‘A concern I think your counsellor would share.’
I looked up. ‘So she thinks I’m OK to go off Youth-Tell, but you don’t, is that it?’ I meant that to be deadpan, but it came out all spiky with resentment.
My dad gave me the listen-to-what-you-just-said look, and went on stirring the rice.
‘Why don’t you do that in the microwave, like Mum used to?’ I said. I took great care with my tone. ‘Then you wouldn’t have to stand and stir.’
‘I like to stand and stir. It’s good, soothing stuff after a day’s work. And you know me and handmade stuff – hey, if it wasn’t so hot, I’d stir it with my hand.’ He added some stock and gave me the smile he uses when he’s self-conscious.
Something about that nearly made me crack: the picture of my dad plunging his hand into the boiling pot to make my dinner. With my snappish voice still echoing between us, suddenly it was kind of unbearable.
Youth-Tell teach you how to spot untold story. When you find your mind shying away from things, when your eyes skid off faces and you bite back thoughts as unsayable, when you least feel like talking, when just the idea of it exhausts you – that’s when you should most talk, before habits establish themselves, before the stories turn into secrets and start stacking up. As they do, under your waistband, under your chin.
‘Something is wrong,’ I said – not because the Story Board said I should say it, but because of the smile and the stirring. ‘I don’t know what it is, though. But when I do, I’ll tell you.’
He stirred as if the rhythm was keeping him calm. ‘Maybe we could talk around it. Is it to do with getting off the programme?’
‘No, I don’t think it is. I don’t know, Dad. Let me think about it.’
‘Think all you want, son.’ Stir and stir. ‘Just don’t forget to say, a little every day.’ That was one of Youth-Tell’s cheesy slogans, murmured into the risotto pot there.
‘I will, Dad,’ I said. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’
Saturday I spent mostly in bed. I woke up, did the pinch test, turned over and hid myself in sleep. Around noon I got up and pulled on a tracksuit that was old and soft, from last winter when I still chose fat clothes, not believing I’d ever not need them. Hey, I was right, right?
Dad was in his office, catching up on some work. I went and leaned in the doorway, and he turned around. The sight of the tracksuit checked him a little, but he covered that quickly.
‘Hey-ho,’ he said. ‘Out of hibernation? Ready to do the weekend thang?’
‘I thought I was already doing it.’
He didn’t laugh. He was peering at me, moving his head around. ‘You look a little puffy around the face, Ev,’ he said. ‘You coming down with something? Is that why you slept in so long?’
‘It could be, I guess.’ I passed a hand along my jaw. ‘Yeah, I feel a bit achey in the joints. A bit fluey, maybe.’
‘Hot lemon and garlic drink?’ he said, brightening.
‘You’re the primary caregiver,’ I said, just to see him spring out of his seat and make for the kitchen. Just to stop him looking at me.
I kept him going all afternoon. I suggested some big housekeeping, and helped him with it, vacuuming and tidying and hauling bed-linen and floor-mats out to the wash. I emptied the big shelves in the kitchen and wiped them down, and wiped down all the jars and stuff and put them back, and got out the Kleen and shined up the silver frames of the Mum-photos. Yeah, I remember you doing this, Mum. Always being on the move, too busy to properly talk.
We were still going that night when the phone rang. ‘I’ll get it!’ I called out, the obliging son.
‘It’ll be Denny,’ Dad called from the bathroom, where he was transforming the basin into a thing of beauty. ‘Tell him the tennis booking’s moved to Tuesday. That’s all he’ll want—’
‘Is that you, Rock?’ said an anxious girl-voice on the line.
‘Chump? It’s only Chump!’ I called out to Dad, who was still shouting instructions. ‘Hi, how is it?’ I said to Chump.
‘It’s … funny.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Right. Funny.’ Why don’t you tell me about it? I said it in my head, but it didn’t come out my mouth. I put the backs of my fingertips up under my softening chin. ‘So.’
‘It was go-kart day today, remember?’ It sounded as if she was having trouble getting her words out, too.
‘Hm? How’d that go?’ I sounded bland and bored. My hand moved down and along my waist.
‘It went … well, there was … this horrible thing happened—’ And then I heard some funny breathing, little puffs and gasps.
‘Chump?’ I said, in hardly a voice.
‘Oh God, can I see you, Rock?’ she said, loud and ragged in my ear. ‘Can you meet me midway?’
‘Sure, but …’ But I was all over sweat and house-dust and Kleen. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘Make ’em quick ones, OK? I’m cracking.’ And the connection clicked off.
‘What’s with you?’ said Dad. I’d leaped into the shower and was lathering up fast.
‘Meeting Chump.’
‘Yeah?’ He waited for more.
‘Yeah.’ I got busy rinsing.
I put on not-too-tight jeans, a stretchy old T-shirt and an open jacket. ‘See you whenever!’ I called, going out the door.
The night air was cold in my damp hair, refrigerational down my front. I zipped up the jacket and strode. It wasn’t far. I only had to round one bend and there was Chump a little way along under the streetlight, standing slightly hunched in her red-ochre dustcoat and the Chicken’s Ears.
I made a voice-noise when I was in hearing distance. She saw me and took one sagging step my way. I went up to her and stood. She was all strange. She didn’t bounce or jitter.
‘What is it, Antoinette Louise?’ I’d never seen her like this. My spine was a hollow pipe filling with cold water.
‘A girl lost her hair,’ she said in a fragile voice.
What – this is all about the haircut?
‘And part of her head,’ said Chump, looking up at me. Streetlight crept in the fuzzed felt of her hat. It spilled over to her eyes, slumped on the tears there.
‘How?’ I said. ‘What?’
‘At the go-kart track. Her hair got caught in the wheel. It was really long. We’d only just got there. It ripped away, roots and – and skin and all. I saw it—’ The tears broke, and she jerked her face aside.
I slid the hat off her head. ‘But it wasn’t yours.’ Her hair lay flattened there. I pushed my fingers through the top of it to give it some air.
She stood like a long-suffering dog, staring at her own thoughts. ‘But Bri and the others … We’d just come all that way, and they weren’t going to let it stop them. You know, having a fun time?’
I nodded, rolling her hat in my hands to rub off the smooth, slippy feeling of her hair, the heat of her solid head.
‘So there’s blood all over the place, and these guys trying, really carefully, to get the … the sca … the scalp off the ax … axle …’
I’d never seen Chump cry before. I felt sick; I was all gooseflesh. She stood, hands in pockets, and sobs came out of her as white puffs of air.
I remembered being little, and Dad sitting crying on the couch after Mum went. I hadn’t been sad myself; I’d just wanted Dad to feel better, to be properly with me. I remembered the clean, serene feeling of knowing exactly what to do, and I did now what I’d done then. At least my arms were long enough now – they went right the way around Chump.
She sobbed into my shoulder, shaking. My left ear was half-frozen; my right ear was warm against her hair.
She recovered a little, dug her chin into my shoulder to talk. ‘And Bri’s sitting in a go-kart, tapping his finger on the wheel. “Someone get me going here? Come on, Antoinette, give me a push-off?” Like it’s a big joke, with this girl moaning, and everyone—’ She buried her face in my chest and started shaking again.
‘It’s gross,’ I whispered
. ‘That’s gross behaviour.’
She nodded emphatically into my neck. ‘Terrible people!’ she squawked. ‘And I knew it! Why’d I go? Why’d I ever say yes?’
She pulled herself back from me. The cold air leaked down between us. I was mindless; all I wanted to do was pull her close again. ‘What did you do today,’ she asked fiercely, tear-smear all around her eyes, ‘you and your dad?’
‘I slept in. He worked. We were cleaning up the house when you called. We didn’t do anything.’
‘You see, I would rather have done that kind of nothing.’ She sniffed hard, and shook me a little to convince me.
‘I would’ve rather you would’ve, too— I mean, I’d have liked you to’ve—’
Her lifted face stopped me, my old mate Chump, but too close for mateship. Close enough for me to see the wet spears of her eyelashes, the way her pupils shrank and then opened as she read my face. Close enough to make me dizzy. ‘I wish you had, too,’ I managed.
‘Do you really, Rockhead?’ She had her own voice back now, straight and clear and low.
‘I really do.’ My voice was gone, but I was getting words out. ‘Fact,’ I whispered, ‘you can come home and sort out my laundry now, if you want.’
She spluttered a laugh. ‘In a minute,’ she said. ‘In a few minutes, maybe.’ And she slid her cheek onto mine and held me tightly.
I swear, as I stood there wrapped around Chump, I could feel those Story Bugs at work, plucking up fat-marbles and stowing them in their sacks, busy-busy, the merest tickle under my chin and around my waist. I could see, by the streetlight, that cleaned blood streaming lean and rich and red through my eyelids; I could feel, just behind my lips – my lips on Chump’s warm head, tickled by Chump’s hair – unspoken story swarming on my tongue, getting itself ready to be told.
THE
QUEEN’S
NOTICE
He hurried ahead to the queen-chamber, his jaws aching from the fight. The colony was still reeling from the attack; cousins boiled past and over him with only a quick trace, a chirp or a slight hiss. But he had mission and message; they gave way to his shoving, even those larger than he.
The chamber’s air was steamy with young. Servers ran about, collecting the ripe young-beads for the compost-chamber. The queen gnawed fresh sweetbulb as the young fought and fixed themselves to her teats. The scent here was absolutely true; it cleared his head of anything but loyalty, and he abased himself. The queen lifted her face from the bulb and sniffed, and gave a trill.
He was dazzled for a moment – then his fellow-fighters jostled from behind, and he remembered his mission. ‘It was the sun-start mob,’ he panted. ‘They came in several ways at once.’
‘Dybbol,’ came her slow voice. ‘I know you.’
‘They are gone, sweet queen. You and the young are safe. We blocked all five tunnels that way, and none penetrated.’
‘That red-snake last summer. You were the one, weren’t you, who turned that back?’
‘Among others. We always serve our queen. We always keep the colony.’
‘Ha,’ she said, and there was more gnawing.
Hunger surfaced in Dybbol’s stomach, now that he was no longer saviour. Behind him, some fellow’s insides gave a muffled skirl. They were ready to leave.
But the great queen stirred. The young protested, falling off and lolling on the chamber floor. ‘Come here, Dybbol,’ she said. ‘I am all weighed down by our future.’
He pushed the sweetbulb aside and there was her face, warm and curious, her smell piercing his skull like incisors of pure sunlight. Confused, he abased himself and retreated.
Behind him, servers and fighters were twittering. ‘Stop your gabble!’ the queen shrieked at them, rearing up. ‘Bring me food! Attend me, and fast! Come here, Quinnink – I will bat your eyes out for uselessness!’
With his fellow fighters, Dybbol forced a way through the dithering servers. Out in the passage, other smells reached them – pantry was best, and they followed that upward. Hard fighting always made them hungry.
At their head, Dybbol met Amkarra, and made ready to lock teeth with her as always.
But she gave no fight. ‘Hunh?’ he said. ‘Why do you back and abase yourself?’ He pursued her down a side-tunnel. Behind him his fellows flowed on towards pantry.
‘I serve Her-Madam. I keep the colony,’ Amkarra muttered.
‘Lock with me! Give me your teeth!’
But she put down her face and would not engage.
‘Come at me!’ He batted her stupid head.
She muttered into her paws.
‘Tell me, then – why be abased?’
‘You have Queen’s Notice all over you,’ she said, and backed further, and somehow turned herself in the narrow space, and fled.
It was true, he did smell, strongly and cleanly of deep earth and queen-favour. His mind was beginning to fill with other things, as a quick-tunnel trickles full of loose earth, but he still had the queen’s scent in all his skin-folds, creeping in his mouth-hairs, raw and clear, warm and sweet.
But pantry called, and company, and he went to answer both.
* * *
He could not find a good fight. Whenever he closed his jaws on someone, they only lay limp. If he took hold and dragged, no one braced or threw their weight. No one would lock teeth and rock with him; no one would bat him back.
So when the beak-snake came, he heard it a long way off; he raised his head before anyone, and was the first one up the best tunnel and blocking. Dig and dig and dig – he sprayed the hard, smooth snout of the thing with earth as it came on. It bumped against the blocking mound, and he felt a flicker of its tongue as he closed the passage, closed out light and snake. He was all fervour and favour, nose to nose with the queen’s enemy; he scraped and tamped, while the others hung back and trilled.
‘I must save us alone?’ he grunted.
Amkarra came forward, and could not stop abasing herself. ‘A true scent breathes from you,’ she said. ‘You have become too beautiful to fight beside.’
‘Bah. Go and report, then.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, and the others twittered, too. ‘Her-Madam will want you.’
He knew that. It was new, but it was true. He hurried away, trailing the clean, strange smell of his own bravery.
The young were days livelier, beginning to speak and close their jaws on each other. The queen lay almost as if dead, weak from their constant feeding. Beside her lay a bulb so fresh that Dybbol went straight up and secured a bite of it before he reported.
‘Ah. You. Bold one,’ murmured the queen. ‘What do you bring me?’
‘Another victory, queen below us all, heart of all our hearts.’ It was his gullet speaking, so grateful for food after fighting.
‘Against what?’
‘Snake, coming from sun-end as they all do, hot with light and hunger.’
‘And the size of it?’
‘Bigger than any before, Your-Madam. Stronger than twelve cousins. Only speed saved us.’
The queen gave a purring sigh and raised her head. ‘Your speed, Dybbol?’
‘Among others, all our queen.’ Dybbol made to leave.
‘Linger!’ cried the queen. Her breath flew at him, cleansing him of hunger and care, and he was there before her, their muzzles touching, her scent locked bright in his head. Deeper in the chamber her immenseness moved against the spilling pile of young. He knew what to do, knew even though it was new: he must go to the far end of her great spine-arch. A scent was coming from her there, that spiralled higher and sweeter in Dybbol’s head than any other ever, a scent that beckoned, that dragged him from her muzzle—
Sharp teeth caught in his haunch and flung him against the wall, knocking all scent from his nose. Servers ran anxiously about; young cheeped and squirmed.
The queen shifted. ‘Now is not yet the time,’ she breathed.
‘The time?’ He tried to shake his head clear.
‘When these Two-Dozen disper
se,’ she said, ‘that will be your time.’ And she pulled the bulb towards her and was gnawing.
He hurried away, dizzy with favour. Near the pantry, he met Barraud, one of the queen’s two paramours. Dybbol did not give way as he should; instead, he reared and gaped, roughing the air in his mouth-hairs. Here at last would be a fight! Oh, and he was ready – he was unafraid even of a paramour today! He hissed and went forward—
—and met nothing. He fell to his paws. Barraud was gone off-side, two tunnels along.
‘Aargh! Face me! Come at me!’
‘I will not,’ came Barraud’s trilling. ‘You are all over favoured and must save yourself for Her Immensity!’
‘I am not so favoured,’ cried Dybbol, pursuing. ‘Come, I must put my teeth in something!’
‘Not me!’ Barraud sped ahead, threading through tunnels, forcing cousins aside. ‘I will not fight a favoured one!’ came back faintly.
Dybbol began to lose him to the weaving tunnels, to the earth – and to a strong scent of alarm, souring the tunnel-mouths to one side. He veered that way, the scents showing place and activity and size-of-danger on the colony-map in his head – in two places. Two different dangers. He made, fast, for the digging danger, which was farther but greater. A snake would only take one fighter, then would leave; a digger might want several, might dig deep, might uncover the colony’s heart.
‘We serve,’ he panted, turning into the dangerous tunnel. ‘We serve our queen. We keep our colony.’
The tunnel was loud with flung earth and the snouting and clawing of the danger. Others were there, behind those doing the blocking. ‘Let me by! Let me help save Her!’ cried Dybbol. But cousins braced themselves there, several clotting the tunnel. ‘Let me through! Make way!’
‘We may not,’ they said. ‘Sniff yourself, man – smell how favoured you are now! Save yourself; we have plenty of warriors.’
‘Myself? But we must save the queen!’
‘We have plenty of brave. Run along and eat, and save up your strength.’
Dybbol turned back. His whole body swam with energy against the danger; his teeth ached to lock, his jaws to dig hard earth. He went to pantry and found a good rock-root, the biggest there and the hardest. He wrenched it out of the pile, and the pantry-wardens let him pass with it, making no murmur.
White Time Page 6
