Clancy of the Undertow (25 page)

‘Yeah,' says Nancy, slumping her shoulders. ‘That sounds about right.'

I go, ‘I just don't understand her deal. She didn't… When I started to kiss her. She kind of started too…'

‘Yeah, well I know what my counsellor would say.
She's working through her own issues. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time
. Which is probably right, but it doesn't make it any less shit for you.'

‘Yeah.' I roll my wheelchair back and forth. ‘She seemed like this…doorway. Like, the answer to all my problems.'

‘We live and learn,' Nancy says. ‘Well, we
live
, anyway. Mostly.'

I stretch. ‘I'm just looking forward to getting back to my own bed, at the very least.'

‘Do your family know? About…?'

I groan. ‘I don't know. Maybe. I think I might have told Mum when I was still drugged up. I hope not.'

‘It might help. Telling them. It might make things easier.'

I bite the inside of my cheek. ‘The old emotional contract, hey?'

Nancy smiles. ‘Stupid name, I guess. But the idea's not all bad.'

‘Well,' I say. ‘Maybe.'

‘Whatever happens, at school,' she says, ‘I've got your back.'

‘Thanks. So you're staying then? In Barwen?'

‘Yeah, of course. They finally sorted the house out. No more motel. No more Danny's Ristorant.'

‘That's so great,' I say, as a little ballast is cut free from my mind. ‘So great.' Somewhere above us, a generator clanks on. The day's disappearing. ‘So we should start work on that friendship manual,' I say.

‘Hah! Yeah. Don't want anyone else ending up like us.'

‘Don't want
us
ending up like us.'

Nancy smiles. ‘I don't know about that. I think we're worth the few extra chapters.'

44

She's got this long dress on that shimmers, even under the vapid blare of the shopping centre's fluorescent lights.

‘Are you going to an awards show after work?' I say.

‘Every day is a reward, my darling,' says Eloise. ‘Never forget this. And it never harms to add a little glamour to life!' She dips her shoulder like in a tango and despite myself I laugh. ‘But it is so wonderful to see you, Clancy!' She leans over the counter to kiss me on both cheeks.

It feels weird to be standing outside the booth. Everything seems nothing like it's supposed to.

‘Just one moment, per favore,' Eloise says to Mrs Capshaw—one of a gaggle of pensioners she gives free makeovers to in exchange for their loyalty—who is sitting on one of the stools by the Hollywood mirror.

Mrs Capshaw nods, gives me a little wave. ‘Good to see you back love.'

I wave back, a nervous smile bouncing onto my face. It's my first trip to town since coming out of hospital. I had to literally wrench myself free of Mum's grasp when she dropped me off.

It's great to be back home, but it's still driving me crazy. Angus and I are both recovering, which means, basically, me trying to use the TV to rewatch all of
Gilmore Girls
and my brother violently disagreeing. I needed to see the outside world, at least once, before I have to go back to school next week.

‘How are you, my darling?' Eloise holds one hand to my cheek, searching me out with her opal eyes.

‘I'm fine,' I say, trying to muster as much positivity as I can. ‘You know…' I try to indicate my entire body. The worst of it is I have no injuries you can see. Not like Angus, who's been using his cast and crutches as a universal get-out-of-responsibility-free card.

‘So brave,' Eloise says. ‘Everyone knows how brave you are, now. For all things.'

I furrow my brow. I'm not sure I want to go into the full extent of my supposed bravery. Anyway, so far this morning no one has shouted at me, called me names or done any of the horrible things my brain has been imagining.

The day is still young, of course.

I smell cinnamon and hot oil behind me. ‘What's the nine-oh-seven?' I say, even before turning around.

Reeve looks shocked. ‘I was going to surprise you.'

‘Need to work on your ninja skills,' I say. I yoink a donut from his bag.

Reeve lowers his voice. ‘So listen, I thought you'd want to know.' He stops there.

I stare at him. ‘Want to know what?'

‘About the accident.'

‘Which one?'

He winces. ‘Sorry. The one your dad was involved in.'

My heartbeat jerks. ‘What about it?'

‘Charlie Jencke. They finally…' he lowers his voice again. ‘They did the autopsy.'

I pull the donut away from my face. ‘Right. And?'

‘He'd been drinking. They found alcohol in his system, and weed.'

‘Shit. How do you know?'

‘I have my sources.' He takes a big bite and there's cinnamon on his top lip. ‘Tran at the print shop,' he says with his mouth full. ‘His brother works at the medical centre. But guess what?'

I give him a stare like
just tell me
.

‘The booze was one thing, but the real thing is the car had something wrong with it. The wheel alignment or something. Would've affected how it braked.'

‘So…it was the car?'

Reeve shrugs. ‘Don't know for sure. But guess who sold his dad the car? Guess who serviced it?'

Everything goes slow as I try to catch up to Reeve's words.

‘Pfister. Motors.' He punctuates each word with a finger. ‘And guess which Pfister was supposed to have done the roadworthy? Our friend Buggs.'

‘Holy shit.'

‘The police are looking at the whole set-up.'

‘But Buggs's uncle is a cop.'

‘That's what makes it so good! It's this big thing, now. This whole investigation.'

‘God. What about Dad?'

‘I dunno, but I'm pretty sure in a couple of days the Pfisters are all the town's going to be talking about.'

I look around me, at all the people walking past, going about their lives. Families with trolleys, a trail of kids behind. Old guys with flannel shirts and a farmer's stoop. A group of girls, younger than me, in matching cut-offs and singlets, vamping to their own internal top-forty soundtracks. Are they worrying about anyone else but themselves? Are they thinking about me, or Dad, or Charlie Jencke, or Buggs or Sasha?

‘It's good news,' says Reeve. ‘It'll take all the heat off your dad.'

‘I guess.' I suppose it should make me happy, but all I can think about is Charlie's family, and Cassandra's. Whoever they get to blame, it won't change what happened.

I watch Mrs Capshaw tottering past me, top heavy with makeup, and I wave.

‘You are not too distracted from your job, Security Guard Lewis?' Eloise taps the side of her head with the end of a makeup brush.

‘Just filling Clancy in on the latest retail strategies,' Reeve says.

‘Well, she probably has plenty of other things on her mind than that.'

Reeve gives me eyes like
that's my cue
and hands me the bag with the last donut in it. ‘Coffee,' he says, ‘next week? Maybe?'

‘Definitely,' I say.

45

We're on the verandah squeezing the last moments from Sunday. Angus is having beers and I've had half of one because he can't open the bottles with his arm in a cast, which is pretty great. Titch has got the hose on. He's made a river around his feet that runs back under the house and probably pools around my broken bike. It's still under there somewhere but I'm hoping I won't get a new one. I'm hoping a car is the next step. No one's realised Angus's bike is missing, or at least no one's mentioned it to me. I guess wrecking his ute was a masterstroke of diversion.

Dad's coming up the driveway and, as he steps from the car, he's still got his towel wrapped around him from the pool. I wish we had a pool. It's like the rain's still in the ground and the sun's pulling it out, making it slap us in the face as it floats back to the clouds. I pull a flannel out of the esky that holds the beer and the ice pack for my ribs and drape it back over my face.

‘Did you bring ice-creams?' says Titch, whose concept of a pool doesn't proceed past the refreshment stand.

‘Clancy would like a Gaytime,' says Angus, and I take the flannel off and fake-punch his cast so he flinches like a baby.

‘How was aquarobics, Dad?' I say.

‘Pretty good,' he says. ‘Still the youngest person there.' He stretches from side to side, doing fake swimming moves that would have had him white with pain a few weeks ago.

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘but only by a fortnight or so.'

‘Cheeky bugger,' says Dad. He takes off his towel—thankfully he's wearing boardies underneath—and twirls it around into a point.

‘Perfect,' he says. ‘Still wet enough to have a bit of weight behind it.'

‘I'm injured,' I say. ‘You can't towel-flick an injured girl.'

‘Yeah,' says Angus. ‘She might fall over and break her butt again.'

I stand up and shove my arse in his face. ‘You can suck my coccyx.'

Dad raises his hands. ‘I'll leave you two great minds alone. Dinner at six-thirty.'

Angus and I give him a salute as he disappears inside.

‘Get us another beer, can you?' says Angus.

I go, ‘Mate, Fair Go At Work!' and he cracks up.

Some lady came down from Brisbane once the accident report came out, turned up on our doorstep in this polo shirt with
Fair Go at Work!
on the front and back. Angus and I kept saying it to each other until Mum made us stop.

That night, Dad told us she was with the State Government and they wanted to talk to him about the council's treatment of workers. She went over the accident with him, but also his back injury and how he'd got bugger-all support. The night of the crash he'd gone nine hours without a break. He's already got some backdated compo, with maybe more to come.

Angus burps loudly. ‘Looking forward to school tomorrow?'

I make a foghorn noise. ‘Don't remind me. Might still get out of it. I mean, come on.' I lift up my shirt where the yellow bruise still shows the outline of my ribs.

‘Put 'em away. Jesus.'

I stretch my side, testing the dull ache for the millionth time.

‘Gotta face it sometime,' he says. ‘Gotta get those good grades.'

‘God.' I rake my hands over my face. ‘Gotta face my new identity, you mean.'

‘New identity?'

‘I'm a gay weirdo now, not just a regular weirdo. Sasha's made sure of that.'

‘Nah.' Angus takes a sip of beer. ‘She's finished now, all that shit with Buggs and his dad, that's all anyone cares about. Bloody classic.'

I put my feet up on the esky. ‘I dunno. Mum wants me to talk to a counsellor.'

‘Get you scared straight?'

‘Piss off. No, just generally.'

‘Might help. Never know.' He finishes his beer. ‘The Gaytime stuff. You know I'm just giving you shit?'

‘It's all going in my tell-all autobiography,' I say, ‘all the hate crimes. You'll get yours at the Hague.'

Angus laughs. ‘I did save your life.'

‘I did save yours.'

‘True.'

I wiggle lower in my chair, stretching my feet out to catch the last of the sun's warmth.

‘What about you?' I say. ‘What's the next great expedition?'

‘Eh. Get a job, I guess. There's a vacancy at the Beauty Station, isn't there?'

‘Only until final term's over. Gonna sell so much Beauty over the holidays.'

Angus sighs. ‘Gonna write to the manufacturer of that tripod,' he says, for the thousandth time. His camera and sound recorder were wrecked when a branch came down on the hideout, tearing a hole in the tent, letting the water in. ‘If it hadn't fallen over, we would've had the footage. I wouldn't have ended up breaking my bloody arm. I could've had real evidence.' He stares at his cast. ‘I dunno.'

We haven't really talked about that night on the mountain, about the dark shape lit by lightning. Perhaps it was something, perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

I go, ‘You still heading to the mines?'

‘Maybe. Got no savings now. Might get some work in town. Maybe stack shelves for a bit.'

‘You could go back to uni.'

‘Yeah, maybe. If I wait a year I can move out with you.'

‘No. Way.'

‘Come on, it'll be great! I'll show you the ways of the world.'

‘I should've left you at the bottom of that cliff.'

‘Then you wouldn't have been able to wreck my car.'

Angus raises his empty bottle and I bump it with my fist.

‘To the future,' he says.

‘To the future,' I say. ‘And whatever's after that.'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was a strange convergence of luck, timing and people being very patient with me, so I would like to sincerely thank:

My wonderful family, especially my parents Paul and Judy and my brother Andrew, for always being there for me (and in the case of my brother, lending me money and a laptop right when I needed it most).

My incomparable editor Mandy Brett, who acted not at all surprised when I brought her a YA book instead of the two other serious adult books I had promised her. Her guidance and advice were, as ever, invaluable.

The early readers of the book, for their encouragement and advice: Leesa Currie, Hannah Andrews, Rebecca Shaw and Judy Currie.

The whole team at Text Publishing, who, as a company, actually stop to have a drink with you when you visit them, and are so supportive it hurts. A special thanks must go to Imogen Stubbs for her amazing cover design. I want to be buried with that font.

My amazing and talented workmates at Avid Reader Bookshop and Where the Wild Things Are, especially my bosses Fiona Stager and Kevin Guy, who show, by example, what pride in your work can really achieve.