Too Close to Home (12 page)

‘That was when you were with that man?' Matt asked.

Lisa just nodded.

They crossed the road, taking a turn-off that led them away from the hotels at the far end of the street. Matt could hear the noise, men out on the pavement, a car engine revving, doors slamming.

‘This is our cinema,' Lisa told him, and she pointed out a crumbling deco building, white paint peeling, cement cracking, weeds growing out the front.

The last session had finished, the doors were shut, the lights were off. Matt looked up to see what had been playing; it was a film he didn't know.

‘Don't know how much longer it'll stay open,' she said. ‘Most people just go to the DVD shop now,' and she indicated the Blockbuster across the road. ‘A couple of friends are trying to keep it going as some kind of art-house cinema club,' and she smiled again. ‘I'd be surprised if it worked.'

They turned back towards the track that led to her house, the dog still ambling along behind them, its stick forgotten.

‘Why did you come to live here?' He looked across at her, by his side, a long switch in one hand, her bangles jangling as she waved it back and forth.

‘After my parents died, I had a bit of money,' she explained. ‘Not much, but enough to get a house for Lucas and me. I had a friend who lived here. Someone I met at AA. We work together,' she added. ‘She talked me into it. There was the job going, a place I could afford. It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

‘You wish you hadn't?'

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I just don't know if it's been that good for Lucas.'

Later, as he lay wide awake in the small single bed she had made up for him, he wondered about getting up and going into her room. Along the darkness of the track, her face had been softened by the night, her voice had been gentle, cigarette husky as they talked. To call it a reconnection would have been wrong because he wasn't certain that there'd been any bond in the first place. But that evening, they had taken the first tentative steps towards a tenuous link with each other.

He'd reminded her about the jokes she used to tell him, and she'd looked at him quizzically, straining
to remember, smiling slightly as she began to recall.

‘I never remember them now,' she said, and there was, in her eyes, a momentary regret for the loss of the person she had once been.

He could get up and tiptoe through that small lounge room to where her door was shut. He could tap on it gently, wait for her response. He would lie close to her, his arms around her, his lips on the feather tattoo; a Matt he did not remember. As he lay there, contemplating the possibility, he heard the clatter of the caravan door opening, the metallic slamming as Lucas pulled it closed behind him, no doubt locking it, and then the music, loud thrash, tinny and grinding, making it even harder to sleep than it had already been.

And so, the next day, when he finally gets to talk to Lucas, he is even more out of his depth than he has been since he arrived, the tiredness rendering him unable to take any firm hold on a situation that floats around him.

As he talks about his desire to be a sculptor, he wonders what has induced him into this embarrassingly ridiculous territory. Is it an attempt to offer some kind of worthless fatherly advice about the practical necessities of life? If it is, he's ashamed. Or perhaps it's simply that he wants to appear interesting to a boy whom he would like to believe has an interior life that has not yet emerged.

In the white-hot heat of the morning, Lucas is pale and pimply. He smells stale, his black T-shirt and jeans sticking to his sweaty, thin limbs. There's a slight infection around the piercing in his lower lip, a scab that he picks at. He glances across at Matt, red eyes glazed, and then looks down again at the stick in his hand.

The dog ambles over, slumping heavy and tired on the cement at Lucas' feet. The boy runs his fingers through her hair, scratching at a spot on her neck, as she raises her hind leg and itches her belly in a reflex response.

Standing slowly, Lucas flicks the stick out across the yard. The dog eyes it and then decides against moving.

‘Mum,' Lucas calls, his voice cutting over Matt's feeble attempts at conversation.

‘She's gone to work,' Matt tells him.

Turning to face him, Lucas seems to take in Matt for the first time, his eyes registering his presence momentarily and then, deciding against any further interaction, he looks away again, walking across the yard to his caravan, slamming the door shut behind him.

FREYA IS WORKING AT home when she gets the call. Wedged, a new and well-funded theatre company to whom she had submitted her play, want to include it in their next season. It's her agent who gives her the news, telling her that the artistic director, John, wants to meet with her in the next couple of days.

She calls Matt immediately, knowing she'll get no answer. Since he arrived at Lisa's he's usually been out of range. They'd spoken the previous evening when he'd rung her from a phone box, the call hurried and unsatisfactory. It was strange, he'd told her, awkward and difficult, and as he'd begun to run out of coins she'd quickly put Ella on so that he could speak to her.

The message she leaves now is brief. She has had good news about her play, and she asks him to ring as soon as he can.

Anna is delighted. They should celebrate, she says. When Freya explains that she's alone with Ella and can't go out, Anna says she'll come over. Moments of success should always be marked, she says. She will bring the champagne, even some food.

As Freya cleans up Ella's dinner dishes, she wonders
whether Anna will try to get the female lead. She'd like it if she did – although she worries she is perhaps a little too beautiful for the role, her looks too distracting. Anna doesn't do much theatre, but every so often she takes a stage role in an attempt to boost her credibility, not so much with the public, but with her peers. The character is the right age for her, and Wedged is the most fashionable and critically acclaimed group performing at the moment. They've already been booked for several major overseas festivals in the latter half of next year. Her agent had told her that her play was being considered as one of the pieces they would take with them; she was sure John would discuss it further with her.

When Anna knocks on the door, Ella jumps out of the bath, her skin silky and damp as she runs naked up the hall.

‘God, it's a nudie,' Anna shrieks, ‘a beautiful pink and white nudie.'

‘Look what I got today,' and Ella leads Anna into her room, eager to show her the AFL showbag that was given to all the kids at the school in an attempt to find new recruits for the sport.

Standing at the door, Freya watches Ella take everything out and line it up across her bed, while Anna gives a shining performance, appearing genuinely interested in each item.

‘I brought you something,' she tells Ella and as she reaches into her bag, Ella jumps up and down.

‘What is it?' she asks, over and over again.

It is a doll, dressed in designer jeans, boots and a sliver of a sequinned top. It was a giveaway from fashion week and Anna has been keeping it for her. Ella loves it.

‘I reckon it's the best doll I've got,' she tells Freya and she props it up carefully on her bedside table, where it sits next to the Bratz and Barbies.

When Anna comes out to the kitchen, they open the champagne. It's French and very expensive. Just as Freya raises the glass to her lips, there's a knock on the door.

‘Bugger.' She puts her glass down. ‘I don't know who it could be.'

But as she walks up the hall, her feet loud on the polished boards despite tiptoeing so as not to disturb Ella, she can hear their voices. It's Archie, Darlene and Shane.

Shane is agitated, moving from foot to foot, one hand on each of the kids, who stand in front of him, looking up at her in the light of the corridor. He shepherds the children through to the kitchen, leaving an overnight bag near the front door. As Freya introduces Anna, Shane nods. ‘G'day,' he says, his eyes immediately returning to Freya. He wants to speak to her.

‘Can you take the kids?' he asks, his voice hushed and low, while Anna talks to Darlene and Archie.

She doesn't reply immediately, her hesitation brief before she says: ‘I guess so.'

‘They're rioting,' he tells her. ‘In The Block.' His agitation is palpable; the slight sweat across his forehead and the inability to stand still are not the only signs. There is a distance in his eyes. He wants to get out the door. ‘You heard about that boy? The one the cops killed?'

She remembers the story on that evening's news, a Koori teenager supposedly brawling outside a pub; the police had come to break up the fight. Apparently they'd used Tasers, thirteen times.

Shane wants to get down there. He's packed the kids' uniforms. They are already in their pyjamas. He will pick them up tomorrow after school.

As he hugs Archie and Darlene, he tells them to be good. ‘Behave yourselves,' he says, and he ruffles their hair. He heads for the front door without saying goodbye to Anna, and Freya follows him out.

‘Be careful,' she says, suddenly anxious.

He's pulled his car up in a hurry. Two of the wheels are halfway up the kerb. The door is still open, and he looks out at her, raising a hand in farewell.

He is gone as quickly as he arrived.

Inside, Freya puts Archie and Darlene in her bed. She will sleep on the lounge.

‘Where's Dad gone?' Archie asks, his eyes wide in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

It's Darlene who answers. ‘To fight the cops,' she tells him.

Archie grins. Sitting up, he stretches both his arms forward, hands clasped, pointer fingers aimed. ‘Pow,' he says, and then the smile fades. ‘Why's he gone?' he asks.

‘'Cos they killed a kid,' Darlene responds.

Freya doesn't know what to say. ‘He'll be all right,' she tells Archie. ‘He's careful.'

‘No, he's not,' Darlene interrupts, and then seeing Archie's face, she relents. ‘He'll get us tomorrow,' she says, her arm around her little brother.

Freya kisses them both and then goes out to where Anna is waiting for her in the kitchen, glasses of champagne still full, food uneaten on their plates.

‘Cheers again,' and Freya raises her glass as she sits down.

Anna wants to know what's happened and Freya explains, trying to articulate how she feels as she speaks; pissed off, and then guilty for feeling that way and then pissed off that she'd felt guilty, and now she is bloody anxious that something will happen to him.

‘It's never simple,' she tells Anna. ‘And I hate the fact that we can't move beyond the loaded complexities, but then perhaps it isn't possible. I mean, I don't know what we would have in common anyway, apart from kids at the same school.' She sighs. ‘And Matt.'

As she says his name, she fears the conversation will move to Matt's journey north and his possible son. But it doesn't. Instead Anna wants to talk about her and Paolo. Freya is surprised. Anna rarely discusses her relationships. She is also relieved. She doesn't want to talk about what's happening in her own life. It's still too unknown, and she fears any attempt to put it into words will only give voice (and credence) to fears she is trying to resolve.

In the soft light of the kitchen, Anna puts one long slender leg up on the chair next to her, her body angled to the side as she stares at the ceiling, her dark green eyes focused on a moth flickering above. She wants a child. She pours another champagne as she speaks. She doesn't touch her food.

‘I'm forty,' she tells Freya, ‘and there's no time. Should I leave him and try to do it on my own?' She turns then to look at her friend and her anxiety is genuine.

It's Louise who has precipitated this urgency; it's made Anna realise it is possible. She explains this as she walks around the kitchen, holding her glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She rarely smokes now and
Freya watches her drawing back on the tobacco with a clumsiness that's strange to witness because this lack of grace is, for Anna, unusual.

‘It's hard,' Freya tells her. ‘It's such a big leap to make but if this is what you really want …'

‘I mean, look at you.' Anna stops her pacing and faces Freya. ‘You've done it, and your work has still gone from strength to strength. Look at all you've got.' She waves her cigarette around the smallness of the kitchen. ‘You and Matt, Ella, a new play about to be produced; all of it.'

Freya puts her fork back on her plate.

‘I wish I had your life.'

‘Oh, for God's sake.' Freya has choked on her mouthful and she coughs before she can continue speaking. ‘You'd hate my life. Living out here, with not much money.' She pours herself a glass of water, and then also waves her hand around the kitchen. ‘I don't even want to go on.'

‘You like it out here,' Anna says.

‘I know I do.' Freya is dismissive. ‘But really, if money wasn't an option, who would choose living next door to light industry over living near the sea?' She gets up, agitated. ‘And if you really want a baby, you're going to have to leave him. Quickly.'

They are both silent.

The sound of the tap dripping seems, for one moment, to be far louder than it is. It drums a steady rhythm against the steel and Freya tightens it one notch.

‘I'm sorry to have been so brutal,' she apologises.

Anna just looks at her. ‘You're right,' she eventually says. ‘But I don't think I have the courage to leave. I'd be
on my own, older, and I'd reek of desperation to everyone I met.' She glances away as she runs a hand through her hair. ‘So – easy to suggest, but not so simple to do.' She rubs at her eyes, her mascara smudging slightly as she does so. She looks up at Freya. ‘I'll be all right,' and she holds the bottle out, but Freya puts her hand over her glass. ‘It's probably just because time is running out. I mean it's not as if I've really wanted this before.' She smiles slightly. ‘But now that it's looking like it won't be possible, I can't think of anything I want more,' and she shakes her head.

‘I don't know what to say,' Freya tells her.

‘I know,' Anna replies. ‘But you could listen without getting annoyed.'

It's like a slap, and Freya feels it. She had been abrupt. She drinks what's left in her glass.

‘Of course I'll listen,' she says, and she is surprised at how wrong this evening has become.

Anna looks at her.

‘Do you want to talk more about it?'

Anna shakes her head.

Freya is not sure if Anna's punishing her. She reaches across the table for her hand, and Anna doesn't move away.

‘Are we okay?'

Anna just squeezes her fingers in her own.

‘Do you mind if we go into the other room?' Freya asks, nodding in the direction of the doorway. ‘I'd quite like to switch on the television and see if there's any news about the riots.'

Anna doesn't reply but she follows Freya through to the lounge room, and sits in the dark green chair Freya
bought when she first left home. It is sixties in style, square and covered in wool, with low wooden legs. Freya has always loved it, but tonight she sees how shabby it has become. The carpet on the floor is an old kilim of her mother's, rusty oranges and steel blues in a geometric pattern. Ella has spilt food on it more times than she can remember, and her toys are scattered across the floor. Freya picks them up and puts them in the wooden box Matt made, and then she looks across at Anna.

‘I really am sorry,' she says.

Anna glances at her and smiles slightly. Freya doesn't know if the smile is genuine.

‘It's okay,' Anna says, and Freya can only take her word for it.

The television news break starts, and they both lean forward, the small screen flickering with what seems to be explosions, people running across the darkness, illuminated by flashes of light. The reporter is some distance away, doing a piece to camera in which he explains that the riots are worsening. There are petrol bombs being thrown, the police are unable to hold back the crowds.

‘My understanding is that they have called in the riot squads,' the reporter says and behind him there is a flare of intense orange and a loud crack.

The broadcast cuts away to stock footage of the pub where the boy was killed as the anchor explains the reason for the riots, adding that police denied excessive use of Taser guns.

He was only a teenager, Freya thinks, as she looks at the stretch of Regent Street, cars in both directions. She puts her head in her hands and then flicks off the television.

But later, after Anna has left, after she has checked on Ella, Archie and Darlene, she turns it on again, wanting a brief update before she tries to sleep. It's worse. The crowd is barely held back by police who form a line of shields, truncheons and hoses. Behind them the train station is on fire, it blazes against the black of the sky. Down the side streets, rocks are thrown at cameras. People are shouting, screaming, while above, a helicopter circles through the night, sharp white light cutting through the chaos and anger below.

This is not my country, Freya thinks, and then she immediately retracts this thought. This is my country. The wonder is that it does not happen more often.

She sleeps fitfully, waking to find Archie standing next to where she's lying on the couch.

‘Where's my dad?' he asks.

She explains that he'll get them after school.

Archie's anxiety is eased with the offer of a whole mango.

‘All to yourself,' Freya says. ‘Before the others wake.'

Jumping up and down, Archie holds out his hand: ‘Mango, mango, mango.' His repetition of the word is irritating but she does her best to hide its effect on her. She looks at him sitting outside, sucking the sticky fruit, and she is struck by how little he is. She forgets it sometimes.

After dropping them at school, she walks past Shane's house. She wants him to be there, but as she nears the top of the street, she sees no sign of his black four-wheel drive, usually pulled up out the front, windows left wide open. Despite this, she pushes open the rusty gate and walks up the cracked cement path, overgrown with
weeds. She knocks loudly on his front door. The bedroom window is ajar and she looks inside. The unmade bed is empty, clothes strewn across it. She knocks again but there is no one home.