The Five Gates of Hell by Rupert Thomson Page B

what’s your old man do?’
    He’d be expecting millionaire or something. Mention Blenheim, that’s what people always thought.
    â€˜He doesn’t do anything,’ Nathan said.
    Tip pinched his nose between finger and thumb, flicked his hand at the wall, and then sniffed. ‘What d’you mean, he doesn’t do anything?’
    â€˜He doesn’t do anything. He can’t. He’s disabled.’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    Tip looked at the ground, then he looked at Nathan again, sidelong. ‘What kind of disabled?’
    Tip was trying to look casual, but Nathan could see he was curious. An old man who was screwed up, that was credentials. It was like that plastic grown-ups had. Amex, Visa, Mastercard. It said something about you, it got you into places.
    â€˜He’s only sort of got about half of each lung,’ Nathan said, ‘and he’s had most of his ribs cut out.’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Yeah, and he’s got an orange disc in his car. Means he can park anywhere.’
    Tip nodded. ‘Cool.’
    Nathan almost pinched his nose between finger and thumb, as Tip had done, but he thought he might get it wrong. He just sniffed instead. ‘What’s your old man do?’
    â€˜He doesn’t do anything either.’
    â€˜How come?’ Nathan said. ‘Not disabled, is he?’
    This would probably have started a fight if he’d said it a week ago. Now it drew a slack grin out of Tip. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He used to work in the docks. Got laid off a couple of months back.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ Nathan chipped at a weed with his shoe. He hoped it looked sort of sympathetic.
    â€˜Yeah, well.’ Tip stared off in the direction of the football field. ‘I got to be going. See you around.’
    The next week, after training, Tip asked him if he wanted to go eat. He hesitated. The nights he went swimming, Dad always waited till he got home and then they ate supper together. But he couldn’t say that to Tip, it wouldn’t make any sense, so he just nodded.
    â€˜There’s a pizza joint in the neighbourhood,’ Tip said. ‘We could walk.’
    â€˜Sure.’ Nathan had never had pizza before. Dad didn’t approve of it.
    They didn’t talk much on the way. Just the ticking of Nathan’swheels and a flat ring every time Tip swung his damp towel at a streetlamp. The place Tip knew was a biker’s hang-out called Pete’s Pizza. They sat on stools by the window and watched the bikes rip past the open doorway. The street seemed lit by the flare of a match, and it was loud with cars and screaming. Tip ordered two medium Cokes and a nine-inch Tex-Mex Special, with extra pepperoni. It was like a foreign language, a foreign country. And yet Nathan couldn’t help stealing glances at the clock. And every time he looked he could picture exactly what Dad would be doing. Seven-thirty: Dad would be sitting down to supper. Seven-forty-five: Dad would be biting his cornflakes up one hundred times. Eight: Dad would be swallowing his pills. Nathan slid his eyes in Tip’s direction. Swollen eyelids, grey lips. Hair that lay flush against his skull like animal pelt. Dad would be worried sick.
    Tip caught him looking. ‘You got to be somewhere?’
    Nathan shook his head. ‘No.’ He took a bite of pizza and spoke through it. ‘This pizza’s good.’
    Tip nodded. He ate like he swam. He was halfway through his third slice before Nathan had even finished his first, and he was talking too – about his old man who was always on the drink these days, about the swimming trophies they were going to win, about the gang he was in.
    â€˜The Womb Boys,’ he said. ‘You heard of us?’
    Nathan hadn’t.
    â€˜Blenheim.’ Tip put scorn into the name. ‘Might as well live on the moon.’ He explained that Vasco made the rules. Vasco was their