‘Maybe it’s time to put that down,’ says Logan.
‘I don’t think so, I don’t… I didn’t mean to hurt her… I just…’ He looks at the woman again.
Logan raises his hands, hoping to calm Patrick, who is pale and jittery. ‘If you just put the gun down, we can talk and then it will be fine. I need to call an ambulance for her, I need to get her some help. Can I do that?’ He bends his knees a little, gets ready to dive towards Patrick, knock him over.
‘It’s too late,’ says Patrick, shaking his head, and he lowers his arms, holds the gun out in front of him, moves it between Logan and the woman on the sofa, as if deciding who to shoot first.
‘It’s not,’ says Logan. ‘It’s never too late. She seems to be breathing, so just put the gun down and I’ll call for help. I’m going to slide my hand into my pocket now to just get my phone, okay?’ Logan speaks slowly, his voice calm and even. He’s talking someone off a ledge here.
‘No, not okay, don’t do that.’ His voice is a warning.
‘Patrick, if we don’t get her help, she will die. Do you want her to die? That’s not what you want, is it?’
‘Is Maddy dead?’ he asks.
‘No, no, and if you give me the gun, we can talk about that.’
Patrick shakes his head. ‘She doesn’t look old enough to have a twenty-three-year-old son, does she?’ he says as though they are chatting over a beer.
Logan looks from the woman to Patrick and back again as pieces click into place.
‘She’s your mother?’
Patrick nods. ‘Maddy, Maddy wanted me to see her again. Maddy thought I should forgive her. She read all her emails on my computer and then she nagged and nagged, and then she just dumped me, dumped me and wanted to move on with her life the same way my mother did after she divorced my father. Why do women do that, Logan?’ It’s a genuine question. He wants an answer.
‘I don’t know, mate,’ says Logan softly. He can feel a chink in Patrick’s armour, sees the possibility that he can talk him down. The minutes are ticking by and he can tell that the woman on the sofa is slipping in and out of consciousness. Her chest rises and falls but slowly, and underneath closed eyelids there is the occasional flutter of movement.
‘I want you to put that gun down now, Patrick,’ Logan says, raising his voice a little, taking a step towards him as he stares at the woman on the sofa.
‘I was so happy with Maddy,’ says Patrick, muttering the words, speaking to himself, ‘so happy with her and then she just…’ He looks at Logan, his eyes narrow. ‘You didn’t want us to be together. She told me. You were the reason we broke up. It was you.’ He points the gun directly at Logan’s chest, away from the woman, and Logan lets the relief of that seep through him. He could probably survive one bullet but this woman won’t survive another one.
‘Maddy is in hospital,’ he says, raising his voice to keep Patrick looking at him, ‘and you’ve hurt your mother. The police are on their way and there will be nowhere to run, mate. I promise you there will be nowhere to run. You need to give me that gun. You need to give it to me now.’
Patrick swings the gun back to the woman and then he starts laughing. ‘Kill two birds with one stone,’ he giggles. ‘That’s what I’m going to do, Logan, kill two birds with one stone. How lucky am I? The woman who ruined the start of my life and the man who helped ruin the end of my life in the same room. And you’re both going to die. She’s still alive, you can see that, can’t you? But not for long.’ He angles the gun to her chest. ‘Bye, Mum,’ he says.
As Logan takes a step there is a blur of movement beside him and the little boy launches himself at Patrick, shouting, ‘You leave my mum alone!’
‘Wait!’ shouts Logan. ‘Stop, no!’
Patrick is pushed back into the chair behind him and he kicks out his legs, and then, still holding the gun, he pushes the kid off him and points the gun directly at his little face.
‘No!’ shouts Logan, and he grabs the hand that has the gun, moving it away from the boy, who falls to the floor and crawls over to the sofa. Patrick pulls against Logan’s grip but Logan holds on tighter as the gun is turned to face his chest.
And Patrick fires. He fires twice. Logan watches it happen, time slowing down, sees the fear and confusion on Patrick’s face. The gun seems to have fired itself.
He feels the bullets thud into his chest. He staggers a little, steps backwards, lets go of Patrick’s hand but doesn’t go down. He needs to stay on his feet. He needs to get the gun. He needs to stop Patrick from shooting again because a gun has six bullets and he’s only used three.
‘Oh God, oh God,’ Patrick moans.
‘Give me… the gun,’ pants Logan.
Patrick lifts his hands over his head again, his eyes darting all over the room, and says, ‘Oh God.’
‘Give me… the gun,’ says Logan because he can’t seem to breathe. His body sags, unable to hold its weight with the hot air in the room pressing down on it. Logan drops to his knees.
‘I’m sorry, Logan,’ says Patrick and he lifts the gun to his own head.
And then there is the sound of footsteps in the house, moving quickly.
‘Police,’ hears Logan, as his body hits the floor. His head is next to a blue rug with a border of yellow camels.
He struggles to get some air into his lungs.
He glances sideways and up, seeing Patrick with his face scrunched up, his hand shaking as he holds the gun to his head. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he says and Logan can hear he is crying. He sounds younger than he is. There is no trace of a man left in his tears.
‘Put the gun down now!’ One voice, a woman, loud and strong.
‘Put the gun down.’ Another voice. ‘Down on the ground.’
‘You don’t understand,’ says Patrick as Logan gives in to the need to close his eyes.
The sound of a single gunshot pierces the air.
Logan feels his body floating.
He hopes Debbie is feeling better.
He hopes the promised cool change arrives.
He hopes he gets to live.
46
Gladys
She took the children into her house and made them sit on the floor in front of the television set. But she wasn’t able to stay with them. She needed to see what was happening.
‘Watch them, Lou,’ she commanded. He nodded, his face pale with shock. The gunshot had echoed through the air, terrifyingly and certainly confirming that something had been wrong all day.
‘My mum,’ wailed George, ‘he’ll hurt my mum.’
Lou reached out for the boy who instead cuddled his sister, holding on to her tightly.
‘Stay here, George, I’ll see, I’ll go and see, just stay here.’ She dashed out of the room and her house, her heart pounding.
Now she is looking down the road, waiting for the police. Doors have begun to open, people emerging from air-conditioned homes into the street, drawn by the sound, curiosity dragging them from the safety of their own walls.
Go away, Gladys wants to shout at those she can see, but will they listen? Will they believe her?
The police finally arrive, parking slowly, without a care in the world. A woman constable gets out of the car with a smile on her face, angering Gladys. A man climbs out as well, his hat in his hands, a sheen of sweat instantly appearing on his face. Neither of them looks terribly concerned. Gladys explained what was happening on the phone and she had expected, had wanted, lights and sirens and urgency from the police.
‘Quickly, quickly!’ Gladys shouts, hurrying them up. ‘He has a gun. I heard a shot.’
‘Why don’t you explain…’ begins the constable, holding up her hands to calm a hysterical woman. Gladys wants to grab the woman and shake her. Don’t you understand? Why don’t you understand?
‘Gladys, Gladys,’ Lou shouts, frantic panic in his voice, ‘the boy has run away, he’s run away.’
Gladys darts away from the police, back to her own house, to see what
Lou is doing.
‘What?’ she says.
‘He’s run away, the boy, he left.’ Lou has gotten himself into his wheelchair and wheeled himself to the front door of their house and is struggling to get up.
‘But you were supposed to watch them, oh Lou,’ she cries, knowing that he did what he could.
Gladys turns back, runs down her front path, her lungs burning with the unwelcome activity. The policewoman is still standing there, just waiting. ‘There’s a child… a child,’ she stutters, unable to get the words out. She didn’t see George come past her but he must have gone back into the house, he must have.
‘Okay wait, just…’ begins the policewoman.
And then there are two more shots.
Two more shots.
The two constables run towards the house, down the side, disappearing from view. They know what they’ve heard.
‘Oh no,’ moans Gladys as they disappear from sight, her knees sagging.
‘What’s happening, Gladys?’ she hears, and she looks across the street to see Margo, holding Joseph. She is right across the road, standing at her open front door looking directly into Katherine’s front garden over her low white fence. The baby smiles widely.
‘Oh Margo,’ she says, standing up straight again, looking at the baby, the precious baby in Margo’s arms, ‘go back inside, go back. He has a gun. Go inside.’
‘What?’ Margo sounds confused, disbelieving. Gladys desperately tries to make her understand, waving her arms.
‘Get back inside, Margo. It’s Katherine, it was… Didn’t you hear? It was gunshots… Please go back, take the baby away.’
She looks down the street at other residents who are making their way onto the road. ‘Go back into your houses,’ she shouts, hurting her throat.
Margo opens her mouth to say something else but then Joseph says, ‘Gaah,’ and she nods her head and scurries back inside her house, behind the safety of her walls.
Gladys cannot believe what’s happening, what she’s heard. How can such a thing be possible on this quiet street on a broiling afternoon when even dogs cannot be bothered to bark?
Three gunshots. That’s what she heard and she knows it’s the truth. She has been right all along. Something has been going on in that house all day and instead of calling the police earlier, she has allowed Lou and her own need not to be seen as the interfering neighbour to stop her from doing so. She is so grateful the police are in the house now. She can hear them shouting. She imagines John with his wide smile and quick laugh holding a gun, pointing a gun at his wife and children. It’s a horrifying image. Where is George? Where is Sophie? She darts back up her front path, her panting breath burning her lungs. ‘Sophie?’ she asks Lou, who is still trying to get out of his chair.
‘She’s in there. George told her to stay. She’s watching the television but don’t worry, I’m coming, Glad, I’m coming.’
‘No, no,’ she says, moving down her front path again. What is going on? What has John done?
She has always liked him but at the same time she has not liked him. He was nice enough but also a little too nice. No, that’s not fair. She’s trying to pretend she had an inkling about John but she didn’t have one – not at all. Gladys shakes her head. She’s going around in circles.
She knows that sometimes when you find out the truth about a person, you are able to point to something, some small thing about them that always made you just a little suspicious. But that’s not the case here. That’s not the truth. John is a lovely man. Last year when the big storm blew through the suburb, ripping roof tiles off and allowing the rain to come pouring in, she called the State Emergency Service but they were so busy they told her they’d be hours. She pulled the ladder out of the garage and leaned it up against the wall, a plastic sheet in her hand. She meant to try and get the sheet on the roof. She had some bricks in a bucket to hold it down.
But before she even set a foot on the ladder, John was there. ‘Gladys, what are you doing? Let me. Why didn’t you just call?’
He climbed up, a tool belt on his hips, and secured a tarpaulin. He had been soaked to the bone but still grinned when she offered him a cup of tea.
Gladys had been almost tearful after he left. He was a good man, a nice man, and he loved his children. She’s seen that he loved them. He took them to the beach and the park and he built them a treehouse in the large fig tree in their backyard. How could he want to hurt them now?
She wants to run in after George, but the police are there.
She hears a crash and she knows that Lou has fallen down. She turns and speeds for her house but stops to look when she hears a car pull up, the crunch of tyres on gravel. It’s a blue sedan, not one she’s seen before in this street.
John climbs out. He is dressed in a suit, rumpled from the long hot day, his tie askew. His hair is blonde but filled with the same kinks and curls that George has, and his green eyes are bright in his tanned face.
‘Oh,’ says Gladys, shock stealing her words. She stops.
‘Gladys,’ he replies. ‘What’s going on? Why are the police here? Is Lou okay?’
‘No, he fell down… oh Lou, I’m coming…’ she yells and she runs up her front path.
John follows her, dropping the briefcase he is holding, and together they lift Lou back into his chair. ‘You’re home early and you weren’t… you weren’t at work,’ says Gladys as she helps Lou sit up straight.
‘I’m… Yes, it was a conference and then the mechanic needed the car overnight… How do you know I wasn’t at work? What’s going on, Gladys?’ John stands up straight, his face damp from the effort of lifting Lou.
And another shot rings out.
John looks at his house, his mouth opening and closing again as he tries to process what he has just heard.
‘I thought you were in there,’ says Gladys. ‘I thought you were home.’ In the heat she feels her face flush red at all the assumptions she has made. All the things she has gotten wrong today. She opens her mouth to try and explain but it is too much to describe, she has no idea where to start.
‘But what?’ says John and then as the sound of more sirens fills the air, he runs for the house. ‘Oh God, oh God, Katherine, Katherine, Sophie, George…’ he shouts as he sprints for his front door.
‘John, don’t,’ calls Gladys, racing after him, but he is already gone, and as he gets there the door opens and a policewoman holds up her hands.
He pushes past her, screaming, ‘Katherine, George, Sophie!’
Gladys sinks to her knees by her front gate. Sophie is in her house but not George. The little boy ran to his mother. Did he run to his mother? Where is George?
She feels like she might pass out. This cannot be happening.
‘Gladys, old girl, are you okay? Are you okay, old girl?’ says Lou, fright making his voice tremble.
Gladys drops her head into her hands. ‘Oh Lou,’ she says and then she begins to cry.
47
Physical pain is a strange thing. It concentrates the mind. It sharpens your senses. I can smell the honeysuckle from outside, overripe in the heat. I can feel the heavy hot air in the room. I can hear sirens. I drop the gun because my hand doesn’t seem able to hold it anymore. It falls onto the floor with a clunk. And my body slowly folds, sinking onto the carpet.
I was going to shoot myself in the head, straight into my tortured brain. She could have just done it for me. I don’t know why she aimed for my stomach instead of my head.
‘Get down on the ground,’ says the policewoman. I am already down on the ground. Her voice is trembling a little and I wonder if I’m the first person she’s ever shot.
I came to punish her, and then I was going to punish him. It’s her fault Maddy didn’t love the man I was. And it’s Logan’s fault that she broke up with me. But I don’t know if I meant to… kill anyone.
I turn my head to the side and I see yellow camels. Why are there yellow camels? There was a rug in our house, and later in the
flat my mother and I lived in, that had yellow camels. I used to count them sometimes, imagine them all walking across the desert in a slow bumping row. I look up and blink slowly, watching a small fly walk across the white ceiling. I turn my head and I can see my mother’s legs sprawled over the sofa.
She used to sing to me when she woke me up in the morning, and the song goes round my head now. ‘Good morning, good morning, it’s early morning light, so I want to say good morning to you.’ She put notes in my lunchbox when I was little: ‘Have a good day, I love you’ with a smiley face. She made me macaroni and cheese when I asked for it, even if she needed to go out and get the ingredients. She read me stories at night in bed, books about places that didn’t exist where animals could speak. She held me when I woke from a bad dream, telling me that the monsters had no chance against her. She wanted me to grow up to be a good person, a good man, but she didn’t have a chance against everything he said to me, everything he told me. She would have forgiven me anything. As I struggle to breathe, I acknowledge that truth. She would have forgiven me anything and welcomed me back into her life. I was going to break in through the back door but then I decided to ring the bell in the front, just stood there and waited. I saw some of my own features in her little boy’s face but that just made me angrier.
Her expression as she saw me at her front door only hours ago is imprinted on my mind. She was filled with delight and she even opened her arms, ready and waiting for a hug. She opened her arms and I showed her the gun. I could have made a different choice. I could have stepped into those arms and changed my life.
There is a burnt metal smell in this room. A thick, dark smell of blood and fire. There is a scent of sweat and honeysuckle. My eyes are heavy and I can’t quite breathe in enough air. I try to take a breath and hear a gurgle in my throat, taste something hot and salty. Am I dying?
The Family Across the Street Page 20
