Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey Read Free Book Online Page B

around. We’d move to the city, make millions. For certain.”
    “We?”
    “Yeah. We.” Jasper looks down and thumbs the bottle neck. The heaviness drifts down again. I want to keep it at bay; it’s easier when he’s talking.
    “What’s your plan? When you get out, I mean.”
    “Well, I haven’t thought it all through as yet, but I’ll think of somethink. I got some irons in the fire. Footy, maybe. Who knows? Oysters up north. There’s good money in them little buggers. Or I could work on a mine, maybe; put some gold in me pockets. Learn a trade. I don’t know. Anything but a shoe-shiner. What about you? Probly the university, right?”
    I squirm a bit. Awkward. It suddenly feels disrespectful to be talking about this right now, talking about the future when Laura Wishart has just been robbed of hers. It doesn’t seem like it
matters
. But maybe this is the point. Maybe all this talk is for Jasper. Maybe it’s doing the same thing as that horrible bottle. Trying to slow our minds down, sandbag some of the panic.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve always loved reading and stuff. Books, poems. So maybe a writer. I always thought that would be the thing. To write books. Make up stories.”
    I try to couch it with an ambivalent shrug, like it’s a fleeting thought, like it’s not the single thing I’ve had my heart set on since I could first read.
    To my surprise, Jasper nods his approval.
    “Yeah. I reckon that’s you for sure, Charlie.”
    “You think?”
    “No doubt. Reckon you’d be great. Move to some big city with a typewriter. Meetin people, tellin their stories. Maybe you could write my story one day. Then we’ll make a film out of it, for certain. Imagine that.”
    And I do imagine it. Jasper makes it sound so possible and plausible,that I might leave Corrigan to be a writer. To tell tall stories for a living. Real, important literature. When the mood strikes me, I sometimes like to imagine myself as a famous author in an austere candelabralit ballroom, where I am bantering with beat poets and novelists like Harper Lee and Truman Capote.
    But Jasper Jones interrupts my musing. He’s up and lurching, huddled over like he’s been shot in the stomach. Before I can panic, he starts evicting that noxious liquid in a thick sheet that seems to almost glow. He grips the empty bottle. It smells sour, his sick. It’s bursting out of him. He locks up violently, like he’s being held and punched in the stomach by invisible assailants.
    Jasper retches and coughs, breathing heavily on his haunches. He spits and groans softly before retching again. Then he finally stands up straight.
    “I thought you said you could hold your liquor?” I ask.
    Jasper spits again, wipes his mouth, and smiles. “Yeah, I can. Just not for long.”
    He turns and stumble-steps toward the dam. Kneeling, he fills the bottle with water. He looks precarious. And he collapses back against the tree before he can drink any. The bottle spills. He’s out to it. Oblivious and gone. Maybe that’s all he wanted.
    I notice that it suddenly seems lighter in this space. First I wonder if I’ve just grown accustomed to the dark, if I’ve adapted. Then I shoot from my feet like a firecracker and shake him awake.
    “Jasper,
shit
! It’s almost dawn! We have to go back. Now! If my parents know I’ve been out, I am right in it!”
    Jasper Jones squints and slowly glances up.
    “What?” He seems to ponder it. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, Charlie. Juss a second.”
    His words are slurred. Now I really fear getting lost on our return. But not nearly as much as I fear my parents finding my bed empty. I can’t even imagine.
    “No, we’ve got to go now!”
    Jasper stands unsteadily and treads heavily. He slaps a hand on my shoulder. Looks at me, intent yet vacant. Full of sorrow. His breath is like acid.
    “Orright. Less go.”
    He pauses. And, swaying slightly, he lingers and looks up at the ghostly eucalypt. In spite of my worried