Being Wrong

By R.A. Armstrong

When Charlie gets away from his drug dealing father and is sent to live with his grandparents, things aren't suddenly okay. Charlie's broken. He's not sure he ever wasn't broken. When things get unbearable, the only thing that helps Charlie feel grounded is music. What can he do when he runs out of batteries for his old Walkman?

At school crowds of people gather to watch Travis perform, but when he goes home his only company is his cat. He escaped his abusive parents, but now he lives with his older brother who is usually away working. Will the strange, quiet boy he finds sitting on his porch trying to listen in on his music put an end to his loneliness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.A. Armstrong
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005563387

Book preview

Being Wrong

Published by R.A. Armstrong at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 R.A. Armstrong

Chapter 1

The music coming through Charlie’s earphones just about drowned out the more cacophonous music coming from the stereo, but there was no escaping the physical thump of the bass. It felt too similar to the hard, rapid beat of a panicked heart for him to disentangle it from his own anxiety.

Pairs of legs walked past the table Charlie sat under in the kitchen, some bare as far up as he could see, others clad in wrinkled jeans. Nobody bothered him. Nobody knew he was there. Charlie had mastered the art of disappearing.

Charlie was six songs into his Best of the Nineties tape when a familiar pair of legs approached the table. His dad hadn’t seen him hide himself away in here, but he knew Charlie well enough to find him. Charlie hit pause on his Walkman as his dad crouched down. The sound of laughter and clink of glass from the other side of the room felt like a threat.

Pinprick pupils met Charlie’s gaze as his dad tossed three fifty-dollar notes onto his lap. "Keep that safe, okay? Don’t lose it."

Charlie nodded as he gathered the notes, carefully folded them, and shoved them deep into the front pocket of his jeans. For simple things, he was reliable.

Charlie’s dad was just getting up again when someone laughed and dropped to the floor next to him. A young man, maybe university aged, with spiked up hair and a can of beer in his hand. What are you doing on the floor, mate?

The guy grinned broadly when his eyes landed on Charlie, but Charlie’s dad’s face was flat and annoyed. Even high he looked tired, old. He hadn’t shaved in days, and he’d started looking like he needed a haircut a few weeks ago.

Why are you under a table, kid? the guy asked, and then grabbed Charlie’s Walkman without waiting for an answer. "Hey, you have one of these! One of these, uh... things."

Normally Charlie was passive, quietly nonresistant, but his Walkman was the one thing that mattered to him. He lunged forward and tried to grab it back, but he set himself off balance and it took barely more than a nudge from the guy to tip him over. His head thunked hard against something solid, sending pain strumming through his skull and scattering his thoughts. It took Charlie a moment to realise he’d hit his head against the table leg.

Oh, shit, the guy said, but he was laughing.

Charlie’s dad chewed at a hangnail and glanced around like there were places he’d rather be.

Ryan, what the hell? a female voice cut in. A woman, tiny and Asian and around the same age as the guy, crouched in front of the table. Jesus, Ryan. What’s a kid even doing here, anyway?

He’s sixteen, Charlie’s dad interjected.

He’s your… She looked between Charlie and his dad. "He’s your kid? You can’t bring a kid here. Holy shit, dude, he’s clearly not having a good time."

"He’s sixteen," Charlie’s dad repeated. Charlie didn’t like the edge to his voice, the growing agitation in his movements. The press of the building emotion in the small space under the table melted into the pain throbbing through Charlie’s skull and created a confusing mix that disconnected the parts of Charlie’s brain capable of complex thought.

And that’s too fucking young! The woman twisted around and scanned the room. Azza, he can’t have a sixteen-year-old kid here, right?

There was a beat of silence before whoever she’d called out to responded. Uh… nah, mate, maybe not. If the cops get called, y’know?

The woman rolled her eyes. "How about because it’s shit parenting, y’know?"

Azza laughed. Oh, fuck off. Yeah, sure, that too.

Charlie’s dad didn’t respond, just grabbed Charlie’s wrist in a firm grip and hauled him up. Charlie grabbed his Walkman and narrowly avoided hitting his head on the edge of the table, and then he was being marched through the house, dodging people along the way, and then squeezed past a barely conscious man out through the front door. As soon as they were outside, Charlie’s dad snatched the Walkman from Charlie’s hand and threw it hard against the side of the house.

Something lurched deep in Charlie’s gut at the sound of plastic cracking, and he twisted out of his dad’s grip. The second his fingers closed around his Walkman, his dad pulled him up and dragged him towards the car. He opened the car door on the passenger side, shoved Charlie in, and then slammed the door and stomped around to the other side to get in.

You’re so fucking useless, Charlie’s dad grumbled as he jammed the key into the ignition. Why do I even keep feeding you? You’re like a retarded puppy that keeps peeing on the carpet. If I had half a brain, I’d just fucking get rid of you, right?

Charlie ran his fingers along the new crack running down the front of his Walkman. Was it just the plastic casing that was damaged, or was it finally broken for real? It had been far from new when he’d got it and after a few years of love the purple paint was worn away around the corners and buttons. It was hard to imagine it being anything but indestructible, though. He’d dropped it into a pool once and it had worked as well as ever after it had dried out.

One thing was for sure: it was irreplaceable. He didn’t know if he’d even been born yet when they were still being made. What people used these days to listen to music was a mystery to him, but he was sure it took more than a cassette tape and some batteries to set up and maintain. Maybe a computer? Charlie did not own a computer.

Charlie’s dad strummed an agitated rhythm on the steering wheel as he turned onto the highway. There wasn’t much traffic this time of night.

Charlie’s gaze cut to the speedometer. You’re going too fast.

Who gives a shit, Charlie’s dad mumbled. The speed crept up.

The police, Charlie pointed out. "And I do. And you should. You’re not even wearing your seatbelt."

For a second Charlie thought he’d gotten through to his dad as he took his eyes off the road and shifted around, but then his dad pressed the button to release Charlie’s seatbelt.

Don’t! Charlie shouted as he buckled himself back in. You shouldn’t be driving. You’re too high.

Oh, you don’t want to be in this car with me right now? The pointer on the speedometer crept lower as the car slowed, to the proper speed limit and then below it. I think we can arrange that, huh?

Dad…

I’m sick of your shit. The car slowed to a stop on the side of the highway, and Charlie’s dad pressed the release on Charlie’s seatbelt again. Get out. You can walk home.

Charlie looked around helplessly. He didn’t know where there were relative to home, but he knew it was too far to walk. His dad would have known it too if he’d been sober.

Charlie’s dad leant over him and opened the passenger side door. Get out. When Charlie didn’t move, his dad gave him a firm shove.

Charlie fell into darkness on the side of the road, his shoulder slamming into the ground. Before he could get up, the door shut behind him and the car sped away.

It was a long moment before Charlie got to his feet, then only a few seconds before he had to sit again. He felt disconnected from the aches of his body, drowned so deep in his own mind that even fear didn’t truly reach him. Part of him wanted to walk into the bush that surrounded the highway, to keep walking until he no longer could, to disappear. The thought of slowly dying alone in the bush didn’t scare him like it should have.

Instead, he started walking along the highway in the direction his dad had driven. Maybe he’d turn around and come back. Maybe if Charlie walked long enough, he’d find his way home on his own. He’d passed eleven electricity poles before he realised he still had his Walkman clutched in his hand.

It was almost on reflex that Charlie put his earbuds in and pressed play. Deep in his chest, something relaxed as the sound of a familiar song enveloped him. It still worked just as well as ever. Indestructible. Charlie only wished he were that durable, that the many cracks in him didn’t affect how well he functioned.

Charlie bit at the inside of his cheek as he tried his best to ignore the way the long grass tickled at the space between the top of his socks and the bottoms of his jeans. The headlights from each car assaulted his eyes and then plunged him into disorientating darkness after they’d passed.

Following the highway was the safest bet for finding his way home and the only way his dad would find him if he came back, but it wasn’t a good route for pedestrians. Especially not in the dark. After a truck drove past him so close that the breeze from it made him stumble and nearly fall into a dry creek bed, Charlie took the next exit.

Nothing looked familiar. There was a row of shops, closed this time of night, and houses on the other side of the street. Just a regular suburban area. A bus pulled up ahead of him and somebody got off. If Charlie had money, he could…

But Charlie did have money. He had a hundred and fifty dollars. His dad would be mad if he spent it, but bus fare wasn’t expensive. There wasn’t time to think it through. Charlie pulled his earbuds out and hurried up the bus steps.

It wasn’t until Charlie had pulled out a fifty-dollar note and held it out to the driver that he realised he didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if he could make words come out of his mouth even if he could think of the right ones.

The bus driver, a stout middle-aged woman, stared at the note for a second before shaking her head. I can’t make change for that, love. You got anything smaller?

Charlie withdrew his hand. No, he didn’t have anything smaller. Belatedly he realised he needed to communicate that and shook his head.

All right, don’t worry about it. Just get on.

Charlie hesitated for a long moment, then turned and went to find a seat near the back. She had let him on, even though he couldn’t pay. That had been a nice thing to do. He should have said thank you, but he couldn’t do words just then. He said it in his head instead. Thank you. Thank you.

He hadn’t thought this bus thing through, though. There was only one right direction to go in and many wrong ones, and going the wrong way faster wouldn’t help him. But maybe if the bus went to enough places, eventually he would recognise something. He could find somewhere he could start from to work his way home.

Three songs later, Charlie was convinced they were heading in the exact opposite of the right direction. He stuck his earphone cord in his mouth and sucked on it. He should probably get off so that he didn’t get any further from home, but then what? This had been his one idea, his one chance at a solution. It wasn’t allowed to not work.

The bus weaved through suburban streets, letting people off and occasionally collecting new passengers. It was a weekday night and most people were heading home from work. They came and went calmly, locked into the comforting tedium of routine, each one knowing where they needed to go and how to get there.

Eventually the bus pulled back onto a main road where the lighting was better and Charlie could at least try to find some familiarity in his surroundings. Had he seen the train station they just passed before, or did all train stations just look the same? And that pub across the street, was that… had he…

Something squeezed in Charlie’s chest and churned his gut, panic or excitement. He’d been there. Many times, sitting alone at a table with a glass of orange juice in front of him while his dad sat at the counter and talked with his friends. He remembered the ice cubes they had, the ones with the holes in the middle you could poke the black straws through. It had been years ago, back when the only time he’d spent with his dad was occasional weekend visits, but he remembered. Charlie slammed his hand on the bell.

The bus didn’t stop immediately, but that was okay because things only got more familiar from there. The bus headed up the hill, past rows of small shops and towards the shopping centre he’d gone to every weekend with his mum to get groceries. The bus stopped in front of it and Charlie got out.

Charlie smiled and his throat ached. He knew where he was, and where he was felt like home in a way nowhere he’d lived with his dad ever had. They moved around too much and his dad couldn’t be counted on to be the same person from one day to the next. Charlie was a block away from the shopping centre before he registered that he’d started walking, but he knew where he was going.

He was going home.

It wasn’t that close — far enough that he’d always taken the bus with his mum instead of walking — but Charlie knew the way. He felt distant from the aches of his body and the turmoil of his mind, but the simple act of walking without thinking soothed out the jitters in him. This entire event felt like a dream, as though he might be swallowed whole by it at any second but nothing could truly harm him. Halfway through the journey, the song Charlie was listening to slowed to a deep warble and then stopped as the batteries in his Walkman finally died.

The apartment building looked different from his memories — a fresh coat of paint, different plants in the garden bed — but it was still the same. The same weight of the door when he pushed it, the same concrete stairs inside, the same numbers on the doors as he counted his way up to apartment 205.

A different person who answered the door.

Charlie hadn’t been expecting his mum. Not really. He hadn’t been expecting this woman, either, her curly dark hair or her flowery pyjamas.

She hadn’t been expecting him, either. Um… can I help you?

Charlie didn’t realise he’d taken a step forward until she took a step back, and once she was no longer blocking the doorway, it felt natural to walk inside. It was the same mix of different and the same in here, too. The sofa was different, but in the same place their old one had been. The TV was bigger, newer. The walls were a darker beige, Charlie was fairly sure, and the kitchen area in the corner looked almost exactly as Charlie remembered it besides a few small appliances.

The woman was behind him, and she was saying things, but that didn’t matter just then. Charlie headed down the hall and poked his head into his bedroom, now her bedroom. It looked completely different, though in truth much better. He envied the fairy lights she’d weaved through her bedframe. On the other side of the hall, his mum’s room was now a study.

Charlie headed back into the living room and finally looked at the woman again. She looked angry, or scared, or both. She was holding a broom in front of her in a defensive stance. It hadn’t occurred to Charlie that anyone might ever see him as dangerous. Charlie sat on the sofa in the hopes of showing her he was no threat, then lay down because he desperately needed to. He rolled over and buried his face against a fluffy pink cushion.

With everything else blocked out, it was easier to listen to what the woman was saying, but she wasn’t talking to him now. After a few confused moments, Charlie realised she was on the phone.

Yeah, uh, this guy just walked into my apartment. She paused, listening to whoever was on the other end. No, I don’t know him. He just knocked on the door and walked in, and now he’s taking a nap on my couch. I think he might be on drugs.

Charlie wanted to tell her he was not on drugs, that he never used drugs ever, but he knew any attempt at words just then would come out a garbled mess and then maybe he’d cry.

I mean, I don’t think he’s like… dangerous. He’s got his feet dangling off the sofa so he doesn’t get his shoes on it. Just send someone to get him out of my apartment, please?

Charlie knew he should leave now so that nobody had to come and move him, but even unburying his face and confronting the brightness of the room felt like too much. Besides, if he left, where would he go? He’d wanted so badly to go home, but home wasn’t here anymore because home was his mum and she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t. He could still remember how cold her cheek had felt against the palm of his hand.

The knock on the door made Charlie flinch, and he wished he still had his music to drown the world out. He needed more batteries. If he’d known the night was going to drag out so long, he would have brought spares.

The sound of voices after the woman opened the front door was somehow both abrasively loud and too quiet for Charlie to figure out what was being said until they moved closer. There was a male voice now, and another woman.

I think he’s just confused, the woman whose apartment Charlie was in said. He went and looked around before he lay down. I think he just walked into the wrong apartment or something.

That happens a lot, the male voice assured her. We’ll get him out of your hair and figure out where he belongs.

Hey, kid, come on, the new female voice said from directly behind Charlie. Let’s get you home.

Home sounded good. Charlie rolled over to look up at her, got a brief glimpse of a police uniform, then squinted away and pressed the crook of his arm over his face as the brightness of the room burned his eyes.

The sounds of fabric brushing against fabric told him that the female officer had crouched next to him, and then her hand was on his arm, gently pulling it back. When she spoke, her voice was gentler. Come on. Let me see your eyes.

Charlie allowed her to move his arm, but he couldn’t help squeezing his eyes shut against the light. Slowly he relaxed, then blink them open, but he could feel the grimace on his face.

Pupils look normal. She was looking at Charlie, but he got the impression she was talking to the other officer behind her. She had short, auburn hair. Charlie liked it. What’s your name, kid?

Charlie’s lips moved, but the idea of trying to speak just then made him deeply uncomfortable. He pulled his Walkman out of his pocket and pointed to the faded letter stickers he’d arranged on the front to spell his name.

Charlie. She smiled at him, but Charlie saw it slide off her face as she turned to speak to her partner. I don’t know about drugs. Maybe an intellectual disability. Can you call in and check if anyone’s reported him missing? White male, brown hair, blue eyes, looks around mid-teens, goes by Charlie.

Charlie did not have an intellectual disability, he was not on drugs, and his dad would never have reported him missing to the police. He could tell her none of this, though, so he just sat up and pulled his hood up so that he had some protection from the intensity of the world.

Okay Charlie, I’m Constable Katherine Bradley. You can call me Kate, Kate said, as though Charlie was likely to be verbally addressing her. My partner over there is Constable Lukas Lau. You can call him Luke.

Luke was an Asian man with hair shaved military short. Charlie wanted to touch it, but you could probably get arrested for that.

Now, can you answer some questions by nodding or shaking your head?

Charlie considered that. Yes, just then he could both take in what was being said to him and respond nonverbally. He nodded.

Kate smiled. Good. Have you had any pills or alcohol or anything like that tonight?

Charlie shook his head. He wanted her to ask if he had an intellectual impairment, too, so that he could shake his head again, but she moved onto a different topic.

Do you live in this apartment building?

Charlie hesitated. He had, but that wasn’t the question. He shook his head again.

Do you know anyone who does? her partner cut in from behind her.

The unexpected voice in the mix distracted Charlie for a moment, and he had to run the words back through his mind before they made sense. Did he know anyone who lived here? He had, but how was he supposed to know if they still did? Charlie gave an awkward shrug.

You’re not sure? Kate asked.

Charlie nodded.

You’re not sure if you’re in the right apartment building, or you’re not sure if they still live here?

That wasn’t a yes or no question, so it didn’t work with their response method. Charlie shook his head and then nodded in an attempt to adapt.

Kate smiled. Sorry. You’re not sure if they still live here?

Charlie nodded.

Did you think they lived in this apartment?

Charlie shook his head. He was starting to feel even more exhausted than he had before, and it was becoming harder and harder to focus on the questions he was being asked. He just wanted to go home.

Can you show us where you think they might live? Kate asked.

Charlie nodded and got up off the couch. It wasn’t far, just next door, where the old lady who used to babysit him had lived. Helen. Charlie hadn’t liked most people, but he’d liked her because she’d liked him. She’d knitted him toys and let him watch his favourite movies on her little TV whenever he came over. But she’d been old, and it had been six years, and nothing seemed to stay the same for