I lunge towards him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pulling him to the ground.
His boot sinks into my side as he tries to get away, but my rage makes me stronger than him. Somehow, I keep him pinned to the ground as the front door opens.
‘POLICE!’
‘Help!’ I call out. ‘Down here!’
I let Dad go just as a female officer steps into the room. She’s got her taser drawn. ‘Hands up now!’ she demands.
I rise to my knees, putting my hands up. Dad’s heaving as he rolls onto his side, showing his bloodied hands.
‘It’s fine. He’s my son. We were having a disagreement, that’s all,’ Dad says. More sirens sound in the distance. ‘It got out of hand.’
‘Get on your knees.’
Dad laughs a little, like it’s all a big joke. Just a misunderstanding. But the officer’s face doesn’t crack.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ the officer says. ‘Get on your knees. Hands behind your back.’
Dad gives me one final look of absolute hatred before he lets out a long, laboured sigh and does as he’s told. The police swarm.
34
Gabriel
6–4, 5–7, 4–3 . . .
I’m cramping.
6–4, 5–7, 4–6.
The set ends. Auer’s leading two sets to one, having clawed his way back from a game down in the third. I’m cramping up badly. The muscles in my knee and calf spasm as I sit down at my bench. As I chug a mouthful of electrolyte water, I check the strapping on my knee and then return to the court.
I haven’t looked at my player’s box since the start of the second set. If I look, and Noah’s not there, I’m going to spiral. If I don’t look, there’s every chance hecouldbe there. Schrödinger’s Noah.
It’s almost ten o’clock at night and Auer and I are both dripping with sweat. Somewhere between the second and third sets, the southerly sea breeze dropped and ever since, the arena’s felt like a hotpot, and I’m a piece of meat cooking in my own juices.
Auer glares at me from over the net as he raises the ball to serve. I soften my knees, preparing to lunge.
