The whole lot of them snapped into action, peeling into four lines and hurling themselves into the pool like frenzied synchronised swimmers. Within seconds the four centre lanes were boiling cauldrons of white water.
‘So, you two interested in joining squad?’ The seasoned sultana face of the resident pool Nazi squinted up at me. ‘We can always squeeze in a coupla newbies.’
I didn’t know what to say. Unless she was blind as well as old, she would have to know that sharing a lane with that pack of unfriendlies was about as appealing as a floatie in the baby pool.
‘Uh, thanks,’ said Hero, stepping into the breach. ‘But I already got a coach. He’s given me some drills to build me up a bit, get me ready for the carnival.’ He flexed his bony frame in an attempt to impress. ‘I might just stick to Lane One, if that’s OK with you.’
Ma Mallory nodded like she didn’t much care and turned to me.
‘What about you, Hotstuff? Looking pretty slick with the sprints. Got anything left in the tank to train with?’
I shrugged, toeing the concrete skirt around the pool. ‘Uh, I might just watch. Maybe shadow the drills for today.’ I risked a quick glance to gauge her reaction. ‘See how it goes. I’ll stick to my own lane and keep out of everyone’s way. Is that OK?’
She grunted. ‘Suit yourself. Offer’s open if you ever want to get serious about your swimming.’
Hero waited till she moved off, then jabbed his bony elbow into my ribs.
‘How about that, Hotstuff? An invitation to join squad; A-team’s gonna spew.’
I shoved him away and hotfooted it for the pool. After the rollercoaster of my day, I was aching to hit the water and lose myself in the rhythm of a hundred laps. Where nothing existed but the burble of breathing, the churning of water, the ceaseless thrum of heart and muscle. Where I could ride high in the water through my own efforts and nothing and no-one had the power to pull me down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I somehow survived the first week at Per petual Suckers and was into the second before I knew it.
Life had become almost bearable since Hero and I had settled into our afternoon training routine. I say ‘almost’ because I still couldn’t hang out with him at school.
Pretty much everyone still avoided me. But Hero was Hero and usually made an effort to say hello, which would earn him a shove, a nipple cripple, or worse, from Joey Castellaro. So I tried to stay clear, to make his life less complicated.
I haunted the library during lunch break and volunteered to change the school sign most days, effectively padding out the morning breaks.
Everyone next door had retreated behind their lion’s-paw doorknocker; I hadn’t seen any of them for days. Before and after school, the place was as quiet as a grave, and at night, only the flickering glow of candlelight in the darkness within gave away their presence.
‘Getting their house in order,’ was Mum’s verdict. ‘They’ll surface eventually.’
She was so busy with her new job that I’d barely seen her either. I’d filled the yawning emptiness of the weekends with long lazy days at the pool and the latest Robert Muchamore novel.
In Week Three, I developed an acute case of tunnel vision, shutting out everything around me and focusing on the swimming that was my reward at the end of each day.
It wasn’t what anyone would call living ... I wasn’t sure how much longer I could cope with merely surviving.
Manny appeared at the side fence when I slid my key into the front door one evening after training.
‘Better call your mum, Henry; she’s been chasing you.’
He was wearing a skin-tight black T-shirt featuring a grinning red devil spearing a sausage with his pitchfork.
He threw a bursting garbage bag into the bin and slammed the lid. ‘Then come on over, if you’re hungry. There’s enough food here to feed ten bears, so you can bring them too, if you want.’
He waved a massive arm and shambled off, not waiting for an answer. Fiery red letters on the back of his T-shirt announced Mr Good-Lookin’ is Cookin’.
I shoved open the door and went in to retrieve my mobile from the kitchen bench where I had left it. Three missed calls. Five messages. All from Mum.
A wave of irritation washed over me. She should know by now that I never took my mobile to the pool. That I couldn’t risk having it nicked or ruined around all that water. Not when neither of us could afford to buy a new one.
I scrolled through the messages.
The first was bubbling with excitement. She reckoned she had a buyer for the old place near the river and needed to drive to Ascot to get him to sign the contract.
The next was upbeat too, sent on her way back to Indooroopilly to persuade the owner to countersign.
The next two were more tense, with protracted negotiations and progressively later ETAs, the estimated times of her arrival back home.
The last was an order.
Go next door. Manny will feed you. xx
I opened the fridge door and examined my options. A toasted ham and cheese sandwich. Another homemade pizza. Or Manny’s bear food.
I slammed the door shut.
Silence bounced off the bare walls of the empty house. I looked around for something to fill it with, and found nothing but my swimming bag, lying on the floor where I’d dumped it. I reached down and pulled out my balled-up togs and towel, and drifted back through the darkened rooms, hanging the towel on a railing, and my Speedos on a doorknob.
The evening stretched before me like dead elastic, no snap left in it at all. The thought of hanging around like a lump of limp lycra was more than I could bear, so I headed for the door, tapping two letters – OK– into my mobile.
My thumb hovered over the xkey as I yanked open the door. I usually added a couple to every text – it was our signature sign-off – but tonight I didn’t feel like sending her kisses.
I was sick of her always running late; of her never being there when I wanted her, when I needed her.
I was sick of relying on the kindness of strangers for meals, for everything, so I pulled the door shut behind me, and hit Send.
The smell of Manny’s cooking had already made it as far as the squawking front gate: something roasted, wafting out the open door and down the garden path.
I took the front steps two at a time, my salivary glands flushing out my braces, my gut rumbling like an oncoming train.
‘C’mon in, Henry,’ yelled Manny from the back of the house. ‘I’m in the kitchen.’
I padded through the house. ‘How’d you know it was me?’
He leaned through the kitchen door, his broken face dripping with sweat. ‘It was either you or ten bears; I’m not expecting anyone else. C’mon through.’
I was hoping Caleb and Vee would be there too, but Manny was alone in the kitchen with his back to me. Metal snicked against metal, and he turned, a wicked-looking knife pointed in my direction. My heart jumped.
‘I’m thinking roast beef salad – that OK with you?’
He didn’t wait for a reply, and started carving into the side of beef that was resting on the bench. My heart rate returned to normal as shaved slices fell cleanly onto the cutting board in the wake of the razor-sharp blade.
My stomach rumbled again, louder this time. Manny grinned and used the flat of the blade to fold the meat into a huge platter of roasted vegetables. ‘Not long now, matey. Go tell Anders to come and git it, before I slop it to the hogs.’
I hesitated, and he nodded in the direction of a brightly-lit doorway off to the side of the kitchen. ‘Go on, he won’t bite. He’s in the studio. Tell him dinner’s two minutes away.’
***
Anders, the bloke from the truck, sat with his back towards me at a slope-topped workstation, a large sketchbook open in front of him.
He worked in a sharp and focused rhythm, his head, and I presumed his eyes, tracking the dark forms that were taking shape on the page.
His arm swept in sure arcs across th
e page, shading and sketching in rapid strokes, a stub of charcoal stick gripped in the fingers of his right hand. His blackened fingertips smoothed at too-sharp lines, rubbing, softening and blending, then adding more charcoal lines that drew the eye towards a corner of the page that was obscured by his body.
I stepped forward, unable to resist the pull of the charcoal, each sweep of dark upon white funnelling the eye towards that hidden corner.
The white lights of the overhead fluoros showed a barren landscape, bleak and desolate, curving away to the part of the page that was concealed by his body.
I edged round and saw a tiny figure standing alone at the edge of the page. A detailed sketch of a child, his back turned away, one arm stretched up and out, as though clinging to an unseen hand. He was being led away by someone – from something – turning the world bleak and desolate in his wake.
The power of the sketch pulled the words from my lips. ‘That’s really good.’
Blue eyes blazed up at me, startled, as though I’d yanked him out of some private space. He snapped the sketchbook shut and stood, his hand clamping down on the cover.
Judging by the dirty edges of all the preceding pages, he had almost filled the book. I could only hope all his pictures weren’t as sad and dark as the one I had just seen.
I backed away from the intensity of his gaze. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready. Manny said that you should come–’
He nodded once, eyes burning into me.
I kept back-pedalling, not taking my eyes off him. Telling myself that he didn’t scare me. Not for a minute. No-siree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Is he coming?’ asked Manny.
He flicked off the stove and gave the small pan of dark sauce a final quick stir. ‘Dinner is about to be served.’
‘I think so.’ I hesitated. ‘He was drawing ... it was really good, but he didn’t seem real happy that I’d seen it–’
Manny pursed his lips. ‘A lot of artists are funny about showing their works-in-progress.’ He poured the sauce into a small jug. ‘I feel the same way about early drafts of my own work.’ He winked at me. ‘Don’t worry too much about anything he says–’
‘He didn’t sayanything. He just looks at me like he hates me–’
‘He doesn’t hate you, Henry–’ He tossed the hot pan, sizzling, into the sink, gave it an efficient wash, then added it to the draining rack. ‘If anything, he hates himself ... Ever heard of the term “Art as therapy”?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, it could have been termed for our Anders–’
A door clicked shut behind me and a jovial note forced its way into Manny’s voice. ‘Ah, here he is, our wandering artiste–’
Anders stood in the doorway, arms hanging, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. I wasn’t sure what his problem was, but edged closer to Manny, just to be on the safe side.
‘You planning to wash those filthy mitts before you eat, Anders?’
Manny’s hearty voice jerked him into action. He stared at his charcoal-stained hands as though he didn’t recognise them, then made straight for the sink.
Manny passed me three plates and nodded at the cutlery laid out on the kitchen bench. ‘We’ll eat in here, seeing there’s just the three of us.’
I sat down on the stool closest to Manny, and kept a wary eye on Anders, scrubbing at his hands with soap and a kitchen scourer at the sink.
‘Where are Caleb and Vee?’
‘They’re in the zone,’ Manny said, sprinkling toasted pine nuts over the top of a huge platter of roasted meat and veg. ‘They’ll come out when they’re hungry.’
He must have seen my blank look. ‘They’re both writing like mad things. When they get in the zone, sometimes I don’t see them for days. I only know they’ve been out of their rooms by what’s missing from the fridge.’
He patted me on the shoulder. ‘You did good, getting Caleb out of himself. He had a real breakthrough at the pool the other day and he’s been powering ever since.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Vee’s positively manic. She sleeps most of the day, but at night she hasn’t stopped. Three nights setting up her room, getting herself organised, and every night since, working like a demon to meet next month’s deadline for her latest romance. Don’t worry, I’ve kept them some food. They won’t miss out.’
He nodded towards Anders at the sink. ‘There’s another one who gets in the zone. Disappears for weeks on end, then turns up like a half-starved mutt, all eyes and ribs.’
He grinned at Anders, who squeezed out a sliver of a smile as he reached for the handtowel hanging on a loop below the sink.
Manny drizzled the sauce across the top of more roast than I had seen in one place in my life, then poked two huge serving spoons into the side and pushed the platter towards me. ‘Here, dig in.’
I didn’t need to be told twice. ‘I thought you said we were having salad.’
All I could see was a stack of roast meat mixed into piles of crispy potato and sweet potato chips, with toasted pine nuts sprinkled over the top. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ I added hastily. ‘It looks fantastic.’
‘What does this look like?’ He pointed his knife at the scattering of cherry tomatoes and green leafy things that added colour to the dish. ‘A ham sandwich?’
Anders slid onto a stool beside me and poured himself a glass of iced water from the jug on the bench. He tilted it questioningly in my direction.
I nodded and he filled my glass. There was still a fine line of charcoal embedded under his nails. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ His voice sounded rusty, like it needed a good oiling, or maybe, just to be used a bit more often.
I shovelled a forkful of meat and potato into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to make conversation. As soon as it hit my tastebuds, a little moan slipped out.
‘Good, huh?’ Manny tucked into his plate of food with gusto. ‘I think the secret’s in the balsamic jus, but the caramelised onion adds that little something, don’t you think?’
‘Mmm–’ I thought the secret was in the sheer volume of meat and potatoes on my plate that was now making its way into my stomach. But I kept the thought to myself. I was happy to let Manny to do the talking. I had better things to do with my mouth. I was in the zone, stuck in a delirious cycle of chewing, swallowing and shovelling.
Roast meat and potatoes was always good, but whatever Manny had done to it had boosted the dish to all-time status.
Anders, on the other hand, seemed hardly to notice the food. Maybe that’s what kept him so thin. He ate slowly and methodically, occasionally sipping at his water.
I could sense his eyes on me the whole time I ate, but each time I glanced his way, they would slide away from me and focus on something else: his next mouthful, Manny’s running commentary, the clock on the wall, ticking away the time till Mum came home.
The thought of my mum, running around for twelve hours straight, put a dampener on my appetite. I put down my fork.
‘Did you talk to Mum tonight, Manny?’
He nodded. ‘She’s going to be late, so I said you could hang here if you wanted. Says she’s this close–’ a stubby finger and thumb pinched at the air, ‘–to making some big sale.’
I wouldn’t get my hopes up. We’d been on this real-estate rollercoaster before, me and Mum. I knew what she’d be doing: desperately trying to sell that dump on the river for more than anyone in their right mind would want to pay, but for less than the owner would want to accept.
She was the piggy in the middle; the one forced to watch the golden ball sailing over her head, from one set of hands to another. Always just out of her reach.
This little piggy had roast beef...
This little piggy had none...
I lined up my fork and knife together on my plate and pushed it away.
‘Had enough?’ Manny looked round at the clock that I’d been staring at. It really was getting late.
He patted my arm wi
th his scarred paw. ‘The bears didn’t turn up, so there’s heaps left over. I can give you a plate to take home with you for your mum, if you like.’
I shot him a grateful look. ‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
The trill of a mobile vibrated on a corner of the kitchen bench. He went over and picked it up. ‘Caleb’s phone, Manfred speaking.’
His grin faded as he listened to the voice on the other end. His eyes met mine and clouded. He turned his back, and after a moment walked out of the kitchen, still listening hard to the voice on the other end of the phone.
I started clearing up, just for something to do. Apart from the dishes we had just used, Manny’s kitchen was spotless. He had cleaned up as he cooked, so there was practically no washing up left to do at all.
Anders had reached the sink ahead of me and was running the hot water. He squirted in some dishwashing liquid, the corded muscles in his arms standing out as he plunged in both hands and started scrubbing.
I picked up a tea towel. ‘That should get rid of the last of the charcoal,’ I said.
He glanced down at me, the intensity of his gaze softening, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. It gave me the courage to ask the question that had been nagging at me during dinner.
‘Are all your drawings that sad?’
His hands stopped moving, tiny bubbles of detergent foam popping in the hairs on the back of his wrists. His whole body had gone still, as though the question had caught him between breaths, between heartbeats. He raised his head and stared out into the gaping blackness beyond the kitchen window. Somewhere in the street, a lonely dog howled.
I didn’t think he was going to answer my question, but finally he nodded.
‘Why?’ My voice cracked on the question.
He reached for another dish and swished his washcloth across it, front and back.
‘Life can be sad,’ he said quietly.
I wanted to argue with him, tell him he was wrong. That maybe his life was, but that it wasn’t like that for other people. But it seemed cruel to say it out loud, to rub it in that his life wasn’t happy.
Henry Hoey Hobson Page 10
