Kindred

by Michael Earp

  Amy inhales. “That’s okay. I didn’t expect to find anyone in here, that’s all.”

  “What are you after?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What, or who, are you looking for?”

  There is the sound of footsteps. Amy puts a finger to her own lips. Her companion arches an eyebrow, falls silent. Together they listen to the man pass. They nod in time to the slap of his heels on the runner. This is their first collusion.

  Their eyes meet.

  Hazel, Amy notices. Even here, where the only light in this strange little curtained-off alcove is a low-wattage safety bulb jutting from the wall, she can see the fawn, the flecks of gold in her irises. Her pointed nose, her long hands. Her yellow hair that is cropped and startled.

  “You here for the party?” the girl whispers to Amy when the footsteps are gone.

  Amy hesitates. “I’m with the catering company.”

  “Oh, okay.” A quick grin. “What are you feeding the vultures tonight?”

  “The vultures?”

  “The guests, sorry.”

  “Um,” says Amy. She tries to remember Boz’s menu. Recently he’s become obsessed with a well-known chef whose name, right this minute, escapes her. Sustainable produce is this chef’s big thing, which means it’s Boz’s new big thing, too. And because he sources their food locally now, there are always last-minute changes to the menu. “Finger food, basically,” Amy says to the girl. “Are you a guest?”

  “Not remotely. But I made sure to dress like one.” The girl pats her sleeves. “It’s not every day you get to wear a tux, is it?”

  “I suppose not,” Amy says, uncertain.

  She should leave, now that the man has passed by. Boz needs his sauce, and she has already cost him an hour. Yet Amy hesitates. There is something pleasing about the alcove. About the girl within it. A little strange, yes. Still. Something pleasingly charming and secretive about them both. She glances around, notices a little box attached to the wall. Glass fronted, with red metal sides. Behind the pane is a small red handle. In white letters across the pane, the words: In case of emergency, break glass.

  What a funny world it is, Amy muses. How intricate and interwoven – the way the presence of certain things depends upon the presence of other things. Like bees and flowers. Or sunlight and leaves. Or her boredom with kissing and Steven. Because of course. This red metal box is the reason the alcove exists.

  “What happens if you pull the handle, do you think?” Amy asks the girl.

  The girl follows her gaze. “Oh, that thing?” Like she’s only just noticed it. “You’ve not seen one before?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  The girl grips her chin, looks thoughtful. “A flood, I’m pretty sure,” she says. “You pull the handle, the skies open up and it rains like it hasn’t rained for a thousand years.”

  “Right,” says Amy slowly.

  The girl cocks her head. Her eyes glimmer in the dim. “The dead come alive again,” she says. “Their eyes blink open. They rise up.” Her expression turns mischievous. “Should we do it? Should we smash the glass?”

  Amy lets herself smile. “Best not.”

  “I’m Reg, by the way,” says the girl, also smiling.

  “Amy,” says Amy, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with a less-than-steady finger.

  Reg gazes at her, and Amy’s skin tingles. She feels her mouth as a weight. She grips the red curtain, pushes it aside. “I’d better get back.”

  Amy exits the alcove, follows the hall to the front of the house. She finds the front door, walks through it. Through the garden to the street, along the street to the ute. She is humming, she realises, humming some song from the radio. On the tray of the ute lies the solitary peri-peri sauce bottle on its side, contents bleeding from its lid like a victim of unspeakable violence. A tender impulse overcomes her. She picks it up carefully.

  She reaches the house, cradling the bottle, just as the black tie crowd starts to arrive: tuxes, evening gowns, pearls and heels. Television crews are setting up cameras on the grass. The black tie crowd climbs the front steps to the landing, they mingle and chatter, they take small turns towards each other and the cameras, a rotisserie of sparkle and colour. The energy ripples, seems to catch in Amy’s throat. She swallows it and edges her way through.

  Even when she’s back in the quiet hallway she feels it travelling through her, an electric rope that writhes, restless, inside her. She enters the kitchen and hands Boz the sauce. “Remind me. What’s this party for again?”

  Boz is arranging little pyramids of food on a serving tray. Beside him, Natalia is draped across the marble-top island, the hand of her outstretched arm gripping her phone. Natalia is the kind of person fashion brands give free stuff to so she’ll take selfies in their clothes. Champagne, she sometimes gets. Facials. Occasionally hotel rooms. One time, she’s informed Amy, an Italian label flew her to the Whitsundays to lie on the sand in a bikini with one of their handbags draped across her lap.

  Which could even be true. What would Amy know?

  “I told you already,” Boz says without looking up. “The house belongs to Paul McCannon. The developer.”

  “Oh, Boz.” Natalia’s tone is rich with disappointment. She sits up on the island. “It’s Patrick McKinnon, not Paul McCannon. How can you not know that?”

  “Why would I?” Boz says, indignant.

  “Because he’s always in the media, that’s why,” says Natalia.

  “There’s cameras out the front,” confirms Amy. “Why is he always in the media?”

  “That’s what happens when you’re rich,” says Natalia, like it’s obvious. “People want to know.” She rolls away from them across the smooth marble, auburn strands whipping the surface.

  Boz adjusts one of his food pyramids with a careful finger. “Patrick McKinnon is the guy behind the new housing project down near Wollemi National Park,” he tells Amy. “That’s what they’re celebrating tonight. They finally got the green light. It’s been … controversial.” He hands her a spoon. “Here, I need you to put mayonnaise in these bowls. Natalia’s just done a serving round, and when you’ve finished the mayo I’ll send you back out with her.”

  Amy takes the lid off the Tupperware container.

  The door from the hallway opens.

  She looks up, the rope in her stomach dancing. The girl from the alcove … Reg was her name, wasn’t it?

  But it’s not Reg. Instead, a man saunters in, glass of red in hand, like he owns the kitchen.

  This is what they’re like, these men who follow Natalia back. Proprietary, with crooked ties and wine-stained teeth. There’s at least one at every party. This one settles himself on a stool by the marble-top island, near where Natalia currently lies on her side. Natalia lifts her head to look at him and smiles patiently, before rolling slowly away in the opposite direction.

  “I’d be glad to try another one of those scallops,” says the man to Amy.

  People are often doing this: addressing her like she’s in charge. She used to think that people assumed she was Cassie of Cassie’s Catering, until she realised that wasn’t it. It’s because Boz is black. And Natalia doesn’t look like the in-charge type.

  “It’s chicken next,” says Boz, his eyes still on the job. “As well as these vegetable stacks. We’ll bring out more scallops after that.”

  “Happy to wait.” The man swishes his wine, takes a gulp. He eyes Natalia. “Nice, ah, set-up, this, isn’t it?” He remarks in her direction.

  “Hmmm,” Natalia replies, sliding off the island. She gives her hair a pop star flick. She smiles at him indulgently; says, “Ready, Amy?”

  In the party room, Natalia is the first to empty her tray. This is how it always goes. People are drawn into her orbit, they circle around her, admiring her deft choreography – light twirl, warm smile, fitting words, repeat. They peck at her tray with their fingers, they peer lovingly at her radiant face. Half of Amy’s job is just waiting for Natalia
to run out of food.

  When Natalia has returned to the kitchen for another tray, Amy offers seconds. The guests barely glance at her, but she watches them: spotless and creaseless with straight teeth and matching socks. Hair that defies gravity. Patent leather shoes that are mirrors. Eyes that are clear, empty pools. These people are what Steven was talking about: these are the robots. She does three circuits of the room before heading back along the hallway, her tray still half full.

  She sees the velvet curtain of the alcove up ahead. She wonders if Reg is still behind it.

  She reaches the curtain. “Hello?” she whispers. “It’s, ah, Amy. The caterer.”

  The curtain shudders. Reg’s head appears. “Well, this is good service.” She ushers in Amy with an outstretched arm.

  Her arms. Amy stares at them. Reg has rolled up the sleeves of her dinner shirt. All the way down to her wrists, it is like something from a natural history bookplate. Inked in red, in blue, in green, in yellow, they are flying and perching, some with their beaks open, others holding twigs or worms. They are small, large, they are in nests, on the forest floor, in branches.

  “I see you like birds,” Amy says.

  Reg looks straight at her, arching that eyebrow of hers. Amy is grateful that the light is so bad, because her face is suddenly burning. She sets the tray down with unsteady fingers. “My boss says the guy whose house this is, is a developer. That he’s involved in some controversy.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Apparently it’s been in the media.”

  “I don’t go in for media,” Reg says.

  “Not any of it?”

  “No.”

  They look at each other, Amy and Reg, without speaking.

  Reg picks up one of Boz’s food pyramids, runs her tongue along her bottom lip, puts the food in her mouth and swallows.

  Amy stares. “Are – are they particular types of birds, the ones on your arms?”

  “I’ll tell you about them if you like.” Reg leans close, her breath hot at Amy’s ear, and says this:

  “First, you must think of flying. Your arms feathered, your body torpedo-straight. High above everything, the wind is your cradle: let it carry you. The breeze brings you insects: open your beak. There is sugar in the air: smell it. Follow the scent to the trees. Look for the ones you know. The ones that feed you. Ironbark, red gum, yellow box, white. Tell your friends. Go on. Sing it like a bell.”

  Is it a story, Amy wonders, or a poem? Is it something in-between? Whatever it is, the words are making her breathless. She leans in. How curious, the way her body is feeling, this close to Reg. So warm and bright. The rope inside her sprouting like a branch, connecting every part of her to every other part, a hot cord. She wants to be closer still. She wants the air between their arms, their hands, their legs, their mouths, to dissipate.

  “Your wings are tiring. Look harder: soon you will need to land. Look for your trees. Study the branches. You know the leaves you need. The sugar leaves. You know them from the way they throw the light. It will be night soon. Keep flying. You are tired but you have to keep flying. Because you have not found it yet. The honey you need. The breeze will not hold you forever. Look for the trees. You have to find the trees, though they are gone. You have to find them, though they have been destroyed. You have to find them before the night.”

  It startles Amy how quickly Reg falls silent; how fast the song is over. Her breath no longer warm on Amy’s ear. In its absence, Amy feels the wind on every side of her, with nothing to hold her up.

  She gazes at Reg, and Reg gazes back, and the force of her gaze makes Amy’s chest heave.

  She looks away, towards the red metal box.

  Reg laughs softly. She runs the fingers of one hand through her short yellow hair. “You really want to know, don’t you?” she says. She rolls down her sleeves, tucking the birds out of sight. “You want to know what will happen if you pull the handle. Okay, then. What will happen is this.” She holds a cuff button between two fingers, pushes it through its hole. “The people will speak in rhyme.” She bends into Amy slowly, places her lips half an inch from her hair, and Amy’s entire body beats. “The whole world will disappear, and it will be just us left.”

  Amy feels dizzy as she walks back to the kitchen. She is suddenly extremely hungry. She stands outside the door and eats three chicken drumsticks, wipes the grease on a napkin and buries the napkin in her pocket. She goes in.

  Boz is looming over a whole trout on a serving dish, delicately arranging his special herb salsa around its fins. Natalia is plugged into her phone, washing glasses, dancing between the two sinks to a tune no one else can hear. The man from the party is still lounging on his stool, swishing his wine around the glass.

  “There you are, Amy.” She is surprised by Boz’s nonchalant tone. “I’ve been waiting to tell you: I remembered the details of the story from the paper. About our friends in there.”

  “What about your friend in here?” says the man on the bar stool. His voice is sleepy, affectionate.

  Boz looks up from the fish and smiles at him. “Want to try some of this?” he says to the man. Without waiting for an answer, he makes a small cut on the side of the trout, scoops some fish and salsa onto a cracker, and hands it to him.

  The man takes it and eats it. “Oh, yes, very good,” he says with enthusiasm.

  Boz never offers food to Natalia’s hangers-on. Amy wonders what she’s missed.

  “The reason the housing development they’re all celebrating tonight is controversial,” Boz continues, “is because it’s going to destroy the habitat of some native birds.”

  Amy feels a pulse in her throat.

  “A species called the regent honeyeater, apparently,” says Boz.

  Amy feels suddenly cold.

  “If I’d remembered any of that when they booked the gig, I wouldn’t have taken it.”

  Boz turns away from his fish to wipe his hands on a tea towel, and the fish props up its head, raining herb salsa. It catches Amy’s eye and winks.

  Amy’s jaw goes slack. “Um, Boz …” she says.

  Boz turns around. “Yeah?”

  But when she looks again the fish is back in position, herb salsa in place. She presses a shaky palm to her forehead. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ve got news, by the way,” Boz says, picking up a knife. He begins to cut a lemon into slices. “This here is Harry Gillespie.” He uses the knife to point at the man on the stool.

  That’s the name she was trying to think of earlier. Harry Gillespie is Boz’s chef guru. The one with a passion for sustainable farming, with five-star restaurants in every capital city.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  “Glad to meet you,” Harry says to her.

  Boz grins. “I emailed him last week,” he explains, “and suggested he sneak in tonight and check out our food.”

  “And I’m glad I did,” says Harry.

  Boz beams like the Chrysler Building.

  “Do you want to tell her or should I?” he asks Boz.

  “Go on,” says Boz, grinning.

  Harry leans in.

  “This Boz of yours knows how to cook a fish,” he says, and nods. “I love his mix of chilli, thyme and chive. I’ve never tasted quite so fresh a dish. Beneath his hand it really comes alive. New talent is a thing I like to watch. There’s a special project I’ve in mind, to take this city’s dining up a notch. I see it as my gift to humankind.”

  Amy squints at him, presses fingers to her temples.

  “We’re killing off the earth! We’ve got to stop it,” Harry continues. “A different way of farming’s the solution. My new place is an ethical non-profit, with proceeds going to help curb our pollution. As head chef, Boz will nail it – I’ve no doubt. Did you see what he just did to that damn trout?”

  Amy thinks: it’s happened. I have finally lost my mind. She picks up a drinking glass and walks slowly to the sink. She fills it with water and drinks it. When she has fin
ished, she refills the glass and drinks that one, too.

  Without saying a word to anyone, she walks out of the kitchen. She can hear the party down the hall – people laughing and talking over one another, the tap of silver on crystal. The voices settle down. Someone’s about to make a toast.

  She reaches the alcove, opens the velvet curtain and there is Reg, holding a small mallet.

  “What have you done?” Amy cries.

  Reg is completely still; only her eyes flicker. “Nothing,” she says. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “You’ve smashed the glass, haven’t you?” Amy says. “You’ve pulled the handle.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  Amy’s insides heave. “What did you say before? About the dead rising up?” The winking fish flaps brightly in her mind. “About people speaking in rhyme?”

  “Oh, that,” says Reg. “That was just a joke.”

  “Are you sure?” Amy asks.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “And what about the flood, and the world disappearing …?”

  Reg shrugs. “If you don’t believe me …” She hands Amy the mallet.

  Amy stares at her own fingers gripping it.

  “If you won’t do it, I will,” says Reg, her voice suddenly firm. “It’s time.”

  Time? Amy doesn’t ask what she means. Instead she eyes the red metal box, with its white letters across the glinting pane. Her arms feel light, somehow; they feel feathered and expansive. She draws up the mallet. She whacks it against the glass.

  It shatters into pebbles.

  There is the handle, within reach of her fingers.

  Reg and Amy stare at it.

  “Want to do the honours?” Reg’s voice is close and suddenly soft.

  Amy reaches her arm through the frame; Reg slips an arm around her waist. She grips the handle; Reg grips her hips. She pulls the handle down and turns around; Reg pulls her in.

  And the world disappears.

  Reg is kissing her. She is kissing Reg. Lips on lips. Tongue on tongue. Amy sees white – white breath, white heat – she feels a pulse in her mouth, in her throat, through her body, every part of it. She is flying. She runs a hand through Reg’s hair, pressing hard through the soft. She runs her palms down Reg’s sides, to her hips, then lower, lower. Reg gives out a groan, and it sparks through Amy like a firework.