The Grass Castle

by Karen Viggers

  ‘Just make sure it isn’t one-sided,’ Abby says, projecting her concern. ‘These things are always complicated. Culling is a hard enough decision for governments in the first place. They don’t need journalists inflaming the issue and making it even more difficult.’

  He looks at her seriously. ‘What do you think? Should they shoot these kangaroos?’

  ‘Yes, they have to be shot,’ she says. The scientist in her, the rationalist, knows this is true: the kangaroos must be shot to preserve habitat; there’s no question about that. But she detests guns, and she hates the whole concept of shooting, the idea of blowing away the brains of living things. It’s quick—at least it’s supposed to be, and she fiercely hopes this is right. But what if it’s not? Out of nowhere old visions begin to rise from the past like smoke from a smouldering fire. She tries to blank them out, to tuck away the feeling of nausea that swells suddenly in her stomach. She knows she must distract herself. It’s important to keep talking. ‘There’s no other real option,’ she says, almost choking on the words.

  ‘Some people say the kangaroos can be shifted,’ Cameron says, oblivious to her discomfort.

  Abby contemplates him for a moment, slightly dazed. It’s the talk about guns and shooting—she doesn’t want to think about that. Her eyes are swimming, tiny black patches blotting the light. She has to bring herself back. What did Cameron say—something about moving kangaroos? She clings tenuously to the thread of conversation. ‘Where would you move them to?’ she asks, grasping a fragment of structured thought. ‘There’s no feed anywhere.’

  ‘Apparently there might be some vacant farms around.’

  ‘If farms are vacant, it’s because they’ve been destocked in the drought,’ she says.

  ‘So you think shooting’s the only solution?’

  Back to shooting again—she feels a deep heaviness. ‘They use experienced marksmen,’ she says.

  ‘But if we don’t look at other options, there’s no pressure to move forward, is there? Shooting becomes the answer by default.’

  ‘Nobody likes shooting kangaroos, Cameron.’

  He hesitates. ‘Farmers do.’

  Abby’s nausea swells again, but she manages to hold it down. ‘If kangaroos are grazing on your paddocks every day, and you’re forever pulling carcasses off the road, then you’re not too bothered if the government says they’re going to shoot a few,’ she says. ‘Country people have a practical view when it comes to animals.’

  ‘You mean they don’t care?’

  ‘What I’m saying is that farmers see animals in the context of running a farm,’ she continues. ‘When kangaroos compete with stock, it boils down to dollars and cents. Farmers shoot kangaroos and there isn’t a murmur about it. But if the government wants to shoot kangaroos, there’s uproar.’

  Cameron is shaking his head. ‘Kangaroos have to be safe somewhere.’

  ‘And so do other species,’ Abby protests. ‘Reserves have to be managed as ecosystems, not as safe havens for kangaroos.

  It’s about balance.’

  He grins. ‘I’m fond of balance.’

  She sees he is enjoying the intellectual tussle, but she can’t maintain the offensive. The room is tipping. She grasps the bench and breathes slowly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Cameron leans forward and closes his hand over hers. ‘You look pale.’

  She doesn’t speak as she tries to repress the bilious surge in her stomach. ‘I feel a bit off,’ she manages eventually. ‘Maybe something I ate.’

  ‘Let me take you home.’ He stands quickly and pulls on his coat.

  ‘What about our drinks?’ she asks blearily.

  ‘Leave the drinks.’

  He hooks an arm around her and helps her up then leads her outside, pushing through the crowd. In the street they move clear of the smokers and stand on the footpath while she sucks in cold air.

  ‘Maybe it was too hot in there,’ she says. ‘I feel better out here.’

  He rubs his hand up and down her back. ‘Shall we walk?’ he suggests. ‘Movement might help.’

  They wander along the street, past the glowing windows of other bars and restaurants. Abby sees couples leaning towards each other across tables, bottles of wine in coolers, groups at dinner laughing and talking. Cameron’s arm is steady around her—the warmth and smell of him envelop her.

  ‘Here,’ he says, slipping off his coat and putting it round her shoulders. ‘Wear this. You’re shivering.’ He looks at her closely and shakes his head. ‘That does it. I’m taking you home.’

  ‘My bike is at the pub.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘You can pick it up tomorrow.’

  He walks her to his car and slots her in. She is still wearing his coat and is thankful for its warmth. They don’t speak as he drives through the night-lit streets.

  By the time they pull up at her place she is feeling significantly better, but he insists on taking her through to her bungalow. She walks ahead through the darkened garden, startling a possum which scoffs and scuttles up a tree.

  Inside, she flicks on the lights and the blow-air heater to take the chill off the room. Cameron enters behind her and closes the door. He moves close to inspect her face, lifting a hand to push her hair from her cheek. ‘You look better,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know what it was. Maybe the smell of the beer. Maybe dinner.’ She points at the empty meal packet on the kitchen bench beside them.

  He picks it up and checks the ingredients. ‘Who knows what they put in this stuff.’ He tosses the packet in the sink then turns back to her with a smile, touches her hair again. ‘You look good in my coat.’

  She begins to tug it off. ‘It’s warm, but you’ll need it for the drive home.’

  He reaches and helps her, something slow and deliberate in his actions, a considered gentleness that stalls her. When she looks at him, his eyes are hopeful. He wants to take this somewhere, he wants to kiss her.

  For a moment she considers weakening. It would be so easy to give in. She thinks of his big warm hands grasping her shoulders, kneading them. She imagines him bending to kiss her. Then she rallies. ‘I think you should go,’ she says, gathering strength from some remote place deep within. ‘I need to rest.’

  He hangs his coat over his arm and moves slowly to the door, his disappointment tangible. Then he turns back. ‘Can we catch up soon?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other,’ she says distantly. ‘It’s inevitable with all this kangaroo stuff going down.’ She knows this isn’t what he wanted to hear, but she has to hold him off. It’s hard to do, but necessary.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he says from the doorway, a sad smile on his face. ‘And no more frozen meals. It’s no wonder you felt sick.’

  She nods absently. As she watches his back receding into darkness, tears slip slowly down her cheeks.

  28

  Abby is preoccupied with the kangaroo debate being tossed around on TV, the airwaves and in the newspaper. She has almost forgotten George until she hears Nathan answer the phone in the communal office a week or so later. ‘You’re looking for Abby? Yeah, she’s here today. I’ll just get her.’

  He holds the phone out to her and his brow furrows quizzically, as if he’s preparing to be entertained by how she might handle this situation.

  ‘I don’t want to speak to him,’ she mouths quietly. ‘Tell him I’ve just popped out.’

  But Nathan shakes his head and continues to present the phone to her. She’ll have to take the call.

  ‘Hello, this is Abby,’ she says, trying to sound business-like.

  ‘Hey gorgeous. It’s me. George. Why haven’t you called?’

  Abby feels Nathan’s eyes on her and she turns away, dragging the phone to the end of its cord so she can stand by the window looking out on the spiky native garden that shields the building from the street. ‘I told you I was busy,’ she says, sending out bored vibes and hoping George is clever enough to pick up on them. But he’s not, of course.
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  ‘I left tons of messages. I thought we were friends.’

  Abby draws breath. She’s not generally blunt with people she doesn’t know well. But George seems thick-skinned, as perceptive as a brick, so she’ll have to muster the courage to be frank. ‘George, you helped me when my car broke down, I bought a cappuccino to thank you, and then we said goodbye. That’s it.’

  ‘But I’ve been thinking about you. I just can’t stop.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Abby says. ‘But that’s not my problem. I’m just not interested.’ There, she’s said it. Callous and insensitive she may be, but it seems a sledgehammer approach is the only effective strategy with this guy. Ignoring his phone calls obviously didn’t work.

  ‘I want to take you out. Maybe dinner or some drinks. I know some good bars and restaurants. What do you think?’

  Does this guy speak English, she wonders? What doesn’t he get about no? ‘I’m sorry George, but I really can’t.’ She glances at Nathan who is now sitting at his desk focused on a book and pretending not to listen, even though she knows he is. She wishes someone would come into the room and give him something else to think about.

  ‘I can find you, you know,’ George says, a smug tone entering his voice. ‘I can look up your building and drop in.’

  Abby’s chest contracts with fear. ‘But you won’t,’ she says, attempting to discourage him. ‘It’s a waste of your time. Because I won’t go out with you. Not ever.’

  She locks eyes with Nathan and his eyebrows rise cynically. She tries to think back—did she fob him off one night at a party? Is that why he’s tuned in so attentively, still nursing a bruised ego?

  The sound of George’s breathing rustles down the line. She has silenced him, at least for a moment. Her mind skitters, probing for other ideas to deflect him. ‘Do you still have that skull?’ she asks. ‘You should hand that thing in.’

  ‘Bullshit. That’s the best one in my collection.’ He sounds stung—at least she has managed to get under his skin.

  ‘You could get into serious trouble if you get caught with something like that.’ She presses her slender advantage, hoping to ram home another psychological punch.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he says slowly, and she thinks perhaps she can hear the synapse as his brain clicks in, rumbling like distant thunder. ‘I’ll ring you in a few days,’ he adds. ‘See if you’ve changed your mind.’

  She hangs up the phone and chances a look at Nathan. He’s goggling at her, apparently gob-smacked by her performance.

  One thing’s for sure, she thinks, as she grabs her papers and ducks out the door: Nathan won’t ask her out after eavesdropping on that exchange with George.

  George is tenacious, like a burr on her sock that won’t be brushed off. The pile of his messages on her desk keeps snowballing every time she drops in, and she avoids the office even more than usual, terrified of being there when he calls again. It seems all the other PhD students have spoken to him: Jackson, Emily, Thomas, Beck, Felicity, and Nathan, of course. When she slinks into the office to collect documents or messages from her supervisor, they all look up at her, and a weighty silence falls across the room, as if they expect her to say something. Nervously, she grabs her mail and papers and textbooks, and departs as quickly as she can, dodging their eyes.

  Everywhere she goes, she’s tussling with a persistent niggling sense of anxiety. George could be outside the building waiting for her, watching her. He could follow her home. He could sit in the street outside her landlords’ house and sneak up to the bungalow during the night. She begins to lock her door when she’s sleeping, pulls the curtains when she’s alone inside. She jumps and jitters at every unexpected sound. Possums in the garden at night become George shuffling around at her door. Wind moving in the trees becomes his breath at her window. The thumping of a loose fence paling becomes his footsteps on the path. Her rest fragments. She is twitchy, edgy, uneasy in her own company.

  She thinks constantly of Cameron, how safe she felt with him, his body warm against hers at night. She can’t go back to that, yet her present situation is fraught with worry. She detests the unhappiness of it, this dread and apprehension George has thrust upon her. Even talking to Matt fails to appease her. He offers to come up and smash George’s head in, but Abby knows that isn’t a solution. Plus, she’s sure George’s pig-hunting mates wouldn’t stand by and watch it happen. Violence would only escalate things. And perhaps the whole scenario is an illusion anyway. George hasn’t actually done anything, has he? It’s just her fear that he might.

  She decides she must intercept his next phone call—it’s the only way to end this feeling of being a hostage. She has to get rid of him permanently, threaten him if necessary. It’s the only way. She could ring him herself, of course, but he might misinterpret that as enthusiasm, no matter what words issue from her mouth.

  She deposits herself in the office one day, determined to wait. Other members of the PhD group traipse in and out, and she smiles and chats with them, working hard to conceal the tension that simmers beneath her skin. They linger and drink coffee and do emails and chat on their phones, and Abby is fearful George might ring while the others are there.

  But luck is on her side for once. Just before lunch, everyone disappears to a seminar which Abby ought to be attending too. She waits back, willing the phone to ring, staring out the window, unable to concentrate on her work. In the garden outside, a delicate eastern spinebill is dipping its beak into the narrow red inflorescences of a winter-flowering grevillea. It is a beautiful bird, a lovely russet brown colour with a bib of pure white and a little smudge of brown like a thumb print in the centre of it. Through the window she can hear its piping call when it pauses from sipping nectar to announce its presence to other birds. Then it cocks its head sideways and flutters off into another bush.

  She is trying to find it again among the foliage when the phone rings, and her heart jolts to an instant gallop. This might not be George, she reminds herself. It could be anyone. But she recognises his voice immediately when she answers the phone, and somehow he knows it is her, even though she has only uttered a strangled hello.

  ‘Hey, beautiful. I’ve caught you for once.’

  Caught her in his slimy trap perhaps, she thinks, and it’s just as well he doesn’t know the truth of it, how much agitation and distress his attention has caused her. She suspects he might like the power of it, the ego trip of knowing he has wedged himself into her mind. He wouldn’t care that she dislikes him; he’s confident enough to assume he can change her perception of him. Last night she resolved she must go in hard from the beginning, ensure there is no chance of him misunderstanding her. ‘I don’t want you phoning me anymore,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Why not? Eventually you’ll give in and come out with me. We’ve already had coffee. That was a good start.’

  ‘I will not go out with you ever, George. You have to hear me. Not for coffee, not for dinner, not for anything. I’m not interested.’

  ‘Of course you are. All girls play hard to get. It’s your way of keeping me keen.’

  Abby almost sobs with exasperation. ‘George, if you keep hassling me I’ll have to call the police. I don’t want your phone calls. I don’t want to speak to you again.’

  He grunts, and it seems he might be listening at last.

  ‘And if I have an excuse to call the police about you,’ she says, saving her strongest ammunition till last, ‘then I’ll tell them about the skull. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  He comes over defensive; she can hear it in his tone. ‘You don’t even know where I live.’

  ‘I have your card, George. Two copies. You gave them to me.’

  He’s silent for a moment. ‘All right, then,’ he grumbles. ‘Hint taken.’

  ‘Leave me alone, George. Now just piss off!’ She slams the phone down.

  She realises she’s shaking, threats not being part of her usual repertoire. But George didn’t give her an option. Tears of d
istress slide down her cheeks and she scuffs them away with a tissue.

  The She sits at her desk for a while, eventually noticing the spinebill calling outside the window again. Exhaustion settles over her like a blanket. She picks up her notebook and hurries to the seminar.

  29

  The people outside the doors to the auditorium are dressed in kangaroo suits. There are at least ten of them in furry grey costumes with uneven floppy ears, and they look ridiculous. Abby smiles as she arrives at the venue with her supervisor Quentin. If children were around they’d run away screaming. But her amusement fades when the kangaroos turn en masse and stare as she and Quentin walk across the lawns from the car park.

  She wasn’t going to come to the public meeting, but Quentin insisted it would be good for her, that she should come along to witness the conflict around the kangaroo issue. No need for that, she’d thought at the time. She only needed to read the papers to get the lowdown on public opinion. Now she hesitates as she hears one of the costumed characters shout, ‘There’s that ecologist. Let’s get him. Murderous bastard.’ These are serious demonstrators, and she and Quentin are in the line of fire.

  She turns to leave as the kangaroos stride jerkily towards them bearing placards and clenched fists, but Quentin marches forward to meet them and she’s forced to keep up. The pack of angry bodies closes around them, shouting and jeering. Abby cowers, her heart hammering hard, a quick frightened staccato rhythm. She feels heat as they press close, smells sweat and sour breath, mothballs and muskiness, senses the animal strength of their rage. She’s terrified—who wouldn’t be? Quentin is rattled too. He fends off the placards with one arm, grips Abby round the waist with the other, and elbows his way to the door, breathing fast. The kangaroos hustle around them, firing abuse: Murderers, Butchers. The yells mash together into a cacophony of insults. Abby ducks her head, tries to shut the noise out, cold sweat icing her skin.