‘What happened to your face? Jack, are you in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, I…yeah.’ Jack dropped his eyes to the bed. He took the notes from his pocket and placed them beside his mother’s handbag. There went his ticket out of here.
‘And you thought stealing would fix it?’
‘I have to get out of here.’
‘Why?’
‘Arthur, he…’ Jack’s voice broke and he could feel fresh tears welling in his eyes. ‘He had a gun, he, he…’ Jack couldn’t find the words.
‘What do you mean he had a gun? What have you got yourself into?’
‘Nothing, I… he…oh. God…’
‘Are you stealing for him? Did he threaten you?’
Jack looked at his father’s face and couldn’t find the words.
His father grimaced. ‘I don’t understand why you’re friends with that lout.’
‘We’re not friends.’ The bitter words burst out of his mouth.
‘Well, whatever you are, stop crying about it.’ His father took the money off the bed and replaced it in his wife’s purse. ‘Stealing. I’m ashamed of you.’
‘I just wanted to…’
‘What?’
Jack shook his head.
‘I’m in a mind to go over to his house right now and give him a piece of my mind. Speak to his mother.’
‘No! You can’t, you can’t go over there.’
‘Stealing, fighting, crying about it… Honestly, Jack, grow up.’
‘Dad…’ Jack sniffed and swiped his face with his sleeve. He pictured his dad crying over the birds and shook his head. Grow up. Guess the old man had forgotten about his own tears. If his dad was that distraught then, what would telling him about Arthur, about today, do to him? If his dad thought stealing a few measly dollars was shameful, what would his dad think of him if he knew what had happened? What Jack had done? He’d never understand. He wouldn’t want to. Jack couldn’t bear to find out what he’d see in his father’s eyes. Contempt? Pity? Jack swallowed. He didn’t know what would be worse.
‘Jack…’
‘No, I’ll deal with it.’
‘You’d better. Now get out of here or I’ll tell your mother I found you rifling through her purse.’
Jack didn’t wait for his father to tell him twice. He bolted for the kitchen, slowing as he reached the doorway. His mother was at the sink with her back to him. With his hand in his pocket, Jack ran his fingers along the surface of the bullet. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’ She didn’t move from her position at the sink.
‘Just out.’
‘It’s a bit late, surely? You’ve got school tomorrow.’
He ignored her and headed out of the door. He couldn’t talk to her, warn her of what was to come. Didn’t want her to turn around and see him. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ He whispered the words to the light that sifted through the curtained kitchen window. If she knew what he was, she would have been praying for his eternal soul day and night. The minister would have been installed at the house, fortified by endless buttermilk scones and gallons of sweetened tea, until Jack had been deemed ‘cured’. Jack grimaced. At least he’d be spared that.
He walked past the empty aviary, its unlocked door swinging mournfully in the wind that had come up from the ocean. He tried to picture a happier time, picture his father inside the aviary whistling softly to the nestling birds, fretting over feed mixes and nutrition.
‘Damn.’ The vision was replaced by the skewered bird and his dad’s devastated face. The massacre of those noisy little birds had reduced the old man to tears, but the idea of talking to, of listening to his own son was beyond him. Impossible. His dad wouldn’t want to know him.
‘Goddamn it.’ Jack scuffed the ground before the aviary before turning his back on it. He was done. There would be no confronting Arthur. Jack didn’t want to see him ever again. He’d wanted to escape this town before, escape the future of the wharf or the mine, flee from these people with their small-town minds. ‘Cut and run.’ Pity it had taken the events of today to provide the ultimate motivation. No longer was he going to hang around and be at Arthur’s mercy. He wasn’t going to see his parents humiliated. There would be no more surprises in his bed, no more hunting trips into the bush.
‘No more.’ How had things gotten this bad so quickly? How had it all spiralled out of control? A few months back he had been feeling good. Hopeful. Now it had all turned to shit. All since he’d gotten to know the real Arthur. Well, he was done. He was taking control back. He would end it tonight.
He hurried down a darkened trail in the bush, half afraid that if he turned around and looked, the path would be blocked, the eucalypts locked in behind him forming a barrier ensuring he would never get off this path. The gums that benignly shed their bark in the light of day created an impassable obstacle that fenced him in and forced him on. He was trapped on a trail of shadows and there was only one way out. He would never go back, only forward into the darkness, into the night. Jack broke into a blundering jog, stumbling over rocks, ferns slapping against his legs. He ran into a spider’s web and tried to wipe it away from his face, feeling it encircling his fingers and hair. Beneath the sounds of his heavy footsteps and shortened breath, he was sure he could hear the faint sounds of animals in the bush.
The trees thinned out and the drum of waves crashing against the rocks at the base of the cliff became louder. He knew he was near the cemetery. The breeze strengthened and brought with it the smell of the ocean as he made his way towards the graves, towards the track that the hearse and the mourners’ cars crawled down for funerals. He tripped over a low-lying gravestone. Constance, died in 1893, not even age two.
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution. She lives, whom we call dead.
‘Good for her.’ He laughed, but it came out as a sob. Sin’s pollution. That’s what he was, polluted. That’s what his parents would think, what everyone in this pathetic town would think.
Jack’s finger touched the bullet in his pocket. It had been warmed by his body. He could hear the ragged surf as it surged and pounded the rocks below. As he neared the cliff the roar was almost deafening. The wind buffeted him as he moved closer to the edge. It’ll be easy… It’ll be so quick. He tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat didn’t move. He didn’t believe it. It wasn’t easy. It mightn’t be quick either. It’d hurt like hell if he smashed onto the rocks and didn’t die straight away. Should he wait for the waves to come in or recede? Was there even a fucking right way to do this? He twisted the bullet with cold fingers. He thought of his father and the look in his eyes, ashamed of him for trying to steal a few measly dollars. He had no idea of Jack’s shame. He pictured his mother’s face and tried to think of the last time he’d seen her smile. He couldn’t. Maybe she’d be happier with him gone. Maybe her piety would see her through.
He thought of Arthur. His fingers clenched on the bullet and he gripped it tightly in his palm. He remembered the birds. The blood and feathers on his sheets. You’re next. The bird, the bullet. He saw the rifle pointed at his chest. Maybe if he had gone for the gun… Fuck, he was so weak. Pathetic. He fought back a sob and walked to the cliff edge, watching the waves thrash in, then retreat.
There were a few scraggly, stunted trees growing to his left, and he headed to a clearing on his right where the grass grew thickly. The slope was steeper here. He raised his arm and threw the bullet as far as he could. It disappeared into the darkness and the sea. The ocean can have it. Can have me too. His face was deluged by tears and the cold wind that whipped the waves below into a white-capped fury against the rocks. He backed up. He would never be able to tell anyone. He would never be accepted, he would never fit in, and he’d be damned if he was going to just sit back and wait for Arthur to come for him. He couldn’t fight back; today had shown him that. His parents would be safe if
he was gone. His father could rebuild the aviary. The birds would be safe. Everyone would be safe. Arthur would never touch him again.
He backed up a few more steps and felt his heart pounding so furiously against his chest that he half-expected to feel his ribs crack and shatter. It’ll all be over. I’ll be safe. I’ll be free. Jack started to sprint and launched himself off the cliff.
Ellie stood immobile, the white-sheeted form pressing heavily against her leg, the sides of the grave surrounding her. She could hear the first birds beginning their morning calls. They sounded so excited by the prospect of a new day. The thought of picking up the shovel to continue to dig, to lengthen his grave, filled her with dismay. But the idea of leaving him like this, exposed to the world, was unimaginable. His body shifted slightly on her foot. She flinched, then shuffled to where the sheet masked his face and placed her hands on the damp cotton on either side of his head. She could feel the outlines of his ears, the coarseness of his hair, cloaked though it was by the shroud. She thought of the nights she had cried out in pain, in vain, begging him to stop, to please, please, please leave her alone. She pictured his head above her, silhouetted in the dark. The countless times she had dreaded hearing the thud of his footsteps down the corridor, the bedroom door opening in the dark. His sweat dripping onto her. His grunts. She thought of her babies, of Maisie, of Mummy, and looked down at their names.
‘It’s over, Daddy. No more.’ He couldn’t stay. Ellie placed one hand on either side of his head and twisted. There was a harsh cracking sound and his head lolled to the side. Ellie pushed on his shoulders and wedged his torso and head down. There. She would make him fit.
She clambered out of the grave, taking care not to tread on his body. She didn’t want to touch him again. The earth could do that. It could cover him and take him away. Ellie exhaled unsteadily. The dreary sky had lightened further; more birds called out from the bush. Soon the world would be awakening. She had to bury him now.
Ellie reached for the shovel and dug into the pile of loose soil. As she turned back to where he lay, her eyes were caught by the coloured record of the lives he had stolen. The thought of seeing those embroidered names vanish beneath harsh shovelfuls of dirt was almost unbearable. She dropped the shovel, knelt on the cold ground and picked up a handful of soil. With all the appearance of a supplicant, she leant forward and let it trickle through her fingers and onto the first name—Maisie.
‘The bad man’s gone. You’re safe now, Maisie Jayne.’
Her babies were the next to be covered, dark soil gradually masking the blue and pink threads, hiding them from view.
‘I’m sorry, my little babies.’
She took another handful of soil and extended her arm out over her mother’s name. ‘Mummy.’ She choked on the word. ‘You didn’t leave me.’ She moved her hand in soft lines, watching the soil gradually cover the green thread.
‘Why did you take her away from me, Daddy?’
Her father opened his eyes and fixed her with a look. ‘What are you doing, Ellie?’
‘It’s time. You have to go now.’
He glared at her. ‘You can’t leave me here.’
‘I can.’
‘You can’t live without me.’
‘I will.’
‘You’re useless. You’re nothing without me.’
‘I’m…not.’
‘I’m not going to let you. I won’t go.’
Her hand dropped to her side and Ellie released her fingers. The soil fell beside her. Her name was still exposed. What if he were right? Was she nothing without him?
‘Damn you, Daddy.’
Arthur went to Jack’s funeral. He had seen the notice in the paper and heard the talk around town. Mrs Fordham had told people her darling boy had slipped off the rocks whilst night fishing. No one contradicted her, at least not to her face, but everyone knew where his body had washed up and about the absence of any fishing gear. Arthur hadn’t believed it at first. Didn’t think Jack had had it in him. Thought he would have run away, gone into hiding. But there had been a body. Damn him.
Arthur knew how stories travelled in a small town, how a word in the right ear could set the stories flowing. He could really have given people something to talk about. Say he’d seen Jack meeting up with a man, but he didn’t want to invite questions. Surely if Jack had told anyone about him, about Miriam, he’d be under suspicion. He had to know.
He hovered on the fringes of the cemetery as the graveside service finished. The Fordhams stood palely grim and shattered next to the minister. Mr Fordham’s bulky hands clenched before him as Mrs Fordham clasped her handkerchief and dabbed constantly at her weeping eyes. Arthur moved closer to the fresh grave and looked curiously at the headstone. So he had gone and done it. Killed himself. His prick hardened as he envisaged how Jack had knelt there on the ground as he had thrust into his mouth. The feel of that bent head beneath his hand. The sensation of power rushed through him once more.
As the dreary clumps of mourners drifted away or filed resolutely past the grieving parents, Arthur took his place in the line. Mrs Fordham spied him and hissed, a spittle of froth landed on his cheek. ‘You, you… You keep away.’ Arthur felt a weak hand on his arm and shrugged it off.
‘C’mon son.’ It was the minister. ‘They’re upset.’
Arthur spat on the ground as the man moved back to Jack’s parents murmuring useless words of comfort. Where was Mrs Fordham’s God now? He turned away. If Jack’s mother had known anything about him, about Miriam, she would have talked, but she hadn’t. Her dislike was habitual, nothing else. Jack hadn’t told. Arthur was safe. No one would ever find out.
He kicked loose pebbles along the road as he walked home. It wasn’t bad weather. He supposed he could always go shooting.
He had loved her, he had hurt her, he had fed her, he had killed. Murdered Mummy, her babies, Maisie. Ellie stood and faced him, ignoring the renewed pain in her foot. He had died and it was time for him to go.
‘I’m not yours anymore. You have to go.’
For an instant she saw the white cotton of his shroud before his face reappeared, eyes blazing. ‘You can’t leave me. You hear me, you see me.’
It was true.
‘I’ll always be with you.’
She took a deep breath. ‘No. You won’t.’ It was time to let him go. She cupped her hands and took fresh soil from the mound. Soil, earth: these things were real.
‘It’s my turn now.’ She was real. She was alive.
‘It’s going to be okay, Daddy. You won’t be alone; you’ve got the dogs.’
Daddy smiled. ‘My dogs… ’
‘Close your eyes now, Daddy, it’s time.’ He closed his eyes and the image of his face with its tender smile faded. Ellie looked down at his humble covering with its dotted handfuls of dirt. She leaned forward and slowly widened her fingers, watching the soil as it leached through her outstretched hands and covered her own name.
‘I’m not your girl anymore.’ When she could no longer see the black, embroidered letters, she reached for the shovel, scooping a load of soil from the pile that waited against the wall of the enclosure. ‘I’m not yours.’
‘Goodbye, Daddy.’
The aching soil dredged of life was a perfect match for her weary body. She was depleted. Yet, despite the agony and exhaustions of the past week she felt lighter as she dumped dirt on her father’s shroud. His primitive burial would soon be over.
One of the blisters on her hand had reopened and she could feel it weeping onto the wooden handle. Ignoring the sting she found a rhythm—scoop, turn, throw. She imagined the weight of the earth pressing on his body, just as it had on her babies, on Maisie. Had they seen the darkness envelop them? Were their mouths open, crying, as they had filled with dirt? Had they tasted sorrow as they�
�d tasted earth? She pictured her father’s eyes and his heart, as black and fathomless as the ocean. She kept scooping and dumping. He would stay down. And after he was gone, her life would begin.
Ellie stood by the now shrunken pile of earth and looked down at the grave. It was almost completely filled in. She could feel the sock sticking to her heel and noticed fresh blood staining the cotton well above the rim of her shoe. The throbbing that had disturbed her sleep had gotten stronger. Ellie raised the shovel and thumped the back of it onto the grave. She felt the ground beneath it give. She had to pack it down. Pack him down. She hit it again and again before her exhausted arms let the shovel fall to the ground. She stepped onto the grave and began to hop, using the weight of her good leg to compress the earth, though she couldn’t bring herself to stand where she knew his head was. She wouldn’t do that.
‘Almost done, Daddy, almost,’ she murmured. There was no answer. His voice had gone. He was gone. Gone to his dogs. She didn’t need him anymore. She had Mummy and Maisie. She knew what she had to do. She needed her shells. Those oceanic cast-offs to form his memorial.
Ellie left a trail of dirt through the kitchen and into the lounge room as she grabbed her plastic bags of gathered treasures. She felt light-headed and the pulsing of her foot hammered in unison with her heart. She forced herself to ignore the pain and head back outside. She hadn’t finished yet. She had to make sure he would stay down.
Back in the enclosure she upended a couple of her bags onto the ground. The tinkling sounds the shells and pebbles made as they fell reminded her of the wind chimes next door.
‘If you don’t need them all, Daddy, I’m going to make my own chime, okay?’ She shook her head. It didn’t matter if he thought it was okay. He was gone. She didn’t have to check with him anymore. Kneeling at the side of his grave, she selected a large shell and placed it in the centre. She chose another two and placed them in position, forming the beginnings of a spiral pattern. She continued to snake the shells out from the centre and whenever her hands came across a rounded pebble she placed it along the edge, forming a border. She didn’t have as many as she’d hoped, but it would do. Arthur Clements would not be left without any mark upon the ground.
Path to the Night Sea Page 34
