The Eye of the Sheep (32 page)

Dad fell down into his chair. Whisky came out of his pipes and dripped down his face.

‘She couldn’t get the air in,’ I said from a quiet and faraway place.

Merle sang ‘If I Had Left it Up to You
’
as Dad got up, staggering towards the sink. The glass tinkled. I looked around
Happy Times
and nothing was connected to anything else or to me. What was the reason for it all? I looked at the bottles and in some there were cigarettes sitting in the dregs. There was a newspaper, there were thongs and socks and a cap and a fishing rod and little lead weights still in their plastic, but I couldn’t see the reason.

This man standing at the sink, his back to me, was the man in the photograph. Those were his hands gripping the metal
edge – the same hands that had first held me, connected to the same arms – but there was no line from those hands to me.

Dad turned to face me. ‘How did you get here?’ His lips struggled to loop themselves around each word. They didn’t meet at the ends, so that the sounds fell out the sides.

‘Bus,’ I answered. ‘With Eric.’

I looked at the walls and saw there was a hole beside the bed where the wall was crushed in, as though someone had hit it with a fist.

I wanted to put my hand in it to see how it fit.

‘Where are you staying? Who are you . . . who are you with? Robby? Where’s Robby?’ It was as if each of my dad’s questions was a journey he wasn’t equipped to make.

‘No Robby,’ I said.

‘Just you?’

‘Just me,’ I said. ‘Just me, Dad.’

‘What are you here for?’

‘For you, Dad,’ I said. ‘For you.’

‘Jesus,’ said Dad, as if I had spoken the worst words of all. He picked a bottle up from the floor and turned it in his hands, looking deep into the glass, then he smashed the bottle against the sink. He picked up another and smashed it against the cupboard. He picked up bottle after bottle, smashing them against every surface. Merle kept singing ‘If I Had Left it Up to You’ as the glass rained down on us, shining and glittering. Pieces of glass fell into my hair, into my pockets and socks, and into the cuffs of my trousers. Down it fell,
down down down
, burying me.

At last, like a storm that was finished, Dad stood panting, against the wall. He said, ‘You better go back where you came from.’

I climbed out from under the glass, shards still trapped in my ears and my armpits and under the lids of my eyes, and I said, ‘Okay, Dad, okay,’ and I walked out of
Happy Times
.

I pushed through bushes and trees until the moon showed me a small path that I followed until I reached the cliff. I stood close to the edge, looking out at the endless sea, silver and rippling in the light of the moon. I felt myself drawn as if the sea had a magnetic force and wanted to absorb me. I heard the waves crashing against the rocks down below, disintegrating into white foam and spray.

I saw the pathway across the surface of the sea that led to the moon. It had a silent voice that communicated to me through airs.
Hello Jimmy, this way, this way.
I wanted to cross it, more than I’d wanted to find the hole eleven years ago to push myself through, her second miracle.

‘Jimmy, come back into the caravan.’ It was Dad. I hadn’t heard him coming up behind me.

‘Come on, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Come back from there.’

I stayed where I was, the moon’s pathway stretching out before me, waiting.

‘Jimmy.’ Dad put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on, come with me.’

I didn’t move.

‘Jimmy.’

He pulled me back. ‘Come on.’

I let him lead me along the track back to his caravan, as if I had no powers of refusal, no remaining will. Merle was quiet when we went inside. The glass was swept away. Dad’s eyes were red and he moved slowly. He said, ‘You can stay here for the night then in the morning you have to go.’ He showed
me the bed. ‘There, you sleep there.’ He sat in the chair and turned off the light.

I climbed on the bed and turned to the wall and I fit my hand in the hole and I kept it that way until morning.

When I next opened my eyes I saw Dad standing over me and it was as if his blood had stopped. He swallowed but there was no liquid. He was shaking: his head, his nose, his legs, his neck, his hands, all trembling. It was the last of his motor. ‘Get up, Jim,’ he said.

We walked to the office. When Dad opened the door Denise came out. She wore shorts that were more like underpants, and thongs, and each toenail was orange. She smiled and she said, ‘Surprise, surprise.’

‘Good morning, Denise.’ Dad looked down at me. ‘Where you staying, Jimmy?’

‘Anne White’s,’ I answered.

‘Do you have a number?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’ I pulled the piece of paper that Deirdre had given me from my pocket.

‘Who’s Anne White?’ Dad asked.

‘My foster mother.’

‘Christ,’ he said, looking at the ground.

‘Is there a problem?’ Denise put her hands on her hips.

‘Can I use the telephone?’

‘Long distance?’ Denise asked, raising the pencil lines on her forehead.

‘Yeah, long distance.’

‘I’ll be timing you.’ Denise tapped her watch, her lips tight around her cigarette.

‘Haven’t you got better things to do?’ said Dad, picking up the telephone. His hands were shaking so much he kept hitting the wrong numbers. ‘Oh fuck,’ he mumbled.

‘You want me to dial it?’ Denise said.

‘I got it, Denise,’ said Dad. Then slowly and one at a time, using all his mind powers, my dad pressed the numbers. He passed the telephone to me. ‘Tell them to come and get you,’ he said to me while it rang. ‘Tell them you’ll be at the Point Paradise service station on the highway. Don’t say anything about me.’

Denise frowned at him and he shook his head at her.

Anne White answered the telephone. ‘Hello? Anne speaking.’

‘Anne White,’ I said. ‘Anne White.’

‘Yes, this is Anne speaking. Who is this?’

‘Anne White, it’s Jim. Jim Flick. Jim Flick.’

‘Jim! Is that you?’

‘Yes, Anne White. Yes, Anne White, it’s me.’

‘Oh, Jim! Jim! Where are you? Are you alright?’ Anne White started crying.

‘Point Paradise service station on the freeway.’

‘Point Paradise! Jake! Jake!’ she called.

Jake got on the phone. ‘Point Paradise, Jim? On the Eastern Freeway?’

‘Yes, Jake, yes.’

‘On the Eastern Freeway? Just near the border?’

‘Yes, Jake, yes.’

‘We’ll be there in . . . five hours, Jim. Don’t move. Don’t speak with anyone. Sit tight and we’ll be there soon.’

‘Are you okay, Jim? You’re not hurt?’ It was Anne White again.

‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I’m okay, Anne White.’ I heard her sniff, then I hung up the telephone.

I looked across at my dad. He was standing in the office doorway, like a dead silhouette. Streams of light came off his black shadow.

‘Come on,’ he said.

‘You heading out already, Gavin? They won’t be here for hours. Aren’t they coming from the city?’

‘Mind your business, Denise,’ said Gavin. ‘Get back inside and feed Derek.’

‘Doesn’t the kid need some breakfast before he goes?’

‘Don’t you worry about my kid.’

‘Suit yourself. See you, Jimmy,’ said Denise, her mouth a tight purse, all the creases headed for the clip.

I walked along the highway behind my dad. Trucks roared past, not slowing, almost crushing us. We followed the yellow stripes of paint along the road until we came to the service station, its electric lights glowing with the energy of petroleum and oil. We went in and Dad bought a coffee, an orange juice and a pie with sauce. We walked back outside and Dad took me to the low wall that ran along the side near the parked cars. He said, ‘Sit down and drink the juice.’

I sat on the wall and tipped the juice bottle up over my mouth and down went the juice.

Dad watched me. ‘You came here all by yourself?’ he asked.

I nodded.

Tears came out of his eyes with no other signs of crying. The tears travelled in messy zigzags down the skin of his face, getting spread in the hairs and the corners of his mouth. What was generating them?

‘Bloody hell, Jimmy. Bloody hell.’ He kept shaking his head, as if it was the only move he was sure he could make. He sat down on the wall beside me. He looked at his watch, then he crossed his arms. Cars drove in and out of the station. He said, ‘You got to leave me out of the picture, Jim.’

I smelled Cutty Sark vapours when he talked; the whisky was using my dad as a channel.

‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. ‘Yes, Dad. Out of the picture.’

He took a sip of his coffee, his hand shaking around the cup. He shook his head and threw the rest of the coffee onto the grass, then he got to his feet. He sighed out. He walked across the concrete towards the road, then he came back. He sat down again next to me and we kept waiting as the sun rose higher and grew stronger over our shoulders. There were no words between us. Cars came and filled up on fuel. I saw their owners go inside the petrol station jangling keys, buying cigarettes and Mars Bars and newspapers. The wall felt hard and cold beneath me.

Dad checked his watch again. We kept waiting. My legs grew stiff. Neither of us moved. Time kept passing. Dad began to rock forward and back, forward and back. A rocking that could barely be seen by the naked eye, only felt. He looked at his watch one last time, then he said, ‘It won’t be long now, Jim. Just stay here and wait, okay? Don’t move until they get here. You won’t go anywhere will you, Jim? Until they get here?’

‘No, Dad. I won’t move, I won’t go anywhere.’

‘It won’t be more than an hour,’ he said. He looked at me, then he took my arm and held it tight, just above the elbow. ‘Jimmy . . .’ he said. I felt Dad’s clamp, like pliers, its hardness, but there were no messages coming through. ‘Jimmy . . .’ And then he let go, got up off the wall and walked across the black
of the service station ground, his thongs slapping against his heels. I watched as he walked back onto the highway and I saw my only chance leave with him, sitting on his shoulder like a parrot on a chain.

I stayed on the wall and looked at tiny lights sparkling in the concrete at my feet, but there was no pattern; I didn’t need to search. When I had to go to the toilet I went inside and I didn’t look down.

You have to aim, Jimmy! You have to look. It’s getting on the seat.

No, Mum! I don’t want to look! I don’t want to see! No, Mum, no!

Come on, Jimmy. For Mum. Please look.

No! No! Mum! No! No!

Alright, alright, love, don’t shout. You don’t have to look.

You look, Mum, you look!

Alright, love. I’ll look for you. Mum will look for you.

There was a knock on the door so I put my hands under the tap then I opened the door and walked back to the wall. I don’t know how long I waited. I wasn’t counting. I closed my eyes and made a picture of the silver pathway made by the moon. I didn’t change positions. I stayed sitting, my legs hanging down from the wall. Car after car, hour after hour. Nobody saw me, as if my outline had been lost. Every time I blinked I saw the pathway. If I left my eyes half-closed it shone, beckoning me. I looked up to its leader, the glowing moon, then back down at the path.

Anne White and Jake drove into the station. When the car stopped near the wall where I was sitting, Anne White opened the door and came to me. She looked more tired than ever. ‘Thank God, Jim.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Get in the car.’

I climbed into the back seat and Anne White shut my door and climbed into the front. ‘I am glad you are okay. What were you thinking, Jim? Why did you run away? Why did you come
here?’ Anne White turned around to look at me as she waited for the answer; there was none. She faced the front again. ‘This is it for us,’ she said to Jake. ‘No more.’

Jake drove the car out of Point Paradise.

When we got back to the house Anne White sent me straight to my room. ‘You’ll need a rest,’ she said. ‘You can eat in here tonight. I’ll bring your dinner.’ I heard the door click when she left. Anne White had locked me in.

I didn’t look at anything: not the wall of fathers or the poster or the cupboard where the red suitcase lived. I was the body without the network. There was nothing left in the world for me to do. I didn’t move.

Anne White opened the door and came back into the room. She carried a tray with a bowl of soup and an apple and a piece of cake on it. Steam rose from the bowl of soup. I tried to see when the steam disbanded to become air but my eyes missed; it was impossible. Anne White placed the tray on Liam’s desk, then she turned on the desk lamp.

‘Come and sit down,’ she said, patting Liam’s chair. I sat down. She touched the tray. ‘I just think it’s easier for tonight if you stay by yourself, Jim. Give you a bit of time to think about things. Liam can bunk in with Deirdre.’

She touched the apple on the tray. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be leaving us soon, Jim,’ she said. ‘Please don’t think it’s because you’re not a very special boy, because I can see that you are.’ She was trying to talk but there was a wave washing up through her throat. ‘I’m just . . .’ She looked towards the window. ‘You’re a good little boy, Jim. I’m sorry.’ She walked to the door and
opened it. ‘Jake and I were very worried,’ she said. ‘Something bad could’ve happened. Something very bad.’

She left the room.

I didn’t touch the soup or the apple or the piece of cake. What bad thing was it that hadn’t happened?

I turned off the light on the desk and I lay on the bunk and watched day turn to night. After a long time I heard somebody trying the lock.
Click
one way
click
the other. The door opened. It was Deirdre.

‘Jimmy,’ she said, coming to the bed. ‘Jimmy.’ She took my hand and kissed it.

I rolled onto my side. ‘How did you get in?’ I asked her.

‘I took Anne White’s key,’ she said. ‘I’d do anything for you, Jimmy.’

Did crying start at the upper most or the lower most? I didn’t know.

Deirdre kneeled beside the bed in the dark. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.