Queen of the Night (12 page)

There’s only one place I can

think to go. I slow to a walk on the steep path up to the lip of the volcano. There are no lights, crowd, noise. I don’t know what else I was expecting. It’s not fight night, after all.

But when I reach the top and look down onto the cycling track, I see that I haven’t wasted my time. A small light burns at the centre of the basin. There are three people in the cage.

The Gentleman sees me coming and pushes open a gate on the side of the cage, his eyes friendly in his duststreaked face. I duck through and he bolts the door behind me. He pulls me into a strange, fleeting embrace, and I feel
the strength of his arms, his bigness and wildness. Clad in nothing but a pair of stubbies, every inch of his skin, from collarbone to toes, is covered in thick coarse hair.

‘Wolfboy,’ is all he says, as if I drop in every day.

I nod, suddenly shy.

The cage is lit only by two heavy-duty torches placed on the ground in a crisscross arrangement. I don’t recognise the other two men in the ring. They don’t hide their curiosity. The smell of sweat and dust is strong.

‘Paddy.’

The Gentleman flicks his hand, and a man steps forward. He’s older than the Gentleman, short and squat and wearing a faded tracksuit. Sleek black hair grows from his eyebrow line, all the way over the top of his head and down the back of his neck. A thick glossy pelt.

‘Better take your shoes off.’ The Gentleman leans against the cage wall.

I drop my eyes to Paddy’s bare feet. He has ugly knobbly toes but his feet are ordinary.

I realise I’ve come here to fight.

I kick off my shoes and step into the centre of the crosshatched light. Paddy bows. I return the gesture.

We circle each other on the dirt, our feet kicking up puffs of dust. I watch Paddy. Soon the world is reduced to the two of us, staring, orbiting.

An unexpected calm descends over me. I can feel
everything: the dirt between my toes, the barest wind on my skin, my fingers curling into fists.

And then Paddy charges, planting a shoulder in my stomach.

I take the blow, letting myself buckle at the middle and fall. My back slams against the ground and I kick up into the air. A moment later I’m back on my feet.

Paddy cricks his neck to the side. I throw myself at him. I grab him around the middle and hurl him to the other side of the cage. He hits the ground, then comes at me on all fours, crawling fast. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. He grabs my ankles. I kick frantically until I free a foot, stomp hard between his shoulderblades, leaving a streak of dirt on his tracksuit.

Paddy grunts and collapses but he still manages to topple me by pulling my ankle.

I smack into the ground, a skyscraper under demolition. My chest heaves, trying to suck in air. I finally kick free, and launch myself at him again. I’m getting tired and my heart is beating out of time. Paddy and I roll over and over until I lose sense of which way is up.

He gets a punch in to the side of my head and there are stars everywhere. When my vision clears I’m sitting on his chest, pinning his arms above his head.

Paddy taps the ground—’I’m out!’—and I let go.

I get to my feet straightaway, but the ground tilts under
me. Paddy rolls away. The Gentleman pushes off the cage wall, clapping. He collars my waist when my legs give way, and helps me to a sitting position on the ground.

I tip my head to look at the stars through the cage. They’re pulsating with disco light. I might feel fantastic, I’m not sure.

Seconds later I’m positive I’m going to throw up. I put my head between my knees until the nausea passes. When I look up, the Gentleman is watching me without concern.

‘You’re punch drunk,’ he says. ‘It’ll pass quickly. Come with me to the clubhouse.’

The clubhouse is a long narrow shed with a concrete floor and a corrugated iron roof. It’s littered with mattresses and blankets, kerosene lamps and rusty gym equipment.

A bruise is blooming on my cheekbone. Paddy hasn’t fared any better, but he still shakes my hand, and then sinks onto a camp bed with a groan.

I wince when I lower myself onto a bench.

The Gentleman grabs a bottle of whisky and offers it to me. I refuse, but he insists. ‘Trust me.’

The spirit burns in my mouth.

‘Feel better?’ he asks.

I shrug. What an unanswerable question.

‘I’m not going to be able to convince you to fight for stakes, am I?’ he asks.

‘Probably not.’

He doesn’t seem too fazed by that. He draws from the bottle, swills the liquid.

‘So you know, people here come and go as they please. No rules, no pressure. If you want to train with us, spar with us, anytime, you’re always welcome.’

‘Good to know.’

I take another sip from the bottle, but it makes my nausea well up again. My insides are hot and loose.

‘What have you been doing tonight, Jethro?’

I think of Doctor Gregory’s words, the smooth veneer that does little to cover the sick reality. I look at the Gentleman, barely clothed and unwashed and straight out of the Wild West, and I trust him implicitly.

‘I’ve been wondering about Night Sickness,’ I say.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s this.’ I point to myself. ‘It’s being different.’

The Gentleman baulks. ‘This isn’t an illness, Jethro. It’s a gift, a privilege. Who called it a sickness?’

‘Something I read.’

‘Something you read in Doctor Gregory’s pamphlets? I already told you he’s a quack. D’you know when I first set up this place, when I first started the fights, he came calling? He pretended he was talking to me man-to-man, but he made it very clear that he was doing me a favour by considering me an equal. He wanted to do a deal. He offered me money for access to my fighters.’

‘What did he want with them?’

‘That was never on the table.’ The Gentleman puts the whisky bottle on the ground next to his feet. ‘One reason to distrust him. Second reason, the way he talked, he thought we needed tempering, controlling. He talked of a cure, of all things.’

The Gentleman’s smile is devilishly white. ‘Every one of those ordinary yokel Locals that come to my fights on a Sunday night, who throw their hard-earned cash at my fighters, they want to be us. They envy us. We are part of the night. More than they are, and they know it. The night makes us. I don’t need Doctor Gregory’s money, and I don’t want a cure.’

I blink, freeing myself of the Gentleman’s considerable charisma. I like him, but I don’t want to be like him. So where does that leave me? My confusion must be evident, because the Gentleman leans over and grabs my left bicep. I do my best not to wince.

‘This here is your anger, Jethro.’ He switches to my right arm. ‘And this is your sadness. This
is
your strength; this is what makes you different.’ He releases me. ‘I know you’re not looking for advice, but I will give it regardless. Don’t try to control it, don’t hold it in, let it be what it is. You’re fine as you are, Jethro.’

I don’t run on the way home, I walk. I cross over the creek and skirt Orphanville. I desperately want to drop in on Diana and Ortie, to sit with them while they eat dinner on the big studio table, but I can’t let them see my tenderised face. And I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from telling Ortolan what Doctor Gregory said about Diana. I know he’s all hot air, but Ortolan doesn’t.

I settle for calling their landline, as I flirt with the edges of Shyness and Panwood all the way along Grey Street. There’s no answer so I peel away from the main road, heading for home.

I’ve barely exited the school

gates when my phone rings. A private number.

‘Hola?’ I say. I had Spanish sixth period and I’m still in the zone.

‘Wildgirl, is that you? It’s Blake.’

Blake talks as if she’s scared of the phone.

‘Hi, honey, how are you going?’

There’s a pause. I keep walking towards the main road. Blake’s next words gush forth in a rush.

‘Wolfboy won’t answer his phone and I don’t know where he is and I didn’t know who else to call.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Paul. He’s home. Or I found him. I need you to come.’

I’m silent, wondering how Blake can’t figure out I’m probably the last person Paul wants to see.

‘Wildgirl, he won’t wake up.’

Blake’s face floats pale and worried at the front door. She cracks it open a bare inch, until she sees it’s me. I’m shivering after the abrupt transformation from day to night. Even with a jumper on, my summer school dress is too flimsy. ‘Where is he?’

‘In here.’ Blake pulls me into the front room. ‘The power’s out and I need to find candles, but I don’t want to leave him.’

Paul lies on the floor next to the couch, covered in a tartan blanket. The dark room could be a funeral parlour, and Paul could be a corpse laid out for viewing. His eyes are closed, his face blank.

‘He’s warm, and his pulse seems fine.’ Blake kneels beside him and holds his hand. She’s calmer than I was expecting her to be.

I put my hand on Paul’s scrawny chest, feeling it rise and fall. His resemblance to a corpse diminishes when I touch him.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I don’t know. I was asleep and when I woke up, no one was home. I made myself cornflakes and listened to some music. I could smell smoke, so I went outside to check.
Paul was lying on the doorstep. I don’t know how long he’d been there for. He could have been there for hours.’

Blake tucks her hair behind her ears. Her face is tight. I feel sorry for her finding Paul on her own.

‘I dragged him in here. At first I tried to carry him, but he was too heavy. That’s how I know he won’t wake up. It took me ages, and I accidentally banged him into the door and he still didn’t wake up.’

‘You did well to get him this far. Let’s lift him onto the couch.’

Blake takes Paul’s feet and I grab under his shoulders. Together we get him onto the couch. Paul’s breathing doesn’t alter, and he doesn’t flinch when we move him. He really is fast asleep.

‘What do you think is wrong with him? Why won’t he wake up?’ Blake asks.

‘I don’t know.’ Paul’s expression is so peaceful compared to the last time I saw him. Only his eyes move, flicking from side to side beneath the lids. I point them out to Blake.

‘That’s what happens when you dream.’ I dredge up what we learned in Psychology last year, glad to have something concrete to grab on to. ‘It’s called rapid eye movement. REM. It’s the phase of sleep where you’re most likely to dream.’

We watch Paul’s eyeballs slide for a moment.

‘Do you think he overdosed on dreaming drugs?’

‘Possibly. It’s the likeliest explanation.’ I wonder how long he’s been in this state. I try to calculate the logistics of getting him to a hospital. Other than not waking up, though, he seems okay. ‘Maybe this is normal. Maybe when the blue people dream they get in a really deep sleep.’

Maybe I’m talking out of my arse. Blake looks as dubious as I feel.

I try to think logically. ‘Okay, this is the plan. We keep calling Wolfboy until he picks up. We watch Paul. Every half an hour we check his pulse and temperature.’

‘There’s a first aid kit under the kitchen sink, with a thermometer,’ says Blake. ‘That’s where the candles are as well.’

I fetch the candles from the kitchen, sparking one before I head back. The front door clicks as I reach the top of the hallway. I don’t even have enough time to tense up before the door opens.

‘You look like a ghost,’ Wolfboy says. He rushes towards me and sweeps me up in a big bear hug.

‘Candle! Candle!’ I try to keep the flame from singeing my hair. The first aid kit falls to the floor. He releases me and kisses me gently on the lips. I get a closer look at him; there’s a definite sunset-coloured bruise on the side of his face.

‘Are you okay?’ I pat my fingers over his cheekbone.
‘What happened? Did you get into a fight? Was it Doctor Gregory?’

‘Stop asking questions for a second, Nia, and I might be able to answer. I’m fine. I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘Where have you been? Blake’s been calling you.’

He kisses me again, everything about him big and warm and strong. ‘I went to boxing practice,’ he says incongruously, in between bombing my cheek and neck with light kisses. ‘What are you doing here so soon? I thought you were going to call me after school.’

‘Don’t panic.’

I lead him into the front room, in time to see Blake prising Paul’s eyelids open.

‘What’s going on in there?’ she asks loudly.

I’d laugh at her unscientific methods if I didn’t see Wolfboy’s face pale. He joins Blake at Paul’s side, searches Paul’s pockets, then pinches the inside of his arm, hard. I spill wax on the coffee table and stand the candle up. Blake fills Wolfboy in.

‘This could be what happens when you take those pills,’ she finishes. ‘He could be fine in an hour.’

She doesn’t look as if she really believes that. I didn’t even believe it when I said almost the same thing to her.

‘If he’s so fine, then why would someone dump him anonymously on the doorstep?’ Wolfboy looks down at Paul, his expression odd. I lean against the sideboard,
keeping my distance. I’m out of my depth. This is so much worse than holding a friend’s hair back while they puke up half a bottle of vodka. I would know what to do if this happened at home. The choices would be obvious. But this is Shyness. There’s been no talk of doctors or police.

Wolfboy rubs his eyes. ‘I don’t know if I can be bothered getting him out of this mess.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ I say. Blake looks quietly outraged.

‘You’re right. I should have chased him the other night,’ Wolfboy says. ‘I should have kept him in the house and not let him out of my sight.’

He looks at Blake. ‘Can your friend help us? The Queen? Is this the sort of thing she can fix?’

Blake squirms, scuffs her sneaker. ‘When I found him, I wanted to call her right away. But I didn’t want to make you mad.’

‘Who’s this?’ I ask.

‘Why would I be mad? I’ve been trying to—’ Wolfboy catches himself, clearly exasperated. ‘We don’t have time for this. So, the Queen is a nurse, or is she…?’

‘Not exactly,’ says Blake.

I clap my hands to my face. ‘Are we taking Paul to a
witch doctor?’

In Shyness, I only have half a grasp on where everything is located. But I know for a fact that I haven’t been anywhere near this place before.

The flat silhouettes of trees gather close before us. Or wannabe trees. An entire forest of them, cutout trees that look like they’ve been steamrolled flat. Uniform black and plain wood, large and small. Some with saw-toothed outlines, others with exaggerated bubbleheads. The forest looks like an unfinished film set, or a fledgling dream.

I’m so busy gawking Blake and Wolfboy almost slip from sight. Wolfboy hunches over, pushing Paul in a rusty wheelbarrow. Blake walks ahead, sure-footed, picking her path through the trees. My feet kick up a flurry of wood shavings. As enchanting as it is, I wouldn’t want to be alone in this labyrinth.

‘Can I get this straight,’ I say when I catch them. ‘There’s a queen of Shyness that no one thought to tell me about? And she’s also a witch doctor?’

This makes Blake and even Wolfboy smile, despite the seriousness of our situation. Sometimes they’re so annoyingly oblivious to how strange their suburb is.

‘The Queen of the Night is an expert,’ Blake says. ‘If anyone will know what to do with Paul, she will.’

‘What qualifications does she have?’

‘That’s not really the point,’ says Blake.

I cross my arms over my chest, a hair’s breadth away
from petulance. ‘These woods are full of eyes,’ I say, instead of defending my right to ask normal, rational questions. ‘I feel like someone is watching us.’

‘Don’t worry. We’re nearly there.’

Beyond the edge of the forest is a strip of vacant land, a ditch, and then another normal residential street. I scan the footpaths for pedestrians. No one. The eyes haven’t followed us. Paul’s arms and legs dangle over the sides of the wheelbarrow, barely clearing the road. Surely what we’re doing is weird, even by Shyness standards.

Blake stops on the next corner, outside an old-fashioned apartment building with curved balconies.

‘This is it.’

The building is in pretty good nick, but it definitely isn’t a palace fit for a queen. It’s not even a falling-down gothic mansion. I glance up. Three storeys of red brick. Elegant metal letters sit above the ground floor windows:
WOOKEY & SALAMON.
A smudge of black flits across a balcony and out of sight, sending a skittery shiver travelling up my spine.

Blake opens a wrought-iron door that leads to a chilly vestibule. The steps are too much of a challenge for the rickety wheelbarrow. Wolfboy is forced to heave Paul over his shoulder, fireman-style.

We move forward into the dark building. ‘What’s that smell?’ Wolfboy’s voice echoes. We must be in a large
space. I sniff but I can’t smell anything.

‘Keep moving forward,’ calls out Blake, ‘and stay close to the sides.’

When my eyes adjust I realise that the entire ground floor is an open space. There are no lights or lamps or candles in here, but despite that the ground is glowing green.

‘Dirt,’ says Wolfboy. ‘That’s what I smelt. It’s a room full of dirt.’

I crouch where the glow is strongest. A peaty smell fills my nostrils. Hazy green shapes become miniature umbrellas and round buttons.

‘This is strange,’ I say to Wolfboy in a low voice. ‘Is this what you were expecting?’

‘I don’t know what to expect.’ Wolfboy shifts Paul on his shoulder with a grunt. Paul’s arms hang limply.

‘We’re late.’ Blake sounds impatient, already on the other side of the room. I can see now that there are narrow concrete edges around the pit of dirt. ‘I said we’d be here ten minutes ago. She hates it when people are late.’

‘You try carrying a dead weight on your own,’ says Wolfboy, but Blake has already disappeared up a flight of stairs lit with candles.

‘Do you want some help?’

‘He’s not that heavy. There are a few advantages to being an animal,’ Wolfboy grunts, climbing the stairs.

I whack him one. ‘You’re not an animal any more than I’m a fairy. Stop being so angsty.’

At the top of the staircase is a door with a frosted window engraved with a
W&S.
Blake waits for us on the landing.

‘What’s growing down there?’ I ask her.

‘Luminescent fungi. Foxfire and Jack O’Lanterns mostly.’

I file that info under Strange Trivia. Blake knocks on the door, turning to give us an excited smile. Personally I wish I were meeting the Queen in something a little more glamorous than my school dress.

‘Come in,’ I hear a female voice say.