‘You won’t tell.’
Ellie rethreaded her needle and knotted the blue strands. Blue for a boy.
‘A boy, my boy.’ She thought of the doll she’d sewn. Jacob she’d called him, just like in the Bible. ‘Jacob I have loved.’ She hummed softly to herself, a toneless tune that kept the emptiness at bay. Her father remained silent on the bed. She had wanted to kill him after he’d taken her babies away. After he had taken their son away from her, later when she’d regained her strength, she wished she’d gone after him with a knife. With the carving knife he used on the Sunday roast clutched in her hand, she’d pictured herself striding into the backyard, her mind consumed with her baby, needing his tiny body in her arms. Daddy would have been in his shed and wouldn’t have seen her approach. She would have raised the knife. She would have…
Tears welled in her eyes. She hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t tried. Not really. She’d been too weak. Too pathetic. Daddy was her family.
God, she’d been so stupid.
‘My son.’ She bent her head and kissed the blue thread. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The Fordhams were out. He’d been watching. He didn’t know what time they would be back. They were probably at one of Mrs Fordham’s endless Bible study sessions, praying for the redemption of the world’s sinners from her holier
-than-thou position. ‘Love the sinner, hate the sin…’ Arthur thought of Mrs Fordham’s voice delivering another dreary Sunday school lesson. She wouldn’t love her adored Jack if she knew of his true desires. Arthur was sure of it.
‘Hate the sinner, love the sin,’ he smiled. Hate her, hate him. He’d needed the house empty. The birds were too bloody noisy whenever someone came close to the aviary. He lifted the latch on the wire door and stepped in, securing it behind him. As the birds let forth their high-pitched screeching, he’d smiled. He would make sure that Jack wouldn’t tell.
He reached into one of the nesting boxes. There had been a mad flapping of wings as a frantic bird pecked his finger, its clawed feet scratching wildly at his wrist. He’d pulled it out, its eyes wide, its beak tinted with the blood that trickled down his hand in a bright rivulet. His smile had broadened at its panicked movements and he had squeezed its body tightly. He raised his arm and slammed the bird’s head down onto the edge of the wooden bench that supported the nesting boxes. There had been a satisfying snap and the bird’s head hung at a crooked angle. He dropped it to the ground and reached into the next box. This would be fun.
Jack was silent as he entered the kitchen. All afternoon he had run an internal debate about whether to tell on Arthur or not. As soon as he had mentioned Arthur’s name on the drive home, his mother had started up on her usual rant about the Clements’—the father with his devil’s tools who’d got what was coming to him in the mine, the harlot daughter, and the shifty-eyed thieving son who had tried to smear her son’s good name.
‘Your good name,’ Jack muttered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing, Mum.’ It would do no good to antagonise her further. Jack decided to wait until they were home.
‘Mum, I need to tell you something.’
‘Mmmmm.’ His mother was staring at the stovetop.
‘It’s about Artie, um, Arthur.’
‘I’ve already told you, Jack, I’ve never understood why you associated with his sort. You’re too good for the likes of him.’
‘It’s not just him though. It’s about what happened to Miriam.’
‘That trollop!’ His mother clattered the saucepan atop the stove with unnecessary force.
‘I wasn’t the one who got her pregnant.’ At this, his mother faced him.
‘We don’t need to have this conversation. I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t, not with that type.’ Her mouth was pursed. ‘Anyway, it’s not nice to discuss that type of thing.’ She turned back to the stove and muttered, ‘The girl probably doesn’t even know who the father is.’
‘She does, I mean, she’s not, she wasn’t like that Mum. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘Humph. I don’t know why we’re still talking about this.’
‘I have to tell you…’
‘It wasn’t yours. That’s all I care to know.’
‘No, but…’
‘Then I don’t want to hear anymore. You keep away from those Clements’; they’re nothing but trouble.’
‘Yeah, but Arthur, it was him, he…’
‘Jack, stop it with the yeahs and the buts. You sound like you crawled out of the gutter.’
‘But…’
‘Jack, what did I just say? Besides, I’m trying to get supper ready, get out of the way.’
‘Mum, I need to…’
‘No, I’ve told you. I don’t want to hear another word.’
Jack walked into the lounge room. His father was leaning back in the armchair, his long legs stretched out before him, a listing of bird-show results on his lap. He lifted his legs off the coffee table at the sound of footsteps, but when he saw it was Jack, he put his heels back on the tabletop.
‘I reckon I’ve got a chance at the Royal next year. Champion Cock.’
Jack nodded. Usually that would have raised a chuckle and a wink between father and son, but not tonight. ‘Um, can I tell you something?’
‘Those new birds are real healthy.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice sheen to the feathers. Good colouring.’
Jack couldn’t even feign interest. ‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’
His father looked at him warily. ‘About what?’
‘What if you knew that someone had done something wrong, something really bad? What would you do?’
His father fidgeted in his armchair. ‘Your mother’s probably the one to talk to about right and wrong and all that Churchy shi… stuff.’
‘But I’m asking you.’
‘Is this someone you?’
‘It’s not me, not exactly.’
‘Did someone do something to you?’
‘No.’
‘Can you change what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Then I wouldn’t worry about it.’
Jack stared at his father, a silent plea in his eyes.
‘Well, I dunno, boy. Sure you don’t want to ask your mother?’ He looked down at the paper in his hand then shrugged. ‘All right then.’
‘Um, you know Miriam Clements, and how she got, you know, knocked… I mean, pregnant…’
His father cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair once more. He dropped his feet to the floor. ‘Nothing to say, son. It’s done. She’s not a nice girl.’
‘No, that’s not it. I didn’t. I wasn’t the one who…’
His father cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ll probably never know who the father was. She probably had a few others, along with you.’
‘Dad! She wasn’t like that. And I’ve never, you know, done that, either.’ He looked down at the floor, a red flush staining his cheek and neck.
His father stared intently at the paper in his hand, as if he’d never seen it before.
‘Well, one day you will, and, um,’ he cleared his throat again, ‘when you meet someone, just be sure… just, pick a decent girl, son.’
‘Miriam was decent.’
‘I thought you didn’t...?’
‘But what if I knew who did it? That it wasn’t her fault?’
‘So what? It doesn’t matter now. As long as no one can expect you to marry the girl or fork out for it, you’re all right.’
‘But it wasn’t her fault. It was Arthur, he…’
His father shook his head. His expression didn’t change. ‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing you can do about it. Her brother can take care of i
t. Sort the bloke out. Not you.’ His father stood abruptly and gave Jack a brief pat on the shoulder without making eye contact.
‘Look, I’m sorry that Mr Clements was killed in the mines, but, well, can’t say I’m not glad you don’t have much to do with that lot anymore.’ He wiped his hands on his pants, wiping away imaginary dirt. ‘You keep away from those Clements’, all right? Keep well away. I’m going to check on the birds.’
‘It was her brother.’ Jack spoke the words aloud to the empty room. There was no point. His parents didn’t want to know. His father wanted Jack to play the game, to be one of the blokes, sow his seeds, and marry a nice girl. Since Miriam had gone away, his parents hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy again. It was hushed up and, if they had suspected all along that Jack wasn’t the one responsible, they had kept silent. As long as their boy was blameless and Mrs Fordham could still hold her head high in church, they didn’t seem to care. He wished he didn’t.
‘Artie… fuck,’ he muttered under his breath, punching the back of the lounge chair. He couldn’t believe he’d once thought Arthur was kind of good looking, admired him as being a bit of an outsider, thought that maybe he’d found someone who would understand and not judge him. He’d been wrong. He had been so fucking wrong. He’d picked a monster.
God, what if Arthur told his parents? His dad? Jack brought down his fist on the top of the armchair and cursed. He was so weak. He couldn’t tell his parents what he knew. He couldn’t tell them what he was. They would never accept it. They would never accept him. Never, never, never. He punched the chair with each word. He disgusted himself. He was weak. Pathetic.
‘Jack,’ his mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen, ‘supper’s ready.’
‘I don’t want any. I’m going to bed.’ He wanted to hide his weakness form the world.
He wasn’t going to tell.
A couple of yellow feathers on the carpet fluttered as he made his way across his bedroom floor.
Jack kicked his shoes off and threw himself on the bed. There was something lumpy under the cover. He stood and stripped the sheet back. Blood and feathers surrounded a bird skewered on a divining rod. He staggered from the bed, hands cupped over his mouth.
‘Christ Almighty.’ He heard his dad come back in from the yard, his voice quavering.
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain…’ His mother’s voice broke off before rising suddenly. ‘What’s happened? What is it?’
Jack found his father in the kitchen, his face pale with ghostly tracks of tears staining his cheeks. He had never seen his father cry before and the sight shocked him almost more than the dead bird.
‘I don’t know how… Something got into the aviary, the birds…’
‘Foxes? A feral cat? Dog?’ His mother seemed flummoxed. His father spoke as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
‘Feathers everywhere… Heads ripped off… They’re all dead… dead.’ His father broke into sobs and both mother and son stared in amazement. His mother regained her composure first, placing her arms around her husband’s body.
‘Come now, you can always get new birds.’
Jack felt bile rise to his throat and ran to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection and saw Arthur staring back. ‘Fuck.’ Jack shook his head. The devil’s tools… the devil.
‘He’s evil,’ he muttered, heading back towards the kitchen. He wanted to comfort his father, but didn’t know how. Fuck. Jack hurried to the lounge room and picked up the phone, dialling Arthur’s number. As it rang, he thought about what he would say. If Mrs Clements answered, could he tell her he knew? Did she even know? Would she even care? Arthur answered.
‘Yeah.’ He must have been expecting the call.
‘You—’ Jack’s voice faltered then he remembered his father’s face. ‘You bastard.’ There was a pause and then Jack heard Arthur chuckle. ‘You think this is funny?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’
‘I’m going tell the cops. Tomorrow morning, mate, I’m heading down there. They’ll know what you did.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. Your fucking sister. I’m going to tell. You won’t get away with this.’
‘I already did.’ All the humour was gone from his voice. ‘This was just a warning. You aren’t going to tell nobody nothing. You got me?’
Jack hung up the phone. He couldn’t bear to hear Arthur’s voice for a second longer. He retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. He tore the sheets from his bed and bundled them into the corner, bird and all. He would deal with it tomorrow. He sat on the floor next to his bed and hooked his arms around his knees. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ If this was what Arthur did as a warning, what would he do if Jack told?
He eventually fell into a fitful sleep and woke the next morning, still curled on the floor, his legs cramped and aching. His resolution was wavering. The police should know. Somebody should know what Arthur did. But if Arthur told people about him, told his dad, his mum, they wouldn’t be able to take it. Not if Arthur told them the truth.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ What the hell was he going to do?
‘I see you.’
The words were a warm breath in an otherwise still room. Ellie didn’t know if she had imagined them or not. It sounded like a child. Had the brat come to play? Maisie? Her son? Were the bones speaking to her? Only the dead knew she was here. She knotted, then broke off the blue thread and let her fingers toy over the reels in the box. Pink next. Pink for her precious little girl and the not-grown baby that hadn’t been ready to be born.
‘Come shooting with me.’
It wasn’t a request. Jack eyed Arthur with thinly veiled suspicion and fear. They were standing on the nature strip and Jack’s gaze kept returning to the rifle Arthur held ever so casually. Arthur had brazenly knocked on the front door and Jack felt compelled to get him away from his parents, away from their house.
‘No.’
‘Come on.’ Arthur had the rifle cocked in his arm.
‘I don’t want to shoot,’ Jack muttered.
‘What’s your problem?’
‘I don’t want, I can’t… I’m not going to borrow my dad’s gun, not today.’
‘You don’t have to. I’ve got mine.’
‘I don’t want to go shooting with you. I don’t want to do anything with you, all right?’
‘Why, you got something better to do? Off to the police are you?’
Jack looked at the younger boy. He longed to wipe that smug look off his face, but it wasn’t worth it. Arthur wasn’t worth it. ‘No. I won’t tell the cops if you keep the fuck away from my house and my parents.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t tell. And you keep away.’
‘Just come shooting with me. And we’ll be good.’
‘No.’
‘Scared are you?’
‘No.’
‘All right, let’s just go back to yours, have a nice chat with your olds…’
‘You keep away from them.’
‘How’s your old man? In a mood for a chat about his birds, you reckon?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Oh no, Jack, me mate. I won’t.’ Arthur stepped closer and brought the rifle in front of his body. ‘You’ll do what I say, won’t you?’
Jack dropped his eyes to the ground, an image of the skewered bird before him and the tear tracks on his father’s cheeks. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
The balance had shifted between them. Arthur knew it and he would make damn sure Jack knew it too. He was in control. When they had first started hanging out, he’d been the smaller one, had hated being shorter and younger. He felt small no more. He
knew Jack’s secret and knowledge was something he liked, the overwhelming, erotic feeling of power. His initial horrified reaction to Jack’s revelation had turned to one of unfurling satisfaction. If Jack’s old man were to find out the truth about his son, Jack’s nice comfortable life would be over. Both boys knew it. No matter what Jack said about Arthur, it was Jack’s secret that his parents would never be able to accept.
Jack followed. He glowered at Arthur’s back. Their supposed friendship was a stretched elastic band and Jack longed for it to snap, flinging them apart forever. He needed that break to come soon.
‘I have to get away,’ he said.
‘What?’ Arthur wheeled to face him, rifle in hand.
‘Nothing.’
The two boys looked at each other, suspicion deep in their eyes. Jack broke eye contact first. ‘What are we going to shoot?’
Arthur didn’t bother to reply.
They walked past the paddock where Arthur had gone shooting with his father and headed towards the bush.
‘You know there’s deer and foxes in the National Park.’ Arthur had finally spoken, almost conversationally, treading lightly over the scrub.
‘Huh.’ Jack knew that; he’d heard. He had seen a dead fox or two on the road from time to time. They were feral and killed wildlife, not that he cared that much for possums and other native animals. But killing them seemed unnecessary. ‘So, are we going to kill a deer or a fox or what?’
‘We’re going to kill something.’
‘Something?’ Jack hated the nervous tremor his voice had adopted and hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed.
‘There’s something that’s been hunting around here. Wasn’t your old man complaining about having to reinforce the birds’ cage a while back?’
‘Aviary.’ Jack spoke automatically.
‘The aviary,’ Arthur rolled his eyes, ‘because something tried to get in?’
‘Something did get in.’ Jack tried to see Arthur’s face, searching for an admission of guilt. ‘Someone did.’
Arthur laughed, ‘Someone, huh?’
‘You know.’
‘Tell me what I know.’
Jack stopped walking. They had looped in a semi-circular pattern and were now moving towards the cliff overlooking the ocean. He could see the choppy, white-capped surface of the waves and hear their crashing growl against the rocks. He felt the waves churning inside his gut. Jack kicked a few of the stones before him. He hoped he looked more confident than he felt. Arthur gestured with the gun.
Path to the Night Sea Page 31
