Henry Hoey Hobson (4 page)

The enclosed verandah on the eastern side of the house was long and narrow, with a bank of windows running along the exterior wall. The first time I saw it I claimed it, but Mum wasn't keen. She said it would be draughty with all those windows, that it wasn't properly insulated, that it would be too cold in winter.

‘We probably won't be here in winter,' I said.

She flicked me with a towel. ‘Don't be a smartybum,' she said. After I'd won the towel-whipping duel, she'd helped me move my bed and chest of drawers in, as well as my rickety fold-up bookshelf and the little pine table that I used as a desk.

The windows faced east, so they copped the summer sun from five in the morning. The owner must have lived there at some point, judging by the quality of the block-out curtains. In my experience, landlords didn't usually bother with anything so fancy. Tissue-thin, cheap prints, that's what I was used to, and to be honest, the special block-out curtains were a bit wasted on me.

I have this thing about light, you see. I don't like paying for it, and am forever opening curtains and turning off light switches.

Pounding the footpaths, delivering pamphlets, has cured me of my power-wasting ways. Hours and hours of walking the streets before and after school, slotting junk into people's letterboxes just to pay an electricity bill, really focuses you on what is and isn't necessary.

After the first lot of blisters, I started turning appliances off at the wall.

After the second, I began adding a low-wattage compact fluoro to the weekly grocery shop. When we left the last house, I unscrewed every last one of them, put back the old power-hungry ones, and took the energy-savers with me. They were our investment in a lower-cost future, and no way was I leaving them behind.

As well as saving on power, I liked to take advantage of whatever light was going for free, be it natural or council-provided. So my curtains were always open, to take advantage of the streetlights flooding in from outside. Tonight a full moon was adding its two cents' worth, hanging like a giant silver coin over the treetops.

I didn't need to turn on the light. I could see well enough to pull off my school clothes and find shorts and a T-shirt to sleep in.

I was about to crawl into my bed when a rustle of footsteps directly outside my open windows made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

An unfamiliar scent drifted in on the night air. Sweet and musky, like the scented candles Mum lit in the bathroom when she needed to soak away her cares.

I froze for a moment, before reason kicked in.

The old Queenslander we had rented was set high on wooden stumps, so whoever was out there would need a ladder to get in through my open windows. The thought gave me enough courage to slide up to the window and take a peek outside.

There were three of them, all dressed in black from head to toe. Standing not two metres away, in the front yard of the house next door. Two men and a woman, their faces pale ovals in the moonlight.

The men couldn't have been more different: one tall, gaunt and slope-shouldered with long, dark hair curling past his shoulders; the other squat and misshapen, damaged in some way I couldn't identify in the half-light. And between them a woman twirling in high-heeled boots, her handkerchief skirt flying in an uneven dance about her.

She spun to a halt, wrapping her arms around herself.

‘Caleb, it is perfect,' she said, her voice shivery with excitement. ‘Is it true that there is even a place for our coffin?'

The tall man nodded, tilting his head in my direction. I shrank back, my heart clanging against my chest.
A coffin?
Who were these people?

The light caught his spectacles, turning them into twin silvered disks that obscured his eyes. ‘I wanted you to see it in full moonlight, Vee.' A pale hand traced a path in the darkness. ‘The shadows cast by that weeping fig. The old lead-lights in their original casements...' His soft voice faded as he turned back to the house. ‘Beautiful, don't you think?'

Until this moment, I hadn't spared a thought for the vacant house on our left. An early Californian bungalow, Mum had said, nearly a hundred years old. Taking on a whole new sense of creepy, right at this moment.

The woman moved towards the tall man, linking her arm through his. ‘We shall make a home without parallel ... When do we move in?'

My gasp must have echoed in the clear night air. The short, squat man swivelled his head and stared right up at my window. I slunk down further, and after a moment he turned back to his companions. I thanked my tight-fisted ways that I hadn't switched on a light, or he'd have spotted me for sure.

The tall man dug in a pocket of his trousers. ‘All is prepared. The windows in your room have been blacked out–' he produced a set of keys and jangled them in the air, ‘–and Manny and I have packed the truck–' The misshapen man bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘We move in first thing tomorrow.'

She leaned into him, her lips and eyes dark, almost black, against the pale oval of her face. ‘I am sorry I cannot be of any help to you, during the hours of daylight.'

He nodded and looked away. ‘I know. It doesn't matter. I'll have everything ready for you by nightfall. We can celebrate then.'

‘You are good to me, Caleb.' She turned and placed long, black-tipped fingers on the short man's arm. ‘And you too, Manny. Your reward for toiling while I sleep will be a full coffin, I think.' She looked from one to the other, her inky lips stretched in a smile. ‘It is the least I can do, no?'

The tall bloke she called Caleb hesitated. ‘You don't have to do that, Vee, but if that's what you want...' She patted him lightly on the cheek, her voice husky with promise. ‘It will be my pleasure ... and tomorrow night, we celebrate.'

An icy finger travelled up my spine.

The one they called Manny turned his thick neck and squinted once more in my direction. I sank down below the window frame, back to the wall, heart hammering.

A crackle of peeling paint scratched against my neck – proof that I wasn't dreaming. Yet, what I'd seen and heard seemed impossible. Black-clad strangers talking of coffins. And moving in next door. Tomorrow.

Geez, I had to warn Mum.

I scrambled back onto my knees and peered over the windowsill.

The yard next door gaped back at me, still and silent in the moonlight. The mysterious strangers had disappeared, as suddenly as they had arrived. I waited a few moments, listening hard, then stuck out my neck, craning as far as I could to the right, to the left, then back again. Nothing.

They were gone.

I sank back onto the bed, relief and fright making me giddy and confused. I should wake Mum. But the strange trio was gone now, and she had an early start in the morning. She needed her sleep, but I was too hyped to even close my eyes – was there any point in both of us spending the night freaked out and sleepless?

I checked the next-door yard one more time. Still nothing. Whoever they were, they had gone and they'd said it themselves, they weren't coming back until morning.

That made up my mind. It was better to let Mum sleep; I'd wait and tell her first thing tomorrow.

I pulled the windows closed, folded my thin pillow and propped myself up against the wooden shelf of my bed. I didn't want to take any chances; I'd stay up all night, just to be on the safe side.

I had nothing important to do tomorrow anyway. Just another day at Perpetual Suckers. Being jerked around by Joey Castellaro and clawed at by the catty girls in Grade Seven. Falling asleep during the breaks might just help get me through the day.

I turned round, punched my pillow – twice, for good luck – then settled back, my arms folded against my chest. Listening to the dull roar of traffic on the six-lane road at the end of our street.

Brooding, waiting for the dawn.

I woke, face-down in a pool of yucky slobber. All the moisture must have dribbled out of my mouth while I slept; my tongue was a stiff lump of meat in the metal cage of my mouth. Dead meat, judging by the smell.

Then it hit me. I'd
slept
– I jackknifed into sitting position –
overslept,
according to my watch. I had two minutes to catch Mum and warn her about the freaks from last night.

I rolled out of bed, tripped over my school shoes, ricocheted off the doorjamb and fell into the lounge, just as the sound of the Getz backing out vibrated up through the floorboards.

‘MUM!' I flung myself at the latch on the front door. It wouldn't budge. Locked, dead locked and bolted.

Mum and her security-conscious ways were going to be the death of me.

I snatched at the keys hanging on a hook beside the door. ‘Muuuum – WAIT!' Which one was it? None of them seemed to fit.
Aaagh
– rental properties, it took days to figure out the stupid keys.

Through the front window, I could see the little silver Getz reversing out onto the street. I fumbled with another key and rattled the catch. The car swung wide, then paused before pointing its nose towards the pot of gold waiting at the end of Mum's real-estate rainbow.

I hammered at the window, yelling like an idiot. She must have seen me – she bipped the horn and waved a cheery hand over the roof of the car, then sped off down the road.

The key turned in the lock and I burst out the door and down the front stairs. By the time I hit the footpath, the Getz had caught the lights and was heading off for another doomed attempt at making my mother a thousandaire.

I spun on the spot, furious at myself for sleeping in and missing my chance. I muffled a scream of frustration and kicked out at the neighbour's wheelie bin on my way past. It was full and I damn near broke my freaking foot.

Bin day. Crap.

I hobbled down the driveway to get our garbage and put it out front. Even injured, I couldn't risk missing the garbage truck, not in this heat. The idea of hosing out maggots made my flesh crawl.

I dumped the bin out front and headed back down the drive, cursing my mother to an uncaring universe.
Why couldn't she have waited until I got up? Why did she always have to be off somewhere else when I needed her here?

‘Is everything all right? Do you need some help with something?'

The voice, coming from the other side of the fence, sounded genuinely concerned. I swung round, answering automatically. ‘No, really it's fine, it's just my mum, she–'

I stopped dead, the hairs on the back of my neck springing to attention.

It was the tall man in black. The one the others had called Caleb, leaning over the chain-linked fence. Wondering how he could help me with my problem. Not having a clue that he was my problem. Him and his weirdo mates. And their coffin.

Daylight hadn't done him any favours; he looked every bit as creepy by day as he had by night.

He was unnaturally pale, with black stovepipe trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt that, despite the heat, was buttoned to the throat and wrists. Reflective shades covered his eyes, and he'd pulled a dark pork-pie hat down low over his brow. The long hair that fell past his shoulders had been clippered short around his ears, showing off small silver rings, two in each earlobe. He had a neat goatee that I hadn't noticed last night and a slight paunch, which I found momentarily reassuring. It made him less intimidating, more human somehow.

The thought made my throat seize up.
More human
... what on earth had made me think that?

‘Is there someone you'd like me to call?' His voice was soft and smooth, but I couldn't see his eyes, which was freaking me out. ‘You're welcome to borrow my phone, if there's a problem.'

My mouth wasn't working properly. I was fairly sure it was moving, but no sound was coming out. Perhaps he was used to people gulping like goldfish at him, because he didn't seem to take offence.

‘My name is Caleb.' He raised a pale, hairless hand. For a moment I thought he wanted me to shake it, but he just gave me a kind of a half salute. ‘I'm your new neighbour. We're moving in here today.'

I nodded as though this was news and I was cool with it, and tried to shove my hands into my pockets. But I was still in my pyjama shorts, so I ended up just kind of wiping my sweaty palms on my pants legs, folding my arms, unfolding them and then running my hands through my hair because I couldn't think of anything else to do with them.

He was making me nervous. That always made me blither like an idiot on the inside, but not much was managing to work its way out through my mouth.

‘And I assume that you would be ... Henry?'

How the hell did he know that? Was he psychic as well as psycho? Was this weird guy in black
stalking
me?

‘Lydia said I'd probably run into you before school.'

I swallowed and the day kind of dimmed. ‘You know my mum?'

He nodded. ‘We met this morning.' Then he hesitated. ‘I couldn't help noticing that you seemed keen to catch her before she left for work. Are you sure you don't want to borrow my mobile and give her a quick call?'

He held out a wicked iPhone – one that ordinarily I would have queued to even touch. But now I backed off. I didn't want to use his phone, I didn't want anything to do with him and I certainly didn't want him doing me any favours.

‘No, it's OK. I'll call her – uh–' I kept back-pedalling, trying to get as far away from him as possible. ‘–Later.'

He raised a hand in a casual salute.

‘Sure, Henry. Later. You can count on it.'

I rushed back into the house. I'd have to ring Mum, there was nothing else for it. Please God, let her have remembered to leave her numbers out for me.

I headed straight for the kitchen. It was a house rule wherever we lived: one corner of the kitchen bench was always reserved as our in-and outbox. It was where I would leave newsletters, permission slips from school, and any messages that came in while she was out. It was where she would leave embarrassing lovey-dovey messages when she had to leave before I got up in the morning, five dollars for tuckshop, instructions on what I had to do before I left the house and when I got home in the afternoon. Buy milk. Bring in the washing. Hang out the clothes. Put the sheets in the dryer. That kind of thing.

If Mum's new phone numbers were anywhere, the end of the kitchen bench was where I would find them.

I skidded to a stop and pounced on the bright orange note, recycled from some yoga flyer dropped in our mailbox.

Hi honey-bun ...
blah blah, mushy bit, blah blah, washing, blah blah – ah, there it was.
Location Location Location
– that must be the name of the real-estate agency where she was working – and her numbers.

I grabbed my only-for-emergencies, bottom-of-the-range Samsung mobile and tapped in her mobile number, hoping to catch her in the car. Her voice clicked in, bright and sunny in the panicked fog of my morning.

‘Hi, honey-bun. Did you meet our lovely new neighbour yet?'

Was she kidding me? ‘Mum – are you nuts? Are you talking about that crazy serial killer who–'

‘Come on, honey, Caleb is a perfectly nice man. He introduced himself this morning and told me he was planning on having some moving-in drinks tonight–'

I snorted. ‘Is that what he's calling it? He and his evil dead cronies filling a coffin with–'

‘Honey, for heaven's sakes, be a bit nice! The poor man hasn't even moved in and you're inventing some ghastly–'

‘I'm not inventing anything. Him and his mates are freakozoids. I heard them last night talking about coffins–'

‘Henry. That's enough. You're being ridiculous–'

‘But Mum–'

‘Oh God, there's a police car and I'm not on hands-free. I have to go. See you tonight. Love you.'

I stared at my mobile in disbelief. She'd hung up on me.

I tossed the phone onto the kitchen bench in disgust. It slid to a stop on top of the note she'd left me not ten minutes earlier. Decorated with love hearts and kisses.

What the hell was that supposed to mean when she couldn't bring herself to listen to, let alone believe, a single word I had to say?

I paced the worn lino in the kitchen, unsure of my next move.

A packet of Weet-Bix caught my eye, on the bench where she'd left it out for me. Might as well eat while I tried to figure things out. I threw four biscuits into a bowl, covered them with sultanas and brown sugar, then put on some toast while the milk soaked in.

I grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and studied my distorted reflection in its stainless-steel back. Swollen and unappealing; a face that only a mother could love. I turned it over and my reflection flipped upside down in the curved surface of the spoon.

Cool.

I kept turning the spoon, watching my reflection flip over and back again.

Sometimes it helped to look at a problem from a different angle...

Mum was taking the new neighbours at face value. Because she hadn't heard what I'd heard, or seen what I'd seen.

I flipped the spoon again and saw a straightforward solution.

Evidence.
That's what I needed. That would convince Mum. Then she'd have to believe me.

I buried my reflection in the milk-softened cereal. The sultanas had plumped out and the brown sugar had melted into a syrupy stain across the surface of my breakfast.

Seeing was believing.

I hooked into my Weet-Bix, a plan beginning to take shape in my mind.