All I Ever Wanted (18 page)

She's huffing, purple with rage or lack of oxygen. ‘Back off, Tarrant, and hold that pony of yours,' she says calmly. She grips her club with white knuckles.

Mrs Tkautz lets her crowbar fall into the mud and puts her hands over her face.

Welles rams the door for the last time before I hear it rebound off the inside wall.

Mick lets Gargoyle go.

I stand on the end of the bridge to see Mum disappear under it, her golf club high above her head. She lets rip with a banshee wail and goes in swinging.

Feet on stairs.

No more time.

I pick up the package. Benny was right. It's a long way up, but not far down. And Benny knows things.

So I jump.

TWENTY-ONE

I land like a cat on all fours but the mud is like jelly and one ankle rolls over. Sickening, white-hot pain shoots up my leg and any chance of escape is gone with it. I hear Mum shriek and all I can think is that I can't get to her.

‘Mum!' I yell, but there's mud in my eyes and my mouth and all that comes out is a gurgle. I flip over and scrabble backwards like a sand crab, but I get stuck. I wipe my eyes. I can't see. I pat the ground around me but the package isn't there. Mud drips through my empty hands. I've lost it. Again. My eyes are stinging and each swipe rubs the grit in deeper. Something touches my hair and my neck.

‘Stay still!' Mrs Tkautz shouts.

‘Tarrant, you are a dead man,' from Mum.

‘Don't anybody move,' from above.

Oh,
shit!
I can't see anything. I can't hear anything either, except for my own ragged breaths. I can smell something though: a hot blast of foulness that makes me gag. And something else, a familiar smell that triggers a feeling of déjà vu and dread. What the hell
is
that?

‘Mum!' I scream again.

‘Keep very still, baby!' she calls out. ‘Please don't move. I'm coming.'

She sounds weird, and so far away. I freeze.

Tears of frustration well up and I can feel them rinsing my eyes clean. I tilt my face up to the rain and slowly the whole crazy scene comes into focus.

Mrs Tkautz has her hands pressed together, like she's praying.

Benny's eyes have a terrible clarity I've never seen. His hands pat the air in front of him and he hums, deep in his throat.

To my right, Mum is standing near the doorway to the tower. Why isn't she moving? Why is she just standing there? I blink and blink.

‘Mum,' I croak.

I can't get enough air. No air. There's pressure on my throat. I put my hands up and there's the noose, tightening around my neck. I feel a tug from somewhere above me like I'm a puppet on a string. I try to kneel, to relieve the tension on the rope, but there's a heel on my shoulder. Panic and pressure make my airway close. I wedge my fingers under the rope and pull it away from my skin.

‘Be still, baby,' Mum calls. ‘Not long now.'

Not long for what? Not long until I pass out? Not long until my eyeballs burst?

Gargoyle's breath hits me again, mingled with that familiar smell, the one I now recognise. Bourbon. Tarrant's face peers into mine. Burn blisters make him even more hideous and up close I can see how truly crazy he is. In that look I know he's going to kill me for what I did.

I whimper and Gargoyle looks at me, then back at Tarrant. He's poised for a command and I think if I move again it might set him off. So much for karma. So much for our understanding.

Needles of numbness are beginning in my fingers and toes.

Mum's fixed stare.

Gargoyle's confused eyes flick back and forth.

Tarrant says, ‘What are you doing?'

My vision growing dark.

‘Put it down, woman. Put the crowbar down.'

Dizziness.

A rush of movement, waves of sound.

Growling.

Black.

Black.

Screaming.

Sweet, sweet air.

Sideways in the mud.

Warm hands.

Blood pounds to my brain, my throat burns.

I'm crying.

Rain.

‘Is she okay?'

Gargoyle's wise eyes.

Mud-spattered calves. Bare feet and purple toenails.

Rivers of red. And Donna Tarrant, an angel in a blue dress.

‘She's okay,' Mum says.

‘I think I killed him.'

‘God knows he had it coming, Donna.'

A little man and a giant that blocks out the sky.

Rain.

My mother, cradling my head in the rain.

TWENTY-TWO

Sometime during the night, the rain must have stopped. I can still taste what's left of it in the air. All night I've been trying to put the pieces together in my mind. Nothing fits.

I rest on the couch, my ankle strapped and raised on a pillow. Mum brings me cool drinks and painkillers at regular intervals. Her bedside manner is less than comforting, though; she huffs and sighs like she's got a slow leak.

‘Do you need anything?' Mum asks. She runs a gentle finger over the swelling around my throat.

I shake my head. ‘No. I'm fine.'

She plumps the pillow, sending a jab of pain through my foot.

‘Geez, Mum. Take it easy.'

‘You're all right. It could have been worse.'

‘I know.'

‘You're a bloody fool, though. I have to say it.'

‘I know.' Her gaze burns but I hold it. At least it's something. ‘Mum, what happened? I can't work it out. Is Mick Tarrant dead? What happened to Welles?'

‘Of course he's not dead. Everything's been taken care of.' She nods to herself. ‘Welles has been warned. Feeney said to tell you he's sorry he was late, but if you'd done what you were told it wouldn't have been a problem. And I told him, next time assume she will do the opposite and we won't need Plan B. It's probably best for everyone if you don't work it all out. Just do as you're told, next time.'

‘So Donna hit Mick?' I keep thinking of my angel. I can see her standing over Mick, the crowbar all set to keep swinging for as long as it takes.

‘And Gargoyle attacked him.'

‘How bad was it?'

‘Poor Mick,' she says, lips twitching. ‘He slipped and fell.' Then she laughs, a harsh sound that echoes in our nearly empty lounge room. ‘He walked into a door.'

I can hear Mum's voice:
God knows he had it coming,
Donna
.

‘Wow,' I whisper.

Mum shakes her head. ‘That woman's been living scared out of her mind for more than a decade and she decided in that moment to do something about it. You have no idea the courage that took, Mim.'

‘I think I do,' I say. If I could stand, I'd wrap my arms around her middle and just sink into her. ‘Mum?'

‘What?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry for what?'

‘Sorry for everything.'

She comes back. Stands in the doorway.

‘No, Mim. Not good enough. Spell it out for me. What are you sorry for?'

‘Sorry for being a bitch. For going behind your back and being rude to the neighbours. I'm sorry I lost your package.'

She sucks in her breath and I think,
Here it comes,
finally. Please let her blow
. I want her back in all her fierce, beautiful, vein-popping glory.

‘That's what you're sorry for? Those things don't hurt me, they hurt
you
. It's the rules, Mim, the bloody rules! I saw them. I knew you used to hang out at that signal tower but I never suspected it was the control room for your big plan. Your bloody escape plan. I saw it. What was it? Rule number one.
I will not turn out like my mother
.'

I can feel the blood drain from my head and pound in my foot. It leaves me feeling light-headed, like I could just waft away.

‘I know they're stupid.'

‘Oh, I'm not finished with you. Some of the others, I can understand. No drinking. No drugs. No tattoos.
Don't trust anybody
? You think it's that simple? Do the exact opposite of everyone around you and that's your ticket?' She paces and the floor shakes. ‘You already had your ticket, babe. Your people, that's your ticket. Because you can fly all you want, but if you've got nowhere to land, you're fucked. And you've always had somewhere to land. That, my darling, is salvation. Good and bad, drunks, witches, tarts and drug dealers.
We
are your people. One day, you'll get that.'

I get it. I can still see my fat mum, swinging her club, ready to take on three blokes and a crazy dog, for me. There was never a tag team, like the wood pigeons. Just her.

‘I get it,' I say.

‘Do you? Do you really? At least I understand now why I've been living with a shadow for the last couple of years.'

‘I broke the rules. Most of them, anyway. They were just something I hung on to until I could figure some stuff out.'

‘Which ones?' she barks.

‘What?'

‘Which ones did you break?' She pulls up my T-shirt and checks me over. ‘None that I can see, so that leaves the other.' She puts her hands on her hips, a human kettle, blowing steam.

I can tell her all of it now.

I'll tell her I almost went all the way with a guy I thought I loved. The way Jordan treated me, like I was a second-class citizen, that's the way I treat people. I'll tell her that I gave my trust to a beast with a broken spirit, and that trust was returned. I get that being a drunk doesn't define the whole person. Nor does being a witch with one eye. Good girls get tattoos and best friends aren't perfect reflections of one another. Being uneducated isn't the same as being stupid. There are no neat little boxes.

For now, I tell her, ‘I did a drug deal.'

‘You
what?
'

‘You know. The package. That was the start of it all, really.'

‘That's what you think? I made you pick up drugs?' She shakes her head.

‘You said not to open it.'

‘I would never,
ever
ask you to pick up drugs.'

The package. That elusive thing, the first domino. I fought so hard for it and it's not what I thought it was. Did that make this whole week pointless?

‘So, what was it?' I ask, trying to keep control.

She lifts her chin. ‘It doesn't really matter now. You'll figure it out, in good time.'

‘Mum?'

‘What?'

‘That woman. The one from Welfare. Is she going to put me in foster care?'

She snorts. ‘Where the
hell
did you get that idea?'

‘Benny said.'

‘You've always thought of Benny as some kind of sorcerer. Don't you get it? Things aren't always what they seem. Would it help if I told you the truth about the legend of Mr Benetti's vegetable patch?'

‘What about it?'

‘Benny didn't piss on it. He didn't curse it either. He poured a full gallon of weedkiller over it and that's not sorcery, that's plain old spite.'

The truth. There's been a lot of that this week. ‘So she is from Welfare? Benny said she takes kids away.'

‘Yes, and she gives them back, too. She's assessing me for adoption. Will. Matty's baby. His mum has put him into care because she can't cope. I'm not losing another one.' Mum plumps the pillow again.

‘Geez, leave it, Mum. Is Will coming to live with us?'

‘I hope so, yes.'

‘And where is it? The package? What's in it?'

‘It's safe. So if you've figured out so much, smartarse, why the hell did you dive off the tower?'

I laugh. ‘Benny said it wasn't far down.'

‘Fuckin Benny,' she hoots.

Hobbling, I stand and reach for her. I put my arms around her middle and rest my face on her big, warm boobs. Her skin is as soft and warm as I remember it. Shoot me if I don't turn out just like her.

She rubs her hands over my head and face like she's trying to read me with her fingertips. Gruffly she says, ‘Go on. That's enough.'

She lumbers off to the kitchen and I hear the crackle of a packet. A little later, the smell of pancakes. The sure and steady thud of her moving around, like there always was.

TWENTY-THREE

Seventeen is just another number.

I need to get my driver's licence, but the truth is, I've never imagined myself driving anywhere. Flying over mountains, sailing the seas, riding a horse or a camel or a yak along the edge of a steep and crumbly hillside somewhere in Nepal, yes. But not driving. It seems so… mundane.

Birthdays are like Christmas and Easter: I wake, stretch and shift until my feet butt against a satisfying weight at the end of the bed. There's always been something there, before and since I figured out that Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were in fact a fat woman who loves me.

Today, I stretch my legs and my ankle throbs. I poke with my good foot but there's nothing there. The house is silent. There's a terse note by the kettle that reads:
Clean
out the shed. No excuses.
Happy bloody birthday.

I take a lukewarm shower and dress. Choke down some cereal and limp out to the porch with an instant coffee. Seventeen is just another number, but today it's
my
number. Where the hell is everybody? It's past ten o'clock, for crying out loud.

Benny's cockpit is empty. Further up the street there are a few cars parked outside the Tarrant place. I'm curious, but not enough to check it out. I feel flat and empty inside. I put on some thongs and grab a broom and a bin bag.

A sudden bang makes me jump. I stand and peer around the corner of the house. The shed door is open. It's always locked. Always.

I put one foot in front of the other despite the tingling in my gut. The wind catches the door again and the impact makes me flinch. I stop. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe Mum's just forgotten to lock the door after her. Surely this adventure is over.

The gnome has fallen over and his nose has snapped off. I reach inside him but the key is missing. My instincts are screaming at me to go back into the house, lock the door and pretend this isn't happening.