In the deceptive dusk light, I could see Lucy sitting on the swing, not moving any more than the merest hint of a sway. She was staring, staring down at someone crouched in front of her, someone with long, long reddish-blonde hair, jeans and a floaty crème top. On the ground beside the figure, a large orange handbag, big enough to fit a few small, yappy dogs in. Not police-issue.
I started down the stairs, the cold fingers making themselves known again. ‘Lucy?’
I know that yelling out when you’re sneaking up on someone is counterproductive, but something primal forced the noise out of me, even though immediately afterwards I wanted to swallow the sound. Sometimes, we do dumb things. Sometimes we just want to give the darkness a chance to run away from us. The figure shot up, not tall, turned around and gave me a brief glimpse of a pale face scattered with golden freckles, thick-rimmed glasses, a slash of a mouth pulled into a snarl. Her features were pretty enough in a geek-girl kind of way, but with an almost-round head perched on wide shoulders, barely a hint of a neck.
Then a bend of the knees, long fingers curling around the handle of the tote and a leap towards the fence, a scramble of boots and arse and legs, until she disappeared over and into the next yard. The sound of a dog barking, then whimpering in fear, then more scrambling over another nice middle-class family-home fence, and so on until the sound of something tidying up loose ends dropped away.
I crouched in front of the little girl, taking up the space where the visitor had been and looked up into the child’s face.
Eyes dark as death, the skin of her face wrinkled as any British Museum mummy, lips parted, striated like dried figs, cheekbones standing out like a relief map, nostrils gaping wide. The breaths issuing from her mouth were shallow, hot and arid. I felt my heart turn small in my chest, constricting at the idea that there was nothing I could do. I held her tiny hands and watched, watched for I don’t know how long until the exhalations became moist once more, the skin smoothed, the features filled out, and she struggled to pull her fingers away from my grip. I let her go, waiting for the horror to die in her eyes, for her to calm down and remember me well, and not as a threat.
When her lips, pink and full once more, opened and she began to cry, she let me gather her up and hold her while she shook, wiping her nose on her pink Hello Kitty t-shirt.
Up on the deck, immobile and lost, Anna watched helplessly.
That was okay.
I had a scent. I had an idea. I needed an ally.
***
‘Is the kid okay?’ Burleigh sounded like he’d been drinking for a while. I kind of hoped that was just the effect of long hours looking for the lost girl, Charlie, and not from hugging a bottle. Charitable isn’t my default setting, but I decided to give it a go.
‘Yeah. Got her and her aunt stashed in a safe house and I’ve got people watching the place.’ Strictly speaking, the Ottoman Motel wasn’t a safe house, but it did have a lot of occupants who (a) owed me, and (b) had more than one eye in the back of their collective heads. And those folk weren’t the sort to run in the face of a possible mini-apocalypse—in fact, an apocalypse was likely to make them feel right at home, so I felt fairly sure that Lucy and Anna would be safe from any second attempts on the kid’s life.
I’d questioned her closely, but she’d had nothing more to tell me. I’d been coming at it all wrong—I thought she’d seen something, but that wasn’t it at all. What had come through—and I knew what it was now—had seen her. Had seen the whole family and worked out that that was the place to start. Followed them home, waited, and watched, but in waiting it had missed Lucy. Then moved on to other families—just how many we couldn’t be sure—and gone back for Lucy. Say what you will, but cuckoos are thorough; it’s all or nothing. It only takes one to work its way through a city, tunnelling through the population as efficiently as a mole undermines a field.
And it shouldn’t have been here. Shouldn’t have been able to get through. Apart from the fact they were supposed to be extinct—a quick call to Sukie told me that. But whatever was going on in the city was weakening the walls between, making the barriers thin, making a breach between us and the space in-between, the howling void where bad things live, easier and easier.
‘Okay. That’s okay then.’
‘No, Burleigh, it’s fucking not okay.’ Which was what I’d been explaining to him for fifteen minutes. ‘This thing eats its way through families.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, like one of those succubus things.’
‘No, not like that. This thing isn’t after sex. It wants attention. All the attention anyone might ever focus on anything—this thing wants it all. It will sit in front of a person and suck everything out of them just for the buzz of utter, concentrated, undivided attention. That’s why their mothers leave them in other nests. Get out of your fucking concrete midden and get moving!’
‘But there’s just one. It’s going to have to wait, Fassbinder. I’ve got every bastard breathing down my neck about this lost kid. Even that arse of a Premier was on the phone, trying to tell me my fucking job. Chances are, I’m here today, gone tomorrow. This thing, this weird shit, is just going to have to wait in line.’
I was silent, long enough to reign in my temper and long enough for him to think twice about pissing me off too much.
‘Look,’ he said, paused, started again. ‘Look: you take care of this. Do whatever you have to and I will cover your arse. Just make it go away, okay? Just do it.’
I hung up without thanking him for the carte blanche. Burleigh wasn’t a bad guy, and he wasn’t the worst copper I’d dealt with. He was just lazy and unprepared for the kinds of bizarre he was having to handle. Like most people he just preferred to ignore the things that didn’t fit into the everyday. I, apparently, had no such option. I was the go-to-girl for weird shit.
Yay, me.
I headed back towards the library precinct. As I got closer I could hear the rhythm of the ice-cream bucket drum, still going strong. It gave me hope and I picked up my pace.
***
‘I can’t believe you talked me into this.’
I’m not a patient woman, and hearing this for the tenth time was wearing away at my nerves. Still, I gritted my teeth and said, ‘And I appreciate it. And you won’t regret it. You’re helping me and you’re helping Burleigh, and you’re helping the city. It’s all good.’
‘How is this all good? How the fuck is this all good?’ she hissed. ‘If anything happens to that thing, my boss will skin me alive.’
I knew her boss, and yeah, there was a good chance Mona would do precisely that and use the skin to cover a book. Beside Sammi was the blue and white vase, recently liberated from the Queensland Terrace by her own fair hand; next to it, a Collins diary, A5, to act as a lid when required. On the concrete expanse between us (crouched down behind a combination of drought-resistant shrubs and some brickwork barriers) and where the land drops away to the boardwalk and the black ribbon of the river, was a small figure, standing solitary in the pool of light from one of the street lamps.
A tiny piece of dangling bait, tethered by the circle of yellow, and wearing a pink Hello Kitty t-shirt.
Christ, I hoped it worked.
Normally at that time there’d be people wandering around, stealing the wi-fi in the library atrium, stealing kisses in the shadows that embrace the building, but not then, and not for a lot of nights in a row. People might have been pretending everything was okay, but that didn’t mean they wanted to venture outside into the darkness. I was listening so hard to the silence that my ears ached.
Then, click, click, click.
My tiny scapegoat’s head tilted, just a little, but she kept her face down, shadowed. I think I saw her shake, but couldn’t be sure; maybe just my imagination.
From the opposite direction, click, click, click.
And the smell: expensive perfume with an undercurrent of rot, a limning of decay. I recognised it from the elegant woman that morning and from the backyard of Ann
a Armistead’s house. Two women, one scent. It was how they recognised each other, mother to daughter. Two of them; it was how they could cover so much ground, so quickly, so many families.
Terrible, horrible efficiency all converging on one fragile lure.
The clicking sound was doubled; quadrupled. Not just the tap-tap-tap of heels, but voices, clicks and whirs of greeting and greed, anticipation. I elbowed Sammi, breaking her out of her staring trance, and she passed me the vase, whispering ‘Be careful’.
I mouthed fuck off but it was too late. Even her softest whisper had alerted the cuckoos, their heads swivelling, searching. It didn’t slow them down, though, they kept moving towards the bait, faster and faster, long fingers reaching, eyes growing larger, gleaming yellow, lips sliding back, ready to begin the process of draining every last drop of attention out of their victim. A few more steps, a few more steps, that was all I needed.
That’s when the scapegoat’s nerve broke and she released a high-pitched scream that stopped the cuckoos in their tracks. Biting down on a curse, I stood and aimed the mouth of the vase at the pair of them, hoping they were both within range of the aperture. I could hear the fetish rolling around inside the jar, anxious for company. First the mother, then the daughter, both pulled and elongated as if caught in a wind tunnel. Clothes torn and shredded, handbags and shoes flew towards me like weapons, but the vase swallowed them whole, its maw expanding to receive whatever came its way. The two cuckoos didn’t go quietly but they did go.
Bernhoff held the Collins diary over the mouth of the jar and I struggled to hold the whole construct steady as it kicked and bucked, the thing inside it warring with the captive meat, doing its work as the Maker had assured me it would. He’d stake his life on it, he’d said. Mostly I hung onto it because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to listen to the librarian whine if it got broken.
Eventually, the storm subsided. The shaking stopped and all I could feel was something slushy and heavy swirling about inside. I sat heavily on the cement; the heat of the day was still radiating up through it. Bernhoff was doing something that appeared to be a snoopy dance. The scapegoat came towards me, stubby finger pointed at me like a weapon, profanity pouring from lips that usually wore a lurid shade of purple lipstick. Sukie had agreed to forego the make-up this time and shrug on Lucy’s clothes. The scent, I had bet, would bring the cuckoos out. Sukie might only have been three foot five tall, but her temper was six foot seven. I owed her big time.
‘That was too fucking close, Fassbinder! What were you playing at?’
I thought she might just kick me while I was down, but she restrained herself, which I appreciated. Behind her the darkness split and the homeless guy loped up, grinning from ear to ear. He pointed at the vase.
‘Mine?’
‘Your ju-ju worked, so as promised, whatever’s left is yours,’ I agreed and as Sammi began to protest, I dropped the makeshift lid and gently upended the vase. A pungent mix of fleshy sludge hit the concrete, smacking like wet frogs on tiles. The smell was unique to say the least. A crop of spiders with more legs than I could count, crawled out of the meaty mess. My new friend sat down next to the shifting stinking mass and began to eat. His hands, now that I looked at them closely, had only three spade-like digits, each tipped with a shiny sharp nail.
I stood and handed the vase back to Bernhoff, who held it as far away from herself as she could as she sputtered, ‘That’s disgusting.’
I wasn’t sure if she meant the meal or the state of the vase.
‘All I promised was that it would be in one piece.’ I pulled out my phone and dialled Burleigh.
It rang out. I gave up. I guessed it could wait.
He’d probably still be here tomorrow.
Cloudburst - Steven Amsterdam
The memo couldn’t have been clearer. Actually, it could have been clearer, if it had simply stated that all junior staff would be gone by the end of the fiscal year, but it basically achieved the same effect with jargon about overhead costs and staffing and ‘these difficult times’. By some bureaucratic measure, the library wasn’t as profitable as it used to be and there would be changes. More to the point, Sammi, only six months into the job and as junior as could be, wasn’t on the list to receive said memo, so she was left to assume that these difficult times would be offloaded onto her.
‘It’s going to be biblical!’ An unshaven and unwashed prophet was leaning over the service desk, trying to excite Mona about something. From inside the office, Sammi could smell this guy by looking at him: essence of sour ass crack. He wasn’t a regular though. Maybe he was from one of the suburban branches but had taken it upon himself to tour all the libraries with his glad tidings.
‘Are there plans for the inundation back there? Anywhere? This is where they have to be! You must have them stashed away in the deepest part of the stacks and maybe no one’s even told you about them. But you are the government. You better know. You’re right on the river, you’d have to be prepared for this. It’s going to be dog kill dog out there if it hits and we’ve got no plans.’
Good luck with that. Mona, as senior as could be, would not now, nor would ever, be flapped. Sammi watched her boss sit up on her stool, tucking her skirt under her and veering slightly away from the customer’s stench. With an administrative-only edge of empathy, she told him, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe we have what you’re after. What if you hop on the net and try to find a citation or a specific government department. With a specific title, I might be able to provide more direction.’ She turned her head in the direction of the next customer and softened her expression, ‘Good afternoon, what can I help you with?’ The slumping teenaged boy with the backpack that weighed more than he would ever weigh, stepped forward. The prophet was dismissed.
Mona, while listening to some rambling request related to planaria, stole a quick glance into the office, made eye contact with Sammi and, through her pleasant smile, ordered Sammi to come out to provide backup.
The memo laid there, on the desk where someone (Mona?) had dropped it. Innocent as a piece of paper, menacing as unemployment. Was it left there for her to see, so she could know what was coming, or was it put down in a moment of mental abstraction, when someone at the counter had tapped the little bell?
Sammi straightened the paper on the desk so it squared with the edge. On consideration, she tilted it back to how it was.
A second glance, less friendly but still beckoning, came from Mona, and Sammi went out to do her job. The swiftness of her movement was so efficient and obedient that it almost felt sarcastic. Mona didn’t seem to observe any difference in behaviour and simply waved the next customer over in Sammi’s direction.
A man with a tartan scarf that hid a double, possibly triple, chin. He talked past her, scanning the titles on the Hold shelf, and asked for her recommendation for a book club. Easy, Sammi reached under the counter and pulled out the list of books that might serve the purpose. He took the page politely, but kept looking behind her, as if Sammi might be saving the good books for someone else.
The customers dealt with, Sammi stared off at the drizzle outside. This was not what the radio had promised that morning. The sun looked like it still might break through. If she could get away at five exactly, she might make it to the ocean for a single solitary swim. The tide had been rougher with her lately and she had not intention of letting it get the upper hand.
To keep blood pumping to her brain, she took the stairs up to five to steal a peek at the study group that had commandeered one of the meeting rooms. They seemed to be arguing about literary theory. They had that look about them. One of them caught her looking in and flipped her the bird. Enjoying the brief workout, she took the stairs two at a time back down to the information desk.
Should she to talk to Mona about the memo? If she did, she would have to cop to reading something that wasn’t intended for her. But maybe Mona would have been eager to discuss it. She had enjoyed the motherly angle with Sammi and
if she could have helped, Sammi was sure she would have. Not that there was much Mona would have been able to do. Sammi was considering Mona’s powerlessness, Sammi’s powerlessness, everyone’s powerlessness, when the top of a brown frizzed head appeared, just over the edge of the counter.
‘Excuse me, miss. Where have you got books for children about the weather?’
Sammi leaned over and looked at the face of a little girl. Sweet, possibly undernourished, with a few crumbs of snot under one nostril. Sammi automatically glanced around, looking for a parent but didn’t see anyone, except the prophet heading into the men’s toilet, no doubt to shower at the sink.
‘Please,’ the girl said. ‘I need to know.’
‘Don’t fret, we’ll find what you need.’ Still scanning and finding no potential parent, Sammi told Mona, ‘I’ll be back.’ Mona, who seemed to communicate with different gradations of smiles, gave an absent-minded nod.
Once Sammi circled the counter she had the full picture—a red dress with pockets and pink patent leather, scuffed. The overall impression was neglect. Some parents did that, parked their kids at the library for a few hours while they went off on chores. As if it would always be storytime here and the librarians would know what to do when the little darlings cried.
The girl led Sammi to the children’s corner, yammering all the way.
‘Actually, I want to know all about the storms. I want to know where they’re coming from, why they’re coming. What makes some storms worse than others? How come the ground doesn’t just turn into a lake? How does it all fall into the sea? And what will the fish do? Like that. Do you know? Actually, it’s kind of urgent.’
‘No, I studied it myself a long time ago but I’ve forgotten. That’s the good thing about being here is we can find the answer. I think we have a few science books that might be able to give us some clues. Can I ask you something?’
Willow Pattern Page 2
