Puzzled and a little spooked by this warning, Meredith drops her cigarette butt into her empty wine glass and walks over to the edge of the pool, where she is greeted by a hot exhalation of mildewy plastic. Several bats glide overhead. By the time she looks back, the boy has gone. She waits a few minutes, to see if he will reappear, then goes inside and locks the door behind her.
After a late breakfast Jason leaves his house, crosses the dirt road and plunges through the hedge of ti-trees. He cuts across the abandoned lot where the Wheeler place used to be and lingers near the back fence of the house Oscar’s family have rented for the summer. It’s much nicer than Jason’s place; they’ve got air-conditioning and a wooden deck out the back with a massive gas barbecue. You can smell the sea from here, those leathery skeletons of kelp sprawled on the sand.
Oscar is in the backyard, mucking around with a remote-control car. Jason watches him for a while. He gnaws on a thumbnail, spits out the shard of skin that he tears off. Remote-control cars always sound so great but they never work that well. This one of Oscar’s is no exception, refusing to go any further when it encounters the slightest obstacle. Which, in an unkempt back garden like this one, is about every two seconds.
Finally Jason steps into the garden, reveals himself. ‘You should take it down to the beach,’ he says, ‘where it’s on flatter ground.’
Oscar looks up, surprised, squinting against the bright sun. ‘Oh, hi.’ He turns his attention back to the remote-control unit in his hand. He works the little rubber lever with his thumb. There is a whirring sound and the plastic buggy lurches forward, crashes into a brick and flips over.
On the deck Jason notices what appears to be a brand-new tackle box and fishing rod. The reel on the rod looks like the green Daiwa one he’s had his eye on for ages at the general store. ‘That your rod?’ he asks.
‘Dad got it for me yesterday.’
Jason sidles over to the deck and picks up the rod, hefts it in his hand. He fingers the metal bracket, lifts it and nods approvingly at the satisfying tension against his thumb. Lovely little thing, he thinks, and is startled that the phrase that comes most readily to mind is one his father would use. In the corner of his eye, Jason senses movement through the glass doors that open onto the rear deck. It’s Oscar’s mother – tall, brown, wet-haired – gliding past with a glossy magazine in her hand. She pauses, stares out and says something over her shoulder. And then, like an exotic sea creature glimpsed at the water’s surface, she returns to the depths of the house shuttered against the morning sun.
‘We could go fishing tonight,’ Jason says. ‘I’ll take you to this spot up along the river. Catch tons of whiting?’
‘Oh, yeah, that’d be excellent.’ Oscar chucks the remote-control unit onto a chair. ‘Is that where you were going the other night?’
‘What?’
‘After we’d been to that house with the empty pool. You were running along that little track.’ Oscar points to the upper storey of his house. ‘I can see your place from my bedroom window.’
Jason stares up at the window Oscar indicated, calculates the sightlines of the view. He should be more careful.
‘It looked like you were in a hurry,’ Oscar says.
Jason hesitates. ‘Yeah, I was going fishing.’
‘So what’s the best time to go? Tonight, I mean.’
‘Um. Six or so is probably the best. Tide’ll be turning then.’ He assumes a fencer’s stance and slashes the rod through the air. ‘Can I use this tonight? For a while, at least?’
Oscar hesitates. ‘Don’t you have one?’
‘Yeah, but. I thought. Like in exchange for me taking you to a special place and everything? And I’ll get the bait.’ Jason’s voice falters and he is flooded with sudden contempt. This kid wouldn’t know the first thing about fishing, probably can’t even cast or anything – even with his fancy new rod and reel.
‘Sure,’ Oscar says, hopping onto the deck. ‘I’ll ask my dad. Let’s get a drink.’
They step through the sliding doors into the kitchen but Oscar vanishes immediately in search of his parents and leaves Jason standing by the laminated bench like a servant. He has never broken into this house – he hasn’t been able to find the spare key, if there is one – but relishes the shiver of transgression that seeps through him. His skin tingles, his bladder constricts. It feels as though his senses are more acute than usual. The kitchen is cool and light. The radio talks quietly to itself. There’s a bowl of fresh fruit on the wooden table. A magazine, perhaps the very magazine Oscar’s mother was carrying a few minutes ago, lies abandoned on a chair. Eventually, Jason ventures up the dim hallway towards the burble of conversation.
A woman’s voice. The mother. ‘Oh, I don’t know, honey. We don’t really know this boy . . .’
Oscar’s father speaks up. His voice is deep and English-sounding. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Jason,’ says Oscar.
‘Oh, he’s all right, isn’t he, Margaret?’
‘He seems,’ Oscar’s mother says, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, ‘he seems like a little ratbag to me, to be honest. Looks absolutely filthy. Sort of skulks around. Fellow down the road told me the family is always making trouble . . .’
There is an intimation of movement from the bedroom. A drawer is closed. Jason bolts back to the kitchen, where he stands again by the bench, hoping to appear as if he has not budged an inch in the intervening minutes. But Oscar doesn’t materialise. No one does.
Unnerved, Jason gazes through the glass doors, at the new fishing rod gleaming in the late-morning sun, at a pair of swimmers and a towel hanging on the back of a deckchair. Inside, on the kitchen bench, is a thick, gold bracelet that Oscar’s mother probably removed to do the dishes or something. Jason stares at it. He listens out for voices, for footsteps. Nothing. Then, without further thought, he scoops up the bracelet and drops it into his pocket.
The question comes out of nowhere and takes Meredith totally by surprise. They are in the kitchen, standing by the bench. It’s early evening, but still hot. She’s on her third glass of white wine and Jason is sipping from a can of warm Coke he dug out of the cupboard.
‘Why don’t you teach French anymore?’
A moth dings against the light globe overhead. She pauses with the glass of wine halfway to her mouth, stunned. Had there perhaps been something in the newspaper? Her face is reflected back at her in the large window and she watches herself sip her wine, cautious now, before placing the glass on the table. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You told me.’
‘I did?’
‘Yeah. The other night.’
Her mind whirrs. ‘Really?’
He nods and swigs from his can. Coke trickles down his chin and drips onto his t-shirt. ‘You said you used to teach French. But not anymore.’
Meredith considers the bracelet he gave her earlier. Gold jewellery is not really her style, but it was sweet of the kid to think of her. The evening, quite suddenly, feels electric with possibilities. ‘I’m not really sure I should tell you.’
‘Why?’ Jason looks at her, holds her gaze for several seconds. He’s growing bolder each time he comes around. Nibbling away, like a fish on the line. Getting hungrier every day.
‘It’s nothing really, just . . .’
‘What?’
She’s surprised to feel a warm blush creep up her neck. A nervous laugh bursts from her and she waves a hand, as if batting away a fly. ‘Oh, I kissed a boy, that’s all. He was a student in one of my classes. And the principal didn’t take too kindly to it. He’s an . . . old-fashioned guy, I guess you’d say.’
She watches him swig his Coke as he incorporates this new information into whatever impression he’s already formed of her.
‘How old was this boy?’ he asks after a pause.
‘About your age.’
<
br /> ‘What did he think about it?’
She laughs again, feeling tipsy and confident. ‘Oh, I think he liked it.’
‘Then that doesn’t sound too serious,’ Jason says at last.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘I mean. I wouldn’t really mind if you kissed me.’
‘Oh. Is that right?’
‘Yep.’
She pours another wine, barely disguising the tremble in her hand. Sauvignon blanc splashes on the table. ‘Oh. Maybe a little one, then.’ Pauses. ‘Why don’t you come over here.’
Jason clears his throat and shuffles over until he stands in front of her. He is breathing heavily. A whiff of salt water. She trails her fingers across his smooth cheek, then tilts his face up towards her own and kisses him on the mouth. She feels the hard pulse in his lips. He nuzzles at her, seeking more, but she pushes him away, gently, a palm pressed to his chest.
‘Easy does it,’ she says. ‘We have plenty of time. Now. I think you should tell me a secret, since I’ve told you one of mine. Something you’ve never told anyone. Even your friend.’
He blushes and backs away, clearly staggered at the turn of events. ‘What friend?’
‘The one I saw you with here. A few nights ago.’
‘He’s not my friend. His parents have rented a holiday place in our street, that’s all.’
‘Oh, all right. Anyway. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.’
‘Okay,’ he says at last, holding out his hand. ‘Come outside. I’ll show you something.’
‘Ooh, sounds exciting.’ She allows herself to be led into the garden, where dusk is falling.
He dashes off, rummages around in the bushes at the far end of the property and returns a moment later with a small canvas sack.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll see,’ he says, walking around the edge of the pool towards the deep end and dropping to one knee to loosen the knot securing the sack. He glances up to make sure she is watching before releasing something down the sloping side and into the mostly empty pool.
The object, about the size of a fist but dark brown or black, lands where the pool bottom dips down to the deep end, beside the bunched-up tarpaulin and the disgusting swampy puddle. The boy’s contrived air of mystery seems to outweigh the drama of his little secret and Meredith is preparing to return inside and pour another glass of wine when the object moves, revealing itself to be, in fact, quite a large rat.
‘Ugh,’ she murmurs.
Jason puts a finger to his lips and gestures back to the pool. The rat is still, only giving itself away by the twitching of its pinkish snout. After a minute or so, it darts forward a short distance before stopping. Naturally enough, the poor creature has no idea how it ended up in an empty pool.
A few minutes later, Meredith senses another, more elegant movement near the tarpaulin. She squints through the half-light. It’s hard to distinguish specific objects among the detritus collected at the lowest point of the pool. There are branches, a few rocks, some rotting leaves. And the tarpaulin, of course.
‘Here he is,’ Jason murmurs.
When the snake appears she is so mesmerised she is unable to speak. Just an unwitting gasp, a hand to her mouth. She watches as the snake, sliver of black tongue flickering in and out of its grim little mouth, wends its way towards the rodent, while the rat, apparently entranced by its own impending death, can only crouch, trembling, as the snake draws nearer. More and more of the snake glides from the bracken until she sees it is probably more than a metre long, and faintly striped. Meredith has never seen a snake in the wild before and is amazed at its effortless movement, how other-worldly it seems. She is about to say something to this effect when the snake pauses, its head flattened and hovering in the air. Eyes like black and gleaming seeds, dull shine of scales. After several seconds of intense concentration, as if tightening the spring of its will, it strikes. There is a flurry of movement, some repulsive thrashing, a little, heartbreaking squeak. Then silence. Meredith peers once more through the gloom, catches a glimpse of a tail flickering before it retracts into the greater, far more complicated, darkness of the bracken.
It’s a moment before she is able to speak. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she says, drinking off the last of her wine.
‘Tiger snake,’ Jason says, clearly pleased by her response. ‘Drought brings them in. Creek’s totally dry. He’s been there all summer.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
‘God, yeah. Don’t want to get bitten by this fella. You’ll be dead in half an hour, I reckon. But he won’t come out. I think he’s pretty happy in there. Got his water, bit of food. They’re quite territorial. As long as you don’t go in the pool you’ll be all right. Pretty cool, huh?’
Meredith glances at Jason, who has balled up his empty sack. ‘Did you catch that rat specially for the snake?’
‘Yep. Made my own trap and everything. I get one every week or two.’
‘And you’ve been – what? – feeding it?’
‘Yep.’
A prickle rises along her bare arms. And she has to admit that, yes, it is actually pretty cool.
There is movement in the corner of her eye and Meredith swivels in time to see another boy – the one who was with Jason on the night she first saw him – step out from the tangle of bougainvillea along the side of the property. He’s got a fishing rod in one hand and a red fishing box in the other. Shit, she thinks. Shit shit shit.
‘What are you guys doing?’ the kid says.
Meredith is dumbstruck, but Jason stands to face the other kid. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Wondering about cleaning out the pool, that’s all.’
The new kid doesn’t approach. ‘I thought we were going fishing tonight,’ he says, raising the rod.
‘Oh,’ Jason says. ‘Yeah. Um.’ And he runs a hand through his hair, this gesture that already she adores.
Meredith steps forward. ‘I asked Jason to help me with something.’
The kid looks at her, seems to spend a long time taking her in. Young face still – one of those men who’ll have a boyish, wounded face until he’s thirty-five, forever hurt that his girlfriend refuses to dress like a hooker in the bedroom; it’s the expression, she thinks, of a budding politician.
‘How long have you been hiding there?’ she asks the kid.
‘I wasn’t hiding.’
‘What have you seen?’
The boy glances at Jason, then back to her. A smirk. ‘Nothing.’
Panic rises in her. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Then the kid gestures at her with his fishing rod. ‘Wait a sec. What’s that? On your wrist.’ He steps closer. ‘That looks like a bracelet my mum lost.’
Meredith holds up her right hand. ‘This?’
‘Where’d you get that?’
She glances at Jason, whose face is a picture of guilt. ‘I bought it, of course. In the city.’
But the boy keeps peering at her wrist. Meredith steps backwards, almost trips on a piece of broken paving.
Finally the boy turns to Jason. ‘You took it, didn’t you?’
Jason shakes his head and scoffs, but not convincingly. The scrunched-up canvas sack is in one hand and he’s whipping the loose cord against his leg. Lying, for sure.
And the other kid senses it, and Meredith can tell he’s becoming swayed by his own theory. She can almost see it firming in his tiny mind as he moves towards Jason. ‘My mum reckoned you were a scumbag,’ he says.
‘That’s enough,’ says Meredith.
‘And she was right. You took it, didn’t you? You stole it.’
Jason backs away. ‘Fuck off.’
‘That’s enough, I said!’ The two boys watch as she places the empty wine glass on the outdoor table and unclasps the bracelet from her wrist. ‘What’s your name?’ Using her scho
olteacher’s voice now.
‘Oscar.’
She holds up the bracelet. ‘You really think this belongs to your mum, Oscar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then here you go,’ she says and she tosses the bracelet towards him. The boy, Oscar, is several metres away, on the other side of the empty pool.
She’s never been particularly adept at throwing things – calculations of distance, degrees of heft required – but she knows the instant she releases the bracelet that her instinct, on this occasion, is perfect. The bracelet loops, tangles in midair and falls just short of Oscar, who is standing with mouth agape, both hands full, helplessly watching. The bracelet slithers down the side of the pool with a pleasing chinkling sound and comes to rest amid the swampy leaves at the deep end.
‘Damn. Sorry about that,’ she says.
And all three of them stare at the bracelet which, in the falling light, seems to be kilometres away, glinting like a distant galaxy. Oscar looks forlorn.
‘You’d better jump in and get it,’ says Jason after a moment.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Quickly now. Before it gets too dark.’
The Shed
1
I still can’t believe how quickly he took over, or how he did it. Incredible how the inevitable is hardly ever obvious. I found him one afternoon in the shed at the bottom of the garden. It was midwinter, June or July. It was cold and wet. I remember the thick smell of damp earth. The clouds hovered low and it was dark by 4 pm. I don’t know how long he had been there – it may have been years. I wasn’t really afraid of him, although of course I should have been.
The wife was gone by this time. Packed up some weeks before and wandered off into the sunset. Told me I’d had my chances. Told me she was unhappy. Told me it was the end. The usual things women tell you.
2
I confess that I was drinking at this stage and the house was falling to pieces bit by bit. The kitchen was in ruins, cluttered with pans and plates and takeaway containers. The lounge room was vanishing beneath mountains of unread newspapers and biscuit wrappers. The foul air in the bathroom had begun to take on a life of its own. There was a pile of dry shit in the hallway, which was odd because I had never owned a dog and couldn’t even remember one being in the house. Some windows were broken and somebody – perhaps it was me – had covered the spaces with cardboard that fluttered when it was windy. It was a large two-storey house but it smelled suddenly small, like a mangy cupboard.
A Lovely and Terrible Thing Page 17
