Free What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? by Alan Duff Page A

desperate ebony dudes clutching to objects to float to (fucken straws more like it), to the last of air they were gulping — some of ‘em survived — a Mississippi, a mighty muddy flow bobbing with heads enough to form something, sumpthin’ good; BIG things, better things, musical creations from all the suffering, the drowning, gasping, gurgling cries. Something to grab onto. Like those they were listening to and getting off on: something good’d come of it when here, in this place, it hadn’t, not even potential. That was the question. The (fucken) answer, too.
    Mulla gave Loopy one of his crooked, most meaningful smiles: To have or not to have. Right, Loop? Yeah, righ’, man. Righ’, Loopy outiv it now, not knowing what he was agreeing to, it coulda been someone’s death sentence. Someone put on something else; the range moved on. Mulla saw it.

SEVEN
    F UCKIT, J AKE’D HEARD enough about Monte Cassino and Germans and Kiwi soldiers dyin’ in a war — he couldn’t understand why they were involved when even he knew the closest country to New Zealand was Aussie and that was what, ’bout a thousand miles or more away, and far as he knew there’d never been any trouble with them so why’d this whole country go to war against Germany? And yet they fought in Italy and one of the old codger fullas had been a prisoner of war in Austria, and they spoke of fighting in Egypt, too, and another place Ethiopia, he was gonna go to another pub. Didn’t know where, though when he stepped out onto the street and saw it was with stars this Friday evening, and nice ’n’ warm to justify his tight-fitting teeshirt, he thought he’d try somewhere that wouldn’t be so, you know, rough.
    Wasn’t in the place long, at this table that only had one fulla at it, though the place was quite full and looked just about what he (the doctor)’d ordered, when the fulla spoke. Name’s Kohi, bud. Stuck out his hand. Jake didn’t like being called bud; and been a long time since a man’d looked atim with such smartarse confidence and got away with it. But then again he was grateful for someone, maybe — he hoped — to talk to (long as he don’t ’spect me to do all the work). They shook hands; each with but a glance at each other, though this Kohi’s glance had that ole familiar glistening linger in it; both then with eyes out at the human landscape, drinking, pretty happy-looking spread of mostly men from their corner, elbow-lean table view Jake liked a corner table when in the ole days he’d liked his own table smack middle line of the bar, and his place at it side-on so no one could come at him from behind without having to go past his vision, and he would’ve spotted a likely fool or the chance fighter trying that, would Jake The Muss; the middle line at now no more McClutchy’s, but up nearer the toilets (so I didn’t have so far to walk to have a fight). Now, he was a corner man, which was a shame because the teeshirt he had was the best fluke-fitting buy he’d ever had; his chest muscles stuck out, from being on the shovel and a man did try and keep up his daily dose of a hundred-and-fifty press-ups, missing just the odd day,and he’d always had good arms and what with the gut hardly having any fat on it, a man felt he might’ve been bedda off closer to the centre so people could see him. Ah, but then again, what if they knew? Or, rather, thought they knew.
    It did occur to him that he’d not been to many pubs, not when he stood here thinking about it seein’ as this Kohi fulla wasn’t following up on introducing himself, just a big arm leaned there on the table — he mus’ weigh seventeen stone — it occurred to him that he’d kept his pub life simple. He didn’t think of it even remotely like a fear of anything new or unfamiliar; just that a man’d stuck to who and what he knew.
    Then this Kohi’s saying to him, Spose you think I’m gonna buy you a beer — what’d you say your name was again? Jake. Oh