Eyrie (27 page)

A
s Gemma took another of her interminable showers Keely sat in the yard beneath the noise of stirring birds. Almost fully light now and the morning easterly stirred the trees. Beyond the aimless trails of rustic paving the grass was unkempt and snarls of bougainvillea had colonized the hibiscus and frangipani. The big motley plane tree rested hard against the fence and last year’s leaves lay everywhere like the remains of a betting plunge. Parked in beside the leaf-shingled shed, the dinghy gave him a pang. He’d been putting it off but he knew he had to give it up, job or no job.

A blur of movement at the corner of his eye. Kai’s face at the window. He waved.

The boy came out onto the deck in just his pyjama shorts. Hesitated, then came on down to join him.

I went looking, said the boy. I didn’t see you.

This weekend, said Keely. Let’s put the boat in the water, go see that bird again. What d’you reckon?

The boy nodded.

Can I get in?

Now? Sure.

Keely strode over, hoisted him up. There were deep, heartrending dimples above his shoulderblades. Kai clambered to the rear thwart, reached for the tiller, and the moment he assumed the posture of skipper his solemnity failed him. Such a grin of pleasure. Transformed. And Keely felt a vicious sweep of feeling. If anyone should touch this child. Anyone.

*

At breakfast Doris was brisk. She moved at such speed there was no spare moment in which to pull her aside, make an apology, explain himself, give undertakings. He wanted to reassure her but she hurtled by, citing a meeting at eight, her only breaks in momentum the little fussing pauses over Kai that seemed like in-jokes between her and the boy, brief but lavish gestures of affection that Kai drank up. Doris was hurt. Keely could see that. And angry. Now she was moving in on Kai. Making the save.

She crashed out the door in a dark suit, her satchel and handbag clutched to her hip.

In the wake of her departure, with Gemma already in bed, he waited as Kai dressed himself for school. Saw his own pillow and folded sheets on the couch. Protruding from beneath them, a sheaf of papers. Too neatly collated and placed to be accidental. When he riffled through he saw they were sheets from a legal pad. But this was not Doris’s work. A list of words.

On the sideboard, beside the ancient Scrabble set, was a dictionary – the Concise Oxford.

*

Traffic was slow on the highway. Kai sniffed furtively now and then but was not talkative.

So who won last night? Keely asked as they sat in a snarl by the rail crossing.

Doris.

She’s a terror for those little words at the end.

The boy nodded absently.

You working on your M-words?

Kai leant forward, opened the glovebox, rummaged through. Keely saw a hairbrush, a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

M is a good letter, said Keely.

Three points, said Kai.

And there’s only two of them. Isn’t that right?

The boy flipped the glovebox shut and held out his hands. For a moment Keely thought it was the preface to a game, some joke Doris had taught him. And then he saw the creases in his palms.

Two, said Kai.

D
riving by Stewie’s again was tempting fate. He knew it, but couldn’t resist. After all, what did he expect to see – doors and windows thrown open in panic, speed-freaks tearing at their hair, a taxi being loaded with binbags?

As it happened, the place looked undisturbed. Office drones trudged by, a bloke hosed the pavement at the pub on the corner, hippies coasted past on bikes in the direction of the Strip.

He drove to South Beach, swam a ginger lap. Watched a bloke with his granddaughter building a sandcastle at the water’s edge.

Outside Stewie’s again, later in the morning, in the shade of a casuarina, he waited for the postie to swing by. Nuts. Being there, lurking in that blighted car. But he wanted to
see
something. So badly needed to witness some action, evidence of an outcome, a stirring of the pot. Oh, to see the look on Stewie’s canine face. Yes, he wanted that. Next time he’d send a parcel, a courier. Ramp this thing up. Lay siege. Full campaign.

But nothing was happening. No postman. No movement at all.

He drove back to Doris’s. Keyed up. Frustrated. Crept about in the cool refuge of the kitchen. Made himself a sandwich. Felt all his mother’s oil paintings watching, unblinking, expectant. It welled up in him. This urgent desire to see something happen, make it happen.

Stalked carefully down the hall. The door to the spare room was ajar. Gemma lay asleep in a singlet and undies, a hip and thigh exposed, one arm dangling from the bed. The soles of her feet were yellowish, heels cracked. The top sheet was rucked into a wedge where she’d kicked it down. On the floor beside Kai’s mattress were a few books, his laptop. Keely snuck in, grabbed the Acer.

Out on the kitchen table he booted the thing up, hooked into Doris’s wireless network. And keyed in the name.

It was too good to be true. He had to stifle a bark of delight. The little turd was on Facebook. There were several Stewart Russells and even more Russell Stewarts, but here he was, plain as dog’s balls, Stewie himself. Mista Gangsta. A wall of crim poses and tattoo displays. Arms across the shoulders of vamping molls in titty tops. Likes to PARTAAAAY. Approves of Black Eyed Peas, Wu-Tang Clan, Funkmaster Flex and a solid block of names that meant nothing at all to Keely. Has twenty-seven friends, lucky lad. What a cohort. What a boon to the culture.

And there she was. Carly. The girl from the happy snap in Gemma’s kitchen. A sexier, stringier version of that young woman. With kohl-ringed eyes and a fuck-you snarl. Still friends. Still in contact.

Keely sat back. Head spritzing.

Should have thought of it sooner. Because it really was tempting. All it would take was a new email address. A girl’s name. And a slutty photo to go with it. Some lame story he’d spin to Stewie about having bumped into him at a pub. Then, pretty soon, after a bit of Liking and Friending he’d be rattling around in Stewie’s hood. Talking shit. Sharing pics. Mixing in. Like a shadow-self. Just biding his time. Until he started lobbing a few grenades into his world. All he’d need was a bit of footage from a phone. Say, Stewie at his front gate. Doing something apparently harmless. But with an inflammatory caption. Along with his street address. Something impossible to ignore. Didn’t need to be true. Better if it wasn’t. KIDDY FIDDLER IN OUR MIDST. Some mad vigilante thing. And – click – upload it to YouTube. Flick it to all Stewie’s friends. Blam. Out there. Wildfire. It’d be a frigging riot. In five minutes it’d be viral. Pestilential. Exactly the sort of no-holds-barred guerrilla campaign he’d never let the kids in the movement unleash, regardless of how often they pleaded for it. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. Surround him with phantoms. Grind him to a gibbering pulp.

He shut the machine down. Crept back to Gemma’s room, set it beside the boy’s mattress.

Food for thought. But he’d need money. And a little help. Postcards were only going to get him so far.

A
fter school Kai ran to the car. Buckled himself in, cranked up the window and locked the door.

Not such a good day, then?

The boy slid down in his seat and said nothing.

Fancy a swim?

Kai shook his head.

Right, he said. Back to dear-dear Doris’s. I’ll give you a game.

The boy gave him nothing.

How about a kick? There’s gotta be a ball somewhere.

Silence.

What about the boat, Kai? We’ll squirt out on the river, eh?

Kai looked sceptical. They settled in for the grinding crawl up the four-lane. Keely got nothing more out of him.

When they walked into the kitchen, Gemma was up and Doris was home, still in her silk blouse and skirt. There was a cheerful air in the room that seemed to falter the moment he arrived. The women fussed over the boy, who was still out of sorts but suffered their attentions with patience.

Any requests for dinner? he asked.

Doris’s bought steak, said Gemma. And there’s spuds and salad.

Okay, he said. Excellent.

Doris deftly avoided his gaze. He cancelled all plans to quiz her about the day. When there was frost on the lawn all you could do was wait for things to thaw. He went outside. Raked leaves halfheartedly until dinner.

At the table the women got to reminiscing.

We used to say you looked like some movie star, said Gemma.

Bollocks, said Doris, dragging her hair free from its workday bun.

Nah, it’s true.

What about yourself? said Doris. Who were you – Bo Derek?

Women, he thought. What a marvel they are.

He washed and dried the dishes as they kicked on, laughing and sledging till nightfall.

*

At eight, when Kai was in bed, Keely announced he was heading out for a stroll.

Gemma ironed her work smock. Doris was thumbing messages on her phone. He caught his mother’s glance at the bowl on the bench: the car keys.

Just a walk, he said with a bland smile.

I need some air meself, said Gemma, her rare animation undiminished.

Haven’t you got work? he asked.

Not till nine. It’s a stroll, not a hike, right?

Keely shrugged. He would have preferred to go alone but now he was snookered.

Doris paused a moment, stared at the tiny screen of the phone, as if it really were the focus of her attention.

You mind, Doris? asked Gemma.

Go ahead, said his mother. I’m not going anywhere.

*

By the river the air was still and thick. Gemma prattled excitedly. There was no relief from the heat, his sense of entrapment. Under the trees the foreshore smelt of fallen figs, cut grass and dog shit, and from the narrow beach came the sweaty low-tide odours of brine, algae and stranded jellyfish. The moon hung above the towers of the city. It shimmered on every bend and reach of the river.

She does look like an old movie queen, don’t you think? You probably can’t see it cause she’s your mum.

Whatever you reckon, he said.

And what about me? Who did I look like?

I don’t remember.

Bullshit, she said.

The mown grass was soft underfoot. Tiny waves lapped and sighed onshore.

Mate, I’m not really in the mood.

Come on, she said, who did I remind you of? Would it kill you to say a name?

Fine, he said ungraciously. I thought you looked like Farrah Fawcett.

Gemma gave a little moan of satisfaction.

I guess I wanted every girl to look like her, he said. It was a long time ago.

But Doris still looks like Julie Christie.

Keely sensed he was expected to say something here, pay Gemma some courtly comment, but the idea irritated him. He didn’t understand why her happy mood should irk him so.

The grassy riverbank ended at the limestone bluffs. In the moonlight, the pale fingers of stone shone through the shadow-patches of trees. The track was narrow but white enough to be distinct. They wound on through the undergrowth.

Nico says I look like Brigitte Bardot.

And who’s Nico?

New bloke at work, the French one. He’s a real card. They’re gunna sack him for sure. He opens stuff, food packets. Like chocolates and things. Last night he’s trying to get me to eat em, says I deserve it, says he wants to build me up, says it makes him feel good watchin me eat. There’s cameras everywhere and he’s got me duckin down behind the shelves and the trolleys, and he’s stuffin things in me mouth, the dirty perv. He’s like twenty-eight or somethin.

I guess you’d better be careful, then.

Tired of bein careful, she said. Where are we goin, anyway?

Keely said nothing until they were beneath the great silver trunk of the dead marri. Under moonlight it was stark, smooth, impossibly beautiful, like a stylized theatre prop. It looked dreamy there amidst the dark presences of living trees. The way it glowed. Cantilevered over the water, owning the night. Hard to imagine an ordinary bird alighting on it.

He sensed her beside him, craning to stare. He felt her hand in his.

It’s not there, he said, almost relieved.

She yanked on his arm. He remembered then, she was on at nine. But she dragged him further into the bush, away from home. Was suddenly facing him, stepping in to pull him close. Her tongue was hot in his mouth.

Hey, he said. You’ve got work.

There’s time.

For what?

I need to draw you a picture?

No, he said.

Carn. I’m goin fuckin mental.

She kissed him fiercely and took handfuls of his hair. Their teeth clashed and she laughed.

But there’s nowhere, he said.

She lifted her skirt and guided him down urgently. The stones bit into his knees and a dog barked somewhere as he nuzzled deep between her thighs. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled him away and he knelt there, looking up uncertainly into the pale cascade of her hair.

Say somethin nice, she panted. Nothin dirty, just somethin nice.

But Keely could barely speak at all. He was breathless, mindless with lust.

Christ, she said too loud. They used to beg me. Couldn’t you say I’m pretty? Is it so bloody hard to say?

You want me to stop?

You think I’ll let you stop now? she said, stepping out of her pants.

I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anything.

Just shut up, she said, grabbing his hair again.

He didn’t dare pull away. He stayed where he was until his knees felt lacerated, until she cursed him and whimpered and smacked the back of his head and began to sob.