Behind the Moon Read Online Free
Author: Hsu-Ming Teo
plateglass windows and screaming shoppers.
Greg Read was a retired naval officer who had served in Vietnam. That afternoon, he was in the Plaza’s newsagency when he heard the rapid rattle of the semiautomatic rifle. He raced out of the newsagency and a woman screamed, ‘Look out. A man’s gone berserk with a gun.’ He could see the gunman heading his way, so he ran ahead, yelling out warnings to other shoppers. He saw the gunman heading for the escalators to the car park. Greg ran outside and bounded up the external stairs to the car park to warn others there.
Inside the Plaza, the gunman killed a man at the foot of the escalators. He made his way up the escalators, then ran up the ramp to the upper rooftop level of the car park. He leaned his rifle on the concrete balustrade, trained it on the town square, and fired at the buses and trains and shops. A volley of shots shattered the windows of a taxi, the railway ticket office, and a milk bar.
By this time, Greg Read had reached the rooftop level of the car park. He saw a woman driving out of the car park and yelled at her to lie low. She looked at him. ‘It’s too late,’ she whispered. ‘He’s already behind you.’
Greg turned and saw the gunman. He dived under a car and felt a searing sting as bullets slammed into his feet.
The gunman then wrenched open the door of the station wagon and jumped into the car of the terrified woman. ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded as she drove down the ramp to the lower level of the car park. She stammered out a reply and he said, ‘I don’t want to go where you’re heading.’
She stopped the car and he looked at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered as he thrust open the car door and got out. Moments later, he turned the rifle on himself and shot himself through the head.
He had already killed seven people and wounded another six that afternoon.
Justin pushed past the turnstile and ran through the supermarket, searching aisle after aisle for Tien and Gibbo. He felt a rising tide of panic as he failed to find them anywhere. He shoved his way out of the check-out lanes and scrambled through the shopping centre, ducking in and out of shops, dodging people crouched sobbing beside the wounded and the stunned. He could barely hear the swelling police sirens for the beat of blood in his ears. It took him nearly twenty minutes to find Tien and Gibbo in the Symonds Arcade leading out of the north side of the plaza. They huddled together wordlessly, wrapping their arms around each other, rocking slowly for comfort.
‘We didn’t know what happened to you,’ Gibbo said. ‘We thought you were still waiting in the Coffee Pot.’
Tien was crying silently. He could feel her tears soaking into cool wetness on his T-shirt. She hugged him so tightly that, when at last she drew away and fumbled for a crumpled handkerchief, the medallion he wore under his T-shirt was imprinted on her cheek.
‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,’ she said. Her eyelids were swollen and the tip of her nose glistened with traces of teary mucus. She was not a girl who wept gracefully; she was ugly with fear and shock.
Justin simply looked at her and shook his head. He was overwhelmed by her concern for him. He was still sore from sex. He did not deserve her friendship. He stepped towards her and clasped her close. He felt such love for her in that moment.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. He felt like an adult, full of meaningless reassurance that his friends did not believe but took comfort from. ‘It’s okay.’
For a moment, Gibbo stood beside them uncertainly, locked out of their circle of twined arms and braided bodies. Then he too threw his arms around them.
‘Yeah, we’re all right,’ he said. And he tried not to think of those who were not.
On Saturday, 17 August 1991, Justin lost his virginity in a public toilet and, because of this, was saved from the massacre which began at the Coffee Pot, where he should have been
Greg Read was a retired naval officer who had served in Vietnam. That afternoon, he was in the Plaza’s newsagency when he heard the rapid rattle of the semiautomatic rifle. He raced out of the newsagency and a woman screamed, ‘Look out. A man’s gone berserk with a gun.’ He could see the gunman heading his way, so he ran ahead, yelling out warnings to other shoppers. He saw the gunman heading for the escalators to the car park. Greg ran outside and bounded up the external stairs to the car park to warn others there.
Inside the Plaza, the gunman killed a man at the foot of the escalators. He made his way up the escalators, then ran up the ramp to the upper rooftop level of the car park. He leaned his rifle on the concrete balustrade, trained it on the town square, and fired at the buses and trains and shops. A volley of shots shattered the windows of a taxi, the railway ticket office, and a milk bar.
By this time, Greg Read had reached the rooftop level of the car park. He saw a woman driving out of the car park and yelled at her to lie low. She looked at him. ‘It’s too late,’ she whispered. ‘He’s already behind you.’
Greg turned and saw the gunman. He dived under a car and felt a searing sting as bullets slammed into his feet.
The gunman then wrenched open the door of the station wagon and jumped into the car of the terrified woman. ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded as she drove down the ramp to the lower level of the car park. She stammered out a reply and he said, ‘I don’t want to go where you’re heading.’
She stopped the car and he looked at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered as he thrust open the car door and got out. Moments later, he turned the rifle on himself and shot himself through the head.
He had already killed seven people and wounded another six that afternoon.
Justin pushed past the turnstile and ran through the supermarket, searching aisle after aisle for Tien and Gibbo. He felt a rising tide of panic as he failed to find them anywhere. He shoved his way out of the check-out lanes and scrambled through the shopping centre, ducking in and out of shops, dodging people crouched sobbing beside the wounded and the stunned. He could barely hear the swelling police sirens for the beat of blood in his ears. It took him nearly twenty minutes to find Tien and Gibbo in the Symonds Arcade leading out of the north side of the plaza. They huddled together wordlessly, wrapping their arms around each other, rocking slowly for comfort.
‘We didn’t know what happened to you,’ Gibbo said. ‘We thought you were still waiting in the Coffee Pot.’
Tien was crying silently. He could feel her tears soaking into cool wetness on his T-shirt. She hugged him so tightly that, when at last she drew away and fumbled for a crumpled handkerchief, the medallion he wore under his T-shirt was imprinted on her cheek.
‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,’ she said. Her eyelids were swollen and the tip of her nose glistened with traces of teary mucus. She was not a girl who wept gracefully; she was ugly with fear and shock.
Justin simply looked at her and shook his head. He was overwhelmed by her concern for him. He was still sore from sex. He did not deserve her friendship. He stepped towards her and clasped her close. He felt such love for her in that moment.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. He felt like an adult, full of meaningless reassurance that his friends did not believe but took comfort from. ‘It’s okay.’
For a moment, Gibbo stood beside them uncertainly, locked out of their circle of twined arms and braided bodies. Then he too threw his arms around them.
‘Yeah, we’re all right,’ he said. And he tried not to think of those who were not.
On Saturday, 17 August 1991, Justin lost his virginity in a public toilet and, because of this, was saved from the massacre which began at the Coffee Pot, where he should have been
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