to rev him up and launch him into the chase but the dog returns soon after not even a little puffed out – and what’s worse, not showing the least bit of remorse, the dumb dog stands around watching them, Dad says: Give yourself a pat on the back, mate, for trying, Sunshine … which is a bit over the top. Hiding his tears with his elbow, Abel grabs a fishing rod to have another go at this farce but the bloody fish won’t cooperate even with the whimpering boy; even back home would be better, Abel could at least silently face off Mary’s anger, justified as it was for not sharing Dad with her … Finally night, they sleep in the two tents, Dad on his own and Abel with John who talks and farts in his dreams, but young Abel can’t sleep anyhow, even if John slumbered like a non-farting angel, because before Dad clicks off his torch, he gives his son one long apologetic look, and both manage to just hold back tears. When Abel finally goes to sleep he chants in his head the usual mantra he’s repeated silently every night since that travesty of a wedding: Mum is right, it’s all my fault. It’s up to me to set things straight. I must return life to what it was before I wagged school that bloody day just because I was a little bit sick.
Bouncing around on the playfield, from jet bumper to turbo bumper to mushroom pumper to drop targets, kickers, slingshots, ramps and saucers, the scoring reels on the pinball machine’s back glass kick over rapidly racking up time; it takes two years after that bungled camping trip before a chance to rebalance their lives falls into Abel’s lap … He plays with his monster yellow dump-truck on top of the stairs when the upstairs toilet is blocked. A heavy, impressive vehicle, over half a metre long and almost as high, and Mum is pleased: Gosh, you haven’t played with that old truck in years … the rare praise wafts over Abel’s shoulder with no place to land, as Abel, on his knees, pushes the truck up and down the upstairs passageway, outside the toilet, alongside the bedrooms, making loud truck noises when it stops and starts at the imaginary traffic lights. Mary and Rose – under Mary’s leadership estranged from him after he’d defected to the enemy – watch their brother’s regression with suspicion, evaluating his crystal-hard eyes – the mood scares them … but old Abel in the car hums through the thick blanket of steam, short gasps of anticipation: that old yellow monster truck is leading Abel towards Roma, back arched, concentrating on the playfield, humming her childhood refrain: Pull the pin, hear the ping, silver ball bounce and ding … but at this stage it’s still many pinnie bounces away from young Abel, as the truck has a prior mission cast in solenoid pings, in this old house, with old toilets, and an absent plumber with replacement parts a week away, so every afternoon after school, Abel plays with his large yellow vehicle along the same route on top of the stairs – one way, then the other – his sisters leaning out from their shared bedroom, staring silently, Mary’s lip sneering; their traitorous brother can never restore balance to their out-of-kilter life. Then when the ball hits the right bumper, Bernie gets up in the middle of the night to use the downstairs toilet – as he does every night at least twice – Abel is waiting behind the linen cupboard, and silently launches the big yellow monster on its kamikaze mission along the top of the stairs, and dopey, hung-over Bernie trips over and tumbles head-first down the long, curvy stairs without a smidgen of his horsey laugh.
The thinly-veiled white nurse hovers over Abel as he lies back in the steamy car, reliving Bernie’s tumble and fall, her silent, irksome stare is asking as always, Have you given a full account of yourself? As Abel squirms, angry that he can’t recognise her, she begins squeezing pressure and release on his hands; the 3D vision is unavoidable – pasted onto Abel’s forehead – thumping bumping Bernie plummeting down the stairs. But he finds no residue in his psyche – this playfield is only so big and his chest has been scorched so long with the twisted relic of the melted wheelchair and the two gaping skeletons, there’s no space left for Bernie’s cathartic tumble. The white nurse nods and pushes him towards the pinball machine that has only the one supreme mission: to lead Abel to Dame Gypsy-of-the-Romani, Roma donning her cape of blue and green with the large red spoke wheel in the middle … a cape-wrapped bundle of laughing and teasing, long whipped jet-black hair. Abel does denial every day – dislodging the sound of Bernie’s tumbling thump – as he does every time he crosses eye-beams with Mum – her eyes all accusation – silent blasts that cut him up and bleed him for days, even his own returning silent eye-volley of: I just rectified what I fucked up in the first place doesn’t placate Mum at all … going to the cops would be less traumatic … on top of that – even worse – not only does Dad not come back to live with them, he never again takes Abel camping, and Mum starts inviting boyfriends to sleep over, punishing Abel with yet more silent missiles: It’s your fault … you made me a widow slut … Yet, strangely, Abel becomes thankful for his mother’s stabs, the only snippet of her familiar personality … this new Mum stranger in her loud, short skirts and lurid tops smells sickly sweet as though dunked in perfume, a much closer and much harsher health hazard than Granny Annie’s plates of sugar. Mum shimmies inside her clothes as though a bead is lodged between her breasts and she intends on shaking it all the way down to fall out of her dress on the floor, provoking her man friend to comment: When you move like that, baby, I want to throw you down and ram my dick inside your cheeky cunt, and Mum knows Abel loiters outside the barely closed lounge-room door, like she wants him to hear the result of his actions: There you go, Abel, this is what you made … The loitering has become a game of one-upmanship. Abel sneaks past in full view, Mum revs up her shimmying, Abel bounces on the trampoline and at the height of each bounce locks eyes with Mum, Mum’s eyes alternate between boyfriend’s face and bouncing son’s head, a cynical smile rising on her face, her first-born can do nothing to alter the situation he has created. Meow … meow … meow … Abel summons long-dead Ginger’s ghost, confident Mum can read his lips. But the victory is marred because on this particular occasion, his sisters have followed him and heard Mum’s boyfriend, and since Rose and Mary are now old enough to understand about dicks and cunts, silent tears spring to Rose’s eyes and Mary’s daggers stab at Abel: You did that, you turned our mother into a whore … Abel shrugs off Mary’s accusations and engulfs Rose with his arms to protect the grown-up squirrel, and all three kids silently retreat from the gaping lounge-room door, escaping to the safety of Abel’s room, even Mary – who hasn’t been in there for years, since the camping desertion – the girls sit on the edge of the bed, their eyes all a-panic, so that there is no way that Abel can go out with his mates as planned and leave his sisters on their own, sunken-face Rose is liable to self-harm much worse than just a scratched face, and Mary will blame him again … Abel jerks his head come on and Rose is slow to respond but Mary jumps up all a-smile. On their way back to the lounge room the three kids let loose an avalanche of noises to telegraph their presence to Mum and boyfriend; We’re going out, Abel announces and Mum gives a genuine smile, Abel is finally including his two sisters in his outside activities, plus she can take her latest boyfriend up on his offer … Old Abel watching the screen feels every forceful push as the grown boy dips down on his bike’s pedals, the girls following behind on their bikes, the three kids heading to Abel’s best mate’s house, where two guys sit smoking on the house’s front step, dumbstruck to see the three bike-riding Marvin entourage: The wanker brought his sisters? … Both Abels can read their surprise … They’re cool, Mum went out, couldn’t leave them at home on their own … Abel lights up as well, as the two mates shuffle and mooch around – these girls are old enough to be home on their own, old enough to do a lot more than that, Rose is a grown-up squirrel but Mary is now more of a fox – but then the mates decide to accept the package deal, his best mate puts it behind him and announces: Oldies went to the pub in Mum’s car. They won’t be back for hours. I know where Dad’s keys to the V8 are hidden …
The two mates sit in the front, Rose and Mary sit in the back with Abel next to them, contemplating the seatbelts (he’s never been in a car with back seatbelts), after a moment’s hesitation Abel grumbles to the girls: Put your seatbelts on, the sisters exchange a glance, decide not to push their luck, then click the belts into place … The kids drive to a burger joint, pool their money and stock up on burgers, chips and shakes, then drive to an empty parking lot, turn up the radio, open all four doors and tuck in, the boys drinking stolen warm beer from home and flicking cigarette ash out the open doors, and the girls gorging on flavoured milk. In the men’s world of the empty factory complex the boys miss their usual