Imaginary Foe Read Online Free Page A

We waited for the afternoon train to come through so that we could see the four pieces of cat become eight. An older kid, Travis, decided that it would be a good idea to hold me over the track when the train was in sight. I screamed so loudly, that it brought my father out to our front yard. He roared for me to come home, and Travis released me straight away. I ran home and Dad dragged me inside. I didn’t even have a chance to explain what had happened. He disappeared for a minute and reappeared with the strap in his hand looking as angry as hell. I didn’t think it was fair that I got strapped for being bullied. Mum said that Dad had done the right thing by strapping me, because it meant that I wouldn’t play dangerous games with older kids ever again. I know I’ll always retain an image of Dad standing in front of me holding his belt, loosening and tightening it in a rapid motion so as to produce a loud snap, his mouth fixed in a manic grin, barely concealing the generous amount of saliva bubbling away behind his teeth. It’s not a particularly endearing image to retain of a person, but what can you do?
    I return to my bedroom and start sorting through my vinyl collection. Over the years, I’ve managed to acquire a superb collection of music, which is no small feat when you live in a small country town on a long, lonely highway. Around here, you can’t just waltz into your local deli/video/music shop and expect to pick up a record that isn’t in the Top 40. I mean, who could imagine that people aren’t into shit music? Certainly not anyone who owns a shop in this town. So I’ve become an expert at ordering albums from dedicated music stores and having them delivered by post. I own every single album by The Smiths, I have the entire Cure collection and I even have rare Prince releases. The latter I keep to myself, because some people just don’t get Prince and I can never be bothered explaining.
    When I play music through my headphones and lie back in bed, I’m able to completely escape from the present. I forget that I’m fifteen, I forget about pimples, I forget about my nervous twitch, I forget that my family is crazy and I even forget about feeling guilty about nothing.
    ‘So, what’s it gonna be? What do you want to hear, buddy?’
    I turn and look at Bruce. Since Bruce appeared in my life, I’ve been able to drift along with relative ease. When there are hard situations to tackle, Bruce takes the wheel and I relax in the passenger seat. I’ve been able to do things with Bruce that I’d never have had the guts to do on my own. I owe Bruce a lot and I don’t know what I’d do without him. But, lately, he’s been showing up more and more, at times when I least expect it, and I find this unsettling. He’s demanding more of me these days too – more, perhaps, than I’m willing to give.
    Bruce made his first appearance in 1977. I was four years old. Mum had dropped me off outside my grandmother’s house so that she could go and do the shopping in peace.
    ‘Just go in, Stan. That’s a good boy. Find Nanna and tell her about your new kitten.’
    I entered a very quiet house. I remember it being very orange: a peculiar, saturated orange. It was as if my eyes were a pair of camera lenses and a photographer had placed an orange filter on them. To this day, I don’t understand why the house was so orange. I called out for Nanna, but there was no answer. I walked hesitantly into the kitchen, but she wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the dining room either.
    ‘Nanna? Nanna, where are you?’ My tiny voice was swallowed up by the orange house. I trod cautiously over the carpeted floor, careful not to make the floorboards underneath creak, and entered the lounge room. Nanna was seated on the couch. I knew straight away that she was dead.
    I knew all about death. Our dog Spot had died about a month before. I’d been spellbound by his lifeless body. He looked just the same, except he wasn’t jumping around