Henry Hoey Hobson (9 page)

There was a note on the kitchen bench when I hauled myself out of bed next morning.

I'll do dinner. CU at 6.30. xx

I'd left her next door at nine-thirty the previous night, laughing and dazzling the neighbours. She had been drinking water, so I wasn't worried about her tripping over her stilettos on the way home. And let's face it, it wasn't that far anyway. I could hear them laughing and talking as I got ready for bed. I'd drifted off trying to remember the last time my mother had been out at night without me.

Halfway through my cereal, a thought hit me like a slap in the head.

My swimming times.

I hadn't told Mum that she needed to come to the pool to time my races.

I'd been so swept up in the crazy night at Caleb's that I hadn't talked to her about anything normal at all. The evening was like a dream, peopled with characters who had nothing in common with my everyday existence. Now, back in the stark light of day, all the humdrum bits of my life were coming back to haunt me.

I called Mum's mobile and blurted out what I needed to tell her. What I should have told her last night.

The pause on the other end of the line warned me this wasn't going to work out well for me.

‘Honey-bun, I have an Open for Inspection from four to six. There's no way I can make it to the pool this afternoon. I'm sorry.'

‘You have to be there, Mum.' Desperation was making me whine. ‘Mr Paulson and the old lady who runs the pool said that
you
have to sign off on my times and she won't even give me the time sheet unless you're there. They go towards Districts, Mum. Don't make me miss it again this year.'

The hum of traffic in the background told me she was still on the line. I pictured her frowning while she manoeuvred her little Getz through peak-hour traffic, trying to make the mismatched jigsaw pieces of our lives fit the functional-family picture that was on the cover of everyone else's box.

‘OK, OK, I'm on it, honey-bun. Don't fret. I'll see you tonight. Love you.'

A groan burbled up from somewhere deep inside me and echoed down the disconnected line.

If she'd just said
I'll see you this afternoon,
I could have gone to school happy. But,
I'm on it
? That was going to eat at me all day, gnawing a great pit in my stomach, while I wondered what the hell was going on in my own life.

I considered my options. I could make another visit to the principal's office. Mr Paulson wasn't such a bad bloke; he'd probably hear me out. Maybe together we could work round my mother's absence at all the critical points in my life.

It wasn't such a bad idea. But I just couldn't see myself bagging my own mother to the princi pal. I also didn't want to cut across any deal she might be working out that I didn't know about yet.

If there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that she was capable of surprising everyone with her complicated responses to routine requests. Any other mother would simply have taken her child to the pool, slipped Ma Mallory's last time sheet into a clipboard and jotted down his times.

I shuddered to think what loopy scheme she'd concoct to cover her inability to do what other mothers managed with boring regularity.

My spoon scraped the bottom of my empty cereal bowl. I'd finished the lot, but it hadn't made any difference. The pit in my stomach yawned deeper and wider than ever.

‘Surprise, surprise. Look who's last to arrive. Again.'

It was Angelica. Ambushing me at the front gate, her posse lined up behind her. It was a trap, it had to be, but short of turning on my heel and heading back home, there was little I could do but walk straight into it.

‘Hi.' My unreliable voice came out basso profundo, which is as low as a human voice can get.

A giggle, quickly smothered, burst out from the other side of the gate. I couldn't blame whoever it was; even I hadn't expected to rumble first thing in the morning.

I cursed Mum, once again, under my breath. If she stuck around in the mornings, I would be able to practise speaking before I had to go to school. Then my voice wouldn't be rusty after lying around doing nothing all night. A little conversation might oil my creaky vocal cords and get them working in a relatively normal fashion by the time I got to school.

I pushed open the gate and kept on walking. I'd said
hi,
satisfying the minimum requirements for politeness that my mother had drilled into me all of my life. But I couldn't risk letting them drag another syllable out of me, in case I inadvertently rumbled or squeaked.

Angelica skipped round in front of me, walking backwards, her face intent.

‘I saw you last night. With your own personal vampire and the Skeletor guy. And that woman–' her exaggerated shudder was all for show ‘–she looked like Morticia off
The Addams Family
. What were you all doing there with that little blonde girl? Live sacrifices? Devil worship? Is that what you do at night, Henry Hoey Hobson?'

She had planted herself in the centre of the path, hands on hips, eyes blazing. She'd worked herself up into a state. For a moment she reminded me of Mum, fearless in the face of a challenge.

My mother's usual advice in times of trouble popped into my head:
Never back down, never give in and remember: the best defence is always a good offence.

I stopped and met her gaze without flinching.

‘Are you stalking me, Angelica?' For once my voice stayed low. ‘Because that would be a clear breach of Mr Paulson's anti-bullying policy, wouldn't it?'

She opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. I thanked my lucky stars I'd remembered something from the Perpetual Sucker induction kit we had brought home from our first meeting with Mr Paulson.

I stepped round her just as the clanging of the morning bell jolted the playground into action. I dived into the sea of green-checked uniforms surging towards the classrooms, leaving Angelica and her pack in my wake.

I'd timed my escape perfectly.

Hero was already at the port racks with BB and Joey Castellaro when I made my way up the stairs.

He caught sight of me and turned, the beginnings of a smile working its way round those teeth. Joey saw the look and grabbed the back of Hero's shirt, bunching it into his fist and frog-marching him into the classroom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Angelica and her posse clustered at the top of the stairs, straight-legged like cats who'd found a strange dog blocking their path.

I hung up my bag and took a deep breath, steeling myself to enter the classroom. In the distance I could see that someone had changed the school sign.

Not big enough for me, apparently.

I pushed open the door, ready to tough out another day.

‘Henry, you're getting to be a regular up here. A veritable bright spot in my morning.' Mr Paulson's jovial tone was the first friendly sound of my day.

Even Ms Sanders had ignored me. The word had gone round that the regular Six/Seven teacher had had a ‘setback' after breaking her ankle skiing in Japan in January.

Apparently Ms Sanders was getting the nod as her replacement till the end of term, so she was concentrating on just two things: getting up to speed and surviving till Easter.

‘Ms Sanders said you wanted to see me.'

His green eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Don't worry, this won't take long. Your mum phoned and explained that she won't be able to make it to the pool this afternoon.'

I didn't say anything. I needed to hear what Mum had planned before blundering in with any plans of my own. I had to be careful what I said round Mr Paulson; those green eyes didn't miss much.

‘She has organised a replacement and I've told Mrs Mallory at the pool to expect you both this afternoon.'

‘Did she say who?' I asked.

He flicked through the papers on his desk. ‘It was one of the people she nominated as your emergency contacts ... ah, here it is ...
Caleb Moore,
that's the one. She said he would take you to swimming this afternoon and sign off on your times.' He looked up. ‘Is that all right with you, Henry? You look a bit pale.'

I swallowed and managed an unconvincing nod.

My own personal vampire was going to sign off on my swimming times in broad daylight at the local pool.

Thank the high heavens, as Vee would say, that Angelica wasn't going to be there to witness it.

The postman's motorcycle had cut a bald strip in the dry grass leading up to Caleb's front gate. It veered in towards the letterbox and out again, as though it couldn't get away from the place fast enough.

Heat-frazzled grass crunched underfoot as I stepped off the footpath, pushed through the squawking gate, and made my way down the cobbled path to the front door.

The bright, spangled afternoon sun had stripped away last night's illusions, revealing the candle-lit corridor into the house as nothing more magical than cheap tea-light candles, protected from the breeze in brown paper lunch bags weighed down with handfuls of sand.

Pools of congealed wax at the front door were the only evidence of the giant candelabra that had stood sentry the night before. Today the front door was shut up tight, an ornate brass knocker hanging like a lion's paw at eye level. I hefted it and rapped sharply, twice for luck, and stepped back.

The latch snicked open and the door swung inwards.

Caleb flinched at the bright day. ‘I'll need sunglasses,' he muttered. ‘You better come in.'

I followed him into the cool dark living area, the scent of candle wax still heavy in the air.

‘It still hot outside? Of course it is. It's Brisbane and February. I'll need a hat and sunblock.' He waved a hand at a plate of food on a corner of the dining room table. ‘Eat something – Manny said you'd be hungry – now where is that blessed hat...?'

‘Thanks.' I helped myself to a couple of Tim Tams and a banana, which was the easiest fruit to manage with my braces. ‘I've got some sunblock. You can borrow mine, if you want.'

‘Blasted move, I can't find anything.' He was fussing and crotchety, like the old ladies that Mum usually sucked in as my emergency contacts. Out of their comfort zone looking after a half-grown boy. Irritated that they might miss their afternoon soaps, or the tennis on TV, when pressed into service. I usually settled them down with a cup of tea and joined them on the couch, but today that wasn't an option.

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to stuff up your day.'

Caleb's guilty start meant that I'd guessed right. I didn't blame him; it was hard to say no to my mum. What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in determination; she was a right little terrier when it came to getting her own way.

‘I know Mum bullied you into this. Don't worry, it won't take long–'

He waved the rest of the sentence away. ‘No, no, it's OK. I'm not irritated at you. I'm irritated at
me
.' He interlinked his fingers and twisted them in frustration. ‘I've gotten to a point in my manuscript where the plot is so damn knotted, it's going to take a miracle to unsnarl it. And instead of working on it, I've been messing around unpacking, cleaning up, wasting time – Ah, the elusive fedora.'

He pounced on a broad-brimmed black hat that was hiding in a dark corner of the lounge and pulled it down low on his forehead. His mirrored glasses were back in place, obscuring his eyes. Despite the heat, he wore long black cargo pants, Doc Martens and a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned to the neck and wrists.

He caught me staring. ‘Is there a problem, Henry?'

I hesitated. ‘It's pretty hot out there and we're going to a pool ... You know, you could have a swim if you want–'

‘Swim?
Me?
' A look of horror rippled across his face. ‘Henry, look at me. I am the antithesis of athleticism. My last swimming trunks wore out in primary school. I have skin that belongs in colder climes; I burn sitting too close to a window. I am a writer of
dark
fiction, for heaven's sake; sunlight disempowers my muse–'

He caught himself and took a breath. ‘Not that I mind taking
you
to the pool, of course,' he added hastily. ‘I'm sure immersing oneself in a chemical soup designed to kill all manner of germs is a perfectly enjoyable activity–'

He correctly read the look on my face. ‘OK, I'll stop now.' He slapped at his pockets for keys. ‘We should go.'

I followed him out a side door to where an old black Ford sheltered in the shade of the vine-covered carport.

‘We're driving?' I asked. ‘It's just up the road–'

‘Which part of the “antithesis of athleticism” didn't you understand, Henry?' He pulled open the passenger door. ‘Hop in. We are driving.'

Ma Mallory cast a leery eye over the pair of us.

‘These times are used to qualify for the District Comp that leads on to the State and National titles.' She slapped the time sheet, rattling the stopwatch beside it. ‘No fudging.'

She pushed the paper and stopwatch towards Caleb and buried her head back in the learn-to-swim lesson planner that she had been filling in when we arrived.

Caleb raised his eyebrows and grabbed the stuff off the counter. He took a couple of steps, peering down the length of his arm at the form, holding the stopwatch like a compass, as though it might help him find his bearings in an unfamiliar environment.

I grabbed his sleeve. ‘C'mon. I'll find you a shady spot. Just hit the timer when I dive in, and make sure you don't miss the touch at the end.'

I parked him under an umbrella near the end of Lane One and pulled up a chair next to him. While he jotted down notes in a black notebook, I filled in my details on the form.

I printed my name in block capitals against fifty metres of each stroke and the hundred freestyle, then paused, pen poised above the paper.

Caleb looked up from the notebook in which he'd been jotting down notes. ‘What now, brown cow?'

I tapped the paper with the wrong end of the pen. ‘This is all Mr Paulson needs for the school carnival, but Ma Mallory says these times can be used to qualify for the District Swimming Championships.'

‘So?'

‘So, Districts is awesome. It's like forty innercity schools, all the big colleges and everything. All the kids that go on to States and Nationals have to swim there first. If I get in, I could be swimming against the next Eamon Sullivan or Jayden Hadler–'

I stopped at the blank look on his face. ‘Come on, Caleb, they're famous. Everybody's heard of them.'

‘I see,' he said. ‘That would make them the natatorial equivalents of a young Dean Koontz or Stephen King?'

I squinted at him, not sure if he was being purposefully obscure.

‘Whatever. Anyway, the point is, I missed out on Districts last year because I changed schools and I really,
really
want to go this year.'

Caleb nodded, looking furtively over at the canteen where Ma Mallory was taking entry fees. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, I'm happy to help, but the Scary-McLary pool lady definitely said no fudging–'

‘That's not what I meant.' I shook my head, not sure if I should be offended that he thought I wanted to cheat.

‘Districts has
heaps
more events than the school carnival. They have one-hundred-metre races in
every
stroke, not just freestyle, plus a two-hundred-metre medley. If I could get my times for the hundreds and the medley while we're here, I might have a better chance of making it to Districts.' I couldn't keep the hopeful note out of my voice. ‘It'd take a bit longer, though, and I know you're real busy...'

I tapered off, leaving it hanging.

Caleb stretched his long legs onto the chair opposite and gazed out across the lanes. ‘That zephyr coming off the water is creating a surprisingly pleasant ambiance.'

He locked his pale hands behind his neck and leaned back. ‘The extreme change of scenery seems to be stimulating my creative juices.' His neat goatee pointed at the nearest lane. ‘Cavort for as long as you need, Henry. The creative juices need time to simmer.'

‘Thanks, Caleb–' I took off before he changed his mind. ‘I'll be real quick, I promise.'

He waved me off.

From the diving blocks at the far end of the pool, he looked ridiculously out of place, an exotic creature of the night, trapped in the unrelenting brightness of the day. But he held the stopwatch aloft to show that he was ready, and for that I was grateful.

The ageing goggles bit into the skin around my eyes. I bent low, grabbed the lip of the block and hurled myself into the blue.

Within half an hour I was back under the umbrella, gasping like a stranded fish. I hadn't trained in weeks and eight hundred metres in sprints had really taken it out of me.

‘The dripping, Henry – it simply must stop.' Caleb shook his hand free of droplets and flicked at the front of his shirt. ‘I cannot have bleached-out chlorine spots on my clothes. I'll look like a Tasmanian Devil or a quoll.'

‘Sorry about that.' I grabbed my towel and mopped at my hair, trying to scrutinise the time sheet without dripping on him some more. ‘Hey, check out my fifty-metre butterfly time; it's the same as my freestyle.'

‘Is that good?'

I shrugged, towelling off the rest of me. ‘Midthirties is pretty good, I think. I couldn't swim sub-forty in anything last year.'

‘I presume we are talking “seconds”. Not fathoms or some other obscure measurement?'

I nodded, slathering fresh handfuls of sunblock all over my pale body. It was nearly time for squad and the layer I'd put on after school wasn't going to see me through the next two hours. ‘Thanks for doing this, Caleb. I really appreciate it.'

He unfurled his legs and stood, stretching out the kinks. ‘A surprisingly edifying experience. Not my milieu, obviously, but oddly stimulating nevertheless. I was able to jot down a couple of ideas, betwixt and between your natatorial exploits. I do believe those plot snarls are beginning to unfurl.'

‘Nata-what?'

‘
Natatorial
– from the Latin, for swimming.'

‘Next time you should get in,' I said, tilting my head one way then the other, trying to release the annoying bubble of water trapped in a bend of my convoluted ear canal. ‘Your creative juices would love it. All the noise disappears, everything slows down. All your worries just kind of float away.'

I could sense his eyes on me, behind the mirrored frames. Any other grown-up would have ruffled my hair and told me I was too young to have any worries. Instead he looked away.

‘If you've found what grounds you, Henry, you're a lucky person. Never take it for granted.'

The sadness in his voice made me sit still. ‘Have you found what grounds you, Caleb?' I asked.

He swung his mirrored gaze back my way. ‘Writing,' he said simply. ‘It's my escape. I was the cuckoo's egg in my family, Henry. The changeling that didn't belong. Writing set me free to imagine other existences where I wasn't the one who was different.'

‘Yo, Henry!' It was Hero, loping towards us, his eyes round and fixed on Caleb.

‘Looks like you have company.' Caleb gathered together his notebook, the time sheet and stopwatch. ‘According to Lydia, you can walk home by yourself. I shall drop the crucial form in at your school on my way past. Apparently your headmaster is working back till five. A most dedicated soul.'

He doffed his hat and sauntered off as Hero trotted up.

His eyes were still glued to Caleb, so he didn't see the swimming bag I'd left lying on the ground. His toe caught the strap, tripping him over a chair and nearly bringing the cyclone-rated umbrella crashing down over the top of my table.

‘You OK?' I grabbed the teetering umbrella to steady it. ‘I wasn't sure you were going to make it.'

‘I nearly didn't,' he said, rubbing at his shin. ‘You're getting to be a dangerous fella to hang around with.'

I picked up my swimming bag and placed it out of harm's way on the tabletop. ‘Teach you for rubbernecking.'

‘No, I meant for bringing
him
here.' He pointed at Caleb, exiting now through the pool gate. ‘Angelica's already got the school half-spooked–'

‘So don't tell her,' I said, irritated that he had to bring Angelica into what had been, so far, a pretty good afternoon.

‘Tell her?' His eyes widened. ‘
Amigo,
I don't have to
tell
her anything.' He leaned in closer, eyes dark and round. ‘She's already seen you with the Vampire-Man. She's here,
amigo –
didn't you know?'