Dyschronia

by Jennifer Mills

  ‘How much do you think is reasonable?’ Jean says.

  This is what happens next. This is what we are going to do.

  ‘Hey?’ The woman squints at us, all hint of a smile now lost.

  ‘How much do you think you could pay?’

  ‘We’re, um, we’re travelling, we need money for food and petrol and stuff,’ says the other one. She sounds like a Brit. ‘I didn’t think there was another charge.’

  ‘Twenty dollars all right?’ asks Curdie. His voice is tuckshop-kind, his fingers busy.

  ‘Each,’ says Jean, with more authority. ‘Of course there’s a charge. Let’s all be realistic.’

  They empty their pockets, pulling out coins and cigarette papers and seashells, the detritus of travel. There is a mildly resentful huddle. They find a twenty, a couple of origami fives, more coins, half a roll of breath mints. We hear them muttering about who bought lunch, and who brought ganja. The other girl, the non-Brit, approaches Jean with her two hands full and counts the cash out carefully.

  ‘Sorry for the change,’ she says.

  ‘Enjoy your visit,’ says Jean. ‘Tell your friends.’

  They pile into the car, a little miffed. We wave happily as they drive off. The faces of the two men stare out the back window above their blanket like the doleful faces of hounds kept too long indoors. This feeling we have could be excitement, or fear, or just indigestion.

  ‘How strange,’ says Jean. She stares at the bills in her hand as if they’re petals fallen there in some delightful breeze.

  ‘See,’ says Roger. ‘The place has got something. It’s worth something.’

  13

  Ivy watched Sam sleep it off, her usually serious expression relaxed into that sweet, restful state that came after pain. She was growing so fast. The bones in her face seemed more fragile now than they had been when she was a baby, a time that felt like months ago, and centuries. The face of a child could change in an instant, like a flipbook of random memories, while still being wholly itself. One day she might disappear into whatever nightmares seized her. One day they might not recognise each other.

  When Sam woke, her eyes were elsewhere.

  ‘He can watch me,’ she said.

  ‘Sam.’ Her attention seemed to shift. ‘What do you mean?’ But Sam turned without responding. She was talking in her sleep, was all.

  ‘He knows already,’ she said.

  ‘Shhh. Go back to sleep.’

  Ivy pulled the curtains closed against the fading day. There had been no voices out there in the night, not for months now; no more bottles had been thrown, but she still listened out for them rolling down the driveway. She would always be careful now. She would lock her doors.

  Three migraines in six weeks, coming like aftershocks. The stress had clearly made it worse, whatever it was. And if that was true, then maybe there was something to the theory it was psychological. It was hard to tell what was normal in an eleven-year-old. Sam was growing secretive, already as sulky as a teenager. Everyone said they started younger now; everyone said the hardest part lay ahead. She was growing out of her child-self, seemed taller every month, but she was also frighteningly thin. It was hard to get her to eat lately. Before a migraine she was often nauseous, and in recovery she slept for hours. Ivy left her, crept down the hall to lie in her own bed, grateful for its cool privacy. She tried to sleep, but kept listening out for Sam’s breathing in the next room. She wanted to make a plan, to have a diagnosis, be the person who knew what to do. She thought back over all the theories, all the doctors, but their words were empty, useless as noise. She thought of the words in her daughter’s dream: He knows already . . . Sam wouldn’t remember what it meant. She was only talking in her sleep.

  ‘He read about you in the paper,’ said Roger, handing her the latest edition. ‘It’s only fair.’ Ivy wanted to clip him over the ear with it, but she unfolded the slim Caller. A forty-ish man in a good shirt stood in front of a pile of rubble, all that was left of the demolished silos. She looked for the trace of grisly stains on the concrete, but there were none.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Ed Williams. He’s come all this way to run the site revitalisation. Probably the only person who applied for the tender.’

  Roger had chosen an unflattering angle, but the man in the photo looked bright and energetic. She stuffed the paper into her handbag. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘He’s been asking after Sam. I thought you’d want to know this guy was snooping around.’

  If it wasn’t for you, he’d never have heard of us, Ivy wanted to say. It wouldn’t be fair, but what was, any more? With the plant gone, they would probably have to close the paper. She let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder, watched the sorrow-mark between his eyes go deeper.

  Five minutes before her shift ended, he came into the shop for a litre of orange juice and the same paper. Ivy was standing in front of a row of cereal boxes, finishing up an order, when he brushed past. They nodded to each other, but she wasn’t sure he knew who she was. Maybe she had him at a disadvantage. He wasn’t much to look at up close, not until she caught the blue in his eyes, lighter than either sky or water.

  He lingered out the front for a few minutes, drinking the juice. She watched him between the notices in the shop window for second-hand furniture, people clearing out their garages. Everyone was trying to scrape it together. Something had to give. He didn’t look back at her; maybe he couldn’t see inside. After a while he wandered out of frame and she returned to her list.

  She stepped into the bright sun, feeling for her cigarettes. The man was still there, leaning against the window of the vacant shop next door.

  ‘Thirsty?’ she said. The empty bottle was still in his hand. He glanced at it.

  ‘Not any more.’

  They eyed each other for a while. Ivy had the strangest feeling that she knew him; it was almost déjà vu.

  ‘Come for a drive,’ he said.

  She might have blushed. ‘I’m still in my uniform.’

  ‘I’m only going up to the Aspco site. I could use some company.’ He beeped the doors of his silver car, city-clean; she should have seen it.

  ‘No-one else is keen?’ She was half-giving him a way out, half-teasing.

  ‘No-one else is brave enough.’ He stretched out one arm like an usher. It was over-familiar, but something in his voice made her think fuck it.

  She smiled, put out her cigarette, and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘There’s a lot of bad memories,’ she said, tugging the seatbelt into place. He was already beside her.

  ‘They’re a superstitious bunch, your neighbours,’ he said.

  They drove up Samphire Street in agreeable silence. The silver car’s air conditioning was colder than the Foodtown’s fridges, and her arms prickled. The old track to the asphalt plant was still posted with the cream and green Authorised Personnel Only sign that Aspco had left there, the letters peeling away and the little moon logo in the corner sporting a black mark, stark as a bullet hole; a closer look revealed that it was, in fact, a bullet hole, right through the rocket’s eye. The gate was open and the track was sealed, but the demolition trucks had torn great gashes in the asphalt. He parked at the gate and they got out and walked.

  The air smelled of petrol by-products, fresh road, fresher griefs. The plant may have been knocked down but its shadow persisted, a print made of concrete and rubble. The hills didn’t look right without the smokestacks at the end. There was something unfinished about them. Ed followed her across a weedy field towards some red gums spread out in a messy row. The river’s banks supported the only trees in sight, but the river itself was dry. Along the opposite bank, tree roots hung thirsty and exposed, the soil eroding from under them.

  ‘What are you planning to do with it?’ She discouraged a fly.

  ‘I’m getting it rezoned for housing
,’ he said, apparently serious.

  ‘Come on. No-one’s going to want to live here.’

  ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘I’m still thinking through the potential.’

  He had an accent, English maybe. The fly was circling back, in a lazy way. ‘Where did you say you were from?’

  Ed squinted into the distance. ‘Queensland. I ran away to London to work in finance. Then I spent a bit of time in Hong Kong, consulting.’ He was avoiding something, but she didn’t press him.

  Ivy tried to see the site from his perspective. As an outsider, as someone who could see the value. From the right angle, with a bit of landscaping, it was just possible to imagine living up here. The hills had that pinkish colour that was nice in the evening. Then the wind picked up, and she blinked against the dust. The dead sticks of seed heads, weeds or feral wheat, shivered and rattled the way chandeliers behaved in a disaster movie when the ship ran aground. It was hard to imagine what Hong Kong or London were like up close, or how someone who’d been to them would end up coming to a place like this. Something must have gone badly.

  ‘Watch out for snakes down there,’ she called. Ed was scrambling down the slope. She stood her ground as he waded through the knotted grasses at the edge. The cavity of the Luck, its carved channel, contained nothing but a black stain, asphalt’s remnants. He stood gazing down at it. His hair was thinning at the back.

  ‘The river’s ephemeral,’ she called. She wasn’t sure he could hear her.

  He picked his way along the bank for a while, slipped and disappeared, then reappeared grinning, dusting the earth from one trouser leg. He waved like a boy, began to pick his way back to her side.

  ‘Thanks for the tour,’ he said. ‘You’re not afraid of the place, I take it?’

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’ She watched him carefully.

  ‘Me neither,’ he said.

  They fell easily into step. ‘The council’s given me a load of trees to plant,’ he said. ‘Their idea of revitalisation.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Housing’s not the only option.’

  They were nearly back at the car, and he stopped to get his keys out of a trouser pocket. ‘Anyway, I was planning to stick around for a while.’

  Ivy pulled prickles from the hem of her work shirt. ‘I think you might be mad.’

  He laughed and beeped the lock. ‘Probably it’s some kind of midlife crisis.’

  The laugh was sweet. He was old enough for midlife, but she felt older somehow. That thing men did to get themselves looked after; she tried to find it bothersome. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I just have a feeling about the place,’ he said, a little vaguely.

  So much for no ghosts. ‘What sort of a feeling?’

  The afternoon sun was strong. Ivy realised she was thirsty.

  ‘It’s like a kind of music in my head,’ he said. ‘A hum.’ He was leaning against the car, one leg still red and grey with dust. She hadn’t expected him to be mystical, but it wasn’t off-putting. Maybe it would help. He reached into the car and handed her a bottle of water.

  It was cool in her hand. ‘I have to get my kid,’ she said.

  She’d been satisfied with things the way they were, even with the double load, the extra weight of Sam’s migraines, and the judgement she got from some quarters. But something about Ed felt inevitable. He was so familiar. If Ivy didn’t trust it, she knew better than to argue with it. She kept it to herself for a week but there wasn’t much Sam didn’t notice. At her age, she might find a new person threatening, get jealous, or use him as an excuse to push some boundaries. So Ivy was careful to explain the situation thoroughly, and invite Ed round for dinner to make the introduction safe for both of them. But when she finally set eyes on him, Sam didn’t seem too bothered. All she said was ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  14

  Whatever the kids are doing to spread the word, it works. Soon there are visitors every day, sometimes several groups in a day. They’re an odd bunch: photographers, writers, people who collect places like this, the morbid and curious, the gloaters and the sad. We open and close our doors, we smile and answer the same few questions. We get used to being an attraction.

  At first we go out of our way to make them welcome. We let the visitors into our homes, bring them tea, show them around. They get up close to how we live, exclaim over the details. We make it fun for them. It’s a little like we’re on holiday ourselves. They take pictures of us, and we’re happy to pose. We don’t take their money directly any more; there’s an app for it now, which Jill has signed us up for.

  It’s in the app where they leave their reviews of us, and that’s how we learn that they don’t really like the part where they have to talk to us. We’re seen as an interference, an awkward obligation; we ruin the experience. Everyone complains about the transactional nature of it, or the inconvenience, or the embarrassment, or how it feels so inauthentic. So now, when we see them coming, we hide.

  We’re glad to have more time for our own activities. We stay involved. We have art clubs, book clubs, Discussion, crafternoons, even cocktail parties. We follow the news, we have opinions. We keep our minds busy. In a funny sort of way, we are still doing what we planned to do. It might not look anything like we imagined, but it’s still a theme park. Only the themes have changed.

  We feel good about the future, for the first time since the sea. We even go down there to have a look, walking along the track to the dunes, hoping something might have changed, but the sea is obstinate in its absence; the shore is miles away. All the way out to the horizon, all we can see is flat sand with jagged rocks sticking out of it. The bones are just bones now. The off smell has all but gone, and the seaweed has dried to patches of a crisp, black matting. It felt like the end of the world, but now it just feels quiet.

  ‘The crows have gone,’ Jean points out.

  It’s true. The birds have finished their gory meal and made themselves scarce. Now that we think of it, all kinds of birds have dwindled in number since the sea. When we listen out, we can’t hear a single one. At our feet, tiny crabs thrive with nothing to eat them, though none have grown bigger than an inch.

  We turn for home. The pigface is beginning to creep down from the dunes, crawling out over the scar of sand, covering the remains of old driftwood and plastics. Nothing else will wash up on this beach now. Quayde points out a couple of sparrows in the saltbush scrub ahead, but his eyes are sharper than ours; they’re gone by the time we get there.

  Jill sends us the money through the app and we can use it to buy things, even at the Foodtown. That era when we worked – had jobs at the plant or our trades, were paid each fortnight – seems quaint now. Her generation’s much more flexible. The money comes and goes, but it’s not too bad, considering. It’s only pocket change for us, but technically we’re retired, and most of our savings are still tied up in our investments. Though we don’t hear much about them these days.

  We begin to spend a little on our homes in the village, but for bigger purchases we have to use credit. You can still get everything delivered. We do our best to contact the authorities, to try to make sense of our status, because we don’t want to get into the bad kind of debt. But no-one wants to send us any statements, or tell us our limits.

  Jean tried the insurance company, but they’re no help. Act of God, apparently. The last bastion of religious belief. We made a list of the investors we remember, names of people and companies Ed mentioned, but some of them aren’t registered in Australia and some of them don’t exist online. Whoever they are, they’re leaving us alone. It’s possible they’ve forgotten we’re here.

  Once in a while, we try the bank, but we usually find we are either talking to the wrong people or we are the wrong people. They have rebranded twice and they say they can’t give us any figures until they get in contact with the owners.

  �
�Don’t we own it?’ Jean asks. ‘Some of it?’

  ‘It’s still in the name of Renewal Industries. They’re not answering their phone.’

  ‘Can I have that number?’ asks Jean.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ the woman from the bank says.

  ‘Well, what about the CDC. We still have accounts, right?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Clapstone Development Corporation,’ she says, patient and clear.

  ‘Are you an office bearer?’

  ‘Treasurer.’ She gives her name and birthdate, spells the name out, waits an age. A piano circles.

  ‘I’m sorry, that name’s not listed. All I can advise is to check the insolvency notices. They’re freely available online.’ She hangs up.

  We look it up. Freely available isn’t the same as easily accessible. When at last we find it, there’s no notice of our being declared bankrupt. Jean goes back to the home page and does a search of the registry. There’s no listing for the CDC at all. She looks for anything with Clapstone in it. No results.

  It’s like we never existed.

  ‘It had to be registered,’ says Trent. ‘We had all those funds. We had a logo.’

  We gather our courage and ring the bank back. After we’ve told the whole story to three different people, all of whom tell us to ring the Consumer Complaints Commission, a young man gets on the line. He sounds like he’s barely out of high school, but his voice is kind.

  ‘I wouldn’t dig too deep on this one,’ he tells us. ‘Between you and me, I wouldn’t be afraid to spend. If the company wants to disappear, why not let them? Things are out of order everywhere these days. People can slip through the cracks.’

  15

  ‘I have to go to work,’ Ivy said. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day.’

  ‘Just go,’ Sam said with her eyes closed. She had already vomited twice that morning, and opening them made the walls reel. ‘I won’t be alone.’