Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘I think that’s what she called it. She said the best thing to do when somebody picks on you is nothing.’
    â€˜Somebody should tell Watson,’ I suggest.
    â€˜Hunter didn’t know what to do,’ says Kate.
    â€˜Yeah, but …’ I don’t want to say the obvious.
    â€˜But what?’
    â€˜If I was here alone, just boy against boy, Hunter would have been swinging my backpack, not Watson’s,’ I say.
    Kate shakes her head. ‘You’ll never know until you try it.’
    I giggle. ‘You mean I should offer myself to Hunter? To pick on?’
    Kate punches my arm lightly again. ‘We have the power, Jesse.’
    I rub my arm. ‘No. I have old-man tennis shoes.’ We both look down. ‘And Hunter has the muscles,’ I add.
    Kate just smiles and taps a finger to the side of her head as if to say brains beat brawn.

8
    HUNTER
    On the long walk home, Hunter stops at the intersection of Ficus and Burnley Streets. He looks east along Ficus Street to where Saint Stephen’s Church is surrounded by a stone wall and flowering shrubs. That’s where his parents got married. His mum told him it was a perfect summer’s day and they took photos under a wattle tree in bloom.
    And then the wasps flew down from the tree and stung the bridesmaids, the groom, the best man and most of the wedding party. Everyone except the bride and the photographer. The wedding album at home is packed with photos of people slapping themselves. The reception was held at the local conference centre and instead of passing around glasses of champagne, they shared ointment for the bites. Everyone was red and blotchy, except Hunter’s mum. His father had swollen lips for days, Mum said. He could barely speak and they couldn’t kiss. Hunter liked that story.
    The old man on the scooter from the park pulls up alongside Hunter. He reaches into his pocket for a box of matches to light his pipe and cups one hand around the flame. He puffs and Hunter smells the acrid smoke. Hunter waits for him to move on, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the scooter looking down the street.
    â€˜I used to walk to the shops every day,’ the old man says, more to himself than Hunter. ‘Now I drive this contraption, like an invalid.’ Hunter notices the shopping in the basket: pasta, tinned sauce, a bottle of milk and dog food.
    â€˜What sort of dog do you have?’ Hunter asks.
    The old man laughs. ‘One that doesn’t yap all night. One that knows when to sit at my feet and,’ the old man takes a puff, ‘when to leave me alone.’ He reaches into the shopping basket and holds up the tin of dog food. ‘Deefer doesn’t need much.’ He drops the tin back in the basket. ‘We both eat out of tins.’
    â€˜Deefer? What sort of name is that?’ Hunter says.
    â€˜D for dog. Deefer,’ chuckles the old man. ‘Something easy to remember.’ He taps one finger against his temple. ‘In case I start losing my marbles as well as my mobility.’
    â€˜Where’s your wife?’ Hunter asks.
    The old man looks sharply at Hunter. He studies his pipe for a few seconds before answering, ‘She’s passed on’. He holds up the pipe. ‘They say this thing will kill me.’ He scoffs. ‘It’s the heart that kills us in the end. One way or another.’ The old man coughs into his handkerchief. ‘All the same, laddie, I wouldn’t be taking it up if I were you. The smell scares away the ladies!’ He reaches down and taps the smouldering contents out onto the grass. ‘Step on that for me, will you?’
    Hunter walks around the scooter and presses the ash into the grass with his shoe.
    â€˜Was I interrupting something,’ the old man says, ‘back there in the park?’
    Hunter shakes his head.
    They both stare down Ficus Street. The wind suddenly picks up from the east. Storm clouds