We rode on towards the General Cemetery, and – shit – Biddy took the turn into Richardson too quickly, rattled on her – fuck – Lekker, slipped forwards from the – shit – saddle, her crotch on the – Jesus – frame, her knees nearly on the ground, drew her bike to a halt with – fuck – with – Christ – her exposed toes.
‘Fuck.’ I drew up next to her. ‘Fuck. Biddy.’
‘Ow.’ She lifted herself, got off the bike, sat on the pavement.
I got off mine, threw it down, pulled the Lekker up onto the –
Biddy’s toes. Her fucking toes.
‘I thought I was going to come off. My heart’s beating so fast.’
‘Mine too. Shit, Biddy, look at your feet.’
No blood, not yet, but scraped-down nails, flayed keratin. Fuck, I was going to spew.
‘I don’t know what happened. Ow.’
A hug – hug her, Chris. I sat next to her, arm round her shoulders, squeezed, her fucking toenails, rubbed her arm, her back, felt woozy. ‘That could have been a lot worse.’
Red dots peeping, seeping through the torn white flesh. ‘Yeah, I know.’
I got up, crouched, examined her bike – the chain was buckled into the gear cog, misshapen. ‘I can fix this.’
‘Really? You’re so good at this kind of thing.’
‘Yeah, well.’
She always knew what to say. I was a man. A man! I laid her steed on the nature strip, felt for its heartbeat, patted. Hush there, now, I just need you to hold still. That’s it, just relax. I’m just going to get my hand, hang on, down here and – you’ll probably feel a little tugging sensation, and … Sorry, and, yes – there, now, there, there … ‘There you go.’ I lifted it up and onto its wheels.
More blood, not heaps, but …
‘My hero.’
I shrugged, looked away. I was Biddy’s hero. Her hero, everybody!
‘We should go to the chemist,’ I said. ‘Get some antiseptic.’
‘Yeah, maybe afterwards. They’re probably there already.’
* * *
Nora and Chris hadn’t arrived yet.
We’d forgotten to take the cloth from Biddy’s kitchen, wiped Aidan’s headstone with one of my socks. I shoved the other into my pocket.
A sleepy concrete angel sat with her legs dangling over the polished granite surface so that Aidan would never be alone. Like me – I was never alone.
Aidan James Honig
Beloved son of Nora and Christopher. Much-loved brother of Brigit.
Below that, in gold cursive: Autumn leaves, hands reaching from the fire. I’m ready to burn now, tumble home.
‘Aidan wrote that,’ Biddy said, nodding. She took the sock from me, spat, rubbed.
I stood, pulled the other sock from my pocket, spat on it. One of my favourite poems from my teenage emo years, by Emily Brontë:
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
Biddy’s bent knees, her bare legs, torn tootsies, her arms, her …
‘Aidan would have loved you,’ she said.