Jasper Jones (2 page)

“D’you reckon it’s all true?” I ask.

“Yeah, I reckon. It’s all bullshit what people say mostly, but I reckon he’s mad, all right.”

“Fersure,” I say, and sniff and spit again. “Completely.”

“I seen him, you know. A bunch of times.” Jasper states it so plainly that I believe him. I beam at him.

“Really? What does he look like? Is he tall? Does he really have a long scar down his face?”

But Jasper just kicks dirt over his smoke and swivels as though he doesn’t hear me. We are moving again.

“C’mon,” he says.

I shuffle on.

***

We link back with the river. We walk east along its worn banks for some time. Neither of us speaks. The paperbarks and floodgums that shroud us look eerie and ethereal in the silver light, and I find myself matching Jasper’s step.

I begin to recognize the landscape less and less. The banks become more littered and cluttered as the river thins, and small shrubs frost its edge. Soon we’re confined to filing along the narrow kangaroo tracks further from the water.

Jasper’s stride is long and strong. I walk behind, watching his calves clench in the gloom. His sureness and his presence make him easy to follow. I’m still afraid, of course, but something about being in his bubble is reassuring. I trust him straight up, though I have no reason to, and that makes me one of few.

Jasper Jones has a terrible reputation in Corrigan. He’s a Thief, a Liar, a Thug, a Truant. He’s lazy and unreliable. He’s a feral and an orphan, or as good as. His mother is dead and his father is no good. He’s the rotten model that parents hold aloft as a warning:
This is how you’ll end up if you’re disobedient
. Jasper Jones is the example of where poor aptitude and attitude will lead.

In families throughout Corrigan, he’s the first name to be blamed for all manner of trouble. Whatever the misdemeanor, and no matter how clear their own child’s guilt, parents ask immediately: Were you with Jasper Jones? And of course, more often than not, their kids will lie. They nod, because Jasper’s involvement instantly absolves them.
It means they’ve been led astray. They’ve been waylaid by the devil. And so, as the cases are closed, the message is simple:
Stay away from Jasper Jones
.

I’d heard Jasper Jones described as a half-caste, which I’d never really understood until I mentioned it one night at the dinner table. My father is a serene and reasonable man, but those words had him snapping his cutlery down and glaring at me through his thick black-rimmed glasses. He asked me if I understood what I’d just said. I didn’t. Then he softened and explained that it was rude to discuss somebody’s racial heritage.

Later that night, he came into my room with a stack of books and quietly offered me the very thing I’d wanted all my life: permission to read whatever I liked from his library. My father’s rows and stacks of novels had awed me since he taught me to read, but he always chose the volumes he thought were appropriate. So it felt important, and it was clear to me that he thought it was significant too. But I wondered if it came about because he thought I was growing up, or if he worried that Corrigan might be luring me toward things that troubled him.

Either way, something forbidden had been lifted. He gave me a leather-bound stack of Southern writers to start with. Welty, Faulkner, Harper Lee, Flannery O’Connor. But the biggest portion of the stack was Mark Twain. There must have been a dozen of his books in there.

As he laid them gently on my desk, my father told me Twain was the single reason he taught literature. He said there was nothing he couldn’t teach you, and nothing he didn’t have an opinion about. He said that Twain was as wise a counsel as any, and that if every man read at least one of his books at some time in his life, it would be a far better world for it.

He pressed his thumb on my cowlick, as he sometimes did, and ran his hand through my hair and smiled.

That was winter. By now, I’m halfway through that bundle. I understand why he chose them. I enjoyed the Harper Lee book the best, but I told my father that
Huckleberry Finn
was my favorite. I started
The Sound and the Fury
, but had to abandon it. To be honest, I had no idea what the hell was going on. I refused to ask my father, though. I didn’t want him thinking I wasn’t smart enough.

Because that’s all I’ve ever had, really. Corrigan is a town whose social currency is sports. That’s where most kids find and hold their own. The mine employs most people and the power station herds in the rest, which means there isn’t much class divide. And so kids have established a hierarchy based on their skill with a ball, rather than their clothes or their family car. I’m lousy at sports and better than most at school, which garners me only ire in the classroom and resentment when report cards are issued. But at least I have something over them, even though it’s a lonely celebration.

Of course, it also means I’m mostly ignored. It’s worse for Jeffrey Lu, my best and only friend, who is younger and smaller and, if I’m honest, smarter than me. Jeffrey has been moved up a year, and he’s my main competitor for primacy other than Eliza Wishart, who I mainly blush at from the other side of the classroom. But I don’t mind either of them in the race. Least of all Eliza.

Jeffrey’s parents are Vietnamese, so he’s ruthlessly bullied and belted about. He probably cops it worse than Jasper. But he takes it all astonishingly well, which has always eased my guilt, given that I’m never brave enough to intervene. Jeffrey is unflappable. He has a smile that you can’t wipe or slap or goad off his face. And unlike me, he never stoops to sycophancy or spite. In a way, he’s more assured than any of those vindictive bastards with peach pits in their pockets. But I’d never tell him that.

***

When Jasper Jones stops and grabs my shoulder, I jolt like he’s shot volts through my body. I point the bridge of my glasses further up my nose and wait. Jasper pushes through a bush and ushers me through. We’re moving off the path. I hesitate.

“Where are we going? What do you need me for?”

“S’not far now, Charlie. You’ll find out.”

I trust him. I have to. I’ve come too far. If he were to leave me here and now, I’d never make it back.

I can’t hear the river anymore, and the canopy overhead has stolen the moonlight. As we press further, I’m finding it harder to imagine what kind of help Jasper needs. I don’t understand what particular unique skill I bring to the table. It’s a strange coalition, me and Jasper Jones. We’ve never really even spoken before. I’m surprised he knew my name, let alone where I lived. He’s rarely at school, just long enough to qualify for football. I’ve only ever caught glimpses of him from a distance, so I can’t help but thrill in this sense of inclusion. In my head, I’m already composing my recount to Jeffrey.

We are in fairly thick bush now. It’s unearthly quiet. Jasper still hasn’t said a word without my prompting, and his replies have been nothing but brusque bursts. Despite the absence of any landmarks, he seems to know exactly where he’s going, and I’m grateful. I stick close behind, like a loyal and leashless dog. My anticipation is growing. I wonder if my parents heard me leave. I’m not sure what they’d do if they found my room empty. Sheets bunched, bed pared bare, louvres stacked. They’d have to assume I’d been snatched. Kidnapped. They’d never believe I had slipped out of my own accord. This is, by far, my worst-ever transgression. Probably my only-ever transgression. And if I am caught out, I’d probably be the only kid in Corrigan who could truthfully argue that they’d been led astray by Jasper Jones.

He’s starting to walk faster. Branches and shrubs snap back at me with more force. My arm has been scratched by bracken. I don’t complain. I just adjust my speed to match. Our feet share the same crisp military rhythm. I’m sweating.

Then Jasper Jones stops.

Right here. At the foot of an enormous old-growth jarrah tree. It has an astonishing girth. I can’t help but stare straight up to see how far it reaches into the sky. I can feel my pulse thrumming my temples. I’m panting. I need to clean my glasses. When I glance back down, I notice Jasper Jones is staring at me. I can’t place his expression. It’s as though
he’s about to leap from something very high. I tilt my head to the side and I’m suddenly very fearful. My anticipation is usurped by a sense of dreadful foreboding. Something is wrong. Something has happened. My weight is on my heel. I don’t want to be here anymore.

He motions toward a wattlebush to the left of the giant jarrah.

“It’s through here,” he says.

“What?
What
is?”

“You’ll see it, Charlie. Shit. You’ll’ve wished you dint, but you’ll see it. It’s not too late but. Are you sure you’re gonna help me?”

“Can’t you just
tell
me? What is it? What’s through there?”

“I can’t. I can’t, mate. But I can trust you, Charlie. I reckon I can trust you.”

It isn’t a question, but it seems like one.

And I believe if it were anyone else, I would choose to step back and turn away right now. I would never bow my head and push through that bush, and its golden flowers would never shake loose and nestle in my hair like confetti. I would never grab at its rough trunk to save me from tripping. I would never part its locks of foliage. And I would never lift my head to see this neat clearing of land. I would never look past Jasper Jones to reveal his secret.

But I don’t turn back. I stay. I follow Jasper Jones.

And I see it.

And everything changes.

The world breaks and spins and shakes.

I’m screaming, but they are muffled screams. I can’t breathe in. I feel like I’m underwater. Deaf and drowning. Jasper Jones has a hand pressed over my mouth; another across my shoulder, pulling me in toward him. My hips lurch back, back, back out of here, but my feet are rooted to the clearing. Blessedly, my eyes cloud over with tears and obscure it all until they are blinked away. And it’s there before me again. Jasper has me hard. He covers my thin frame easily. It’s horrible. Too horrible for words.

It is a girl.

It is a girl and she is in a dirty cream lace nightdress. She is pale. In the silver light I can see she bears scratches down her arms. And her calves. And her face is smudged and bruised and bloody. And she is hanging by the neck from a thick rope tied to the bough of a silver eucalyptus tree. She is still. She is limp. Her feet are bare and turned in. Her long hair is trapped tight under the noose. Her head is to the side, like a piece of biblical art. She looks disappointed and sad. Surrendered.

I can’t look away. Jasper can’t look. He holds me like that, his back to the girl, absorbing my movements until I fall quiet. I am breathing very quickly. And quaking. I don’t understand. He
knew
this. He knew and he brought me here. To see a girl hanging from a tree. She’s dead. She has died. Jasper drops his arm from my shoulder as I speak. I can barely stand.

“Who is it?”

Jasper Jones takes some time to answer.

“Laura Wishart. It’s Laura.”

It takes me a moment.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. It is. It
is
her.”

“Yeah,” Jasper says softly. He’s observing her now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head shake softly. He looks so skinny now. And slouched. Like a boy. I am completely lost. Everything seems slow and dreamlike. It really does. Like I’m not really here and it isn’t happening. It is all apparition. I am removed from it. Spectating from beyond my body, watching it all on a screen.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m sorry about this, mate. I dunno what to do.”

I am hugging my elbows. I turn to Jasper Jones.

“Why would you bring me here? I shouldn’t be here. I have to go back home. You have to tell someone about this.”

“Wait. Charlie, not yet, mate. Not yet.” It’s a firm plea. We fall silent.

“Why did she do this? What is …? I mean,
what
? I don’t understand. What
happened
?” I am almost whispering.

“She dint do it. Herself, I mean. It weren’t her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she can’t have, Charlie.”

“What? Why?”

“She can’t have. For starters, look. Look at that rope. See? That’s mine. That’s my rope. Use it to swing into the dam there. Look. See? But I always hide it after. I wrap it way up there on that branch so you can’t see it.”

Jasper speaks fast. Too fast to absorb. And for the first time, I observe the surrounds. Behind the eucalypt, which is broad and hollow at the base, like an open tent, there is a small water hole. In front of that, the space we are standing in is perfectly cleared and ringed by high shrubs and trees. It’s a strange little enclave. I imagine it might be something rare and amazing during the day. A quiet bush oasis. But right now it just seems sinister and suffocating. I need to leave. I can’t be here. Laura Wishart has died. And she’s right here. I can’t look.

The eucalypt rises bare for over fifteen feet before it extends the thick arm the rope is tied to. Save for a fat black burr about halfway between, there are no footholds or grips.

“And it’s fuckin hard to get up there,” Jasper goes on. “You got to almost sort of shinny up. Like those coconut trees or whatever. See? No way Laura could have got up there and brought it down herself. No way.”

“What about with a stick or something? Or it might have just come loose. With the wind. I don’t know.”

“I don’t see any sticks about, Charlie, d’you? Or wind. And it can’t have come loose, cause I wrap it up and tie it. Cause I don’t want anyone to know about this place.”

I nod, dazed. I can’t think properly.

Everything falls silent again.

“So what are you saying? What does this
mean
?”

“Charlie. Listen. I’m saying
she dint do it.
”

“So who
did
?” I ask, before a cold feeling of terror and dread suddenly has me backing away from him. I gag on the word:

“You?”

He turns to me. He looks baffled and disdainful. He shakes his head impatiently. His chin kicks.

“What? Shit, Charlie. I thought you were smart, mate. You reckon this was
me
? You reckon
I
did this? Is that what you think?”