Jane has a face the colour and consistency of a peeled potato, and she is crying because she has just witnessed the man in the car next door to him hit his wife across the face. She has turned the radio on full blast, some talkback DJs nattering away about Len Brown, to block out the grunted curses. Her head is inclined into the back of the seat in front of her as she attempts to stay out of viewing sight. The seat cushions her snotty nose, and when she pulls away she leaves shiny streaks on the leather. Her mum will go nuts if it crusts.
Her mum lately doesn’t seem to need many reasons to go nuts. Like this morning, with the toaster breaking, and then Jane forgetting to sign the camp form, and the awkward silent car ride with her mother’s eyes flashing through the rear-view mirror at Jane firmly looking out the window. Her mum goes silent when she’s angry, speaking real slow with her mouth pursed and wrinkled. Not like the man outside.
A burst of swearing manages to rise above the meaningless static of the radio, and Jane hunches herself further down into her seat, trying to cry quietly. Her mum promised to be back in twenty minutes, when Jane said she wanted to stay in the car and read the book that now lies discarded in the footwell next to her. The man and his wife had appeared about ten minutes ago, and he’d started hitting her five minutes ago, the veins in his neck swollen and red. His wife seemed to be quiet.
Fight Club:
The first rule about Fight Club is that we don't talk about Fight Club