by Leanne Hall
Paul notes me on the dancefloor with surprise and then turns his back on us, always the tactful one.
‘I’m sorry I left you alone.’
‘No problem. Paul is cool. We had a nice chat.’
That’s the first time I’ve heard the words ‘Paul’ and ‘cool’ used in the same sentence.
‘What did you two talk about?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He was just carrying on about how The Long Blinks are the best band ever and how you’re going to take over the world.’
Taking over the world sounds more like Thom’s spin, but it’s true that Paul and Thom both see more of a future in the band than I do. If I had to choose which of my friends to leave Wildgirl alone with then Paul’s the obvious choice. Thom can be a nightmare, the way he has to impress everyone who crosses his path. He gets worse the more he’s had to drink. There’s no doubt he was trying to look down Wildgirl’s top earlier.
‘You wanna know the truth?’ I put my hand on the back of her neck, resting my fingers against the bumps of her spine. ‘We suck. I can’t sing in tune, Paul can’t keep time, and Thom can barely play three notes. We’re not taking over anything. It’s something we do to make time pass.’
‘You’re smiling about it, though.’ Wildgirl looks at me from under her snake-green lids. You’d think that confessing how hopeless I am to the girl I’m desperate to impress would make me want to go home and bang my head against the wall, but instead I feel relief. A hot-and-cold rush goes through me.
I howl.
I howl at the roof like a hotted-up bomb doing donuts, full of screeches. I howl like an air-raid siren, my arms stretched out wide. Howls are like songs. They can’t be summoned; they just happen. They come from a place that I barely understand. And then something else climbs to the surface, something black and jagged, something from the deep. Imagine all your worst feelings surfacing. Imagine coughing up razor blades. Imagine not being able to stop the pain from coming out, and not knowing when it’s going to end.
Wildgirl laughs and whoops at the ceiling. She doesn’t hear the razor blades. All around us people are laughing and clapping and punching the air. My throat burns. It always feels like this: pain and relief at the same time.
I pull Wildgirl into me to cover the shakiness I suddenly feel, and the fact that I might cry.
‘This is why you don’t leave, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘This! Little Death, the people here, it’s cool. I can see why you don’t leave Shyness, go and live somewhere else.’
‘I crossed into Panwood during the day last summer.’ I don’t want her to look at me so I keep my mouth by her ear. ‘And I thought I was going to melt, the light was so bright.’
The real reasons why I don’t leave Shyness, why I’m stuck here, why I can’t leave, are so many I wouldn’t know where to start. Do I even know myself? I rest my cheek against Wildgirl’s hair, and then, over her shoulder, I see something that makes me bite down so hard I taste blood on my lip.
The Elf stands on the other side of the dancefloor, his eyes cutting a direct path through the crowd. I stare back for several seconds before I accept that he’s really here. What more does he want from me? I look up at the ceiling and down by our feet. Someone once told me that Little Death has an electric roof to stop the tarsier from coming down here, but it doesn’t hurt to check. There aren’t any other Kidds on the dancefloor, but I pull Wild-girl away regardless. Every instinct tells me to put some space between the Elf and me. Don’t think. Just move.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Kidds,’ I tell her. Her eyebrows shoot up. She tries to see over the crowd.
‘Where? Are they the same ones?’
I keep her moving. ‘It’s the Elf.’
‘How did he get in here? Isn’t he too young?’
‘There’s probably a back way. Come on, let’s go.’
Thom is talking to a girl on the fringe of the pit but I drop my head and keep moving. Rick Markov is still sitting at the booth, surrounded by his posse and a table full of empties. On this side of the room there’s a short tunnel with rooms leading off both sides. I glance back to see if the Elf is following, but his blond hair is still visible on the dancefloor. Has he been tailing us all this time, or did someone tip him off?
We turn left at the end of the tunnel. At the next door I brush aside the curtain to let Wildgirl through. A wisp of smoke escapes.
‘Welcome to Dreamland. No one will bother us here.’ The smoke machine is turned on high and lasers swoop through the mist. Even with my enhanced eyesight it’s hard to see straight. A place of illusions, just the way Dreamers like it, and a good place to hide. There’s a band in here somewhere, playing low, tripped-out jams with swirling guitar. Dreamer-rock isn’t loud enough or angry enough for me, but I don’t mind listening to it sometimes. I lead Wildgirl across the room.
There’s a free couch in the mist, tucked next to a pillar. We sit and Wildgirl watches everyone with an entranced look on her face. I’ve noticed she has this ability to soak up everything around her like nothing else exists.
A guy sitting on the floor near us can’t stop his chin sinking to his chest, and his girlfriend has already gone foetal next to him. Beyond them, a group dance, straight-armed and straight-legged, like a film being played at the wrong speed. Behind the dancers there’s the silver glint of a drum kit, and a bar in the far corner. The barman leans against the wall, arms crossed, bored out of his brain. Dreamers don’t drink much.
‘Land of Nod,’ Wildgirl whispers.
‘Little Death is different. You get everyone here— dreamers, ghostniks, necroheads—everyone. It’s not segregated like other places.’
Wildgirl relaxes into the couch. I slump as well, looking back at her. I force my fists to unclench. Our faces are only centimetres apart. Everything stops around us, and it’s us two, alone in the room, cocooned by the smoke.
‘Even your sort?’
My sort.
‘Not really. I’ve seen a few people in Shyness who look like me, but they’re all less…changed than I am.’
Wildgirl traps my hand between hers. She pushes her fingers through the thick hair on the back of my hand.
‘When I first saw you,’ she says, ‘I knew you wouldn’t be like anyone I’ve ever met.’
‘I didn’t choose this. Not like the Dreamers. They’ve chosen who they are.’
And they could return to who they used to be if they wanted to. I don’t think there’s any way I can go back from here.
‘I look the way I do. And I act differently, without knowing why. I howl and my senses are sharper than ever. I’m never cold and I can open beer bottles with my teeth.’ That last one really impresses Thom. He often wheels me out at parties to show people.
‘When did it happen?’
‘Slowly. Like the Darkness.’
I don’t feel different on the inside. Or if I do it’s hard to tell—everything is so complicated around here that I have no idea who I would be in a normal place with normal people.
‘You haven’t told me everything yet. Not nearly.’
Wildgirl looks amazing in this light, bronzed and otherworldly.
‘It would take all night,’ I say.
‘We have all night.’
I can’t argue with that. For some reason I find it easier to talk to Wildgirl than other people. I look down at our hands. I’m finally getting the idea that she’s interested in me more than Shyness. She’s more than I deserve.
‘You do look different. You are different.’ Wildgirl speaks as if she’s thinking her ideas through as she’s going.
‘I think we like the attention our looks get us. But we also hate it.’
Maybe. Looking different sets me apart and that’s both good and bad. Good for getting free drinks. Bad for feeling like anyone understands what I’m going through.
‘I want people to look at me,’ she continues. ‘I mean, I dress in a way that makes them look at
me, but then when they actually do, I hate them for it. Is that crazy?’
A little bit. ‘Does that mean you hate me?’
‘Huh?’
‘Because I’ve been looking at you for hours.’
She laughs then, and gives me a playful slap on the arm. The imprint of her fingers burns before fading.
‘I think it’s fine to use your looks, but you have to have other things you can rely on as well. My mum still doesn’t think anyone would be interested in her for any other reason. And—’
The irony is, I’m looking at Wildgirl and all I want to do is touch her soft cheeks and raven hair.
‘—and so that’s why I’ve decided to get my forklift licence.’
The look on my face must be priceless because Wildgirl laughs and slaps her thighs. I find myself laughing as well. I wonder if they put something in the smoke here because I’m half gone. Wildgirl taps my arm.
‘Did you tell Thom and Paul?’
‘Tell them what?’
‘That I’m joining the band with my awesome rock-ukulele licks?’
I can’t believe how funny she is. I’ve hit the jackpot here. If I was a different person, if my life was less complicated, if I had more to offer her than just sadness, if I didn’t feel so tired from the weight of the entire world pressing down on me, then this would be the moment I would try to kiss her.
14
I’m pretty sure we’re having a moment, when Wolfboy pulls right away from me, sits up straight and asks, ‘Do you want another drink?’
I try not to look disappointed. Clearly my radar is not operating properly with all the Dreamer smoke and the waa-waa music. I could have sworn one of us was about to lean in that extra few centimetres. ‘Sure.’ I dig into my pocket for the gold card. ‘Let’s abuse the plastic again.’
‘What do you want?’
Even in this light the card gleams with promise. I’m going to cover so many kilometres with the help of this baby. ‘Whatever you’re having. I still can’t believe they didn’t find this. We got off so lightly.’
Wolfboy frowns. ‘Not so lightly.’
‘What do you mean?’
Wolfboy shrugs and stares at the Dreamers marching on the spot. Someone really needs to teach these people how to loosen up.
‘They took my lighter. Got into my pocket without me noticing.’
‘That’s crazy. They didn’t go anywhere near you.’
At least I don’t think they did. The attack is a blur now. Anything could have happened while that tarsier was groping me. I remember Wolfboy helping Sebastien light his stupid candelabra at the bowling alley. He had a lighter then.
‘Did you leave it at the black market?’
‘No. I definitely had it in my pocket when the Kidds rolled us. And now I don’t.’
He seems annoyed, but he hasn’t had a cigarette all night, at least not in front of me. It already seems impossible that I was making him laugh a minute ago. Maybe I’m being too funny. Maybe he thinks I’m a clown. Clowns aren’t sexy.
‘A nice lighter or a crappy one?’
‘A nice one. Silver. Engraved.’
‘Did they take anything else?’
‘No. That was it.’
At least they didn’t get his wallet or phone.
‘I haven’t seen you smoke at all tonight.’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Why do you have a lighter then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just something I carry around. It’s my brother’s.’
I sit upright, and slap him on the knee repeatedly until he turns around to face me.
‘And you’re only telling me this now? Why did we walk away from the Elf? Let’s go ask for it back!’
‘Chill out. It’s just a lighter.’
Wolfboy might have convinced me that he doesn’t care, if I didn’t know about his brother, and if I didn’t see that his eyes are flat and dead now when he speaks.
‘It’s NOT—’ I have to be careful here. I’m not supposed to know about Gram, and what Wolfboy really meant when he said not so lightly. ‘It’s not just a lighter; it’s the principle of it.’
‘You sound like my dad.’
‘I think we should try to get it back.’
‘We don’t even know for sure it’s the Kidds.’ Wolfboy avoids my eyes. He knows as well as I do who’s responsible. ‘Yes, we do. And what’s more, we know which ones. Aren’t you furious?’
I give up on staying calm. I hope Wolfboy knows that I’m not angry at him. But I can tell by the way he scowls that he doesn’t know this, not really.
‘We’re going after them.’
‘No way.’
I have to make him see things my way, but I realise that I’ve got more chance of convincing him if I go easy. I force my voice down. ‘You can’t let people walk all over you; sometimes you’ve got to fight back.’
‘It’s just a lighter,’ he says again.
Yeah, it’s just a lighter, like, oh, that was just a photo. But I let him have that one. If he doesn’t want to tell me about Gram then I won’t force him. But it’s my duty to stop him from being a doormat. I can see him shutting down right in front of my eyes, locking doors and pulling across curtains to keep me out of his business, but I won’t let him.
‘Let’s not live like we’re scared. It’s such a waste to be scared.’
‘You don’t know what you’re getting into.’
‘I’m going after them with or without you, so make up your mind.’
I pick up my bag and ukulele and push myself off the couch. But I’ve lost the exit in the dreamy mist and I take only a few confused steps before I stop. He might not want to kiss me, but I know for sure he doesn’t want me wandering around Shyness on my own.
‘Wait.’
His hand is on my shoulder. He doesn’t see the smile spread across my face. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t followed me. When I have my face under control I turn around. Wolfboy looks genuinely worried, in a way that I don’t understand. I can’t believe he’s that scared of the Kidds.
‘We’ll live to regret this, you know that?’ he says.
He’s wrong. What I’d regret is not taking back a little control. I drag him out of the Land of Nod before he has a chance to change his mind.
Little Death is even more crowded than earlier. We fight against the tide of bodies in the narrow tunnel. I clutch Wolfboy’s hand, trying to keep close, but he only grips my fingers for a few seconds before letting them go. He takes us to the steps in front of the bar and we look out onto the dancefloor. The Elf’s fake blond head isn’t among the dancers. We check every dark corner of every room in the club. Paul is gone. Thom is gone. Rick Markov is gone. And the Elf is nowhere to be seen.
Wolfboy’s house is a two-storey cream building in what clearly used to be a nice area. The houses are all sprawling mansions on large blocks, their former luxury still visible through disrepair and grime. Double garages. Satellite dishes. Lap pools. I was expecting a warehouse squat, or a depressing bedsit, or maybe even just a sleeping bag under a bridge. Those ideas seem stupid now.
Wolfboy looks out of place on his own doorstep as he fumbles with his keys and waves me stiffly into the house. I feel a tickle of apprehension deep in my stomach as I squeeze past him. My mother always told me not to go back to a wolf’s lair. Oh hang on, that was a strange man’s house, wasn’t it? Either way, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t approve.
The ground floor of the house is dark and quiet and empty. A long hallway runs through the middle, with rooms leading off either side. Wolfboy shows me in to the front room and lights an old-fashioned kerosene lamp. The room is spacious, with polished floorboards, lemon walls and heavy velvet curtains. Sheets are draped over some furniture in the far corner, and there are faded rectangles on the walls where paintings or photos must have once hung. Everything is deathly still; even the dust motes seem to hang in midair.
‘I’ll get us something to drink.’ Wolfboy da
wdles at the doorway as if he has more to add, but then he leaves. I look around the room, trawling for details. There’s not much to go on. No knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, no magazines on the coffee table, no cushions on the couch, but it’s still obvious this used to be a family home.
I can hear Wolfboy opening and closing cupboards in what must be the kitchen, towards the rear of the house. He’s talking to himself, or singing.
I circle the room, brushing my hands over the couch, and the smooth walls and the curtains, until I come to the ghost furniture. I lift one dusty corner of a sheet. There’s a fancy cabinet underneath, made of polished wood with glass doors and brass handles. It’s beautiful. I’d love to have things like this around me every day. Our furniture is St Vinnies all the way. On the top of the cabinet there’s a crystal bowl full of shrivelled-up flowers, a pair of silver tongs, and a photo frame turned facedown.
I pick up the photo and bring it into the poor light. Three people pose under a large tree—a couple in their early fifties, leaning into each other, and, standing apart from them, a guy in his mid teens with crossed arms. At first I think it’s Wolfboy—a younger, cleaner-cut version— but then I see a fourth person, a little boy perched in the tree. That’s Wolfboy: freckly and impish and thoroughly adorable. The teenager is Gram. It was an easy mistake though; when I look closely at Gram there are shades of Wolfboy in his eyes, and in the tense way he holds himself. It’s obvious now the photo is old: Wolfboy’s mum wears a dated dress with puffy sleeves. Gram doesn’t want to be there. His mum looks across at him, her expression anxious, but the older man stares straight ahead.
I hear Wolfboy in the hallway. I put the photo back, drop the sheet and race to the couch. Wolfboy brings a tray in and sits next to me. His hair has suspiciously neatened itself while he was in the kitchen. I wipe my dusty fingers clean on the couch.
‘I don’t know how you take it.’ Wolfboy pours thick brown liquid into miniature coffee cups. ‘I’m hoping it’s black, because I don’t have any milk or sugar.’
