“Far from Home”
Tony Malone
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 – Tony Malone
Smashwords Edition – Licence Notes
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Cover Photo – “Up in the Sky”
Copyright 2009 – Tony Malone
Dusk was closing in over Caulfield as the Pakenham line train rattled its way up to Platform 4. The dozens of scattered people waiting on the platform shifted from one foot to another, stretched and yawned, folded up newspapers, stood up from the benches on which they’d been sitting; all practicing individual routines honed by years of waiting for late trains. As the train hissed to a halt next to the platform and the doors opened, releasing students off to their evening lectures (and obviously late for them, judging by the way they sped off down the walkway), Paul and Tom entered the last of the six carriages and threw themselves down in a heap on seats facing each other, the tall Paul sprawled elegantly across the final seat of the train, the smaller figure of Tom opposite, facing both Paul and the back of the train. Paul looked at Tom. Tom looked at Paul. They looked at each other. And then they burst into convulsions of laughter. Paul’s lanky frame shuddered under the force of the sounds leaving his diaphragm while Tom’s smaller body was curled up until it almost resembled a foetal position, twisting from one side to the next, over and over. The two friends howled until they were sore, until their ribs could bear it no longer, until the only people left in their part of the carriage were an old man sleeping off a session a few rows in front and an Asian student, with headphones the size of teacups (who appeared to be oblivious to the whole situation). Eventually, after five minutes (and two stations) of non-stop laughter, the sounds died down, and the two youths became stiller, muscles still trembling from the somewhat unusual exertion. Tom looked at Paul. “I forget. What was so funny again?”
*****
The train rumbled on its way out into the outer suburbs of Melbourne, leaving Murrumbeena and winding its way towards Hughesdale. Paul stretched out over two seats, his long legs dangling out into the aisle, his head resting against the window. His jet-black skin appeared to absorb the lights shining from the roof of the train carriage, the whites of his eyes more yellow and bloodshot. He yawned, stretching his arms far above his head, almost brushing the roof of the carriage where it melded into the hard plastic wall, and blinked, once, twice, before turning to look at Tom. “I am fucking hating Law”. Tom smiled, turning his gaze from where it had been (firmly fixed on the face of an attractive Chinese girl who, having sauntered onto the train at Murrumbeena, was seated across the aisle, talking animatedly into a disturbingly small mobile phone) to look at his friend. “What’s to hate?”, he replied, “Issue, Rule, Application, Conclusion. Piece of piss.” Despite this Wildean piece of wit, Paul seemed less than convinced. “I cannot write these things,” he shouted, swinging his feet back onto the floor and waving his arms around in the air (disturbing, in the process, the private space of the Chinese girl, who, perhaps not unwisely, picked up her bag and shuffled off towards the front of the carriage), “there is no issue! If man decides that he must hit my car, I do not call my lawyer, no! I rip his arms off, I show his him hand, krax’na!”. Tom turned around, watching the departing girl with regret, and then turned back to the extremely agitated Paul’s (admittedly impressive) tantrum. “Firstly, you overgrown donkey, never, ever, get all foreign with me when there are ladies around.” He paused, collecting his thoughts (almost visibly; Tom was not the brightest of boys). “Secondly, you’re scared of spiders, so I’m not buying any of this arm tearing crap. And thirdly…”. A pause. “You’re just shit at Law”. Paul frowned, light ripples running up his dark forehead. “Friends do not speak thus”. Tom shook his head, “That’s exactly how friends speak”.
*****
The train slid languidly into Oakleigh. Doors opened and a crowd of people streamed in, quickly filling up the available seats and spilling over into the aisles of the train. Strangely enough, the two seats next to Tom’s and Paul’s stayed empty, despite the scarcity of seating opportunities and the undoubted desire of many passengers to take the weight off their weary legs. Tom looked around angrily, tempted, so it seemed, to say something, his mouth half-opening, then closing again, like a goldfish changing its mind at the last minute. Paul was not so concerned. “The thing which I like about this train is the seating. It is very spacious. I am happy to rest my legs. People!”, he shouted, raising both his hands and his booming, yet strangely feminine, voice, “People! Give thankyous to the nice people at Connex! Praise them for give us this lovely train with nice seat and lots of room for our legs!” He now rose to his feet, chanting, clapping and swaying from side to side while the passengers nearest (with the exception of a suit-clad businessman who half-watched the scene over his shoulder with a sly – or shy? – grin on his face) shuffled as far away as possible, preferring the crush of the carriage to the proximity of the tall figure lost in his own music. “Come on Tom! Give praise! Say thank you for Mr. Connex, he give us this train”. Tom watched, a smile growing on his face, until he suddenly (so suddenly that even Paul stepped back a little) leapt to his feet and began to move and sing to the rhythm of the wheels. The train pulled into Huntingdale, vast crowds of people got off the train (for the people in the last carriage, ‘fled’ would probably have been a more apt word), and the little-and-large dance troop collapsed back into their seats in hysterical laughter – again.
*****
…and then, as the train continued on its weary way out to the far-flung eastern suburbs, as alien to some Melburnians as outer space itself, Paul settled down again, gazing languidly out of the sheet of glass separating him from the harsh spring evening, fascinated by the trickles of water which had started to appear on the window and change direction on their path to the bottom, blown by the wind and diverted by the speed of the train. Tom (a longer-term resident of the Australian south-east and, therefore, less easily moved to raptures by the intrinsic beauty of Melbourne’s changeable weather) was engrossed in a copy of Mx which he’d found stuffed down the side of his seat. He flicked through the pages, barely deigning to glance at the usual stories of animals behaving unusually and footy players behaving… well, usually. One story held his attention though. An Australian, of Asian descent, had been caught in Singapore with several kilos of heroin strapped to his back – which meant only one thing…
“Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you hear about that bloke, the Aussie, Vietnamese, whatever, the one who got caught in Singapore?”
“Yes, I did.” Paul continued to look out at the rain; whether he was looking through the window at the buildings passing by or at the patterns on the glass itself was difficult to tell. “I know that he is in big trouble, but… he must know that before.” He started to tap his fingers on the window. “I feel sorry for him, but you know… if you go to a place, you should live by the rules. This is something I have learned…”.
“Where you come from, do they, I mean, do they have capital punishment, the death penalty?”.
Paul turned away from the window and looked directly at Tom, his eyes focused directly on his friend’s. For a few seconds, they sat there in silence, until Paul, turning to look at the rain once more, began to speak. “Not exactly, no. But if we do something bad, very bad, we are sent out to… how is it said… exile”. He paused, gathering his thoughts, staring out into the gathering darkness which was slowly starting to swallow the buildings outside. “Of course, for us, away from the, the… family, tribe, life is exposed, nasty.” He turned and looked at Tom, staring directly into his eyes. “Brief.”
Tom looked away, unable to meet Paul’s gaze. Understanding what had just been said. Not wanting to think about it too much. Paul turned back to his window, and Tom went back to the newspaper, mechanically scanning the pages while his mind reflected. On exile – and death.
*****
By the time the weary train discharged its equally weary load at Dandenong station (namesake of the nearby hills), the darkness had fallen completely (hiding those same hills, or, at least, what little of them could be seen from the town). Tom and Paul strolled off the train and headed for the exit, Tom swallowed up in a small group of commuters, Paul towering over them, Gulliver striding out amongst the natives. A sea (well, perhaps a small stream) of faces: black, white, brown, yellow, green (obviously not a fan of train travel). The exit reached, a hand slap given, ways parted: Paul cycles off (nervously) on his old bike, the quality of his cyclemanship matched by the decrepitude of his machine. Tom drives off (over-confidently), smoke pluming from the exhaust of his white Commodore (sighs of regret for its lost youth). The station remains, dark and looming. People leave: on foot, by bike, by car, by bus (one enterprising youth by skateboard, wheels whirring and clattering through the dark streets of Dandenong). People going home, people with good intentions of kissing babies, having showers, watching televisions (but not at the same time). Most of them. Most people have good intentions.
Driving up Stud Road, fiddling with the radio in a (vain) attempt to find something worth listening to, Tom considered his chances of beating the red light (slim) and the state of his licence (enough points to get a free pizza) and decided to pull up before the crossroads. As the harsh street lights glared down through the windscreen, while the traffic lights continued to bathe the Commodore in artificial red sunshine, a classic beep-beep interrupted the inane chatter of the criminally overpaid presenters who currently happened to be polluting the interior of the car with their lack of talent. Tom pushed two buttons: radio off, telephone on. He listened. He shouted. He swore. He did a U-turn and sped off into the night. The lights turned green, casting a sickly pallor over the (empty) road.
Paul lay on the pavement, his long limbs contorted, twitching. Next to him, his phone (new) and his bike (old). On him, his clothes (old) covered with blood (new). An outsider (new) victim to naked native aggression (very, very old). His eyes moved from side to side, flicking about, trying to focus, trying to make out shapes through the film of blood, sweat and tears (clichéd) running into his eyes. He heard the car pull up, his friend get out shouting (his friend!), he felt the shock, felt it like a gust of wind, a hurricane, pounding into his defenceless body. He sensed Tom sinking to the floor beside him. He heard the sound of the sirens. But that was all.
*****
As he sat eating his breakfast (toast and honey, Australian produced, of course), skimming the quality local and international newspapers (while secretly wishing he had the low-quality ones), the Prime Minister was interrupted (politely) by his aide. He (the Prime Minister) raised his head and looked quizzically at his aide. He (the aide) cleared his throat and said, “The Ambassador would like an audience”. And waited. Expectantly. The Prime Minister replied, brow furrowed, gaze unwavering, “The Ambassador…”.
“About the attack, sir. In Melbourne. On the student.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Yes.” Another pause. The newspapers lay forgotten, the toast discarded and cardboard.
“I realise that it is short notice…”, said the aide (not saying a whole lot more).
“Thirty minutes”, said the Prime Minister (saying more than enough).
He walked into the conference room, freshly showered, shaved and shaking on the inside (but only on the inside). As he approached, a tall, ebony-skinned man unfolded himself languidly from the (small) chair in which he had been sitting, smoothing out the wrinkles in his (expensive) suit and generally making himself look ambassadorial. Which he was. Before he could come forward to greet the Prime Minister (in the traditional way – handshake, wasn’t it?), the aide stepped forward to introduce the guest.
“Prime Minister, this is His Excellency Ma’xota Karr. The Ambassador for Mars in Australia.”
The Prime Minister introduced himself to his guest. A man of great standing. A man of great stature. A man who could cause his country a great deal of bother (to say the least).
This would be a real test of inter-cultural communication…
*****