In the Clearing

by J. P. Pomare

  When I climb out of the water, I reach for my underwear and pull it on without drying myself.

  I run back to the house, my heart knocking, but it settles when I see Billy at his easel. I watch for a moment without disturbing him, pulling my clothes back on.

  As I climb the back steps, Billy turns. He comes to the door to let me in. Then his mouth shifts, his eyes widen. He raises one finger and points behind me.

  My pulse racing, I turn to see a man striding across the lawn. I quickly swing about, my arms coming up in defence. I am casting about for a weapon when I recognise the dark face beneath the Akubra.

  ‘Hey, Karate Kid!’ he calls.

  I let out my breath. ‘Derek,’ I say. Billy unlocks the door behind me. The adrenaline is fading. ‘You gave me a fright.’ You silly old perv.

  ‘You’re alright. Just checking in. You sounded a bit shaken up on the phone.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘Just these people that were at the river and then finding my gate open. It creeps me out to think that someone was on my land.’

  ‘That’s fair enough.’ He scratches his right cheek. He has a jawless face, everything softening in old age, and he’s wearing gardening gloves. ‘I mean when you say on your land — ’

  ‘They were trespassing.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be leaving gates open.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be on my property regardless of what they do with the gate.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’

  My voice sounds harsh to my own ears. I smile, wanting him to leave but not wanting to show it. I keep up the good hospitable neighbour act. ‘Have you eaten? I’ve got a frittata in the oven.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘Frittata sounds great.’

  Shit, I think, as I widen my smile. ‘Come on in then.’

  Inside, Derek scrubs Billy’s head with his palm and crosses to the table, taking a seat. ‘Hot out, isn’t it?’

  AMY

  MY SKETCHING CLASS takes place outside of regular learning hours. Jermaine Boethe is a famous artist, Adrienne told me. He has exhibitions. While the others are in the Burrow, I am in the classroom with my charcoal pencils and a sheet of paper. Jermaine closes the door behind us. This has been a regular class for me once a week and we have been working on sketches of humans and animals. He is always ready with a compliment, both for me and for Adrienne. He says things like: Your mother is doing wonderful, amazing, incredible things in the world. She is controlling everything.

  I can hear the cicadas outside and the moths at the windows as Jermaine says, ‘I have a very special project for you today.’

  He places a chair behind the door, the seat back beneath the doorhandle. I watch him walk towards me, his pot belly pressing against his shirt.

  ‘I cannot bring a model down to the Clearing, but it is an important part of the artist’s development to understand the human body and to draw it.’

  He loosens the buttons of his shirt, one at a time. Black hair runs down his chest, thicker at his belly button, circling it like a blocked drain. He breathes in so his chest rises, then he lets his shirt slip from his body. He unbuttons his pants. They drop to his feet. Finally, he peels off his socks. I’m struck by the shape of him – I had only seen the naked bodies of boys, all bones and skin drawn tight. Jermaine Boethe is different. The roll of skin hanging down over his penis, the curls of black hair everywhere.

  ‘Okay, Amy?’

  I nod.

  ‘Begin.’

  I dip my head. I don’t know where to look, but it is hard to turn away. He sits over the edge of the desk. Then I see his hand slide across the top of his thigh to hold his penis.

  ‘Keep sketching.’

  His breathing is ragged and hoarse. I imagine his throat all phlegmy and half closed.

  I can’t believe that this great artist is doing this, I wonder if he has done this for other students? This must be part of the process.

  I take the pencil, glancing up at him, then back down. When I sketch, I am also imagining the scene before me. It’s not enough to refer back to it; there is a gap between when my eyes look away from the subject and my pencil moves across the page. I keep imagining him, building the image in my brain so I barely have to look up at all.

  I fill the page with his shape first, just like he had showed me. Arms, legs, torso, head. They all begin as elongated circles, prisms. I begin to form the contours of his arms and legs, his fat knees and hanging ankles while he pulls away at himself.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, like this is a normal class. ‘Good girl, keep going.’

  I take a finer pencil and fill in the details: his eyes, the stubble, the black curls that are scrubby at the shoulders but thicken at the chest, and up his thighs. Then I draw his penis, the grip he has on it.

  He slows his movement, and pulls his clothes back on quickly, so quickly I can’t even finish the sketch. He takes the piece of paper on which I am drawing and shoves it into his pocket.

  Normally my sketches remain in the classroom, in the drawer with the rest of my schoolwork. I feel a pang of frustration in my chest, it seems so silly.

  ‘I’ll hold on to this,’ he says. ‘Let’s keep this lesson between us. You’re not much of a talker anyway, are you?’

  He leaves the room, leaving me sitting there. I look down at my blank sketchpad. I had pressed so hard that the outline of my drawing has gone through to the next page.

  The lesson is over, I can go to bed. But I don’t.

  Instead I take up the pencil and begin the sketch again, following the outline at first and then filling in the details from memory. This time, the drawing is even better, the thighs more proportionate, the eyes gazing towards me instead of looking down. I sign my name at the bottom like a real artist, like Jermaine Boethe would, and place the sheet of paper with the rest of my artwork in my school drawer. I stack my desk away and pack up my pencils, my mind still whirling with what had just happened.

  I had seen my brothers and sisters without clothes on. And, of course, Adrienne. But I had never seen a man like Jermaine Boethe. It is interesting, and now I have all these deviant thoughts. I have a secret – and we’re not supposed to keep secrets.

  PART TWO

  THIS IS HOW IT ENDS

  So the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; then He took one of his ribs and closed up the flesh at that place.

  Genesis 2:21

  POLICE LAUNCH HUNT FOR MISSING SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL SARA MCFETRIDGE, LAST SEEN ON JACKSON ROAD AT 3:19 PM YESTERDAY

  Victoria Police has launched an urgent search for a child who vanished yesterday afternoon near her home south of Nimbi Flat.

  Sara McFetridge was dropped off at the corner of Jackson and Moonah roads, and was later reported missing by her grandfather at 4:22 pm.

  Sara has blonde hair and blue eyes. Officers say she was wearing a pink t-shirt, a yellow dress and a pink backpack, which is also missing.

  Search and rescue teams, along with local volunteers, have been deployed in the surrounding paddocks, and police are calling on members of the public to come forward with any information.

  Senior Sergeant Jared Grant said: ‘Sara’s disappearance is completely out of character and we are all concerned for her welfare.

  ‘It’s snake season out here, and it’s not safe for a little girl to be wandering around alone in this heat.

  ‘We haven’t ruled out abduction, but our first priority is to canvass the surrounding areas to see if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary.’

  FREYA

  Three days to go

  HAVING A TRAINED guard dog is a little like having a sixty-kilogram toddler that can crush a human forearm on command. Rocky was trained almost a decade ago now; he’s getting older, but he still listens and still knows to respond when a command is given.

  Now he is howling, a long winding groan between barks. I reach for my phone, shine the light into the room and climb from my bed. I try to chase the fear from my
mind with logic. It’s just a possum or something outside bothering him.

  It was Corazzo who arranged for Rocky to be trained. He knew a guy. I was shown how to control him, taught what visitors should do when they enter the house. Rocky was trained to be a house alarm and a defender without losing his affectionate side. A house alarm with something of a hair trigger, I should add. When he came back from training he had a new vocabulary. Not only did he know food, walk and sit, but search, release, lay, attack, stop, stay. Most commands come with a hand gesture. The only humans on the planet this big idiot dog knows to trust are me and Billy. I suppose he is used to Derek by now, too.

  When I reach the lounge, I hit the lights and squint against the sudden brightness. I thought the light would help with my fear, but it somehow makes me more afraid. Rocky’s low growl continues, growing more certain now that I’m in the room. I wouldn’t normally bother checking the yard, assuming it was a possum, but after today I decide to have a look.

  ‘Quiet, before you wake the child up.’ The child. The child has a name. Billy’s room is at one end of the house, through the dining room and lounge. I quickly open his door a fraction and check in on him. Still asleep. I go back to the lounge and the back door opening out into the yard.

  I know if I open the back door, if I raise my palm and utter the word search, Rocky will be out there as quick as a shot. Rocky is brave, but blind bravery comes from ignorance of the real threat. My heart is still slamming in my chest and I can barely see outside. The windows only reflect me back to myself. Dark shadows around my eyes, my cheeks drawn and anaemic – you’re a ghost.

  I reach for the switch to the outdoor light and turn it on. The yard is illuminated. I exhale. What was I expecting? I thumb the knot in my chest, imagining wide eyes staring back at me from somewhere down at the tree line that fringes the river. A lone moth is already caught in the gravitational pull of the light.

  This house is so much glass, so many windows. A perk of the sixties architecture, according to the real estate agent. It’s as good an alarm clock as I have ever had. Without curtains for every window, light fills the house, making it impossible to sleep past sunrise. The roller shutters installed on the exterior windows and doors block it out, but the walls of aluminium slats make me feel like I’m in prison, so I often choose to leave them up, particularly in my bedroom. On the plus side, my body always aligns with the sunrise and I maintain a natural circadian rhythm. On the other hand, all those windows make hangovers considerably worse. But when was the last time I drank enough to get a hangover?

  I don’t know why Rocky is howling. I imagine Henrik out there watching me, but it can’t be him. He won his appeal but won’t be released from prison until later this week. He’ll be wanting to see me and Mum, I’m sure.

  It’s times like now, when I realise how isolated I am, that I wonder why I chose this mid-century behemoth over something smaller, easier to hide. In the dark of the night, when the house is lit up from within, anyone could be out there watching. But I have Rocky, and I have a couple of months of self-defence classes under my belt.

  In the still room, staring out into the night, I remind myself of all those movements, the small muscles that activate when you are throwing a man off you, how your elbow automatically flies up to your ear, covering your neck, when you sense someone is going to choke you from behind. The exact reaction I had yesterday afternoon when Derek turned up.

  ‘You’re a very courageous thing, aren’t you?’ I say to Rocky, reaching down to rub his neck. I flick the switch and watch the roller shutters descend, sealing us off from the world outside.

  I think of all the reasons I should feel safe. Rocky; the roller shutters; the remoteness; the only man I truly fear is still in prison, for now; I haven’t heard from Wayne in years; my self-defence training; Derek is close enough to help. No one wants to hurt me anymore; my family will always protect me. (This last one I’m not so sure about. Jonas is overseas, and Mum has her own battle with dementia.)

  But it’s not about me. I am not afraid for my own safety as much as I fear for Billy. I fear that I won’t always be there when he needs me. It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s true. What if something happens at school, or in the middle of the night? Which reminds me – the tooth.

  I take a two-dollar coin and go to his room. Gently sliding my hand under his pillow, I find the tooth, a porcelain stone, and replace it with the coin.

  In the kitchen, I hold the tooth up to the light; there is a tiny chip in the corner. I go to my room and place it in the top drawer of my dresser.

  I call Rocky through to my room and pat the end of the bed. He leaps up. His big meaty shape circles then falls down against my legs.

  ‘Let’s not make this a thing, eh, boy? One night on my bed then back to yours.’

  I’ve always measured distances between me and Billy in terms of how quickly I could get to him if he was in trouble. If he ever choked, for example, or collapsed suddenly. I’m only seconds away from his room. The morning will be here soon enough. Close your eyes, Freya, breathe, relax, let sleep take you.

  •

  Billy is awake before me. The birds are singing out there in their trees. I don’t have time for a swim or a walk. I barely have time to slurp down my breakfast smoothie before we’re racing out in the Disco. At the lights down near the bridge into Tullawarra township, I look in the mirror. My skin sags beneath my eyes. I finger it, dragging it out to flatten it, and see the blue fish-scale veins just beneath the surface. I hate losing control, I hate when something puts me out. I couldn’t sleep last night, and so I overslept this morning. Now I’m trying to regain control, to look and feel like Freya Heywood. Pull yourself together, stop being weak.

  ‘What are you doing, Mama?’

  ‘I’m trying to make it look like I had more than three hours sleep.’

  The light changes and I accelerate away.

  After I drop Billy at school, I head to the grocer. The white-haired shopkeeper is leaning on the checkout counter, shaking his head at the newspaper.

  ‘G’day, Freya,’ he says, glancing up as I enter.

  I pick up a basket. ‘Hey, Paul, what’s news?’

  He taps the newspaper with his finger. ‘See this?’ he asks. ‘The missing kid?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll say. Some cruel’ – a yawn overtaking him – ‘cruel people in this world.’ Then, as if realising who he is talking to, his eyes spring wide open, the colour drains from his face. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to hear about this …’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. They think she might have wandered off, right?’ I stroll towards the bakery section and pick up some croissants for Mum, then turn to look at him. Paul is a true local. Six decades in this town. His parents saw the fires.

  His eyes are fixed on the counter now. ‘Uh, I think they’re saying it’s a kidnapping.’

  I’m reaching for a bottle of mineral water when the bell above the door sounds. Someone else is in the shop.

  ‘Hey, mate, I just wanted a bottle of juice.’

  A knot of panic passes through me as I recognise the voice. I try to breathe but the air is stuck in my throat. It’s Wayne. It has to be him. It’s been eight years, but I would know his voice anywhere. Keep the mask on, Freya.

  ‘In the refrigerated section down the back.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I am in the refrigerated section. I quickly move away and duck down the next aisle.

  What is he doing here? I think of Aspen, what Wayne did, how he left me broken. What will he do if he sees me? What might he say? I listen, trying to map his movement about the store. I could abandon the basket and flee for the door, I think.

  The scanner beeps and I exhale. He’s back at the front now.

  ‘Two ninety, thanks.’

  The cash register opens, slots closed.

  I feel a trickle of sweat run down my cheek. I have a secret, and if Wayne finds out he could ruin my li
fe again.

  ‘See ya later.’

  ‘Yep.’

  The bell at the door sounds again. I wait a few minutes before taking my basket to the counter. Paul rings up my purchases.

  ‘Plans this afternoon?’ he asks while I punch in the pin of my credit card.

  ‘Oh, nothing special.’

  ‘Right.’

  I can tell he is staring at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the screen of the card machine.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he probes.

  ‘Me?’

  He swallows. ‘I didn’t mean to bring up the missing kid, you know.’

  Hold it together, the voice says. Don’t crack now you bitch.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, aiming a smile at him. ‘It’s fine, don’t stress. I didn’t think anything of it.’

  He stuffs the receipt in the bag. ‘Well, sorry all the same.’

  ‘I’m just feeling a little off. Must be the heat.’ I take the reusable shopping bag and walk quickly to the car park. My heart is still hammering. Wayne is back. I feel eyes somewhere watching me, but I keep my head up and pace directly to my car.

  •

  Olivia is waiting for me when I arrive at her office ten minutes later. She smiles and guides me into her room.

  I saw her for years after Aspen, then I stopped. But since Mum has become ill, I’ve started to see her again. For the last year or so she has made constellations of all the things that have happened in my life. Once upon a time, all we spoke about was Wayne and what happened with Aspen. When he and I were set to face off in court, our names had been suppressed, but the case was in the newspapers. They were talking about Aspen and what I did to him. Wayne had told his lawyer about the small acts of neglect, things I put Aspen through that were admittedly a little unconventional, but they were taken so far out of context that by the end of proceedings they made me a monster. The soft slaps I used to punish him with, the way I had shaken him to quieten his sobs.