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At night the Prayer Tree becomes my shrine. I spend most of my time searching the carvings on the trunk while the rest of the world is dead silent, sinister phantoms seemingly absent from their sleeping dreams. Unlike mine. I look for anything. Links, I’d call them. There are phrases that sound like song lyrics and the biblical references are there and as I shine my torch on every single carving, I come across another piece of the puzzle. I find the names. Narnie. Jude. Fitz. Webb. Tate.
All scattered but there. Like they exist, not just in Ha
Chapter 12
Over the weekend Ben gets word through Raffaela that the Townies and Cadets want to meet at the scout hall in town. It’s about the last thing I want to do but these days I can’t give Richard any more of an excuse to take over and I certainly don’t want to be at home.
I don’t talk much on the walk there. Ben keeps on stealing glances at me, about to say something a few times and then changing his mind before finally giving in.
“Rough week?”
I shrug.
“Raffy’s worried that the Townies and Cadets will have more to bargain with,” he says.
“I don’t think Raffaela has much faith in me.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” he says, serious for a change.
“I don’t think anyone in my House does.”
He grabs my arm gently and stops me from walking any farther. “Don’t say that. Because I know it’s not true.”
“You weren’t there this week, Ben,” I say quietly.
“No, but they told me stuff and all I remember hearing was concern in their voices. And I remember something else. Hanging out with you and Raffy in year seven, skating around that Evangelical church car park. All those Christians were praising the Lord at the top of their voices and you stopped for a moment and asked us, ‘Who do you believe in?’ I wanted to be all mystical and Mr. Miyagi-like from The Karate Kid. Do you remember what Raffy said?”
But we reach the scout hall and I see Raffaela waiting there for us.
“People like Raffy don’t lose faith,” he says quietly as we walk in.
Santangelo and the Mullet Brothers, who are clutching guitars, are sitting on the stage and then Jonah Griggs enters with his second-in-command, Anson Choi, and we all sit down at a trestle table.
“You guys don’t seem happy,” Santangelo says.
“It was a long walk. We need some of those trails,” I say.
“I’ve got a proposition, so can we begin?” Santangelo asks.
“It would be smart of you,” Griggs tells him. “Because out of everyone here you’ve got the least to offer.”
There’s a silence between them and I know that at any minute there will be a full-on brawl.
“Wouldn’t you say that letting any of you walk down our streets on weekends is a great deal to offer?” Santangelo threatens icily.
“You can’t control that. Too many of us belong here,” Raffaela says.
“You haven’t belonged here for years.” He sneers.
“What are you implying?” Raffaela asks, and I see hurt there as well as anger.
“Accusing, not implying. Would you like me to point out the difference?” he asks.
“He beats me in one spelling bee and now he’s Mr. Intellectual,” she says, looking at me as if I’m really going to get involved in this ridiculous exchange. “In second grade,” she continues. “Get over it, Chaz!”
“Are we finished?” Griggs asks politely. “Because we’d like to get into a discussion about having access to at least one of the water ways.”
I look at him, shaking my head. “No chance. It’d be like cutting off our hands.”
“Then learn to live without your hands.”
“No, because then we won’t be able to do this,” Ben says, giving him the finger. Jonah Griggs calls him a little bastard and almost leaps across the table and everyone’s either pulling both of them back or swearing or threatening.
“Let’s talk about the Club House!” Santangelo says forcefully.
“Then talk!”
“I don’t want to talk about the Club House,” Griggs says. “We want water access. That’s what we’re here for.”
Santangelo is shaking his head. “You know what you are? You are a—”
“What? Say it!”
They are both on their feet now, fists clenched and it’s on for young and old. Yet again.
“Santangelo!” I yell above it all. “The proposition. Now. Or we walk and we are not coming back. Ever.”
It takes him a moment to calm down and I point to the chair.
“No interruptions,” he says, sitting down. He stares at Raffaela and I turn to her and put my finger to my lips. She takes a deep breath and nods, as if it’s the most difficult thing she’ll ever have to do. Anson Choi gets Jonah Griggs back into his chair and it’s semi-calm again.
“Okay. Seniors only and that means year eleven. We open three nights a week, hours eleven thirty to two A.M. Cover charge five dollars. No more than a hundred people per night. For each of those nights, one of us is in charge so that means organising entertainment, food, alcohol, et cetera.”
“Alcohol is an issue,” I say. “First, how do we get hold of it, and second, what happens when some moron gets plastered, breaks his neck trying to get back into dorms and Houses or…tents, or drives back to town under the influence? The teachers will be on us like flies and we’ll get stuck inside forever.”
“She’s got a point.” This from Jonah Griggs. “Anyway, Cadets signed a contract saying no drugs or alcohol while we’re out here. If we get caught, it’s zero tolerance expulsion.”
“Where’s the fun?” Ben asks.
“It’s not as if we have to give up alcohol, Ben,” Raffaela says. “We never had it in the first place.”
“But if we’re going to socialise and there’s going to be live music….”
“Hold on, hold on. What live music?” Santangelo asks.
“As if there isn’t,” one of the Mullet Brothers argues. “We’ve got a band…kind of.”
“What you have is not a band. It’s two guitarists,” Santangelo says to them.
The Mullet Brothers are offended beyond words, staring at Santangelo as if he has betrayed them, and without even having to consult each other they turn and walk away towards the stage in a huff.
“Let’s get back to the plan and work out the lack of entertainment later,” Jonah Griggs says. “We might contemplate sharing the Club House, but it’s them that control most of the space around it.”
Then they’re all looking at me. “Seventy foreigners on our land three nights a week? That’s a lot to agree to.”
“Plus access to the river,” Jonah Griggs persists.
On the stage the Mullet Brothers are rehearsing and the amps are so loud we can hardly hear ourselves.
“I want to know one thing,” I say. “What’s in this for me? For us?” I say, pointing to Ben, hoping he likes the fact that I’m using his line. Except Ben is too wrapped up in what’s happening on stage.