Golden Boys by Sonya Hartnett Page B

Declan and Bastian wheel the BMX from the shed, feels the uncoiling of something dragonlike in his chest, something he must bite against to keep from flapping, screaming, into the sky. Then Rex claps his hand to Avery’s thigh and gives the boy’s leg a shake. ‘Next time we’ll let it air for a while, all right? You can spend a few hours in the playroom letting the air get to it. In the meantime, no bike-riding or fighting or poking around in drains.’
    â€˜But that leaves nothing,’ says Freya.
    Avery tests the swing of his leg within its plaster scaffold. ‘Thank you,’ he says.
    â€˜You are free to go, sir.’ And Avery gets to his feet, but because Rex is gathering the first-aid equipment and the space between the bench and the crouching man is narrow, he bumps Rex’s crown with his hip. ‘Oof,’ says Rex, and reels dramatically. And Colt actually feels nauseous, his entire body drenched by sickness.
    The sky has grizzled over, but it’s still scarcely dark; the full moon is as soft and circled as a drop of milk. Avery hobbles across the yard to where Declan and Bastian are tooling around with the bike, and from the deck they watch him go. The earth from the pool excavation has been piled near the fence, and Rex tells Freya, ‘I thought the boys could use that dirt to build a jump for the bike.’ And although it’s something innocent enough, every nerve in Colt’s body tightens impossibly more. He needs, with a feeling close to franticness, for his father to
cease
. He cannot have this in his life, this rangy figure with its helping hands. It’s like living with a tiger, something powerful that doesn’t care if you die. ‘Sit,’ Rex invites Freya. ‘No formalities in this house.’
    She chooses a bench that hasn’t been splashed with water, and Rex, having packed up the kit, takes the bench opposite her. Colt, leaning against the railing, stays where he is. They watch Declan riding round the garden on the new bike, weaving it expertly between the trees. Bastian is running beside him, laughing in ringing bursts, trying either to catch the bike or to avoid it – Colt doubts that even his brother knows which. ‘So where were you Kileys headed this evening?’ his father asks the girl.
    Freya’s hands are twined in front of her. ‘Nowhere. We were just getting away from the house.’
    Rex tips his head to Bastian and his squealing. ‘Too noisy?’
    â€˜No.’ She smiles. ‘It’s always noisy at our house. It wasn’t because of that.’ She looks at the table, scratches a fingernail against the wood. ‘Sometimes, my dad . . .’ She pauses, glancing aside, but she wants to say it, Colt sees. She doesn’t want to be cowardly or ashamed. ‘Sometimes he drinks a lot.’
    He’d have thought his father would make some dismissive reply, but instead Rex says, ‘Ah. Some men do.’
    She scratches the table, lifts her shoulders and lets them fall. ‘I don’t know why he does.’
    â€˜There are probably all sorts of reasons. But none of them would have anything to do with you.’
    Freya nods, looks over the yard to her brother; she has a pleasant but plain face, as if not much more than the minimum effort has gone into her. She says, ‘Some nights he tells Declan to get to bed, even when it’s not late – when it’s hardly even dark. He never says it to Marigold or Dorrie, even though they’re little. He only says it to Declan.’
    Colt, at the railing, watches his father think about this. He has never known Rex to drink too much, so his idea of drunkenness comes from movies in which men stagger along rainy streets singing, beaming goofy smiles. Occasionally cartoon characters guzzle from a keg and slam down on their faces, always wearing that same goofy smile. But Freya’s face is darkening, a small snarl