I leave the house, trying not to think the thoughts The Sadness has left lying out for me to trip on. Thoughts about why no mates have called me lately, and what I’d tell them if they did, and why even a computer geek called Rob is going to lose interest. I concentrate on the walking.
I climb the hill, a little track that winds through bush, and come out at the top of a crescent, a place where the traffic is smooth and quiet, and the hedges grow high. I see my mail friend. She smiles, says hello, asks me how it’s going. And I say fine. She pedals on, turns left. I walk, turn right, check the numbers on the letter boxes, which are all white or brown. It’s not a rule, as far as I know, just one of those things that happens, like the way strangers glance up at the last minute when they pass in an empty street, or people close their eyes when they kiss.
According to the phone book, Philip Wade lives at number 211, which is a prime. The house is red brick, two storeys with a steep sloping tile roof. There is thick thorny hedge spilling over the top of a red brick fence, a short driveway running alongside the small front lawn, and a splendid, expensive view. Everything is tidy, clean, carefully impressive. Pizzas are not delivered to this house, burgers are not eaten here. There are no smokers inside, and no one who has visited this house has ever played the pokies. The poor give their lives to wasting the little money they have, so that people just like this can have more.
I push open the gate. It is thick heavy timber and the hinges do not squeak. I walk forward with the confidence of one who hasn’t broken any laws, yet. I knock loudly, because I have always thought the sound of knocking must be frightening to people who live in houses with doorbells. I wait. I knock again. I don’t know what I will do, if someone comes to the door. No one does. Mrs Wade, and surely she must exist, is a worker too. Earning as much as her husband, or maybe even a little more. This is a house my mother could have lived in, had she chosen more wisely.
I walk around behind the house. The property backs onto bush. In the summer they drink cocktails beneath the shade. There is a swimming pool, covered over for winter, and a spa, where good friends with good incomes can swap the right sorts of diseases. There is also a window open, slightly at least, on the second floor. A small window, I’d bet it was a bathroom. And there is a drainpipe, sturdy enough to make it worth a try. I’m not a great climber, but I’m 17, not so far past childhood that I don’t remember the basics.
The drainpipe isn’t as solid as its thick red paint makes it appear. It dents slightly as I pull myself tight against the wall. My feet scuff at a creeper that grows as high as the kitchen window. The view inside is not surprising. The furniture is wooden and chunky, the floor is tiled, the benches are stacked with clay pots. They have watched television shows set in the south of France. All that is missing is an actor in a beret, paid to sit and add authenticity. And only because they haven’t thought of it.
I hate these people, and climb higher. There is the sound of a screw popping out of a brace, but I am almost level with the window now, this is no time for losing heart. I look down, just to check. There is an outside chance of making the pool, should I feel the need to let go.
The next bit is tricky. By holding on with only one hand, and wedging the corresponding foot between the pipe and the wall, I swing out far enough to feel my outstretched fingers brush the window ledge. Not quite far enough. Life is like that. To fully grasp the ledge I will have to let go of the pipe altogether and leap across the gap. The sort of thing that looks easy on television.
Fuck it, why would television lie to us? I count to three and swing across, feel my heart jelly into my mouth for the split second when my fate is uncertain. Then I am safe; my hands stretched high above me, clinging to the ledge. It is a bad time to realise the window is a lot smaller than it appeared from below, and more closed than open.
I use my feet to take some of the weight and slowly pull myself up. A messy real life manoeuvre. Elbow knocks against brick, head meets unyielding wooden frame, gravity tugs insistently. My head fits through the gap, and my forearms, but that is all. And the window is set high above a toilet. Joy.
I am breathing hard, concentrating on not blaming myself for this predicament. This is fate, this is my guardian angel, this is any other stupid bastard but myself. I am in as far as my armpits, and inflicting bruising to the place where relaxed triceps squash against the bone. The window has a security latch which can be forced. Or not, in which case I will remain stuck here until I am discovered.
I force the latch, and hear the plop of two dislodged screws hitting the water below me. The next problem. I am in through the window as far as my waist, and folded like an arrowhead, my face is still a good metre above the rim. By reaching down I can brace on either side of the seat, thus performing an awkward sort of toilet handstand. This allows me to bring my thighs in through the window. The blood is now rushing to my head and the pounding of it is interfering with my thinking. I have exactly one choice. It involves rolling forward in a controlled collapse, onto the marble floor of the bathroom below. The other option, which is no choice at all but will present as the default should I get this wrong, is crashing headfirst into the toilet itself, and either breaking my neck or drowning. Drowning, I am told, is the more pleasant way to go.
I take my time, go through the motion in my head, try to convince myself it is easy, and natural, although we all know handstands on toilets are thoroughly unnatural acts. I hear footsteps, inside the house.
Take a moment then to pause, and share my terror.
In a perfect world, this new information would inform my choices. I however have no choices. The only thing that could make this situation worse would be the bathroom door opening. Damn fate. Damn my guardian angel.
The bathroom door opens. I register only the first moment of movement. Then my consciousness is co-opted for more urgent tasks and the details blur. I collapse forward, rolling noisily onto the floor. I have not drowned, my neck is not broken. The woman standing over me is however screaming very loudly. I don’t see her face. I hope she doesn’t see mine. I scramble to my feet, push her aside, and run blindly through a maze of nervous luxury. Behind me the woman still screams. The front door is obvious enough, my first lucky break today. A man is walking his dog past the house as I run out. He looks me in the eye and his memory takes a photo. He, like me, can still hear the screaming.
I run into the bush. An intruder, a home invader. I feel dirty, confused, and frightened. I want to sit down with the woman, in a small comfortable room, and explain to her that I meant no harm. I want to say sorry. I want to tell her I wasn’t doing anything. I want to show her my bruises. I want her to know I didn’t have a plan.
I don’t go home, not for a while. The Sadness waits for me there, I can feel it. I walk to the top of the hill. The day is still beautiful but my mood has moved on. Below the harbour sparkles. The city is slow from this distance; quiet, confident, unworried. To the south the Kaikouras boast the first of their winter snow, and the light breeze brings its greeting to me. I play games on my cellphone until the battery runs down. Then I stretch out on the grass, which is cool but not wet, and hover in a place between sleep and worry, until a curious cow steps forward and licks my face. Its breath is warm and composted. I open my eyes and it stares back, unblinking, maybe even smiling. Today the world is beyond me.
The sun is low in the sky and below me the shadow of the hills is making its evening journey across the water. I walk back slowly. Already the morning feels like another world. Until I reach my street, and see my house, and the police car parked outside.
Dad is home, and back in touch with his newfound anger. Mum is standing behind him, which is unusual. Hovering in the background are two police officers, a Him and a Her. All four look at me, as you would expect. Her I recognise from my most recent arrest. Is this how it happens? Is this how a citizen turns criminal, by accident? I smile, out of politeness. Bluff.
‘Something wrong?’
‘I don’t know
. Is there?’ furious father fumes.
‘It’s not necessarily linked to him,’ my mother points out. A little late in the piece, for her to reach this understanding, but welcome nevertheless.
‘There’s no reason at all to think any of these matters are related,’ the police officer without breasts says. Brave of him, to stand in the way of a father’s disapproval.
‘So tell them what it is you do on that computer of yours then eh?’ my father continues. ‘Every hour God gives. What is it you’ve been up to?’
I have no idea what he is talking about. All I can think is no one has said break-in, or bathroom, or screaming woman. A pilot light of optimism flickers in my head. I stay quiet, resolve to wait until I know more. I look to the law enforcers for help, but they give nothing away.
‘It would be helpful, ah Peter (Pete), if you could tell us the names of the websites you most frequently visit, and anybody you might be in regular contact with, on the internet.’
Rob. That makes a certain sense. He has been caught, hacking into sites. They’ve seized his computer, traced his email. No wonder my father is so het up. My mother’s calm is harder to explain, but then no explanation’s perfect. I’ll have to lie.
‘Mostly it’s pornography. Free sites. I like Asians. I was going to use Dad’s credit card, but you know, that would be illegal.’
Predictably my father is thrown. Mr Policeman appears slightly impressed at the ballsiness of youth. Mrs Policeman writes it down. It is over to my mother to show any sense of irony.
‘So that accounts for five minutes a day. How about the rest of the time?’
Mr Policeman chuckles. Nothing like a wanking joke to break the ice.
‘We don’t need all the details Pete (better). We just need to know if there could be any reason somebody might want to steal your computers.’
Somebody has stolen our computers? That’s better. Much much better. I can’t be blamed for that. Burglary is random. There are forms to be filled out, for insurance purposes, and then they will leave. I will not be arrested. Computers. Plural. Dad’s too. No wonder he is pissed.
‘Oh well, there’s still Sky One,’ I joke.
Then I remember Rob, and the plans we were making. Rob who wants to meet me. I think of the address I use for all my communication with him now, and the password he gave me, which I stored and have now forgotten.
He won’t know this has happened, and I don’t know how I’ll tell him. I feel a strange, surprising kick of panic. It’s only Rob, I know; only conspiracy theories and distractions, but I’m running low on contact with the world right now, and I desperately want to talk to him.
‘We have to get a new computer,’ I blurt, without even thinking why.
‘Not until we find out who took the old ones,’ my father grumps.
‘They say it was a very professional job, isn’t that right?’ my mother says, and the Her Officer nods.
‘Just the computers and all your school books.’
Which is weird, of course, and maybe explains why they have shown up so promptly.
I barely hear. My face is giving too much away, and I don’t want to have to explain.
‘Why is it so important to you?’ my mother asks, the beginning of concern in her voice. I know what she’s thinking. I know how she sees this.
‘Well I can’t live with you two without one can I?’ I reply.
‘So move.’ My father again. I feel a little more understanding towards him now. He too has suffered a loss.
I manage to calm down and the interrogation takes on a softer edge. Where was I today? I tell a little lie. Just if I could think of who might have wanted to do this, it is a slightly unusual case. I give a little shrug. They leave a little card, and are gone.
You can’t spend your life alone, watching other lives rush by. You need the odd person to slow as they pass you, stop for a chat, or just wave, to show they’ve noticed. All of us sometimes, need to be noticed. That’s what Rob did. He noticed me, although I’d never tell him. It’s not the sort of thing anybody ever says.
I go to the library, to use the internet. I feel self-conscious, visiting my own site, in full public view, but it is my only idea. www.pissedoff is a ghost town now. The chat rooms are empty, the tapping of my keyboard echoes down deserted links. Boom and bust comes quickly on the digital landscape. I try five times, over the next three days, but he is not there.
And then, my life changes forever.
You don’t change your life. But you try. You have to. Living is the art of pretending you’re in control. Push at it, pull it to the ground. Kick it hard, just to make a dent, to prove you can. Wake each morning and sink your fingernails into its soft flesh, until you can taste the blood. That’s living. But you don’t really change it.
Shit happens. Good shit. Bad shit. Luck. Random, brutal, amusing. PBs happened. Rob happened. The break-in happened. I didn’t cause them. I wasn’t involved. And then, one day, I couldn’t find Rob anywhere, and it was as if none of it had happened at all, and there was time enough for The Sadness to take note of that, store it away on its ledger, but that was all. The story does not stop. Shit keeps happening. Marcus and Lucinda happen. Good shit/bad shit? Who can say?
My kitchen table. The most un-Marcus-and-Lucinda-like place in all of creation. My mother, perhaps the most un-Marcus-and-Lucinda-like person, sits between them. Still, she is smiling, and they both look right at home.
I am pre-warned. Their car has taken possession of the driveway. A Z4, impressive up close, crouched, gleaming black, wide and strong across the gravel. I’m not big on cars, but this one makes me stop and stare. Just the way they’ve planned it.
‘Pete, this is Mr Thomas, and Ms McManus.’ My mother stands; a strange stiff sort of formality, like they have lived in this room all their lives and it is we who are the visitors. They stay sitting. No handshakes, no pretending.
Their heads move in time, to get a better look at me. Two sets of eyes burrowing in from carefully arranged angles. I look at her first, because I am a boy, 17, susceptible; and Lucinda is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
Her eyes. I am swallowed whole by them. They speak slow and clear to me. You are the only person in the room who matters. Right now, at this instant, you are the only person in the world who matters. I feel my whole being inflate with the attention. The gormless look on my mother’s face makes more sense. Lucinda’s eyes. Hazel/green, huge, aware. They have an intelligence all of their own. They could be hanging before you in space, detached from any other feature, and still you could know the person behind them. Skin: pale, flawless. Eyebrows: arched in permanent curiosity. Hair: red/brown, short, straight, glossy in the way of money and attention to detail. Mouth: a little too large, stretching dimples with its smile. Teeth: white, slightly crooked, a small and beautiful imperfection. Other details too. Tall, thin; clothing informal but precise. Information hammers itself into my consciousness, whole files of previously vital data wiped clear to make room for her.
And she stares (did I say?) and smiles, and at that precise moment the cloud of particles and charges that has gathered to represent the possibility of my life to date, abandons its bonds and drifts off into nothingness.
Marcus is staring too, and reluctantly my eyes turn to him. Eyes: puppy dog brown. Skin: tanned. Hair: close-cropped. Clothes: expensive. A forearm ripples as his fingers change position on the table. Small, sharply defined features. Confident, in a way I have never seen before. The steady, depthless comfort of his stare, the way his body relaxes and moulds itself into our functional, uncomfortable kitchen chair.
‘Well?’ My mother’s voice, cutting through the runway roar of incoming mental traffic.
‘Oh right. I’m Pete, yeah, like she said. So, um, hi.’
Blush. Sit down. Feel instantly that I am the anti-Marcus, the anti-Lucinda. Wonder, vaguely, if the world has just dreamed up a new way of making me feel small.
‘Hi,’ from both. His voice deeper tha
n I expected; hers soft, melodious, other adjectives to suit my bias.
‘So what do you want?’ I ask.
A teenager is still a teenager. We bluff when we have to, which is most of the time. Another second and the silence might have killed me. Lucinda laughs; a generous, grateful sound.
‘You actually.’
Those two words stop my blood, which is pathetic. But note this well. I never said I wasn’t pathetic. And I don’t even mind. Heroism is so impractical.
‘Or someone quite like you,’ Marcus grins.
‘There’s no one quite like me,’ I answer, a poor imitation of their cool, dark confidence.
‘That’s what we were hoping.’ Lucinda again.
‘They’ve come to offer you a scholarship.’ Mum says, unable to contain herself.
‘A chance to interview for a scholarship,’ Marcus corrects, but with a gentle smile, and mother smiles gently back. I wonder if such a mood has ever before visited our modest kitchen. Excitement, pride, confidence, anticipation; and a hovering, unspoken sort of sexy.
‘What sort of scholarship?’ I ask. We live in the age of the quarterly profit review. There is always a catch.
‘Five years, full tuition, board and expenses up to fifty thousand dollars a year, plus participation in our mentoring scheme.’ The words lifted lightly by Lucinda’s tongue. A small figure, to her.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ My mother leans forward. The possibility of her son not being a total failure after all scrubs life into her cheeks. I know what she is thinking. She is remembering the psychologist, when I first started school, who did all his tests and pronounced me a borderline genius. She’s remembering the pride she felt then, and every disappointment since.
‘Why me?’
‘Have you heard of the Fuller Foundation, Pete?’
I haven’t.
‘No, well it’s relatively new, and they, our employers (God she is beautiful) have not been courting publicity. It’s not why they’re doing this.’
Deep Fried: A Novel Page 8
