Sugar Town

by Robert Nicholls

  Things only got better when I walked into Bridie’s room. Asael bounced against me with a shout, a beaming smile and a full-on Cat’ three hug.

  “Ruthie!” he yelped. “Look! It worked! Just like I knew it would!” He crinkled his fingers as though offering to tickle so I grabbed his wrists, spun him around and locked his arms against his chest.

  “Don’t call me Ruthie,” I whispered in his ear. “Call me . . . Amazia!”

  We laughed and tousled and bumped about until we fell against Bridie’s bed. Then we stopped. She was propped palely there, managing a small smile. There were tiny shadows under her eyes but otherwise, her skin was like milk – frosted milk. I could never imagine anyone being more beautiful or more fragile and something in that thought seemed to shatter me inside. I stood beside her and suddenly, out of nowhere, I was hiccupping and bawling; afraid to touch her – afraid to touch anything – the bed, the wall, the sheet, her hand, my brother. Knowing that when I did, this moment would end and we’d have to start dealing with ugly things again

  She held out her arms to me and I stared at them, blubbing through my tears, amazed by the firmness of the line between her and the air around her. Why did other people seem so contained within their own outlines while I . . . I seemed to be splattered across an entire landscape, dripped and mashed into places where I couldn’t even find myself. I couldn’t even gather enough of myself together to lift my arms. Not until Asael bumped against me, the top of his head at my shoulder.

  “Go on!” he said. “What’re you waiting for, Amazia?”

  And I went slowly, carefully, pulling enough of myself out of the crevices to be solid in her arms. She put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled my face down against her chest and I wailed uncontrollably. I felt her fingers in my hair, her nails against my scalp, caressing.

  “Once upon a time, on a night long, long ago,” she whispered, “there was a little girl. And the world collapsed on top of her. It was a night of calamity, which the little girl’s sister promises will be the worst she’ll ever know. Be strong now. Don’t cry. Survive this, one moment at a time. Nothing worse can happen.”

  It was a version of the story Bessie had told her, those long years ago, not long after she’d been pummelled to the ground and raped.

  I felt Asael pat-pat-patting my back. I wrapped my arms around Bridie and felt her ribs, the muscles of her back, the bulk of her breasts against my own flat chest. How did this come about, I wondered: that they both seemed so whole and I felt so broken?

  * * *

  When finally I pulled myself together, we all tried to laugh – that embarrassed sort of laugh you do when you’ve just realised that your worst fears almost came true, but then they didn’t. Asael chattered away, telling his story of dreaming of our mother (Bridie’s and mine, at any rate; it was increasingly obvious that he hadn’t taken in the fact that his origins were different from ours) and her telling him it was time and then his waking of Bridie with the powers he’d brought from Queenie. Bridie smiled indulgently, sadly, recognising his imagination at work. I was, I confess, no longer fully convinced that it was only imagination.

  When Asa’s story ran out, Bridie asked for Kevin. Her throat was raw and dry. “He didn’t come?”

  “Yes, he’s here!” I assured her. “Him and Amalthea – they’re just in the hall, talking to Matron. Want me to hurry them along?”

  “No,” said Bridie. “Let’s let Asael do it. Would you do that, As’? You could show them where the coffee machine is. Then, in five minutes or so, you could bring them along here. Okay?”

  * * *

  It didn’t take five minutes, but we didn’t need it. She promised me straight up that nothing like ‘the pills’ would be happening again, ever; that she’d had a shock and not known how to deal with it but that she’d woken up feeling stronger and fuller and more complete than she’d felt in ages. I told her that was good because everyone in town (with the likely exception of Asael) knew what shock she’d had and that their attempts to keep it under wraps had come to an end.

  “So what’s happening now? I suppose they’re all a-chatter about it and about what a fool I’ve been?”

  “No, Bri’! I think they’ll be waiting to take their cue from you. Except . . . !”

  “Except?”

  “Except . . . there’s been a fire. At the house.”

  “A fire? How bad?”

  “Bad enough. The firies are there now but . . . I don’t think there’ll be much left.”

  I’m not certain what response I was expecting, but it wasn’t the unearthly calm that I got. She turned to look out at the night. Somewhere a yellow bug light cast a garish glow on the trees. Her face remained completely expressionless. Then she said, “Was it an accident?”

  “I don’t know. I was there this afternoon. I didn’t turn anything on. Amalthea thinks it’s suspicious.”

  And I told her about the sermons and the notes. About Sergeant Morrow and Mayor Hoggitt and Alf Caletti and the desk crashing through the floor and Kevin and Amalthea arguing over the cause.

  She nodded impassively. “So it’s all gone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. That saves me burning it myself.”

  I was shocked, but I didn’t let it show; I wanted so much to be in the same place as her, in tune with her. I bobbed my head foolishly.

  “A new start?” I said and she shook her head, no.

  “There’s only one start, Ruthie. And then there are bends in the road.”

  “Huh?”

  “We aren’t hiding, Ruth. Something in me has hidden for a long time – cowering in the dark, afraid to be seen. But now I know what it is.” She fixed me with burning eyes. “It’s anger, Ruth. Pure and simple. And I’m not going to help it hide any longer. In the meantime, we’re together, you and I and Asael. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken. Ecclesiastes. Now why don’t you go see where those others are?”

  I found them waiting down the hall, still under Matron’s careful supervision. As I came out, she waved the three of them away toward the room and called me to take their place in front of her. They passed me quickly, all of us with unanswered questions floating in our eyes.

  “Ruth,” Matron said sombrely, ushering me into a chair. “I just wanted you to know that, at least from a physical point of view, your sister is fine. We’d like to keep her with us for a few days, just to monitor things. But I promise you, nothing will be done without your knowing exactly what and why. That’s my personal promise. Do you understand?”

  I cobbled together my best effort at a smile of gratitude.

  “As for her mental state,” she went on, even more sombrely, “that remains a mystery. You and I know – actually everyone knows – that she’s learned some . . . shocking things of late. But there’s no way of knowing how, or even if, she’s processed those things. I know she seems completely in control right now but you must keep in mind that, at some level, she’s having to reassess her whole outlook. Her relationships with you and especially with Asael – and maybe more especially with Sugar Town – are under enormous pressure. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes Matron.”

  “Good. You’ll see her seem to fall back from time to time over the next few weeks but I want you to be aware that that’s normal. There are three important things to remember. The first is, don’t panic. The second is, don’t lose your love or your patience. And the third is, if you need me, I’m always here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Matron. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Ruth. Do you have any questions?”

  There was only one that seemed to matter and, knowing that I would hate whichever answer I got, I did my best to squeeze it out.

  “Does she remember the . . . the night when she was . . . ?”

  “ ‘Raped’, Ruth. The word you want is ‘raped’. Try again.”

  She waited silently while I figured out what she wanted. I clea
red my throat.

  “Um, does she remember being raped?”

  “Good girl. It’s important that those of us who have to deal with the world as it is, do so with honesty, Ruth.”

  My knees almost juddered out from under me and, before my brain properly engaged, I heard myself saying, “No offence, Matron, but that just sounds a little hypocritical coming from almost anyone in Sugar Town these days!”

  Her head snapped back. She glared at me. She crossed her arms over her chest. I pulled myself up to my full height, a little taller than her, though only half her weight and stared at her throat. It was as high as I could raise my eyes.

  “Point taken,” she said softly. “To answer your question, then, I don’t know if she remembers. She knows, but that’s not the same as having memories.”

  I nodded. That meant that the experience, the scene, the faces, all waited somewhere in her mind, and one day, perhaps while she was walking down the street, minding her business, it could very possibly just open out, like a bloody flower.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I turned to go.

  “She did speak at one point, Ruth.” I stopped, looked over my shoulder.

  “‘Can’t I stay, daddy? I promise I’ll be still.’ Words to that effect – several times over. It was when Mister Truck first carried her in and, of course, she was delirious. Are you able to contact your father, Ruth?”

  “Sure,” I said. I don’t know why I lied. I just did. “Already doing that.”

  She looked at me sidelong, as though I’d failed a test of character, and “Good,” she said. “He should be here. And . . . one last thing. The nurses are all agog with the news of the fire at your house. Would you like me to arrange beds for you and Asael here, near Bridie?”

  “No thank you, Matron. We’ll be right.”

  * * *

  Back in the room, Kevin, Amalthea, Asael and I stood about the bed, chatting inanely, with Bridie listening in. Except for Asael, our only objective seemed to be to cast the illusion that all was as it should be. Asael alone remained truly buoyant, even when Kevin explained to him that there’d been an ‘accident’ at the house and we ‘might have to stay at the bakery for a few days’.

  Bridie’s calm remained intact. At last, she over-road our chatter and thanked us all for being there. She apologised for worrying us and promised us she’d be well and asked us to go.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “Come back tomorrow. Or when you can.”

  It was the first time, I think, that Asael realised he really wasn’t going to stay with her and he looked stricken. Bridie took his hands and opened them, to study his palms, the way Bessie and Mister Bandini had studied mine, looking for my destiny.

  “These hands,” she said. “I can still feel them on my ankles. They brought me back. I knew they were yours and they brought me back. You are the most special of boys. Thank you.”

  And with that, he was content to leave.

  Chapter 18 – Night Walkers (Monday)

  It’s the slamming of the screen door that wakes Amalthea. Is that the first time it’s slammed? She thinks not. And that’s not right. For a girl who lives alone with only goats for company, that’s definitely not right! Then it comes back to her; the company she has in the house. Ruth and Asael McFarlane, who came home with her from the hospital last night, because their own home was burned and Asael felt the need to be near Queenie.

  She also remembers who’s not in the house; Isak . . . gone when they returned late in the night. No note. But then why should it be otherwise? No one is Isak’s keeper. And more importantly – so much more importantly – Rosemary is also not in the house. She’d had to wait outside the hospital and was nowhere to be found when Amalthea left. What had she told the little goat to do? Did she say, wait here? Did she say, I won’t be long? Whatever it was, most uncharacteristically, Rosemary was not there when Amalthea came out.

  She and Kevin and Ruth and Asael had scoured the grounds. Dana and another nurse had come out to help her, batting the bushes, calling Rosemary’s name. When it was clear she wasn’t there, they’d walked the deserted streets to her house, watching, calling, listening for the clatter of little hooves or a bleat of recognition. Ruth had tried to reassure her and Kevin had gone for his motorbike, intending to search further a-field.

  At the house, they’d searched the rooms, searched the yard. Asael, along with blind Garlic, had gone to Queenie, wrapping his arms around both of them, murmuring as though in consultation, while Amalthea and Ruth had walked up to the main road a dozen times and shone their torches down the track into the cane a dozen more. There were taipans and brown snakes there that could kill a little goat in a heartbeat. There were pythons that could wrap her up and crush her and swallow her whole. Amalthea’d called and called and finally, well after midnight, lay down fully clothed on her bed and slept.

  * * *

  There was a moment when I thought it was the sound of the flaming roof, collapsing around me. Then I saw the moonlight in the doorway – Amalthea’s doorway. I was on the lounge in her living room and the time on my phone read 3:12. At least three hours before sunrise. So why had that door slammed? I looked for Asael, who’d been asleep with Garlic on a mattress on the floor beside me. He was gone. They were both gone. And so too was Queenie.

  My mind raced through the possibilities. The best thing would be if it was Rosemary, found her way home at last. The next best would be if it was Isak, come back to the slight sanctuary Amalthea’s house offered. Then again, it could be the Suttons and their friends, come with vengeance in mind. Perhaps Amalthea’s house would be next to burn. Perhaps that glow I could see wasn’t moonlight at all! I rushed out onto the veranda, letting the door slam behind me.

  They were sitting on the ground, in a row, the pear-shaped bulk of Queenie in the middle, Asael on her left, holding his hands over his ears, rocking, and on the right I recognised the slump of Isak’s shoulders. The door opened behind me and Amalthea emerged, slowly, rubbing sleep away.

  One of Isak’s hands, we could see, was stroking Queenie as though the alien thing was a bereaved friend. On his other side, standing like an ancient, bony dog, was Garlic. Away in the distance, the sugar mill rumbled its soft, mechanical music, billowing steam from its stacks, and a little to the right, a column of thin, grey smoke still rose from the ruins of our house.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Amalthea asked.

  She let go the door and it slammed yet again. No one turned to look. We stepped down into the yard, she and I. The damp grass prickled against my bare feet and, out from under the roof, I could feel the dewdrops swarming on my face, my throat, my nightshirt. I wrapped my arms about myself and wished I was still asleep.

  We were almost on them before we saw what held their attention – not the distant mill, but a small, pale mound that lay on the ground like a crumpled blanket. Amalthea stopped and I stopped and the world stopped. Even while pleading for it not to be, refusing to let it be, we both knew what that mound was. It was the corpse of Rosemary. Alone then among the group, Isak twisted, pained in his joints, to look at Amalthea. For the first time, I noticed the rifle leaning against his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he said deeply. “It was all I could do for her. Sorry.”

  Amalthea crept forward, as though fearful of surprising someone.

  “A snake?” she whispered. “Was it a snake, Isak? I always told her, stay out of the . . . !”

  Isak was shaking his head. “Not that kinda snake, missy.”

  “Should I call the vet? Get him out of bed? Maybe there’s . . . !”

  She was beside Isak now, passing him, rushing to Rosemary but Isak held out a hand, catching her, his head still shaking in negation. Even in the dim light, I could see the dark stain up his forearm. He was still wearing Amalthea’s t-shirt: WOMEN MAKE MEN. The letters were clouded, half lost in a greasy black blur. I looked up to the pewter cloud of mill-steam that boiled soundlessly against the sky.

  “S
omeone cut her,” Isak said, his voice soft and ominous and, it seemed to me, in the glimmer of moonlight, that Queenie began to rock, barely perceptibly, in time with Asael’s movement. Somewhere off to the west, against the Dividing Range, I heard a grumble of thunder. Go away, it seemed to say. Then it drew a breath and repeated itself. Go away. Go away.

  “Cut her?”

  “Hammies,” Isak croaked. His voice broke and he began to pant, short little breaths, in and out. “Cut her hamstrings. Left ‘er up there.” He waved his blood soaked hand in the direction of the road. “She got about half-way here,” he continued, sniffling, wiping snot onto the shoulder of the t-shirt. “Dragged herself. Ye can see the blood stain. She was all but gone when I found her. I couldn’ let it go on, honey. Ye understand? I jus’ couldn’!”

  I tried to move to Asael, who was clearly distraught, but I had no traction. It was as though an abyss had opened at my feet and I’d fallen through. And all I could do was fall and fall. And wait. We’re in a void. That’s what Amalthea’d said to us on the night we found Queenie, when the stars went out. We’re in a void.

  For Amalthea, this was the second time in less than a week. First there was Garlic. But Garlic came back! I looked to assure myself. Yes, he was there! Still upright! Still breathing. But now Rosemary? I looked to Asael and then to Queenie. And I found myself thinking, as though such a thing was possible, ‘Bring her back!’

  “I’m gonna know,” Isak sniffed softly, bringing my attention back to him. He moved the rifle so that it lay readily across his lap. “Before I’m done, I’m gonna know who done this. Some fucker’s gonna answer.”

  * * *

  Once again, in the depth of her dream, Bridie walks Sugar Town’s streets. She is with – she is – the child who lives, trapped, in this in-between world of what-once-was and what-might-be. Together, as one, they pass along dark, narrow paths, hurrying from street light to street light, from one sanctuary to the next. Until, suddenly they’re caught by shadows. Light is ahead and light is behind but the great looming darkness of trees, hissing and moving and laughing, is all around them.