Candelo Read Free

scratch of a cough. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
    I want to go to the funeral
, and I could barely hear him.
I want to go to the funeral
, he said again, lifting his head now and looking straight at me.
    I did not want him to say what I knew he was going to say next. I guessed before he even spoke the words, before he even asked me if I would go with him. And I looked straight back at my brother and told him that I didn’t want to go.
    Not to Mitchell’s funeral. Not to that.

three

    I do not know how Mitchell was when they took him away.
    He may have hung his head, his long blond hair stiff with salt and falling into his eyes as they put his hands behind his back.
    He may have been silent, knowing there was no point, staring at the gravel underfoot as they walked him back up the incline towards the road, towards the waiting car. Or he may have shouted and screamed, struggled, swore at them to keep their fucking hands off him, as they pushed him into the back, slamming the door behind him.
    I do not know whether he was scared.
    There on the back seat, the vinyl sticky beneath his skin, one thin leg jiggling up and down, up and down, the slap of his heel against his thong, over and over again. Staring out the window. Nothing but the black hills and the white of the headlights as they turned back onto the road and drove away from that place.
    I have always imagined they were the last to leave the scene.
    But that may not have been how it was.
    Down by the creek bed, dry at this part, there may have been others. Wrapping chains around my mother’s car, the clank of metal on metal, the groan and grind of the truck engine and the scrape of the body against the boulders, as they hauled and heaved it up to the road.
    And in the hot stillness of that night, they might have stopped to wipe the sweat off their faces, the black grease from a singlet smeared across a forehead. In the sharp beam of the light from the truck, they might have seen how crushed the metal was and looked at each other.
    Amazing any of them survived
, one might have said, not expecting a response. Turning back to the task. Knowing they were just words, words about an accident that hadn’t really touched on their lives, that would soon be forgotten, words left to drift out in the dark closeness of that valley.
    Bloody amazing
, the policeman might also have said. Same words, somewhere else. Words that were not left to drift. Words that came down hard. Hard as the fist on the desk.
    So, what have you got to say for yourself?
And as he leant forward, waiting for an answer, expecting an answer, I can only guess how Mitchell might have responded.
    I can only guess how Mitchell might have felt.
    Because, the truth is, I never really knew him.
    The truth is, none of us did.
    It was Vi who brought Mitchell into our lives. About fifteen years ago.
    She would deny that, if we talked about him, which we don’t.
    She would say that it was a democratic process. That we all had a chance to have our say. That we took a vote.
    I always listened to you
, she says.
I always took your views into consideration
.
    And, on the surface, she did.
    Whenever there was a decision to be made, an issue that would affect us all, Vi would call a house meeting. It did not matter whether the question was large or small, Vi would put it to a vote. And somehow, the numbers always stacked in her favour.
    We discussed Mitchell three days before we were due to go on holiday.
    It is important
, Vi told us,
that we learn to share a little of what we have
, and she waved her arm in the air to indicate all that we possessed,
with others. I don’t think the three of you realise just how fortunate you are
.
    She laid a couple of badly typed sheets onto the table in front of us. I could only just make out the heading on one – ‘The Desmond Halls Placement Program’.
    It has been set up
, Vi explained,
to ease adolescents from institutions, foster homes or