Eyrie (28 page)

G
emma wasn’t long gone when Doris emerged from her room to fill the kettle and set it on the hob. Keely was still at the table. Stuck. Just following his hands. Watching the jangly pattern of his own fingers. Pressed them down in the end, those hands. To manage the tremor.

Hot, said Doris.

Keely felt his mouth move. But nothing came. He didn’t want this. To be here. In this bloody tangle.

You okay?

He nodded.

Such a shame, she said. She was in such good spirits at dinner. Felt like we’d – I don’t know – broken through, a little.

He clamped his hands together. And then Doris dropped something onto the table. At his elbow. Kai’s sketchpad.

We need to talk about this.

She opened it about halfway though. The kid had been busy. There were a lot of new drawings organized in crude panels like storyboards. Each sequence featured a rudimentary superhero, a bearded, bear-like colossus. Fists swinging against all comers, legs planted wide, his boots black as his whiskers.

No prizes for guessing who our hero is, then, he said.

And this later one, the fellow with the sword?

Doris leant close. Turned a few more pages. She smelt of coconut shampoo. Tapped the page with a gnarled finger. And there he was himself. A man with a black eye. Like a half-masked Zorro. Dishing out the same rough justice as Nev. With a weapon, no less. The boning knife had become a scimitar and pools of blood lay about, black as Keely’s cartoon shiner.

He showed you these?

Let’s just say they came to my attention.

You don’t miss a trick.

Don’t even start me.

Mum, I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps you should think about why you’re doing anything at all. Whether you’re a fit person. In any sense.

What’re you talking about?

I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.

No, he lied.

Oh, Tom.

I told you the situation.

Which situation?

Well. Gemma’s situation.

Even with that you can’t be straight. You think I enjoy saying this, seeing you do this? Wake up, Tom. Look here. Right in front of you. This anxious little boy. Just look at his pictures.

What the hell do you want me to do? What’m I supposed to do to fix this?

You could start by paying attention.

Jesus. I’m fighting for this kid, Doris.

I think your mind is elsewhere.

That’s a disgusting thing to say.

Maybe after you’ve been to the bathroom and washed your face you’ll come back and still feel the same way.

Keely lurched back from the table and as he stood the chair capsized behind him.

Don’t, said Doris as he headed for the door. Please. We need to discuss this.

He was past listening. He wanted darkness. To be unseen. But there was moon out in the yard, light in the street, the sky bulging at him like a milky eye, and he just kept walking.

S
till scratching his bites, Keely rode the six-thirty to Fremantle.

He’d woken radioactive on the back deck with Gemma squatting beside him. He knew how it must look. Him lying there on the boards in last night’s clothes. As if he’d gone out and got trashed. Then been locked out by Doris. But it wasn’t like that. He didn’t think so. Because although there were gaps he knew there’d been no booze. No pills. He had no money, for one thing. He’d just been walking. Barefoot. Along the river, the leafy streets, under drooling lights. Moth trails. Electric flashes of sky. Until his legs gave out. And then he was in warm sand by the river. Ferry lights, red and green. Then some bastard kicking him awake. Shitheads sporting with him in the cold glare of high beams. Running through gardens. Dogs. Patches of wild bush. He fell, lay a long time. Awake. In the wailing air. And when he finally tottered up the steps to the back door he found Doris had locked it. Prudent, that; he wasn’t taking it personally. He didn’t dare bang on the door. Just lay on the warm deck, waiting for morning. To die. To sleep. Dreaming of dogs streaking from the dark. And waking there, sore, stiff, mozzie-flogged, flayed like a Filipino penitent. With dawn in the wings. Gemma there. Confusing, the way she stroked the thin shell of his head. Like a girl with a horse about to be taken out and shot. She produced a tissue. Blotted his eyes.

What? she whispered. What?

Panadol, he croaked.

It was Thursday. His first day of work beginning in less than two hours.

*

He reached the café on time. Actually he was early. And Bub seemed surprised, as if he’d forgotten the offer or expected a no-show.

Second adolescence, comrade? Bub said, pointing at the lumps on his face and neck.

Bites, he murmured.

That’s all we need, he said. A malarial dishpig. Come on.

Bub led him through to the greasy fug of the kitchen. Gave him a cursory briefing of the racks, the machine, the flow of the benches and sinks. He pointed out the hipster over by the stoves, a bloke in a chef’s jacket and pirate bandanna, scowling at his knife-roll as tongues of flame rose from the hobs behind him.

Steer clear, whispered Bub. Psycho in clogs. Thinks he’s a genius.

What is he really?

A third-rate cook trying to stay off the gear. Why else could I afford him? Why else would he be doing breakfast?

Keely took down an apron. There were pans waiting already and trays of glasses, coffee cups, saucers queued up in front of the old Hobart. His feet hurt. The drum-and-bass on the stereo was torturous. Bub slipped back with a double-shot and a slice of apple cake. Then he left him to the fifteen-bucks-an-hour reality of scraping scum and scouring glassware.

A
t two he limped in ruins to the Mirador.

Day one, he told himself. Fresh start. And feeling so damn fresh, too.

Rode the lift up alone. So far past tired he felt tipsy. Began to giggle.

After a tepid shower he sat on the balcony to let the sea breeze cool his feet. And the sudden respite brought the whole weight back down on him. The look on his mother’s face. The gnawing fear in those missing chunks of evening. And these savage impulses twitching in him.

Things weren’t going to work at Doris’s. Not now. Best he moved back here. Maybe Gemma would stay. Doris could brood over Kai like Yahweh over the formless deeps. She could make herself a neat little intervention, call in the kiddy squad. She knew what she was doing. And any fuckups that followed would be her fault.

He took a couple of mother’s little helpers and lay on the bed, breeze rifling through him.

The building clanked and gurgled. He felt a moment of kinship. Here we are, he thought, beige and past our prime, haggard but hanging on. He sniffed at the chicken fat and lemon detergent in his puffy fingers. Caught himself drifting. But he had Kai to collect at three. Having promised Gemma. Promised himself. He sat up quickly, so fast there were bubbles and specks behind his eyeballs and the room spun and for a second he thought it was the vertigo returning. Went hand over hand to the armchair. Fell in. Let the air settle. He was okay. All safe. All good.

A dove alighted on the rail of a balcony along the way. It lifted its shoulders, twitched and fell.

He thought of Kai’s little storyboard. His cartoon self. Brandishing the scimitar. Wished he’d never seen it.

*

At the school gate the boy stopped in his tracks, obstructing the path. You could see him register the absence of a vehicle. Not dismay; he was too blank-faced for that. But the hesitation was eloquent enough. He was shunted aside by kids at the rear. Stood there until Keely went in and extracted him.

Your nan’s got the car today.

There’s a Volvo, but.

Doris needs it for work. We’ll take the train.

I can’t.

It’s easy.

The kid crowded him, pressing so close Keely almost stumbled.

Can you see? said Kai.

I’m fine, mate. I just need room to walk.

Is he looking?

Here, said Keely. Give us your bag.

He was there, said the boy, taking a handful of shirt.

Who? One of your mates?

I come out and he’s there.

What? he said, stopping at the corner, looking down onto the crown of the boy’s head. Who?

The kid’s hair fell forward, he pressed his brow to Keely’s side and pulled on his shirt. Wouldn’t lift his head; it was maddening, but a chill flashed through Keely.

Kai? Who are we talking about? Who’s there? Who’s watching?

Can we go? said Kai.

Keely cupped the small head against him and swivelled to scan the street. The boy’s limbs snarled against his, almost tripping him. He felt impatience and alarm in equal measure. Just couldn’t get free enough to move properly. It was a crowded side street. Purring vehicles. Adult faces. Darting, chirping children. No one he could distinguish as a threat. And yet Kai clutched him, trod on his feet.

Please? said the kid.

The word resonated against Keely’s belly. He swept the boy up and hoisted him onto his back. Threaded the little bag onto his arm. And made for the station. The kid’s nose pressed hard to his neck, Keely broke into a shambling trot.

When they got to the platform the train doors were chiming. He bullocked his way aboard and nearly sat on the kid as he fell gasping onto an empty seat. Kai turned his head away from the window. The train pulled out of the terminus.

For a couple of minutes Keely let him be. He was too breathless anyway. They rolled along the quays, rode the giddy span of the bridge over sheep ships, car carriers, containers rising from the deck of something blocky and orange. And then they left the harbour behind. The derricks and funnels quickly gone.

Keely sat against the graffiti-clouded glass. The boy retained a fistful of his shirt, scanned the carriage again. The train smelt of feet and bubblegum. The aircon was freezing but the afternoon sun scalded everything it touched.

Kai, he said again. You can tell me.

Is this the way home?

This is it, mate. We’re on our way. We get off in a few stops and walk to Doris’s.

Is there a taxi?

No, mate. We’re walking. What is it? What’s bothering you?

Kai stared at the high-schoolers cavorting down the carriage, the raw-boned Christian Brothers boys poking and sledging each other. The sulky state-school chicks thumbing their phones, buds in their ears.

The sea flashed by in silver glimpses. Keely unpeeled the sweaty little hand from his shirt. Took it in his.

C’mon, Kai. Just say.

He’s watching.

Who?

At school.

Not a kid? A teacher?

No.

A stranger?

Clappy.

Clappy. That’s a man?

Kai dipped his head. Retrieved his hand. As if from habit he turned it palm up and scanned it.

Someone called Clappy, said Keely with a pulse in his throat. And he’s watching you.

The train slid into the station at North Fremantle. The boy nodded, stiffened as the doors opened, scoped the carriage while the train got under way again.

This only happened today?

Kai shook his head, gaze averted.

And not just after school?

The boy pressed his lips together.

Where does he watch from?

Across.

And you know him? You’ve seen him before?

Kai studied the grimy floor of the carriage.

It’s okay to be worried. And it’s okay to say it. I’m right here. Tell me, how do you know this bloke, what does he look like? Is he tall or short?

The train pulled up at Victoria Street. The boy blinked and dropped his head again, his face obscured by hair.

Just one thing at a time, said Keely, backtracking. Tell me how you know this fella.

The doors chimed. Rumbled shut.

Kai? This is the bloke who came to the flat. Isn’t it?

Kai took another fistful of Keely’s shirt.

Keely stared down into the pale blur of the kid’s hair. A cold feeling in his gut. Too familiar. And he knew. It had been coming. This carnage. Since before he even knew this child. It was this all along, not destiny but a chance.

The train stopped. Got going again.

No need to worry anymore, he said.

He tried to turn the kid’s head his way but Kai resisted.

They pulled into a station. Girls in straw boaters got on. Christ, this was Claremont. He’d missed their stop.

B
y the time Doris came in, Kai was sprawled before the TV, as closed off as he’d ever been. And Keely was finishing the Margaret River chardonnay he’d found in the fridge. He’d filched a couple of Panadeine Forte from his mother’s bedside table. Should have felt calm. But it was six already and there was still no sign of Gemma.

Well, said Doris, setting down her satchel and slipping off her jacket. Just help yourself.

He didn’t acknowledge her. Thought about Wally Butcher. Now there was a bloke who’d been handy in his day. No shortage of stories about him fighting his way out of a corner. But Wally was in his seventies, fat as a fart and in serious need of a hip replacement. Wal wasn’t going to be any use to him.

Have you eaten? asked Doris. Either of you?

Kai’s had a sandwich and some fruit juice.

That’s all?

He’s not hungry.

What about Gemma?

No idea.

And where did you go today?

Work, he said.

What work?

I wash dishes. At Bub’s. It’s very fulfilling.

And every day’s payday, by the looks of you.

Sorry, he said. I was planning to leave. Go home. But something’s come up.

You’ve had an argument?

Haven’t seen her. But I need to speak to her. Before I go.

Where did you get to last night?

Doesn’t matter where I went. I wasn’t drunk, okay?

But tonight’s another night.

So it seems.

Doris busied herself at the fridge and pantry. She brought out garlic, tomatoes, capers, anchovies. The makings of a puttanesca, from what he could see. She slid a pan onto the stovetop and drew a knife from the block.

You’ve got your work duds on, he murmured. Let me do it.

Pass me that apron, she said.

Mum, really.

You’ll end up taking a finger off.

He handed the apron across. You know anyone with a caravan somewhere? he said in little more than a whisper. Somewhere discreet?

No one in this town has a caravan anymore. And if they did they wouldn’t take it anywhere discreet. Where’ve you been the last ten years?

What about a beach house?

I’ve already asked, she said. Stephanie gave me the keys.

Stephanie who?

Does it matter?

You’ve organized this? He heard how stupid he sounded. Where is it?

Eagle Bay.

Legal Bay, he said before he could catch himself.

The heavy knife thudded against the bulb of garlic, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary.

That’s good of her. Good of you. Thank you. It’s the best we can do. I wonder if I could do it tonight?

Do what? asked Doris, chopping, filling the kitchen with the heady reek of garlic. Drive three hours in your condition?

I wouldn’t have to drive.

But you’d need to be competent.

So, maybe I’ll wait till morning, he said, colouring. I’ll be right in the morning.

Provided Gemma agrees, said Doris, lighting the hob. After a few moments the smell of caramelizing anchovies rose about them. She should be calling the police, she said in a fierce whisper.

I know, but she won’t. Could you do it?

And tell them what, a story at third hand? I haven’t
seen
anything.

You know cops, people from agencies.

There aren’t any signs of physical injury. I don’t have any evidence, Tom, there’s nothing I can tell them except a few things unlikely to go in Gemma’s favour.

What about – I don’t know – something more informal?

Send the boys around, you mean? Illegal, and it doesn’t work, believe me.

I don’t mean the local cops.

I’m not paying to have anyone kneecapped. Forget it.

Of course not. I understand.

What do you think I’ve become, the sort who’d write a cheque to make this poor girl, this whole thing, go away?

No. No.

Tom, I’m not that person.

I know. I see that.

I doubt it.

So, I’ll just report it myself.

Yeah, go in drunk. That’ll really help.

Okay, okay.

Besides, said Doris, as if she needed to say it for her own reminding, Gemma has to make this decision herself. And hard as it is to resist overstepping, it’s her call to make. We can’t just wade in uninvited.

Not even for Kai’s sake?

Doris said nothing. He could feel the torment in her silence.

The beach house, he said at length. It’ll do for the moment. It’s good. It’s a start. But where the hell is she?

Kai needs to shower, said Doris. And you need to calm down.

I’m fine, he said.

I’ll have this ready when he’s out. And you might want to think about freshening up yourself.

Doris, dear, I think
that’s
a case of overstepping.

Yes, she said, slipping capers into the pan. I’m sorry. Somehow I keep forgetting you’re a grownup.