I Am (Not) the Walrus (14 page)

22

Sunday

“Jasper, old pal.” I say this in my most diplomatic voice, while his pooch lunges and snarls at me. “Can you tell us where forty-eight B is?”

Jasper blows out a raspberry. “What on earth are you doing here?” He reels in his dog like he's reeling in a prize haddock. “Aside from which, what do you want to know for?”

“Listen.” Zack bends down and holds out his fingers for the dog to sniff, but it just growls and snaps at him. “We're trying to do something good and decent, and we're just asking for your help.”

“If you don't want to help,” I move out of the dog's range as it circles around Jasper, making exasperated grunts, “then we can go somewhere else,” I say.

“But if that is the case,” says Zack, “we won't be able to offer you any guarantees that news about the manly kind of dog you keep as a pet won't spread around the school.”

“She's not my dog,” says Jasper. “She's my mum's.”

“We understand that,” says Zack, “but not everyone else is going to see the subtleties of the situation.”

The pooch squats down and does its thing again, then kicks backward with its little legs.

“Look. Why don't you come in?” Jasper walks backward toward the house he originally came out of. “My dad will be back from the station soon and I'm supposed to set the table for lunch.”

“In?” says Zack. “You mean to your house?”

“Yes. I live in a house,” says Jasper. “This isn't Port Jackson. We stopped living in caves a couple of years ago.”

“Very witty,” says Zack.

We follow Jasper across his trim lawn and in through the front door, where we're surrounded by the smell of roast beef.

I can't help feeling a little hungry. “I think Zack's upset,” I say to Jasper. I lower my voice. “He really does live in a cave.”

“Sorry,” says Jasper in a fake whisper as he unhooks the dog from its lead. “I won't mention it again.”

“Are you talking about me?” says Zack as he closes the door behind us. “It's ironic, isn't it? You're the Neanderthal,” he says to Jasper, “and I'm the one who lives in a cave.”

“Do you want my help or not?” says Jasper.

“Yeah. Sorry,” I say to him as he guides us through to the kitchen. I start to sketch out the details, leaving out as much as I can. “There's this bass.”

“We found it,” says Zack.

“It seems like it was probably stolen,” I say. “It had a note inside saying it belonged to a Julie McGuire at 48B Mariner Street.”

“Which is right opposite you,” says Zack.

“Or should be,” I say, “but isn't, and we want to give it back.”

Jasper doesn't seem to react to what I've told him. Instead he puts on oven gloves, squats down, and checks on whatever is cooking. The smell of roast meat is barely endurable.

“So,” he says. “Julie McGuire at 48B.” He pulls out a drawer next to the sink, and gathers up a handful of knives and forks. “Interesting.” He hands me the bundle of eating tools. “Could you take those through to the dining room?” He indicates an archway next to the fridge.

“Um. Sure,” I say.

He opens a cupboard and pulls out a pile of plates and hands them to Zack.

“Gee, thanks,” says Zack.

Jasper gathers up some glasses and then we go into a long room with tall windows, in the middle of which is a dark wooden table. Jasper goes ahead of us and drops three place mats in front of three chairs at one end of the table, then puts the glasses in front of them.

“I hope you're making us do this because you have some information,” says Zack, holding the plates in front of his chest.

Jasper points to Zack and then to the mats. “You can put one of those on each of these.” He slides rolled-up napkins next to them. “I actually think I might know the very person you're talking about.”

“So where's 48B?” I say.

“Just put the knives and forks next to the plates, Toby,” says Jasper. “48 used to have a flat on the top floor.”

I place a knife and a fork next to the plate at the head of the table.

“No, you nincompoop.” Jasper grabs the silverware out of my hand. “Knife on the right, fork on the left.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“What I can't say for certain,” Jasper places three more mats, this time down the centre of the table, “is that it was called 48B.”

“Is there another Mariner Street in Brunswick?” I say.

“There are dozens of them, Toby,” says Jasper. “Makes it easy for the post office.” He takes a salt and pepper from a side table under a painting of someone dressed up as an admiral. “Let's assume that the house across the street is the one in the note.” He makes a gap in between two of the mats to make room for the salt and pepper.

“So does Julie McGuire still live there?” says Zack. “Is it that simple?”

Jasper shakes his head. “At one point there was a girl living there.” He moves around the table, switching the knives and forks from left to right. “I suppose you'd call her a woman really, but she was very pretty. I never knew what her name was, but what makes me think it might be her is that she played the guitar.”

“But did she play the bass?” I say.

Jasper pulls out the chair at the head of table. “You can sit down for a moment if you like.”

Both Zack and I pull out chairs and sit.

“There was this one summer,” says Jasper, picking up the knife and fork in front of him. “I don't know if you noticed it, but forty-eight has a balcony.” He holds the knife and fork like drumsticks, and begins tapping out a four-four beat on the place mat. “She used to sit out there and play. I used to see her every evening on the way home from school.” He does a drumroll with the knife and fork then goes back to the four-four. “I was just a kid. I didn't know the difference between an electric guitar and an electric bass. But. Yeah. Could easily have been a bass.” He does a final roll, then pings the knife on the glass.

“That was nice,” I say, pointing to the knife and fork.

Jasper looks puzzled for a second then looks down at the knife and fork. “Oh. Thanks,” he says. He places the utensils back next to the mat. “I've got to tell you one thing. She was a lot older than me.”

“It has to be her,” says Zack. “How much older was she?”

“I used to have wet dreams about her,” says Jasper, adjusting the knife and fork so they line up perfectly.

“This is much more information than we were expecting,” says Zack.

Jasper glares at him with one eyebrow raised. “I used to have to walk past my mother's bedroom every morning to go to the bathroom.” He folds his arms. “I had to keep my hands folded in front of my crotch.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to stop any unwanted images drifting into my mind. “Jasper,” I say, “do you know where she might have gone when she moved?”

He shakes his head. “It was awful,” he says with a long sigh. “I spent every day at school trying to pluck up the courage to speak to her, and then one day I actually did it.” He looks from me to Zack. “It was crazy. She must have been twenty years older than me. But I was in love.” He folds his arms and looks down at his feet again. “I snuck out of the house while my parents were watching the news. I wanted to run, but I walked calmly over there and rang the doorbell.” He puts his head in hands and goes quiet for a moment.

“I remember standing there,” he says, “straightening my clothes and brushing my hair with my fingers. Then the door opened. I was expecting a blonde beauty, but there was this bloke standing there. He was mean-looking. He had sunglasses on even though it was dark. I swallowed and asked him if the girl was there. I didn't know what her name was. He laughed, and said
You're too late, Buster. We're getting hitched next week.
And then he slammed the door in my face. I stood there for five minutes, and then went home.”

Jasper goes quiet again.

“That was the last time you saw her?” says Zack.

“Pretty much,” he says. “Sure enough, a week later she moved out. I suppose my parents would have known her name. I mean it's possible they might still remember her. There aren't a lot of people round here who are young and pretty … ”

“Aside from you,” says Zack.

We hear the sound of a car pulling up outside.

“You should probably go,” says Jasper.

“You embarrassed about us?” says Zack.

“On the contrary,” says Jasper. “You can stay if you want, and you can ask them about the girl at forty-eight B yourself.” He pushes back the chair and stands up, and looks out the window.

Zack stands up and follows his gaze. His face creases into a grimace, which means I have to look. Outside on the street is a police car. The door swings open, and out steps an even-larger version of Jasper in a policeman's uniform.

It crosses my mind that he might just have come back from a fancy dress party, but I think the chances are slim on a Sunday morning.

“You can go out by the side door,” says Jasper. “Look. I'll ask my dad.” He ushers us back into the kitchen and down some steps that look like they lead to a double garage. “I bet he'll know pretty much everything about the woman at forty-eight B.”

Zack is right in front of me when he stops suddenly at the bottom of the steps. I slam into his back.

I shake my head to get my bearings and peer over his shoulder.

Parked at one end of the garage is a blue Volvo, but sitting right in front of it, in iridescent red and sparkling chrome, is a five-piece premier drum kit.

Zack looks from the drums to Jasper, then back to the drums. “They your mum's?” he says.

“Yeah. Right,” says Jasper. “You want to hear them?”

“Sure,” I say.

“If you've got time,” says Zack.

Jasper leans past us and pokes his head back through the door to the kitchen. “Be back in a minute, Dad,” he yells.

He marches over to the drums, pulls back the stool, clicks on the snare, and takes two sticks from a little bag. He places the sticks together on the snare drum, shuts his eyes, draws in a long breath, and erupts into activity. He's a pulsing robot. Rolls, trills, cymbal crashes, the hi-hat, he moves around the kit like he's been playing since he was four.

“Tight,” I say when he stops.

“Sweet,” says Zack.

“Tight and sweet,” I say.

“Thanks,” says Jasper. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead.

“You know we play in a band,” says Zack.

“And we don't have a drummer,” I say. “We really need one.”

Jasper gives me a broad grin. “If I had more time,” he says.

“You're already in a band?” I say.

“Yup,” says Jasper. “We're playing in Port Jackson on Monday night. Why don't you come along?”

“Oh,” says Zack. “Be really nice, but we're playing on Monday night as well.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, with more than a touch of trepidation. “What's the name of your band?”

“The Disappointed Parents,” says Jasper.

“That makes no sense,” says Zack. He stabs a finger at Jasper. “If you're in the Disappointed Parents, then how come we didn't know about it?”

“I only joined them a couple of weeks ago,” says Jasper. “Their old drummer quit.”

“Wow,” I say. “You landed on your feet.”

“I hope you're washing them on a regular basis,” says Zack.

I shove myself in front of Zack. “We're the opening act,” I say. “The Sand Tigers.”

“The Nowhere Men,” says Zack, resting his chin on my shoulder.

Jasper stands up and leads us over to the door, which is behind the Volvo. “I'll give you a ring and let you know what I find out,” he says.

As we reach the pavement, Zack says, “I suppose you won.”

“I won what?” I say as we march toward Norfolk Square.

“You won the bet,” says Zack. “We made progress. I think we've found Julie McGuire.” He spreads his arms. “You get to choose the name of the band.”

“The Nowhere Men,” I say. “No doubt about it.”

“I thought you wanted to call us the Sand Tigers,” says Zack.

“I was just testing you,” I say. “I wanted to see how much you wanted the Nowhere Men. It's obviously the better name.”

“Sometimes,” says Zack as we reach Norfolk Square, “you can be quite annoying.”

23

Monday

Horoscope: April 19, Aquarius:

Never the one to shy away from hard work, you will have to open up today, and allow yourself to fully experience the sunny dispositions of those around you. With that done, you will soon be able to see the generosity of spirit within yourself.

“Dressing room is not too bad.” Zack screws his face up, then plinks through the guitar riff from the Beatles's “Ticket To Ride,” our opening number. “As long as you inhale through your mouth.”

“What's that?” I can barely hear him over the din of heavy metal, which is pounding down from the auditorium upstairs.

“I said it's a nice dressing room if you breathe through your mouth.” Zack adjusts his guitar strap.

“Could do with somewhere to sit down,” I yell back, “after playing rugby and then hauling amps up and down stairs for Harry.” I swivel my p-bass so it's upright, then rest the middle of my forehead against its smooth, cool neck. “So much for the free ride to the gig.”

“Well, there's plenty of floor available.” Zack's fingers dance up and down the fret board of his guitar.

“Fantastic,” I say. “After you.”

“It's a nice floor,” says Zack.

“It's a bloody toilet,” I say. “I'm not sitting on a toilet floor.”

“Oh, come on, Toby,” says Zack. “Don't be such a baby. You heard what Harry said. It's been out of use for more than a year.” He bobs and dances as he hammers away at his guitar, as if he's trying to play through the entire thirty-minute set in thirty seconds. “Plus, it's the ladies'. I mean it's not like it's the gents'. That really would be disgusting.”

“I don't even feel good about standing up on this floor.” My legs ache so much that I lean back against a cubicle door as I attempt to tune my bass. “Look. You can almost see the bacteria wriggling out from the gaps between the tiles. Some of them are bound to get stuck to my shoes, and then they'll come home with me. Then they'll wait for me to get undressed, and then they'll pounce.”

The coolness of the door actually feels quite nice through the fabric of my shirt in spite of the fact that armies of bubonic plague germs are now crawling across my shoulder.

The reason I'm only trying to tune my bass and not really succeeding is due to the din pounding down from the ceiling. The crashing guitar chords come from the main act of the evening, the Disappointed Parents, who are upstairs doing their sound check right now.

Then, with one apocalyptic eruption, the sound from upstairs ends.

We both look up at the ceiling.

“That's it,” says Zack, not sounding quite so confident. “Sound check over. We go on in fifteen minutes.”

“You ready?” I say.

“According to Harry,” says Zack, “we have to do one very important thing.” He places his guitar back in its case. “PGP. You can't go on without it.”

“PGP?” I say.

“Pre-gig-piss,” says Zack. “I have to run and use the toilet upstairs.” He points at his guitar. “You don't need me here to tune up, do you?”

“I'm confused,” I say. “Why do you have to go upstairs? You were the one who was just telling me that it's okay to sit on the floor. How come you can't use the facilities down here?”

“We're not allowed to use it,” says Zack. “Rules of the management. Anyway, it's out of order.” He walks over to the door and pulls it open. “Aside from anything, it's the ladies'.”

“Don't get lost,” I tell him. I stop leaning on the cubicle door, and take a glance inside.

It's one of those antique toilets with the cistern up by the ceiling and a chain dangling down, but it looks to be in perfect working order. I guess Zack just needed to go in search of himself for a few moments. Without taking my bass off, I negotiate my way into the cubicle and use the facilities.

When I'm done I pull the chain. It all works perfectly, and as I watch the clean water flood back in from the cistern I get a little glow. Peeing with my bass on, I actually feel like a rock star for the first time. But the nice feeling just makes my legs even more tired.

What the heck. I fasten my jeans back up, turn myself around, and slump back on the rim of the bowl. I let out a long breath as the blood trickles back into my calf muscles. It's so comfortable that I lean back against the concrete wall.

I contemplate the porcelain handle of the chain swinging in front of my face, and just let my eyes close for a moment.