Grand Slam (6 page)

Mum called me a silly little girl, told me she wouldn't be surprised if Jack called it off, and covered me with calamine lotion. She made me lie on my bed while she did it and I wasn't allowed to move for two hours. I don't know why two hours, but that's what she said. When I checked the mirror, the calamine lotion combined with the aloe vera had turned into a gluggy sludge. The sludge made it look like my skin was coming off in great, grey lumps.

By 11 p.m., I wanted to die. I googled sunburn remedies and roamed the house looking for apple cider vinegar, cold teabags, listerine. I soaked my sheet in apple cider vinegar–laced water and wrapped it around me. I took pain killers. While my body was on fire, the sheet was freezing. In bed I turned, shivering, then checked to see if my skin had fallen off. The sheet became hot and clammy. I smelled like salt and vinegar chips. I got up, a hand over my mouth to keep the scream down to a squeak, threw the sheet into the bathtub and looked for another. I could find only a fitted cot sheet for some reason. My old cot sheet from thirty-plus years ago. Where were all the single sheets? I tucked myself into the cot sheet and fell asleep.

Axle woke me in the morning by sitting on my chest. His usually soft body felt like a belt sander. I screamed and he bolted.

Mum came in. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Sunburn,' I gasped.

‘Silly girl.' She tsked. ‘What in heaven's name are you wearing?'

I was lying on my back with legs crossed yoga style, cocooned in the tiny sheet. ‘Cot sheet. Why don't we have any other single sheets?'

‘I gave them to St Vincent de Paul.'

‘Why did you keep the cot sheet?'

‘You might need me to babysit. Your old cot's in the garage.'

‘I don't have any babies.'

‘One day you will.'

‘Aren't my children allowed to stay here when they grow out of the cot?'

‘Stop making such a fuss, Erica!'

Mum left. I unhooked my feet and shoulders, squeaking, and shuffled into the bathroom. My hair looked like a field mushroom. I set the shower to lukewarm and stood under it. Molten lava poured over me and I screamed. Mum didn't come to see if I was all right. After, I hovered the towel over my body, and checked the mirror. At least I was no longer purple. That was something. I took more pain killers and went into the kitchen.

Mum looked me over. ‘What are you doing today?'

What was I doing? It was Sunday. I hadn't made plans with Jack and, actually, I didn't want to go to his house again. Not while Sharon Stone was staying there.

Mum plonked her old, handwritten recipe book on the kitchen counter. ‘I could teach you to make my special secret recipe so you can hand it down to future generations.'

‘What's your special secret recipe?'

She lowered her voice and cupped her hand around her mouth, protecting her secret. ‘Spaghetti Bolognese.' She said it as though it were unholy, which perhaps it was to her with its foreign element, Mum being the illegitimate result of a one-night stand my grandmother indulged in sixty-odd years ago. The man in question – my biological grandfather – had been a handsome, nameless Italian.

‘What's so special about spag bog?'

‘Really, dear, I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language.'

Please God – I glanced at the ceiling – find me something else to do?

My phone rang – thank you, God – it was Lucy, my darling bestie, who told me she was helping Steve renovate my house and thought I should be there too.

‘What are you doing there? Hasn't he got the kids?'

‘Nah. She wanted them back this morning.'

‘Okay, I'll come. But I can't be out in the sun. I got burnt yesterday.'

‘You idiot.'

I drove to Richmond and parked out the front of my house, shuffled down the passageway and through the back door. I took in the scene. Jack was there. Why was he there? I couldn't ask because I was speechless. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of old, ripped work shorts that fitted his bum in a way that was sinful and, oh my God, those thighs . . . The work he'd already been doing with Steve in the hot sun had caused him to sweat, which glistened on his tanned, bulging muscles and dripped down his face and, oh my God, those abs . . .

He gave me a smile and I swooned.

Lucy was sitting on a fold-out chair under an umbrella. I sat in the other, slowly.

‘Hey, hon. Nice sunburn.'

‘Ssh. I want to take in the view.'

‘Gotcha.'

Mind you, Steve was also shirtless and pretty easy on the eye, but he's more like a brother than my actual brother, so I didn't perv at him. After a couple of minutes, we sighed in unison. I gave Lucy's leg a squeeze. ‘You wouldn't believe what happened yesterday.'

‘Try me.'

‘Nope. You just wouldn't believe it.' I chuckled at the thought of Lucy meeting Sharon Stone, knowing it was bound to happen one day and quite looking forward to it. I nodded at the boys. ‘There's something very sexy about watching a man do what he's good at, don't you think?'

‘Uh-huh.'

There was a concrete truck parked out the back, its massive barrel rolling, and the boys used a wheelbarrow to haul the concrete in and dump it in the holes. Steve gave instructions to Jack that seemed to involve not much more than a finger point and uttered word or two. I could imagine me there instead, needing detailed information – in writing with colourful diagrams – before we started work and then stopping continuously to confirm the instructions, blaming Steve when I got it wrong. And the concrete setting before any stumps got installed.

‘I feel I should be helping.'

‘Nah. For a start, you need to not go anywhere near that sun.' Lucy pointed at it, in case I wasn't sure which sun she was talking about.

‘Why is Jack here?'

‘I couldn't manage the stumps.' She shrugged. ‘Steve needed someone with muscles.'

‘Jack's got nice muscles.'

‘Almost as nice as Steve's.'

We grinned at each other.

‘It's nice of Jack to come,' I said.

‘Yep.' But it was a clipped ‘yep'. Lucy does like Jack. She's saved his life twice (being the brilliant nurse she says she is) as he seems to regularly attain life-threatening injuries that require unofficial attention. But she worries he'll hurt me. And not just emotionally. My life's been pretty much in constant danger since the day I met Jack Jones.

The boys finished their work so now my backyard was a forest of short, evenly spaced stumps upon which, Steve said, he'd attach things called bearers and on those, joists. ‘Then I'll build the walls and lay the sheet flooring.'

I thought about the muddy footprints and as we watched the boys clean up, I told Lucy about it. But I didn't mention the human shape at the window because I was determined, possibly as a result of denial, that it was unrelated. ‘It looked like someone had been inside.'

‘Tell Jack.'

‘No way! He won't let me leave Mum's. He'll give me an armed bodyguard.'

Jack and Steve had rivers of dirt down their arms and legs and all over their faces. They washed under the tap. I was glad I wasn't a guy, feeling obliged and even compelled to do such stinky work.

Jack took an empty bucket, turned it over and sat on it.

Lucy said, ‘Erica said someone broke in here on Friday.'

‘Lucy!'

Jack frowned. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

Steve sat on his esky, checked out my sunburn. ‘You do know about skin cancer, don't you?'

‘Let's all pick on Erica,' I huffed and crossed my arms tightly, which caused me to groan in pain. I uncrossed them.

‘Tell me what happened,' said Jack.

‘No-one broke in.' I gave Lucy a look, and told him about the footprints inside. ‘It was probably some kid.'

‘So someone broke in.'

‘No, it wasn't like that.'

‘Erica, I don't want you coming back without Steve being here.'

I pursed my lips, scowling at Lucy for dobbing on me. She gave me a smug smile.

Jack said, ‘Understood?'

I looked away.

‘Erica, I don't want you coming here without Steve or me. Is that clear?'

‘Geez, okay. Bloody hell.'

Jack said to Steve, ‘If you have any suspicions, call me. Or the police.'

Steve nodded, looking worried. Jack went inside to look for the footprints, which I'd vacuumed up.

Steve packed up his truck, shook hands with Jack. There was the added grip of the shoulder as well, which in bloke language I think means something. He swept Lucy out of her chair and she shrieked, ‘Yuck! You stink! You're filthy!' but it was all said between coughs of laughter.

He carried Luce out to his car. ‘Can you guys lock the gates? We're going home for a shower.'

Jack gave me a look that made my knees wobble, and made his way through stump-land to lock the gates.

And I remembered my gun, which was still in the bottom of my laundry hamper. Jack would surely want to check on it. I slipped inside, rushed to my bedroom and started rifling through the dirty laundry. As I was bending over the basket Jack snuck up behind me and gripped my hips.

I let out a stump-splitting shriek, bolting upright, causing me to shriek again from the sunburn pain. I turned on Jack. ‘You scared me! I thought you were Shane McGann!'

‘Why would you think that when I'm here and he's in jail?'

‘I'm still traumatised.' I walked past him, heading for the door.

He snagged my top. ‘I want to talk to you.'

‘Let's talk out here.'

He pulled me close, but gently. ‘I meant it when I said stay away from here.'

I glanced at the laundry hamper. ‘Sure, no worries. Let's go.' I pushed away. He pulled me back. ‘Ow! Sunburn!'

But he gave me a sexy smile. ‘You, me, alone at last.' He nodded at the bed. ‘Join the dots on that.'

‘You hate my bed.'

‘I love it. True.'

‘You're all dirty.' I twisted out of his grip and headed down the passage, hoping he'd follow.

He did, but grabbed my wrist, spun me into his arms and kissed me. I had to pretend not to like it, groaning from the pain, or maybe it was pleasure. I kissed him back, unable to resist, my arms around his neck, whimpering. The pain and fear took priority though; the fear that he'd find my gun in a purple sock in my laundry hamper, and I squirmed, pushing away but not hard enough to put any distance between us.

‘Come on,' he muttered, ‘you love dirty, sweaty sex.' He gently bit my lip. This was true – I did love dirty, sweaty sex with Jack Jones. Any kind, in fact, and under other circumstances he wouldn't have to work so hard. He wouldn't have had to work at all because I would have already thrown myself naked on the bed.

Holding my wrist, he towed me toward the bedroom.

I screamed.

He spun, hand on his heart. ‘Now what?'

‘There was a huge spider!'

He looked around, up at the ceiling. ‘Where?'

‘It went down there.' I pointed toward the back door.

‘It's gone outside.'

‘No, it hasn't. I'm sure it's hiding, waiting for me to move back in.'

‘For God's sake.' He headed down the passage, inspecting the walls and ceiling. ‘Here it is.'

What? I followed him, which I'd never normally do – move
toward
a spider – but I didn't believe he'd actually found one.

He opened the back door and threw something. ‘All gone.'

‘Let me see.'

He barred my way. ‘It's gone.'

‘I don't believe you.'

He put his hands on his hips. ‘Are you avoiding me?'

‘No!' I checked my watch. ‘Mum's expecting me for dinner.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Three thirty.'

He moved in. ‘Plenty of time.'

‘I've got sunburn. I've got my period!'

‘Why didn't you say so before?'

‘Um. I was embarrassed.'

‘Why would you be embarrassed . . . ah, that explains it.'

‘Explains what?'

‘Why you were so touchy yesterday.'

‘That's right! PMT.' I waved my hand. ‘Can't fool you, Jack Jones.' I gave him a shove. ‘Let's go.'

So I didn't get to move my gun after all. I managed to push Jack out the front door without him asking about it. I think he had other things on his mind – a cold shower maybe. He followed me down Punt Road until I turned onto the freeway, and then I couldn't be bothered backtracking. I went to Mum's and he went to his house. I'd considered just picking up my entire laundry hamper and bringing it with me, but I couldn't have the gun at Mum's. No way. Imagine if she found it! And she would, because she'd want to do my laundry. She'd think I wouldn't do it properly.

When I walked in the door, Mum said, ‘Just in time. You can make the sticky date pudding.'

She had a packet of dates spread out on the chopping board.

‘They look like cockroaches.'

‘Oh, you always do that.'

Do what?

‘Why don't you ever invite Jack for tea?'

Poor Mum has never really understood my relationship with Jack. When we first met and he recruited me to the Team, I had to pretend he was my boyfriend. And the notion kind of stuck for people who know me, but don't know about the Team. Mainly because he keeps turning up in my life, and because I keep turning up in his bed.

‘He can't. He's . . . busy.'

‘Not every evening, surely.'

‘Yeah. He is.'

I walked away, ignoring Mum when she called after me, ‘What about the sticky date pudding?'

Steve and Lucy came to dinner, which meant we were allowed to have wine, and having Steve and Lucy there distracted me from the horror of the things my mother says. And Dad's farting. When we were growing up, Steve spent as much time at Mum and Dad's as he did at his own place, and Lucy had appeared as my new bestie when we we'd just started high school, only thirteen years old, so she too was comfortable there. Mum giggled like a schoolgirl with Steve in the room. I think she'd hoped I'd marry him when we grew up. But when you've seen what someone else has done in their nappy, it kind of puts you off. Likewise for him, no doubt. But anyway, Mum thinks Jack is perfect. Most people think he is. I know better though. I know he's in pain. One day I'll sort that out, I decided.

‘Why don't you get Lucy to show you how she does her hair?' Mum said.

‘Are you talking to Steve?'

Lucy laughed.

‘I'm talking to you.'

‘Really? Well Lucy's hair is about as opposite to mine as any hair could possibly be.'

‘Mrs J, my hair's so fine,' said Luce.

Dad turned the telly on, bless him. He keeps an old portable on the buffet in the dining room so he doesn't have to listen to Mum crapping on about whatever.

‘We don't want the television, Tom. We're having tantalising conversation.'

‘It's not tantalising or even titillating,' I said. ‘It's annoying.'

We watched the news. The cyclone was right up there with top stories, and there was a radar image of it; a great, white circle on an otherwise clear, dark blue background. Cyclone
Sharon
was still a Category 5, and still on course for Port Hedland.

Steve said to me, ‘Have your rigs been evacuated?'

‘That's the plan. It's a monster.'