Boys Will Be Boys

It was not apparent to anyone when he was born, that Peter was different. And if you had asked his mother, she would have probably denied it. Some children are just more of a handful. That was all. He crawled at about the same age as other children. He walked at the same stage. He learned to talk, just like the other neighborhood children. And he followed his older brother around, just like the other younger siblings of the neighborhood. So you could say that he was just like all the others, the ten or twelve kids who lived between the water tower and the corner store.
So what was it that was different? What made you aware, when you were around him, that he did not really fit in? It was hard for me to put my finger on it. But there was something about the way he held himself in. There was something about his eyes. Not their colour. They were merely a sort of cloudy grey green. But it was the way he looked at you. And looked at you. Never looking away. As though he was unaware of the hidden protocols that meant that you did not keep looking at someone to the point that they had become aware of it and were uncomfortable. And there was a sort of undercurrent to his body language. It was as though he was internally raging one day, and quietly coldly calculating the next.
When Peter had started at school this undercurrent of instability had begun to disturb his teachers. But still his mother seemed not to notice that Peter was having social difficulties that her older son did not have. As the lady-next-door, with a son the same age as Peter, I had had quite a bit to do with him by this stage. He would come over to spend time with Billy, or Billy would be at his place, most of the time. I wanted to discourage the relationship, but I had no confidence in my judgment of Peter. I thought that I was just being silly. After all, Peter was only a small boy. And as each day the kids got older, they were still just small fry.
My Billy was a quiet boy. Shy. Maybe he was a little bit slow. I don't know. It's hard for a mother to judge such things. And Bert, Billy's dad, would simply brush away any reservations I had about Billy's intellectual capacity. Doing well at school was not something that ran in Bert's family. But they had all managed to get on well enough in life. Make their way. Support themselves. Bert was a religious man, and he would point out that God made everyone different. Billy would find talents of some kind or other. For Bert it was just a matter of time. Maybe he would be good at sport. Or art. Or music. Or maybe he was destined to be one of the world's ordinary people. There was nothing really wrong with that. Most people are just ordinary in most ways.
Bert never seemed to notice Peter's peculiarities. And if I pointed them out, he would laugh at me, tell me that I was being oversensitive. "Boys are a different kettle of fish", he would say, " and you, coming from a family full of girls, really have no idea." Then he would chuckle to himself. "Hell, in your family, even the dog was a girl!"
So, after a while I kept my reservations to myself. After all, there was nothing concrete, nothing that I could really put my finger on, that made Peter an unsuitable friend for Billy. With time, I even began to get used to that general feeling of unease that I had around Peter. I started to think that it was really something to do with me, not with Peter himself. And the difficulties that Peter was experiencing at school seemed to have settled down to the point that his teachers were apparently getting used to that dull feeling of unease as well.
Oprah ran a couple of programmes on ADD, or ADHD. I was never sure which was which and what was what. But I came away from these programmes wondering if this was what was wrong with Peter. Today Tonight ran a segment on autism, and I wondered whether this might be what was wrong with Peter. A Current Affair talked about hyperactivity and food allergies. Did this fit Peter? I tried to broach the subject with Peter's mum, but she remained determinedly oblivious, if not a little hostile. She turned things around. Billy was slow, maybe he was autistic. Or dyslexic. I hastened to let the conversation slide. No point in getting the hackles up on someone who not only lived next to you, but had given every impression in the past that she would be a formidable enemy.
Bert had been sending Billy to the local Baptist Sunday school since he was about six. Billy loved these Sunday expeditions as he was allowed to walk to the church hall with the older neighbourhood boys. And he would return after his hour at the church hall full of little stories. Noah and the Ark. Daniel in the Lion's den. The Garden of Eden. And for hours every Sunday afternoon Billy would sing the little songs. All things bright and beautiful. Build on the rock. This last one done with accompanying hand movements. Often Peter would come over and listen to the stories, and sing along with the songs. Billy liked this scenario, as it gave him the chance to be a leader, rather than the follower that he usually was. And Peter seemed to enjoy the stories too. Bert reckoned that the experience was shaping the boys souls. But I was a bit less enthusiastic. Billy's stories seemed to be really indiscriminate, depending wholly on what had been going on that Sunday morning. Peter, on the other hand, showed a decided preference for the stories about Jesus. Especially the story of the cross, and the events leading up to the crucifixion. Billy could never get the long and complicated story right, but Peter would listen intently, his grey green eyes focused without blinking on Billy as he related his latest version of the ever changing story. When Billy would get to a bit of the story that he had forgotten or muddled up, Peter would angrily growl at him. More than once I saw him threaten Billy, but I admit I never actually saw him hit Billy, although I'm sure he did.
Peter never actually went to the Sunday school himself. His father, a loud blustery little man that drank too much and yelled too much, did not have time for church. Or church people for that matter. And he kept his family well and truly in line. I never saw or heard Peter's mum defy her husband, although there were a few noisy rows next door when Peter unwisely asked if he could go to Sunday school with Billy. I think after a while Peter figured out that he could hang around outside the Sunday school and listen to the singing without his dad knowing. So that was what he did. And he extracted information from Billy on a Sunday afternoon. He used to often say to Billy that he wanted to be like Jesus.
Time drifted by as time does when you are busy with family and friends, but there were some odd moments over the next few years concerning the boys. They disturbed me enough to have made them stick in my mind. When the boys were about nine there was an incident when they put a neighbourhood cat into my dryer while I was out doing the shopping. But that turned out more or less OK. The cat survived. And it had been a wet day, so it was probably just boys being boys (and trying to do the right thing). When they were about ten Billy became fascinated by fireworks and so Peter helped him build a bunger cannon. But when they hit Mr Pocock's dog with one of their missiles Bert stepped in and closed the fireworks-cannon factory down. There were one or two other things. Pulling a wing off a blowfly or two to watch it fly around in circles. But that did not really work, so boys being boys they soon abandoned that one. I can't remember but there were lots of boy type things they got up to. Nothing sinister, you understand. Just boy things. Or that was what Bert reckoned. And he was the expert on boys. Me, I came from a family of girls. Bert used to remind me often that I knew nothing about boys.
It was when the boys were eleven that things came to a head. It was a Tuesday morning, and Billy was refusing to get out of bed and get ready for school. Bert was yelling at him as usual. The door bell rang. Then immediately rang again. I left it to Bert to answer. I was busy, after all, getting breakfast. I could hear the sound of strong male voices at the door. A few minutes passed and then Bert came into the kitchen followed by two uniformed police. They were big guys. Not that young. A bad sign. Not young junior coppers, but the guys they saved up for more serious matters. I wondered if someone in the family might have been injured, or killed.
Bert went silently out of the room.
"Do you know where your son was last night, Mrs Hughes?" asked the fatter cop, the one with the sergeant stripes on his jacket.
The question was so unexpected that my mouth dropped open. My brain whirred. What was this about? Billy? What could Billy have possibly been up to? It was probably that Peter again, leading Billy up the garden path, somehow. Better to say as little as possible. When in doubt never answer a copper's question. Ask one yourself. That's what Bert always said. So I did. I asked in as meek a voice as I could muster, "So what's this all about then? Has Billy been up to something?"
"That's what we're here to find out, Mrs Hughes. So maybe you should tell us if you know where Billy was last night."
I had no idea where Billy had been the night before. Doubtless out doing something or other with Peter. But what? Fortunately I was saved from having to make up something that could get me into trouble later, as at this point Bert returned with the half dressed Billy in tow. He had on only his underwear and his school shirt. I felt instantly sorry for him. Protective of him. He was just a kid, and a pretty slow one at that. Dressed in only underwear, how could he hold his own against these experienced officers?
The sergeant got out his notebook and headed up his page with the date, time etc.
"Do you know anything about what happened to Peter Brown last night?" asked the sergeant as Billy shuffled into a kitchen chair on the far side of the room.
"He said he wanted to be like Jesus," said Billy.
"So what did he do that was like Jesus?" asked the sergeant.
"I made him a hat out of blackberry bushes. You know. Like the crown of thorns."
I looked at Billy's hands for the first time and saw that they were all scratched up as though he had had to fight his way out of a bramble patch.
"And did he put on the crown you made?" asked the sergeant, making notes all the while.
"Yes. He said he wanted to be like Jesus. Jesus had a crown of thorns. If Peter wanted to be like Jesus he had to put on the crown the way Jesus did. I told him he had to put it on. He couldn't be like Jesus unless he put it on. So he did"
"And did Peter put on the crown, or did you do it?" asked the sergeant, probing for more information.
"Hold on a minute," said Bert interrupting. "I think you better explain what's going on before Billy answers any more questions. Maybe he should get a lawyer or something. You haven't really said what you think Billy has been up to. And so far it seems to me just some sort of 'boys will be boys' kind of thing."
"Look here Mr Hughes, as far as we understand, Billy's eleven. We don't usually charge kids that young with anything. They're not usually considered legally responsible. So we're just making enquiries at this stage. However, if you feel that Billy needs a lawyer, we can take him down to the station, and that can be arranged."
Billy was in his underwear. Bert looked a bit intimidated by the sergeant's response. And you could see the indecision in his eyes. Bert being Bert, whenever he did not know what to do he would let things slide, and trust that God would take care of everything in the right way for him. So he backed off and the questioning resumed.
I was wondering where all this might be going. Peter had been going around for years saying he wanted to be like Jesus. Had he finally decided to put words into actions? My unease about the boy rose once more to the surface. Had Peter's peculiarities gotten Billy into trouble at last? Whatever it was that had happened, there was no doubt in my mind who would have been to blame. Peter! He was always to blame.
"Did Peter put on the crown?" asked the fat sergeant for the third time.
"Yes," said Billy.
"Then what happened?" asked the sergeant. His companion, the silent copper, moved across the room and sat down in a chair not far from Billy. Billy drew his feet up under himself on the chair, making himself look small, weak and helpless. I moved slowly, trying to appear casual, as I placed myself between Mr Silent Cop and my son. I wasn't going to let them intimidate my boy! Billy looked across at me. I stood next to him and held out my hand. He took it, smiling up into my face.
"Then what happened?" there was a little impatience in the sergeant's voice.
"Well," said Billy, "Jesus was beaten. Lots of times. Peter said that he wanted to be like Jesus. Peter told me to hit him. So I did. I'm not much good at counting, so Peter counted out. My arm was getting tired and I wanted to stop, but Peter yelled at me. I stopped when he said the magic word."
"What did you hit him with?"
"I didn't really know what it was in the bible that they hit Jesus with. But Peter figured it was probably some kind of stick. So I hit him with a stick. Not a really big one. Just a medium sized stick."
"And did Peter let you hit him? Did he complain? Cry? Anything?"
Billy thought for a moment before answering. "At first he yelled at me to hit harder. I didn't really want to hit him, so I was just doing it softly. So I kept hitting harder until he stopped yelling at me. Then he lay down on the ground and was quiet. So I reckoned he was happy now that he was being like Jesus. Like he wanted to be. Once he said 'forty', that was the magic word and I stopped. Then I helped him get up. He would have to go now and carry a cross around. He had even made a cross out of two big bits of wood. But he wouldn't get up and carry it. So we skipped that part of the story and went straight on to the next bit. I dragged the cross around him for a little while, like the guy who carried the cross for Jesus."
At this point I stopped looking at Billy. I wanted to pull my hand away from him. Show that I was no longer in support of what he had done. I looked across the room at Bert and saw that he was frowning, angry. This would have been a terrible blasphemy to him. Even the sergeant looked disapproving. And Mr Silent Cop was frowning, his head bowed.
"Go on boy," said Bert, "finish the story." There was a deep guttural growl to Bert's voice that made Billy's hand tremble in mine. I pulled my hand away and placed it protectively on his shoulder. You could almost taste the hostility to Billy in the room. I reckoned I needed to shield him from it somehow.
There was a pause. It seemed to last for a long time, but it was probably only for a moment. Time has a funny way of messing with your head when there is a crisis.
"Well," said Billy, "Peter and I put the cross up against a tree, so that it would stay upright."
Oh God, I thought, now he is going to say that he nailed Peter's hands and feet to the cross. I wanted to put my hands over my ears so that I would not hear this. I forced myself to leave my hand on Billy's shoulder. I could see Bert almost wincing with pain at what we anticipated would be the next part of the story.
"We had been practicing nailing those big long nails into the cross, but I could never manage to hit any of the nails on their heads. So Peter said that it would be alright instead if I just tied him up on the cross with rope. I'm good at knots, you know. Or at least the granny knot that Mum taught me how to tie."
You could hear the sighs of relief from all the adults present. I squeezed Billy's shoulder. It could have been so much worse.
"How did you get Peter up onto the cross?" asked the sergeant.
"Oh, that was easy. We had a couple of plastic chairs. Peter stood on one and I stood on the other while I tied the ropes around his arms and legs."
"Then what did you do?"
"I said the 'Our Father' prayer and came home and went to bed."
"So where is Peter now? Where is the cross? Where did all this happen?"
"Calvary Hill of course. At the back of the Catholic church. You know. Up beyond the cemetery."
The sergeant hastily put away his notebook and without a further word he and Mr Silent Cop were up and out of there on their way to Calvary Hill.
I heard later that they found Peter still standing on the chair, his arms and legs tied to the homemade cross.
On Wednesday morning the paper ran a lurid headline stating that a local boy had been crucified by a second local boy. At least the boys were not actually named. But there was a front page picture of the homemade cross on Calvary Hill. By this time Peter was back at home, having been checked out by the local hospital and found only to be suffering from slight exposure, with a few bruises from the beating and some scratches from the blackberry vines. Billy had been sternly told not to have anything more to do with Peter. It was quickly apparent that Peter had been given orders to the same effect.
Bert and I hoped that the matter would soon die down of its own accord. But by Thursday, everyone at the boys school knew who had been involved. Then the whole thing took on a life of its own. No-one had any idea of what had actually happened. The truth would lie hidden away in the sergeants note book. And because they were juveniles the coppers would not give out any information, although the local paper sent a reporter to the station to get more of the prurient details. Of course, when there were none, he made up a few for himself. His story suggested that Billy was some sort of sadist.
Peter basked in the glory of being a victim. His teachers, who up to this time had had little sympathy for him, now bent over backwards to help him. The boys classmates were encouraged to rally around him. Some even brought him toys from home. One family invited Peter, his brother and their parents to a Saturday afternoon BBQ. They were not popular in the neighbourhood, and no-one had ever done that before. These had been our friends. Peter got his wish. He was loved. Like Jesus.
Billy on the other hand was at first ostracised by the other children. But soon this had turned to name calling and bullying, as Billy was tormented for being a sadist and a vicious criminal. His teachers did not even try to hide the contempt they now felt towards him. Even the mothers in the tuckshop called him names and refused to serve him. After a few days of this torment Billy refused any more to go to school. Oh! And I should mention that me and Bert copped a pile of abuse from the neighbourhood any time we stuck our heads out the front door. And Mrs Next Door, Peter's mum, well she cornered me when I was hanging out the washing, and yelling abuse, informed me that they were going to sue us, take us for every penny we had, because we were such rotten parents. It was our fault! I just laughed. Told her you can't get blood out of a stone! That shut her up.
On Sunday Billy went to Sunday school. But the Sunday school teacher ordered him to leave. He told Billy he was an agent of the devil. Billy came home in tears.
On Monday morning this young slip of a girl turned up at the front door. She said she was from Child Welfare. The police had passed on information about Billy. Could she come in. I looked her up and down. Too young to have kids of her own. Too well dressed to have anything in common with anyone in our neighbourhood. Some private school kid who had done a uni course and now thought that she could sort out problems in the real world. No! She could stand on the doorstep. She asked to see Billy. I told her to get lost!
When Bert got home from work on Monday evening I told him what had happened. We talked for a long time about what we could do. I was all for leaving. Our stuff was pretty crappy anyway, so I figured we could just get up and go, and leave it all behind. Start again somewhere new. Everyone on TV kept saying that there were lots of jobs in W.A. And W.A jobs paid really well. Bert did not want to leave. He still had confidence that his God would sort things out soon enough. After all, Billy had only been doing what Peter had told him to do.
So we went through another week. I sent Billy back to school. But he was beaten up by a gang of half a dozen kids. I had to take him to the hospital. He had a bruised spleen and one of his kidneys was damaged by some kid kicking him as he lay helpless on the ground. That was the end of that school for Billy. I was hassled at the supermarket, and the checkout chick refused to serve me. Kids passed by the house and threw rocks. Two front windows were broken. The Child Welfare girl returned with a young constable. I told her we would make an appointment and go to her office for an interview the next week.
Then I begged Bert to let us move. He relented. I packed as much as we could fit into Bert's ute and in the middle of the night we threw everything that I had packed into the ute and the three of us drove away. Heading for Perth.
We made a new life for ourselves in Perth. Billy started at a new school. One where no-one knew the story of Peter. But Billy was never the same. He was afraid to make friends. He never laughed and had fun the way he had before. He stopped singing. And instead of going to Sunday school the way he had before, he took to reading the bible up in his room with the door shut. Billy was not much of a reader, so I must admit I wondered how much he could be getting out of these solitary bible sessions. But he persisted. Bert said give him time. He would forget about Peter and the "episode", soon enough. Bert never actually could bring himself to talk about what had happened. I think it offended him, right down deep in his soul. So his way of dealing with things was to make more of an effort himself to go to church every Sunday, and get involved with church charity work. He was not at home very much, always out and about doing his good works. I can't say that he was actually making atonement for what Billy had done, but I did wonder, more than once. And there was no longer the closeness that had been between Bert and his son. It was as though the "episode" had created a huge gulf, which Bert seemed to have no way of bridging. Perhaps he did not want to. And as for me, well, I missed my friends and the old neighbourhood. I never could take to Perth the way I had to living between the water tower and the corner store. And I never actually managed to find a corner store. Or that sense of community we had left behind. I guess I was lonely. Thinking back, I was probably depressed. Bert was hardly ever there. Billy and I did not really talk much either. I did not know how to help him get over what had happened, so I just kind of left it all alone. Maybe I hoped that Bert was right, that time would take care of things.
Over the next two or three years Billy was a sad and solitary figure. I do not remember him ever bringing friends home, or even doing anything much after school except spending time in his room. Dr Phil of TV fame reckoned that this was not unusual for boys Billy's age, so I ignored it all. He would grow out of it. The Women's Weekly confirmed that his moods were just a normal phase for junior teens. It was hard enough to get myself through the day. Frankly I did not want to confront Billy over something that might turn out to be nothing at all. Then one day, a day that had nothing special to mark it out as being any different from any of the days that had gone before, Billy hung himself from the tree in the middle of the back yard. I came back from the shops to find him swinging lifeless in the breeze. He had pinned a note to his chest. It was written in his strange large lettered print. It said "Peter was Jesus. I am Judas." I removed the note before the police and ambulance arrived. And I burned it. I did not want Bert to see it. Bad enough that our son was dead. Bad enough that he had killed himself. A mortal sin. The note would have been too much.
And what, you may ask, what happened to Peter? I heard on the news quite a few years later that someone named Peter Brown had been killed in action in Afghanistan. I don't know that it was him. It's a very common name. But I hope it was. I hate to think that my boy is dead, and he has gone on to live a full and happy life. I prefer to think that he died a violent death in a war zone. If God cared at all for justice, the dead soldier would be the Peter. And he would not be allowed to rest in peace.