by J. P. Pomare
A candle spilled cooling wax onto the wooden boards. The flame made the spiders’ shadows huge.
‘Stay still, Amy,’ Adam said. ‘Stay still, child.’
He unbuttoned the front of my nightgown, and it fell from my shoulders. Next he unthreaded my underwear – carefully, so his hands did not touch my skin. The cotton slid against my legs, prickling the hairs. His breath was thick and loud. I stepped from my underwear, leaving it pooled on the wooden boards.
‘Just like that,’ he said. ‘Be still.’ His face was inches from the dark hair that has begun to sprout between my legs. His breath changed, not concentrated but flowing like warm water. ‘This is natural,’ he said. ‘To purge.’
I drew in a breath, he leaned forwards and, wet and warm, his mouth touched me.
FREYA
Twenty-two hours to go
I DON’T LOOK up again. I can feel my pulse thudding in my chest.
‘One moment, sorry,’ I say to the class. Wayne is here. He has cornered me in the one place I must stay composed, this room full of yoga mums, and Milly sitting out there in reception. Is he talking to her? Does she know why he is here? ‘Hold that pose,’ I say, taking a sip from my water bottle then starting the music.
I look at the potted ficus tree in the corner of the room, forcing myself into a state of calm. I run my gaze over the pale wooden walls, smiling, but inside I am screaming. There is a second exit through the back room. My class finishes at 3 pm and the school bell rings at 3:10. I should leave now and pull Billy from class. Otherwise it will all happen again. He will take Billy away.
‘Okay,’ I say. My face still wears a warm smile. ‘Now stretch upwards, drawing a deep breath.’
He is tanned, with a mass of black hair cinched back in a ponytail. He always kept it short when he was younger, only letting it grow after we’d been together for some time. Men of his age with a full head of hair tend to show it off. Deeper dimples, shining blue eyes. His nose still kinked from a particularly brutal break. He glances up; our eyes meet.
He could be a charter pilot or an author. You would never know by looking at him how violent, how dangerous and manipulative he really is.
I begin moving the class through more challenging poses. The panic is humming inside me; I’m ready to run. The ambient sounds continue: the Balinese chimes, the falling rain, the gentle shimmering cymbals.
I find myself pushing the class into the deepest poses, stretching the fibres of my tendons until the pain threatens to morph into a cramp. The burn is so deep in my thighs and calves I think I will buckle, and when I look up the entire class is making small adjustments, bending backs and knees, turning hips to complete the poses without causing an injury.
Practising yoga is about moving the body while stilling the mind, but my mind is racing. As I urge the class to sit in preparation for the final meditation, I keep my body and face relaxed and entirely still, but inside I am plotting my escape. The music keeps playing. Piano and panpipes now.
I roll up my mat and collect my drink bottle. I would usually linger and make conversation. Today I simply stride towards the back room. Jupiter, one of the regulars, whom I sometimes have chai with, cranes her head out to chat as I pass, but I carry on briskly without meeting her eye.
I push through the back door and emerge into the alley beside the car park. I can see the Disco at the far side, but I make my way towards the road and speed walk to the school gate.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ the pretty young woman at the desk says as I rush into the reception area.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Billy Heywood’s mother. He’s in year three with Mr Holden.’
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Heywood.’
Mrs. I don’t correct her.
‘I need to pull Billy out of school a bit early today. Can I go find him in class?’
‘Oh,’ she says, looking back to the computer screen. ‘School finishes in six minutes, if you want to wait?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I need him now.’
‘Okay. Is everything alright?’
‘No,’ I say, with a sad smile. ‘We’ve got a family issue.’
‘I see. Well, I’d better call him over.’ She picks up the phone and presses a few buttons. ‘Yes, hi, Mrs Heywood is here to collect her son Billy. Could you bring him over to reception? Thanks.’ She hangs up. ‘He won’t be a minute.’
I sit down in the too-small seat near the door. The woman turns back to her computer.
‘Hot out, isn’t it?’ she says. She does that thing doctors do when they talk to you without turning away from the computer screen, scrolling down through your notes, asking you questions.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Very.’
Minutes later Billy is there, dragging his backpack along behind him.
‘Mama,’ he says. Does he intuit something is wrong?
‘We’ve got to go, son.’
Outside other parents are arriving, milling near the gate. I stroll past casually, avoiding eye contact. Then I pull Billy across the road, towards the car park.
I’m fishing for the keys in my handbag as we approach the Disco.
‘Freya!’ a voice calls. It’s hostile, aggressive. ‘Stop. Right now.’
I hear footsteps pounding across the pavement behind me. I fumble for the keys.
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I swing around, the key lodged between my fingers. I tuck Billy behind me.
‘Get away from him!’ I say, my voice so harsh it hurts my throat. I can see yoga mums standing in a clutch with Milly, across the car park. Their faces turned towards me. I look up at Wayne, his scowling face, his blue eyes sharpening on me.
‘Where is he, Freya?’
I can feel Billy’s hands clutching the hem of my yoga top.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Freya. I know you’re involved.’ Wayne’s gaze slides from my face. I look down, see Billy’s head poking out from behind me.
‘Get away,’ I say. ‘Get back right now – I’m warning you, Wayne.’
‘Just tell me where he is and I’ll go. That’s all I’m here for. Tell me where he is.’
‘Where who is?’ I say, puzzled. He has seen Billy.
‘Aspen,’ he says, exasperated.
Aspen?
‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’ I snap.
His eyes bore into me. ‘He disappeared three weeks ago. I know it was you, Freya. I’ve seen the messages.’
Messages? What messages?
‘No, Wayne. You’ve got it wrong. I’ve had no contact with Aspen in years. I swear.’ Aspen would be nineteen now. Could he have run away from his controlling father?
‘I just want to take him home,’ he says. There is real desperation written all over his face. Wayne is incapable of subterfuge. ‘I don’t want to involve the police, but I will if I have to.’
‘Wayne,’ I say, staring him down, aware of others watching us, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. I really don’t.’
He still looks sceptical, his brow pleated.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go …’
‘No. I want the truth. I’m not leaving until you tell me.’ He inches closer still.
I glance across the car park again. Our body language suggests a confrontation. I round my shoulders, soften my expression.
‘Okay,’ I say, reaching out and gently touching his arm to show the yoga mums that it’s just an everyday exchange between friends. ‘We can talk, but not here.’
Wayne brushes my hand away. ‘Where then?’
Out on the street there is a small cafe. It will be quiet at this time of day. Can I risk it? I study his face. Is this all a ruse, Wayne? Do you know you have another son?
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘This way.’
Twenty-one hours to go
In the shade of the cafe’s awning there are only a few people, but inside, with the air-conditioning, it’s busier. At the entrance, I scan the patrons inside to see if I re
cognise anyone. A baby screams in her father’s arms as he steps past me outside, bending his knees in that rocking dance all parents know. He pats her back to soothe her, his face resolute.
No familiar faces, but I don’t want to risk it. ‘Let’s sit outside. I’ve got five minutes,’ I say, leading Wayne to the most isolated table.
Wayne keeps shooting glances at Billy. He is so close; it is like holding your child over a pit of snakes. Billy looks down, fiddling with the salt shaker.
Sunlight leans across the table. A waitress approaches, holding menus against her chest. I sit with my arms folded, showing mild impatience. Wayne smiles at the waitress.
‘Just a drink,’ I say.
The waitress bends to scoop up the cutlery on the table. ‘Great, I’ll get these out of the way. Almond milk chai latte?’
‘Yes, please.’ My voice sounds as though I haven’t used it in weeks. ‘And a chocolate milkshake.’
‘Sure.’ She turns to Wayne. ‘And for you?’
Now Wayne turns on his megawatt smile. ‘Black coffee.’
In the twenty-plus years since I met him he has shed twenty kilograms of muscle and half an inch of hair at his temples. Aging has been less kind to me. Parts of my body have sagged; things I didn’t expect, like my calf muscles, my shoulder blades. He’s got the same shape to him. Gravity and time will come for his looks eventually, one can hope anyway.
He is staring at Billy. I feel sweat on my chest. Maybe he is just curious about the black eye. I also notice now, the island chain of bruises on Billy’s forearm where I had grabbed him. It’s possible that Wayne is registering Billy’s features and reconciling them with his own. Billy has his chin, and the full lips.
That night with Wayne comes back to me: wine and beer, then negronis. Then bed, his body pressed hard to mine. It was so much more exciting; we were almost like strangers.
‘So,’ he begins when the waitress has been and gone, dropping our drinks off. ‘Are you going to introduce me to the kid?’
‘This is Billy. But you’re not here to talk about him, so let’s get this over with.’
‘If you’ve got nothing to do with Aspen disappearing, why are you so hostile? What did I do?’
I breathe deeply through my nose before I speak. ‘Because you ambushed me at my yoga class, and you’ve been sending me messages in the middle of the night, and who knows what else.’ A shuffling of his features: embarrassment, regret, fear? ‘Let’s not forget the lies you told about me.’
Wayne’s knee jogs up and down, rocking the table. My chai wobbles and a tongue of foam spills down the side of the cup over my knuckle. Billy is holding his milkshake in both hands.
Wayne raises his own cup to his lips. He is the opposite to me. He wears his emotions like a strong cologne.
‘Lies?’ He swallows. ‘Freya, I never lied. I just told it how I saw it.’
I shake my head. He still won’t admit it.
‘So you haven’t seen Aspen at all? You didn’t organise to pick him up three weeks ago? You haven’t been messaging him for months?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, of course not. He’s nineteen. Maybe he got sick of you. Did that cross your mind?’
‘So you’re telling me you haven’t been contacting him online?’
‘No, I haven’t, Wayne.’
‘Well, the messages came from your email address.’
‘What email address?’
He reaches into his pocket and removes his phone. He shows me a screenshot. I see my old email address: [email protected]. I read the message.
I’ll pick you up at 12 pm on Friday.
I’m leaning closer, my stomach sinking. I had changed everything from the past: I had a new bank account, new address, new email account. But had I closed my former email address or had I just stopped using it?
I hand his phone back. ‘It’s not me.’
‘Really?’
‘What did the other emails say?’
‘I don’t know. They were all deleted except for that one and another from a couple of years ago telling him you were his mother and you wanted to talk on the phone. But you know that already, right?’
‘Wayne, I haven’t used that email address in at least a decade. I don’t even know the password anymore.’
‘This is bullshit, Freya. Where is he?’
I glance towards Billy then back to Wayne. I clear my throat – Keep control, Freya – and say politely, ‘Please don’t speak like that in front of him.’
His eyes narrow on me and I feel the twist in my chest. I reach for my necklace through my shirt, the copper ring hanging from it, the one Wayne gave me all those years ago. I rub my thumb over it, like running my tongue over a capped tooth. Those almost forgotten feelings come rushing back.
Wayne finishes his coffee, and abruptly turns to Billy. His voice softens. ‘How old are you, mate?’
Billy looks up. ‘I’m seven.’
A lump gathers at the back of my throat.
Wayne smiles, but only his lips move. There’s a tremor near his right eye, a faint twitch. ‘Seven,’ he repeats quietly.
My pulse slams at my temples; I fear I might be sick.
I rise suddenly and my chair tips back, clatters against the concrete. People are watching. People from yoga. I flatten my top, place a hand on my chest as if surprised by my clumsiness. Then I speak softly, so that no one else can hear me. ‘You stay the hell away from us, Wayne. Don’t come anywhere near me or Billy again.’
‘I’ve come here to find my son. That’s all I want. Give him back and I’ll go home.’
‘If you keep this up, Wayne, you’ll get hurt.’
The waitress comes back through the door to collect our now-empty cups. She stands, mouth slightly agape, eyes moving from Wayne to me and back again. I take Billy by the wrist and pull him away from the table. Wayne signals for the bill and the waitress gives a small urgent nod then heads back inside. The other diners outside are watching, and some are looking on through the window from inside. The violence, or threat of it, is just a small fissure, a seam that closes a moment later. I know I have the potential to be cruel, the potential to hurt others.
I take Billy’s hand and turn and stride across the car park towards the Disco. I have lost one son to Wayne; I will not lose another. I will do anything to keep Billy safe. Anything.
AMY
ALL DAY WE sweep and dust. We do our daily clean of the floors and surfaces but also the windows, even the high ones, which Anton has to climb a ladder to reach. We sweep the dry leaves in the Clearing and cut the grass. Adam rakes the stones on the driveway. Annette collects bouquets of wildflowers and jams them into vases. When we are done the Clearing looks like a different place. It’s beautiful. It’s Eden.
A van sweeps down towards the Great Hall with food wrapped up in plastic. There are tiny pies, sausage rolls, tarts, sweets. My mouth waters as I help to carry them inside. I notice Asha is not helping us. She must be locked in the Shed or still in the Burrow.
There is a box with the word Champagne marked on the side. The bottles come out one at a time and are put into a steel bucket that looks exactly like the rusty old Cooler, but instead of muddy water this bucket is brimming with chunks of ice.
We have had gatherings at the Clearing before, where all of the members from the outside world come together. Adrienne says it’s important for everyone to see the good work we are doing with the children, so they can see how we are preparing for the new age.
Tonight we wear our best clothes. Stiff dresses, pressed shirts and pants. Our hair is freshly bleached, washed and combed flat to our skulls.
Tamsin takes us to the Burrow just before the guests arrive. Her shadow flares out behind her in the sun streaming through the window. She examines us closely. Her dark eyes and gaunt face look strange with blue eyeliner and pinked cheeks.
‘Not a single foot wrong, children. Tonight you will be perfect.’ She comes closer to me. Our eyes are level and I notice a spot of
sweat cutting a path through her make-up. ‘You will make sure they stay in line.’
Her words tie my stomach into a knot. ‘Yes,’ I force out.
•
I recognise some of the guests rolling down into the Clearing in black cars. They are not dressed like princesses, like I was expecting; they wear jeans and shirts, they wear cotton dresses and flat shoes.
We take up the trays of food and champagne and weave through the growing crowd inside the Great Hall, just like we have practised. Trestle tables lined with burning candles and silver platters are covered in dips and bread. I move about with my back straight and my hand flat beneath the tray.
‘Good evening, sir,’ I say, approaching a man with a curled grey moustache. ‘Would you care for a glass of champagne?’ I say it just how we were taught. Sham-pain. Isn’t it strange how some words seem to leave a taste in your mouth?
‘Goodness, you children are well behaved, aren’t you?’ the man says, reaching out to stroke my cheek with a finger. His finger feels dirty but I simply smile.
‘And for you, madam?’
The woman next to him takes a glass and I feel the tray wobble a little in my hand.
‘Thank you,’ she says. When she sips, she leaves a crescent of lipstick the colour of blood on the glass.
Jermaine Boethe is there with his scraggly hair and sharp leering eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I sketched him, for some reason I thought he wouldn’t be here. He watches me from across the room. There are others I’ve never met, like the man with tiny silver spectacles and a long arc of tanned forehead, who rests his hand on my bottom for a moment as I pass. Turning to look at him, I make myself smile.
Soon a tall man in a cowboy hat mounts the stage. He taps his glass with a butter knife that winks in the candlelight.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the man begins. He has a strange voice that makes me imagine him floating across the sea in a boat. ‘I have come all the way from Minnesota to be with you here tonight.’
Silently, I say the word to myself: Minna-soda.
