Perpetually Petulant.

And then you said a little more about your dreams like that was my call; if you would only listen. Bypassed everything and went straight for the knife...

Seven thirty nine pm. I should be long gone.

The bus is late and I'm crouched down in the shadows on the eastern side of the City Bus Station. It's busy at this hour; folks coming and going. Bags packed and unloaded. I need to get out of the city as soon as is humanly possible.

Now don't nit-pick, motherfucker. I know that there are planes, or cars, or hitch hiking. Shit, if I had the money for a car I'd be driving my arse out of here before you could tell me it's a piece of shit. But that wouldn't work. Police can trace registrations. And a plane? The expense is inhibitive and they're traceable, too. As for hitch hiking - well you can imagine the amount of people who would get a look at me. Witnesses are a real pain in the arse when you have reason to be travelling in an inconspicuous manner. What, you want me getting caught?

And anyway, I'm too damn tired to walk. Fuck that. I want a seat on a bus, preferably to myself, so I can lie down and sleep. I haven't crashed in, what, three days? Haven't had a wink of shut eye in damn near 72 hours. I'm starting to see shit that isn't there. Like those two policemen walking into the Bus Station ticketing counter... Asking random travellers questions... holding up a picture... shakes of heads, apologies... Sorry sirs, haven't had the pleasure of his acquaintance... now up to the ticket counter... the young dude behind the sheet of glass looks intently at the photo, I can see him through a large window... squints a little... finally, a long, slow shake of the head... see him mouth the words... sorry, fellas, never seen him... and Grinch saves my arse.

The two policemen walk back out the door, ask a few more tourists if they've seen me around - no such luck, you flatfoot fucks - and exit the way they came. I let out a sigh and lean back against the wall. I roll up a ciggie and light her up. Draw hard on the lung dart and thank the lord for Grinch. He's a good cat, that dude.

The side exit of the station opens and Grinch steps out into the shadow. Seeing me, he sidles over slowly in his languid way, and slumps against the wall next to me. "Those pigs were after you, Kilton. Told me to keep an eye out for ya, and let 'em know if you came in to buy a ticket. Fuck mate, what they sniffin' round after you for?"

"No idea, man. Me and the pigs don't have much I feel like discussing right now, if you know what I'm saying. Thanks for spinning them a line, Grinch. You're a good man."

"Don't mention it, Kilt. Fuckin' portly bastards couldn't'a caught ya if they knew you was round here anyways. Whatever it is you've done, those pricks can do their own detective work. Who am I, Watson or some shit?"

I chuckle at this. Grinch is a funny, cynical motherfucker. "Too right. Useless cunts. And you're right, I might not'a been running for a while but I'm still the quickest fucker in this city. That arsehole McMillan can get fucked... 10.31 seconds he reckons! You see that shit? I've seen some Ray Old shit that that dickhead's spouted in the media, but that one takes the cake."

Grinch doesn't answer. He doesn't give a fuck for a start, and he doesn't know shit about sprinting. See, I used to be the big thing on the New Zealand age group athletics scene until two and a half years ago. I was the favourite to win the Senior Boys' 100 metres at the Nationals; tipped me to break the 18 year old record, too. That was until I was disqualified for a bullshit false start by the starter, who happened to be the brother of Jake McMillan's coach. McMillan went on virtually unopposed to win my title in a mediocre time, though you wouldn't'a known it talking to him. Anyone would'a thought he'd just beaten Usain Bolt.

I didn't take my disqualification well, admittedly. Grabbed a javelin from the field events and threw it into the back of the starter dude. Lucky to survive, they reckoned. It was bullshit, of course. The fat prick just couldn't be bothered getting out of his hospital bed. Free food, hot nurses and no work. Tell me that rotund fuck wasn't on the lam...

But anyway, I ended up in the boys' lockup for two years. I'm 18 now and I've just been released. Got back into the city four days ago, and it hasn't been the re-introduction I was hoping for. Not by a long shot. "Yeah... you don't give a fuck do ya, Grinchy? Don't blame you, man. Wish I didn't either."

Taking a long drag on his ciggie, Grinch looks at me and smiles. "You're a silly bastard sometimes, Kilt. Course I don't care. Never did. You should'a been a rugby player or something sensible - you were way too loose to be an athlete. At least if you'd played rugby you could'a taken your anger out in a constructive way." Grinch used to be a great rugby player but couldn't be bothered with the training. Gave it away to the great consternation of his father, who thought he had an All Black in the making. Now he works at the Bus Station, drinks too much, and goes out with the hottest girl in town. If he had to train for that, you can bet your arse Grinch would be a single man.

"Yeah, but you know me, bro - built for speed. Too many bulky, slow motherfuckers in that game."

"Exactly, Kilt, you dumb cunt. But it doesn't matter. Your bus should be here soon. I'm not telling anyone that I seen you, but make sure you get in touch with me when you get to the Big Smoke, you hear? Anything you need, you know I'll help out."

"You're a legend, Grinch. Thanks, man."

Grinch stands up, raises his eyebrows and tilts his head back in the time-honoured way of young men in New Zealand. "Catch you up, bro. Look after yourself, eh." I watch him saunter back inside, not a care in the world. For the millionth time I wonder how one dude can be so damn smooth.

I finish my coffin nail and flick the butt away. I look around the corner and see my bus pulling into the station. It's just on eight o'clock. Snatching up my ragged backpack, I pull my beanie down low and put my hood up. I walk slowly, deliberately toward the bus. No one has to be unloaded, thank fuck, so I hand my ticket to the driver, tell him I'll take my backpack on board, and step into the air-conditioned climate of the bus. First aboard means first pick of seats, and I choose one near the back and lay down. Fucked if I'm sitting next to anyone tonight. I slip straight into sleep, and when I wake again we're pulling into the Station in the Big Smoke.

***

Time to do the business. Only problem is it's three in the morning, so I've got some waiting to do.

Feeling awake, I head into the bowels of the city. The streets are crammed with young, drunk revellers. Three in the am of a Saturday morning equals thousands of hot girls in nice dresses and high-heeled shoes. They're all in make-up, their hair looking perfect and smelling unbelievably good in their designer perfume. Well, at least they were at the start of the night. By now they're reduced to staggering, squealing pods of land porpoises; arm-in-arm, laughing at lame jokes none of them remember; fending off horny guys looking for an easy root; eating burgers and fries and kebabs that will give them the guilts for the next three days. Still, though - some of 'em are goddamn sexy...

I wander the city, enjoying my freedom. Inebriated guys and girls strike up random conversations with me, and I'm happy to talk. One girl - a blonde thing in a figure-hugging green dress - starts asking me questions about where I'm from and why I'm walking the streets dressed in a hoody and jeans at this hour. I can tell instantly that she's a girl who likes the bad boys; gets off on the thought of being with a guy from the wrong side of the tracks. Her group of ugly friends attempt to pull her away from me, but she shrugs out of their grasp and moves close to me. She slurs something very un-sexy about going home with me. I confess that I don't have a home, per se, and thus I can't escort her back to my "bachelor pad." She looks at me with blank eyes, trying to figure out who I am and why she's talking to me. "You... you're funny, man... you got no house... ta go home wif..."

I know what's coming, so I step back. She chunders all over the piece of concrete I've just moved from, retching and hawking. Her friends seem pleased with this development, and swoop in like protective mothers. I call a friendly goodbye and jog on, so to speak. Women, man. Crazy.

I remember from an athletics trip to the city a few years back, that there's a homeless shelter not far from where I am, so I beat a path that way. We had all laughed at the homeless folks asleep on the streets or hanging outside the shelter the last time I'd been here. Immature, judgemental little bastards that we were, one and all.

Once I track the place down, it's locked up for the night. This makes sense, so I decide to curl up outside on the path and wait till morning. I've got enough warm clothing for a night on the street, and it's not even cold this time of year. Summer's on it's way.

An old Maori chap is a few metres down the path from me. He says Kia Ora to me and offers me a ciggie. I politely decline, and answer his enquiries about my circumstances. Up from a small town for a few days. Family business to attend to. No relatives with houses up here, so the street it is. He chuckles softly, and coughs harshly; almost a bark from the depths of his lungs. He tells me he's been homeless going on 17 years. Wife kicked him out because of his drinking, kids all estranged, hasn't seem them since before he took to the streets. Had one grandson, but got kicked out when he was just a baby. "Tell you what, boy," he tells me in a kind tone. "Don't you lose your whanau, you hear? Biggest regret'a my life, that is."

I smile at him and promise I won't. He smiles back, tells me goodnight, and shuffles down into his decrepit sleeping bag. When I wake at dawn he is gone, not a trace of his existence left behind.

***

I can't stop thinking about what the old dude said. His words are etched in me. Unfortunately the only member of my whanau I've ever known is my grandmother. She raised me after my mother left me at her house and never returned. No dad. No siblings. Only my Grandma. She stayed in her house back home after I got locked up, and I was expecting to find her there when I caught the cab from the boys' home. All I found was an empty house and no Grandma. The key was still hidden where it always was, so I let myself in and began trying to find her.

72 hours later I found out where she was. I had spent the previous three days earning money to get drunk. Thankfully I had earned some, because I would need it to get to her.

I trafficked some pot around town for some guys I knew. They let me keep a cut, knowing that I was just out of lockup and needed the dosh. I mowed Grinch's lawn for twenty bucks. I even answered an advert in the local rag about doing various yard work for an elderly lady who was paying $200 for two days work. I slaved my guts out those two days, took the money, and shot to the Bus Station.

Early on my second day of freedom the police had shown up at my Grandma's house. I'd only just arrived home after a night with my old girlfriend. No sleep. As soon as the pigs rolled up, I jumped under the bed and hid. Last thing I wanted right now was to deal with those bastards. They rapped on the doors but eventually left.

Everybody I saw over the next two days - when I wasn't slaving in the old lady's backyard jungle - told me the police were looking for me. No one dobbed me in. The pigs stayed stumm on why I was wanted. I stayed alert and avoided police detection.

At eleven am on the Friday morning - my third day out - I received a voice message on my old cellphone from a nurse at the Big Smoke Hospital. "Kilton Deans, this is Nurse Jenny Freeman. I am ringing on behalf of your Grandmother, Francis Anaru..."

***

It is half past ten in the morning by the time I find the Hospital. I ask for Nurse Freeman, and she is luckily on shift. The male nurse I've been dealing with asks me to take a seat in a row of green, plastic moulds and pages Nurse Freeman.

When she arrives I'm blown away. The quintessential "Shortland Street" nurse - hot, young, intelligent - greets me. Her shy smile gives way to a concerned frown when she tells me, "Your Grandmother isn't well. Come, there isn't much time."

***

She is hooked to a breathing apparatus. There are hoses and pipes hanging out of her face and arms. She is a shell of the robust woman who raised me. She is so frail, but her white hair is beautiful and her skin is like delicate brown paper. I kiss her softly on the cheek and announce myself.

"Nan, it's me - Kilton. I made it, Nan. I didn't know where you were till the nurse tracked me down on my phone. You must have given it to her. Did you, Nan?"

Her breathing is laboured. Wheezing and wilting. She is my life-blood and I break down.

"I'm so sorry, Nan. I shouldn't have got locked up. I should have been a better person. I'm going to change, Nan, I promise. For you."

She stirs. Her eyes flicker open. They are watery; inky almost. I realise she is blind. She croaks my name, soft like a drop of rain on a rose petal. She lifts an arm to me.

I move in and wrap my arms around her. I try with every pore to filter some of my youthfulness, my energy - which now seems grotesque, selfish, around my Nan who has almost none left - into her body. I tell her I love her and I cry into her perfectly white hair.

She lifts my head and touches my face. "Kilton, my baby, you made it. The police couldn't find you, but you made it. I love you so, so much."

"I know, Nan. I know."

"You were all I had. You were my shining light, son. After your mother left. And then I kicked your Koro out because of his drinking when you were a baby... You were my world, Kilton. He never came back, your Koro. I heard he lived on the streets up here, but I never found him... It is my biggest regret, boy. My biggest regret. But you came, so I can leave now. Thank you, Kilton. I love you, son."

My mind flashed back to the old Maori man outside the shelter. The one kicked out because of his drinking...

"Nan, I found him! I found him, Nan! I found him!"

But it was too late. She was gone, and her soul rose from the room.

***

When is too much not enough?