A bruise fading, another one fresh. The school bell, the oval glare, a notebook folded tight. A Libyan jet downed in Sinai, Whitlam shaking Nixon’s hand in Washington, children fainting in classrooms not built for forty degrees. Christian writes one line, buries another, and finds someone who sees.
The rest of 1973 will unfold here over the coming months. If you want the whole story now, you can buy the book today.
For extra context, you will find below two brief companions to this chapter, a guide to the Australian details and a history note on the headlines of January 1973.
⚠️ This work contains domestic and family violence, coercive control, and a child’s fear; please read with care and step away if needed. ❤️Reader Care
The uniform felt tighter than it had last year. Christian stood in front of the hallway mirror, fingers fussing with the collar. The buttons sat wrong. His ribs ached beneath the crisp cotton where the bruise was still blooming, a deep yellow smudge under his left side, fading at the edges but sore like memory. He didn’t flinch, exactly. He just moved slower.
Behind him, the house breathed its usual stale rhythm: the kettle clicked, a cigarette lit, Wayne’s boots thumped once before the front door slammed. No goodbyes.
His reflection looked like someone pretending. Tie too short. Shirt too big in the shoulders. He tried to fix it, then stopped. It wouldn’t matter.
By the time he reached the front gate, the heat had already risen. Not brutal yet, but promising. Cicadas sang from the gums. Down the street, the school bell rang once, early warning. His legs felt stiff. Heavy.
He walked the long way. Past the oval, along the gravel path that edged the cemetery. It was quieter there. He liked how the stones didn’t ask questions. Just stood, names half-faded, dates that didn’t add up. A reminder that silence could last longer than shame.
At the school gates, the noise hit him like a tide. Students spilled across the asphalt, new backpacks slung low, voices rising in cackles and curses. A footy bounced once, hard, then skidded toward the canteen. Someone shouted a name that wasn’t his.
Christian stepped through, head down. The crowd didn’t part, it never did, but he knew how to move through it without being touched. A trick he’d learned early. Stay narrow. Don’t pause. Don’t catch anyone’s eye unless you want to be asked something you can’t answer.
“Christian!”
The voice sliced through. Bright. Too certain.
He turned.
Mary stood near the bubbler, hair in a loose braid, skirt hiked slightly higher than regulation. She was grinning, unapologetically, like she’d been waiting for him and knew he’d come. A plastic folder was tucked under one arm. She wore her newness like armour.
She waved, then pointed at her arm. “Second Form B!” she called. “Same as you, I think.”
He nodded. Almost smiled.
Someone beside her, a tall girl with bleached tips and too much mascara, looked him up and down. Not cruel, just curious.
Mary turned back to the girl, said something Christian couldn’t hear, then looked at him again. Her face didn’t change. Still open. Still sure.
He ducked his head and kept walking. Not away. Just toward the classroom. She’d follow, or she wouldn’t.
His desk was the same. Near the window. Second row left side. He dropped his bag quietly and sat, fingers brushing the grain of the wood. A scratch etched in the corner read “GREG IS GAY” in blunt biro. He traced the letters once with a fingernail. Then stopped.
The bell rang again, longer this time. Seats filled. Someone whispered a joke too loud. Laughter followed.
Then Mary slid into the desk beside him.
She didn’t say anything. Just nudged his foot with hers, once, under the table.
Christian didn’t look at her. But he didn’t pull away either.
He sat with the bruise tucked under his ribs and the weight of heat on his collar. He didn’t speak. But he stayed.
The roll call began.
The fan above them spun slow, like it didn’t care. The classroom was already thick with February, sweat in the cracks of plastic chairs, chalk dust clinging to the humid air. A wasp crawled along the inside of the window frame, too tired to buzz.
Christian kept his gaze on the board. Ms. Myles had written Free Writing: Who are you today? in chalk, underlined twice. Beneath it, a smaller note: You won’t be asked to share. This is yours.
She stood at the front of the room, black curls pinned haphazardly, a long skirt printed with galaxies. She looked like someone who wouldn’t bother faking a smile.
“You’ve all got five minutes,” she said. “Don’t overthink it. Just write what’s true today. Not what you wish was true. Not what you think I want. Just… today.”
Mary’s pen was already moving. Christian’s hand stayed still. He stared at the page.
Who are you today?
The question felt like a dare. He thought about writing Christian Tambor, Second Form, tired, then about writing Nobody. Then nothing.
He picked up his pen anyway. It felt too heavy. He let it rest in the crook of his fingers and began, slowly:
I am a boy who reads things he shouldn't. I am not brave. I am not strong. I have a bruise the size of a palm under my shirt, and I lie about it with my mouth closed. I think about the river and the girl who laughs too loud. I think about being left alone. But I want someone to ask anyway.
His hand moved faster now.
I am a body that doesn't make sense. I am silence. I am a question no one knows they’ve asked. I am…
He stopped. The rest wouldn’t come. Not because he didn’t know. Because he did.
Across the aisle, someone snorted. “How long we gotta do this hippy crap?”
Ms. Myles didn’t flinch. “Long enough for your brain to stretch. Ten more seconds.”
Pencils scratched. Pages turned.
Christian reread his paragraph. Then crossed a thick line through the bottom half. Not to erase. Just to bury. The words were still there. He liked that.
Ms. Myles stood. “No one has to hand it in. But if you do, I’ll read it like it matters.”
Mary tore her page out and passed it forward. Didn’t even hesitate.
Christian folded his sheet into quarters and slid it back into his notebook.
“Suit yourself,” Mary said quietly, glancing sideways.
He didn’t answer. But the way his hand curled around the page, like it held something living, was answer enough.
As they filed out, Ms. Myles caught his eye. Not with a smile. Just a look that said: I saw you.
It landed in his chest like heat. Not pain. Not pride. Just presence.
He followed the others into the corridor. The air was louder now. Laughter, lockers, boys with voices cracking toward menace.
But Christian didn’t flinch. Not yet.
The bell had rung but half the yard was already humming before it did, kids pouring out like pressure from a valve. The heat pressed down, turning shade into currency. Christian moved through it slowly, his satchel thumping against his hip, notebook tucked deep where it wouldn’t be seen.
He veered toward the oval’s edge, near the maintenance shed where the bin chicken roosted. Not hidden. Just away.
He sat in the grass, back to the wire fence. Watched the sun paint heat-halos around moving bodies. Girls in tight braids sprawled near the canteen, eating red frogs and talking too loud. A footy flew overhead, chased by shouts. Laughter cracked through the humidity like sparklers.
Christian opened his notebook. Not to write. Just to have something in his hands.
Then he heard her voice.
“You planning on eating your own words for lunch, or can I sit?”
He looked up. Mary stood there, tray in hand, pie, Sunnyboy, two napkins like she meant to share. Her braid was already loosening, and her socks were pushed down around her ankles like a dare.
He blinked. “I thought you were sitting with the other girls.”
She shrugged and dropped to the ground. “They talk too much. All eyebrows and boys. You’re quiet, but at least you’re real.”
He didn’t know how to answer that. So, he didn’t. Just nodded, slow.
Mary unwrapped her pie, blew on it, then held it out. “Want half?”
Christian hesitated. Then took it. The pastry crumbled in his fingers.
They ate in silence for a while. Not awkward, just parallel.
“Your ribs okay?” she asked eventually.
He stiffened.
She didn’t look at him. Just stared at the sky. “You were holding them this morning. Like something hurt.”
He glanced away. “I tripped. On the verandah.”
“Right.” She didn’t press. Just handed him the second napkin.
A magpie warbled from the shed roof. A boy swore near the bubblers. Somewhere, a whistle blew.
Mary wiped her hands, crumpled the wrapper, and turned to him. “I’m gonna say something and you don’t have to reply, okay?”
Christian nodded.
“You don’t look like someone who needs saving. But you do look like someone who’s had to save himself too many times.”
He swallowed. Felt the sentence settle somewhere beneath the bruise.
She smiled. “That’s all.”
Then, like it didn’t cost anything, she lay back on the grass and closed her eyes.
Christian sat still, pie crumbs on his lap, hands quiet. The sun beat down.
And something opened in his chest, small, slight. Not joy. Not yet.
But something.
Two weeks into term and the heat still hadn’t broken. The kind that clung to skin, soaked uniforms, made tempers short. Christian moved slower now, not from laziness, but the quiet calculus of pain. Every step negotiated with the part of his body that burned. He’d stopped limping by the second day, forced his posture into something straighter. But the belt had left its mark again. Lower this time. Sharper.
It was Thursday. PE. The period he dreaded most.
The change room smelled like old sweat and pine disinfectant, a chemical attempt at forgetting. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, one strobing faintly like a warning. The tiles were cold beneath Christian’s bare feet. Too clean, somehow, like someone had scrubbed the shame off in a hurry and left it to dry.
He stood near the corner bench, back to the lockers. His shirt lay folded on top, careful as a prayer. He peeled down his shorts slowly, careful to keep his side turned. Underneath: old boxers, threadbare. One leg stuck to a welt rising angry red along his thigh, not from the first beating. A new one. Two nights ago.
He didn’t remember the whole thing. Just the sound of the screen door, the belt unsnapping, the way Maggie had disappeared into silence like smoke.
Now he stood under the humming lights, arms crossed low to cover his belly. The bruise at his ribs had yellowed to an old apple’s skin. But the new one, the stripe across his lower back, pulsed with each breath.
Boys jostled past, loud and effortless. Someone snapped a towel. Another kicked a shoe into the far wall. Jesse McAllister leaned on the sinks, shirtless, laughing with his whole chest. He had the kind of body that already belonged to adulthood, tan, cut, without trying. He moved like he didn’t know anyone watched.
Christian didn’t look. Not really. Just enough to regret it.
“Oi, Princess,” came a voice. Mr. Ridge.
Christian froze.
“You in or out today?” Ridge’s boots squeaked as he stepped between benches. “Don’t need you fainting on the track.”
“I’m fine,” Christian said. The lie cracked on his tongue.
“You’re grey.” Ridge squinted at him, hands on hips. “You throw up, you’re cleaning it.”
Christian nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
Jesse turned, tossed a rolled sock at another boy, missed. Laughed again. His gaze slid past Christian like smoke. Not cruel. Just nothing.
That hurt more.
Ridge clapped once. “Move it. Field laps, then agility. If you can’t keep up, stay out of the way.”
The boys surged out, a wave of sweat and noise.
Christian waited until the room emptied. Then pulled on his shorts with careful fingers. Each movement a flinch.
He walked out last. Not slow. Just deliberate.
The sun outside slammed into him like a second punishment.
His legs already ached.
He didn’t run. Just jogged, lopsided, like a dog that’d been kicked too many times and learned to hide the limp.
The oval shimmered under the heat, white line markings already faded, goalposts leaning slightly in their sockets like drunks after a wake. Ridge blew the whistle with his usual lack of enthusiasm, then waved them off.
“Laps. Two for warm-up. Move like you mean it.”
The boys took off in staggered clusters. Jesse was in front, feet flying, easy stride. Christian kept to the back. Not from laziness, from strategy. The farther behind he stayed, the fewer eyes found him. The less Ridge noticed. The less Jesse laughed.
Each step jarred the welt across his thigh. His shirt clung to the small of his back where the fabric pressed into the raw stripe left by the buckle’s edge. He moved like someone walking underwater, one breath behind the present.
By the second lap, the others had lapped him once already. Ridge didn’t bother shouting. Just glanced up from his clipboard with a smirk that said everything.
“Faster, Tambor,” he called. “We’re not training for chess club.”
Laughter. Not loud, but enough.
Christian didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either. That was the trick. If he reacted, it became real. If he kept moving, he stayed smoke.
He rounded the curve by the gum tree when his leg buckled. Just slightly. Enough that his pace stuttered, and a sharp breath slipped through his teeth. He caught himself. Kept running. Just.
But Jesse saw. His laugh cracked across the field like a whip. “Jesus, what’d you trip over? Your shadow?”
Another voice chimed in, some boy from Third Form, “His own skirt, probably.”
More laughter.
Christian’s face stayed still, but his neck flushed hot.
He finished the lap. Kept his eyes on the grass. Focused on the feel of it underfoot, the smell of heat rising from dirt. Thought about the clipping he’d folded in his pocket that morning, the article about the Libyan plane. The word downed. It echoed in him now. Like a verdict.
The whistle blew again. Ridge barked something about drills.
Christian didn’t hear it.
His head had gone quiet. Not blank. Just somewhere else.
He jogged toward the line of cones with the limp barely hidden. His chest burned. His thigh throbbed. His mouth tasted of metal and dust.
And still, he kept moving.
Because stopping was worse.
Christian slipped into the school library just as the second bell rang. Not late. Not early. Just unnoticed.
The hallway outside still echoed with footsteps, locker doors slamming, someone yelling something about footy tryouts. But here, the lights buzzed low, the air stilled. Dust motes hung like secrets in suspension.
He didn’t go to the front desk. He never had to.
Mrs. Fletcher emerged from behind the returns shelf, glasses perched halfway down her nose, a stack of catalogue cards in one hand. She wore a cardigan with a brooch shaped like a moth. Her limp was more noticeable in the morning.
She didn’t look surprised to see him.
“Well, if it isn’t my favourite serial absconder,” she murmured, voice wrapped in chamomile and irony.
Christian hovered near the cart of returns. “Thought I could help.”
“You always do. Even when you shouldn’t have to.” She handed him a slim stack of books without asking anything more. Just said, “Fiction. Alphabetical. You know the drill.”
He nodded, took the pile. His fingers brushed hers by accident, dry skin, ink-stained thumb, and for a moment, he wondered if she felt the tremor in his hand.
She didn’t comment. Just turned back toward the desk.
He worked slowly. Shelf by shelf. Spines out. Titles like familiar ghosts: Catcher, Of Mice and Men, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith. He touched each one gently, like proof. They still existed. So did he.
After the returns, he moved toward the poetry shelf. Not to browse, just to stand. The slim volumes lined up like breath held in paper form. Four Quartets caught his eye again. He opened it halfway, read a line:
“In my beginning is my end.”
He closed it carefully. Slid it back.
“Shelving’s one thing,” Mrs. Fletcher said from her desk, “but don’t think I don’t know why you’re really here.”
He paused, turned halfway. “I just like books.”
“You do. But that’s not what I meant.” She lifted her head then, eyes softer than her voice. “You’ve got the look of someone running. Not from schoolwork.”
He didn’t answer.
She tapped her pen against her mug. It read: “Shh is my love language.”
“Whatever it is,” she said, “you’re allowed to rest here. That’s all. No questions.”
He looked down. The carpet had a worn patch where the chair legs dragged. He wanted to thank her. But the words caught in his ribs.
Instead, he found the beanbag tucked behind the Australian History display. Curled into it. Opened his notebook.
He wrote one sentence.
“The body is not the enemy. But it is the battlefield.”
Then stared at it. For a long time.
Outside, someone screamed about a cricket bat.
Inside, the world narrowed to one sentence, and the way it didn’t feel like a lie.
The house smelled scorched. Not smoke, just that bitter edge of something overcooked and forgotten. Mince, probably. Maggie always fried it too long when she was nervous.
Christian sat at the kitchen table, arms folded against the linoleum. The overhead light flickered once, then steadied. His fork was clean. The plate untouched. Across from him, Wayne chewed with his mouth open. Not loud, but enough to make silence feel like a punishment.
No one spoke.
The meat had gone dry and black at the corners. Maggie stood by the sink, not facing them. Her shoulders hunched like she’d already taken the blame.
Christian’s thigh throbbed beneath the table. He shifted, winced. Wayne’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp, unreadable, then back to his plate.
“You’re limping again,” Wayne said.
Christian didn’t look up. “Pulled something. At school.”
Wayne sniffed. “Boys your age shouldn’t pull anything unless it’s their weight.”
Maggie flinched. Her hand twitched toward the kettle, then stopped.
Wayne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You been eating at school?”
Christian nodded once.
“Good. Can’t have you fainting in front of the girls. Or the boys.”
The emphasis hung in the air like a fly caught in honey.
Christian’s stomach knotted.
Wayne stood. Scraped his chair back hard enough to make the table jump. “I’m not your bloody nurse,” he muttered. “If you’re sick, you stay home. But don’t act sick unless you are. Understand?”
Christian nodded again. Quieter this time.
Wayne left the room. The bathroom door clicked shut. Water pipes groaned.
Maggie still hadn’t turned around.
Christian stood. Scraped his own chair quieter. He rinsed his plate, though it hadn’t been used, and set it in the rack. Then reached for the kettle.
“I didn’t mean to burn it,” Maggie said, voice low.
“I know.”
“It just got away from me.”
“I know,” he said again. Not unkind. Just tired.
The kettle clicked on.
He looked at her then, properly. Her blouse was inside out. The seams showed. She hadn’t noticed.
He didn’t say anything.
The kettle boiled. She poured. Two mugs. Tea bags left in.
He took his. Carried it back to his room.
The hallway creaked beneath his feet. The belt wasn’t on the hook tonight. That was something.
Inside his room, the air was thick and still. He set the mug on the milk crate. Sat on the bed. Let the steam fog his glasses.
Outside, a dog barked once. A car rolled past, slow.
He didn’t drink the tea. Just held it.
And waited for the night to end.
The sandstone breath of St Michael’s greeted them the moment they stepped inside. Cold in a way that didn’t comfort, just commanded quiet. Christian’s body tensed instinctively. Not out of fear, but memory. The cathedral always felt bigger than it needed to be. Not grand. Grave. The kind of space that made you whisper, even when you weren’t speaking.
Light poured through the stained-glass windows above the transepts, casting long, fractured colours across the pews. Red and green shimmered across the marble floor like something spilled. The incense hadn’t been lit yet, but its scent still lingered in the air, old smoke, lemon oil, something cloying and ancient.
Maggie dipped her fingers into the holy water at the entrance, signed herself with a practiced hand. Christian followed suit. The water clung to his skin longer than it should’ve.
They slid into a pew three rows from the back, her usual spot. Not because it was pious, but because it let you leave fast if someone wept too loud or fainted from heat. Christian sat with his knees pressed together, palms on his thighs. The welt on his leg had started to itch beneath the fabric. He didn’t scratch it.
The nave filled slowly, wide-brimmed hats, pressed collars, murmured greetings in low tones. The organ let out a low drone, then stilled. Only the rustle of movement remained. Then silence.
From the side transept, the procession began.
Bishop Joseph Francis walked at its head, tall, steady, eyes lowered but not vacant. His chasuble was pale gold, trimmed in deep red. He moved like a man who knew how to carry silence without letting it break him. His face was lined, but not severe. He had the kind of stillness that drew focus without demanding it.
Christian had seen him before, at funerals, Christmas, Easter. Never this close. Never on a regular Sunday.
The Bishop reached the altar. He bowed, long, slow, no theatre in it. Just gravity. Then he kissed the stone and stepped back.
Mass began.
Christian followed the choreography by instinct. Kneel. Stand. Bow. Repeat. The words passed through him like mist, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy… His mouth moved. His heart didn’t.
When the time came for the homily, Bishop Francis stepped to the pulpit. He didn’t tap the mic. Didn’t raise his voice. He just began.
“The Gospel today tells of a man who dares to approach. Not with entitlement, not with certainty. Just need.”
His voice was low. Measured. Not performance. Not thunder.
“The leper asks, If you are willing, you can make me clean. And Jesus, before he speaks, before he commands healing, reaches out and touches him. That’s the part I want you to hear. The touch comes first.”
Christian’s throat tightened.
“In a world that tells us some bodies are too broken, too untouchable, this moment reminds us: holiness is not about distance. It’s about presence. It’s about seeing.”
Christian’s eyes flicked toward the altar.
Bishop Francis didn’t scan the crowd. He didn’t need to. His words landed without targeting.
“Whatever you carry,” the Bishop said, hands resting lightly on the lectern, “you are not outside grace. Not too far. Not unseen.”
Christian stared down at his hands. The candlelight caught on his knuckles.
He didn’t believe.
But he listened.
After the Bishop stepped down, the mass resumed its rhythm, a slow, ancient tide that carried the congregation whether they meant to float or not. The choir launched softly into the Sanctus, voices untrained but earnest, blending with the deep bellows of the pipe organ. Christian felt the vibration in the pew before he heard it properly, like sound rising up through wood and into bone.
Maggie’s hands were clasped again, fingers white. She didn’t sing. Her lips moved with the responses, but nothing else. Her face was fixed forward, as if looking anywhere else might let something crack.
The congregation stood for the Lord’s Prayer. Christian did too, though his balance shifted to the leg that didn’t burn. His mouth formed the words in unison: Deliver us from evil. They landed in his mouth like pebbles.
When the pews began to empty for Communion, Maggie gave him the smallest nudge. It wasn’t a request. Just the shape of habit. They filed forward slowly, row by row, the smell of incense thick now, clinging to the arches.
At the head of the line stood a young priest in plain white vestments, hands smooth, eyes flicking between wafers and mouths. His voice barely above breath: Body of Christ. Amen.
Christian opened his mouth. The Host rested against his tongue like chalk. It dissolved too slowly. He didn’t swallow right away.
Back in their pew, Maggie knelt hard. Christian sat. His legs were tired. His breath caught in his chest.
A shaft of stained light fell across the hem of his trousers. Gold, green, violet. He looked up.
The triple windows above the altar glowed in full flare now, saints and angels, swords and lilies, eyes cast downward in beatific serenity. At the centre, Saint Michael stood tall, sword poised over the devil, wings unfurled. But Christian’s gaze drifted lower, to a figure near the demon’s feet, barely visible in the corner of the glass. A face half-turned. Unnamed. Unlit. Watching.
He stared at that face for a long time.
Not the saviour. Not the sinner. Just the witness.
The final hymn rose, a slow, minor key rendition of Be Not Afraid. The words caught in Christian’s throat, but he didn’t try to sing them. He closed his eyes. Let the voices wash over him.
When he opened them again, Bishop Francis was walking down the centre aisle.
Christian’s eyes followed him. The man’s gaze stayed forward, but as he passed, he lifted one hand in benediction, not grand. Just enough.
It wasn’t meant for him. But Christian let it be.
The fan ticked overhead like a bad clock, one blade slightly slower than the others. Outside, the heat hadn’t broken. It had just spread thin, across the windows, the walls, the skin. Christian lay on his bed in the dark, notebook open on his stomach, pen in hand.
He hadn’t meant to write tonight.
The day had been long. Hot. Dense with things he didn’t know how to name, the Bishop’s voice, the way the Host stuck to his tongue, the nameless figure in the stained glass who watched but didn’t act. It had stayed with him, that face. Not because it was holy. Because it wasn’t.
He lifted the pen.
The page before him was already scrawled with old lines, half poems, fragments of news headlines, a sentence he’d once copied from Four Quartets. The kind of page that looked like a mind trying not to break.
He found a space in the corner and wrote:
Today I saw a man who believed in something invisible and didn’t flinch.
He paused. Thought about scratching it out.
Didn’t.
Below it, he added:
I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to be seen.
Then sat with that.
A car passed outside, too fast, too loud, and the moment wobbled, but didn’t vanish.
Christian flipped to a blank page. The clean white was almost violent in its emptiness.
He pressed the pen down again. Slower this time.
The Bishop said the touch came first.
But what if no one touches you?
What if you’re too quiet to approach?
He stared at the words. The fan creaked above him.
Then, in smaller letters, cramped and slanting sideways:
What if being seen is worse?
He closed the notebook, not suddenly. Just enough.
Set it on the milk crate. Lay back. Closed his eyes.
The words didn’t feel brave. They didn’t feel like prayer.
But they felt like him.
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