Journeys of the Mind

by Sonny Whitelaw Sean Williams

  It's dark by the time I get home and I fill a kerosene lamp, adjusting the flame. Mosquitoes come with the night, persistent and angry. I light the coils and their familiar acrid smell comforts me. When I change into my nightgown my stomach grumbles making me think of dinner. The power is still off so it's just as well we didn't get rid of the icebox. It's on the back landing.

  I'm putting fresh water in the cooling tray when I hear shuffling from the yard below. It's either one of those wretched goannas digging the pie out of the compost, or the children. Both as bad as each other.

  The steps creak. I reach for the broom. The goannas have taken to prowling the verandas looking for food, scratching at the doors. Seems the bush is trying to invade my very home.

  It's a relief when the blond head of the eldest girl appears in the dim light. Then I remember I'm wearing my nightgown and stiffen.

  'Mum says she's awful sorry ‘bout the melon,’ the girl whispers from the second top step. She blinks her fringe from her eyes and wrinkles her sunburned nose. She'd clean up pretty. A wild flower growing on the rubbish heap. ‘Mum sent this over.'

  She pulls her hand out from behind her back, offering a lemon. It's late in the season and the lemon's over-ripe, probably half rotten. I thank her as I take it, meaning to toss it in the compost. Perhaps I've been too judgmental.

  She gives me a relieved smile and glances into my lamplit kitchen. ‘Your place is so pretty.'

  On impulse I beckon her inside and select a jar of mulberry jam from the pantry. When I was a child jam was a real treat. ‘This is for your mother.'

  Her smile warms me. It strikes me that God moves in mysterious ways. Maybe the children are his blessing in disguise.

  Her father's ute roars down the dirt road and she shudders. ‘Better go. Dad's in a funny mood.'

  I don't say what I really think of her dad. She scurries off, I walk around the veranda to check that all the windows and French doors are locked on three sides of the house. The air is the same temperature as my skin, promising more rain, and the mossies are terrible. I am so weary it is an effort to go through my nightly ritual.

  After I kill all the mossies that have hidden inside my net and tuck in the ends, I'm safe. I lie there, in the heat of the closed up house on the stiff, starched sheets and pillowcases, but sleep eludes me. I can still see the father's expression as he realises he's eaten goanna. I smile, serves him right. Men with their weakness for alcohol and anything in a skirt!

  A sharp cry pierces the night. A woman's tirade is answered by a deep male voice. The language makes me blush. I turn over, shutting my ears to it.

  Silence, then her pitiful pleas.

  His voice berating her. Crack. Crack.

  Gunshots?

  I am out of bed, pushing the netting aside, swollen feet on the cool polished floor before I realise it. Fear for her makes my heart thunder.

  Were they gunshots or a car back firing? Should I call the police? He's always knocking her around and she never reports it.

  I open the window, which looks down the dead-end street. The air is cooler outside, filled with the sounds of the night. My blood drums in my ears, along with the whine of the mosquitoes and the cries of the bats as they fly overhead to invade the town and raid the fruit trees.

  The single streetlight isn't on and their house is only a pale shape, with the dark bush behind it. No lights in the windows. The moon comes out from behind a cloud. Now I can see the overgrown yard, the lemon tree. Nothing moves.

  I am about to go back to bed when a little shadow runs towards the bush on the high side.

  Crack. It falls and does not move. A little body lost in the long grass.

  My breath catches in my throat. Their father's gone troppo. I must call the police. Fumbling, I close the window.

  I don't dare light the kero lamp; just as well I know every step of my house. It's very dark because the verandas hold back the moonlight. My fingers shake. For a moment I can't remember the number I used to know by heart. Two shots in rapid succession make me whimper. I clutch the receiver and find the right hole by counting around the circle. I'm on the third digit when I realise there's no dial tone. I jab the receiver's cradle but the phone lines are out.

  I imagine the children running, bent double in the long grass as he stalks them. I must get help. But what can I do? I could creep down the back steps and walk into town, but it would all be over by the time I got back.

  There's a soft, persistent tapping at the living room's French doors. I freeze. The back doorknob rattles.

  Some of the children must have escaped. They've run to me. They'll bring him down on me. My heart falters, I feel ill.

  I can hear their little voices pleading. Let me in. Let me in!

  I taste bile on my tongue. They scurry along the veranda, taping at the windows, trying the locks. Weeping.

  Lord, you said, suffer the little children to come unto me, but not like this. I'm just an old woman against a man with a gun. Fear overcomes me. I sink to the floor, pressing my back against the wall under the phone table.

  Huddling there, I look deep into the dark night of my soul and find I am less than I thought I was. God, give me strength!

  But before the Lord can, heavy footsteps thud up the front stairs. The verandah boards shift under the father's weight. The children shriek. Lord, strike down this man and deliver us from evil!

  But my prayers fall on deaf ears. The father chases them. The children scream and run for the back steps.

  I can't get enough air. I still hear the echo of their voices, pleading with me to take them in. I failed them.

  The creaking boards tell me the devil himself has returned. He taps on the front door calling my name. ‘You gotta listen to me. We're both in danger. Those kids, they're evil, just like their Mum. For Chrissake open the door!'

  He means to silence me. My mouth is too dry to swallow.

  He moves along the veranda. A gentle drumming on the roof heralds more rain. It drowns out his footsteps. I strain to hear him. With one shove he could force the French doors. There's nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

  I will not cower here. Lord, you said, Vengeance is Mine, but it's clear I must look after myself. I stand up and prepare to confront the devil.

  My mind runs faster than my feet. There are no weapons in the house, Evan had seen too many accidental shootings, but we do have the gas. I can still save the children.

  'Just a minute. I'll get my robe,’ I call, then I scramble to the kitchen and turn the gas on. Through the dining room windows I see him marching around the veranda, heading for the back door.

  I undo the lock then move to the far side of the kitchen with the kero lamp and matches ready. The rain drowns the sound of the hissing gas jets. One giant ball of flame and he'll be on his way to hell where he belongs.

  He opens the back door, dark against the night.

  'Come in,’ I tell the devil. ‘I'll just light the lamp.'

  There's a taunting childish cry from the garden. He forgets me and charges down the steps, his weight making the whole house shudder.

  I run after him, though I don't know what I can do.

  Lightning illuminates the yard as I reach the bottom step. The children have climbed the mango tree. Their father stands below, shot gun raised.

  Suddenly, something rears up behind him. It's tall as a man, tail extended for balance, short forearms extended, jaws open. I've seen small lizards stand up and run on their back legs, but never goannas. Another, then another rear up, surrounding him.

  He screams. Fires. Misses. They strike before he can fire again.

  The lightning fades and night closes in, leaving the after-image on my mind's eye. There's a terrible scuffling, a grunting that isn't him. Lightning flashes again. I see long, sturdy shapes pinning him on the ground, tearing at him, tails swaying. The children cheer and jeer, little savages dancing on the tree limbs.

  Then the dark reclaims the night. I cannot move. He was right. I w
as blind to their true nature.

  The rain steadies, drowning the dying sounds. Soon they'll be coming for me.

  I'm shaking so bad, I can hardly climb the steps. Heart in my mouth I run into the kitchen, almost skidding on the wet lino. I slam the door shut and lock it. The matches spill as I try to light the lamp.

  Small, cool hands take them from me.

  'Not yet,’ the eldest girl warns. ‘There's still some gas about. I turned it off and opened the windows, but...'

  Something scrapes at the door. A protest dies in my throat as she opens it. The children file into the kitchen, heavy with the scent of the cool night air and the fecund bush. She silences them with a word here and a quick cuff there.

  Lightning flares. I see my kitchen has been invaded by feral figures, streaked with mud and blood. A blond haired boy of about five whimpers, holding his side.

  'Up on the table,’ she orders.

  'I'll get my medicine chest,’ I tell them in a surprisingly steady voice.

  But the middle girl stops me. ‘We look after our own.'

  The other children move in on him. In the dim light they seem to be licking his wounds. The world goes grey.

  When it clears I find myself sitting on the kitchen chair, my head in my hands. God has abandoned me. The heart just goes out of me.

  Finally the eldest girl lights the lamp and turns to face me. Her brothers and sisters stare unblinking.

  'You're not going to tell anyone what you saw,’ she says. ‘No one would believe you. Dad didn't believe. Then when he did, he killed Mum because he didn't understand. He tried to fight the bush. He refused to see that if you accept it, it will look after you. Or make sure that you're looked after.’ She looks at me speculatively. ‘Will you look after us?'

  As I look deep into her eyes, I realise the bush has not only reclaimed the land, it has laid claim to me.

  * * *

  THE END OF THE WORLD BEGINS AT HOME

  Sean Williams

  The opposite of a correct statement

  is a false statement.

  But the opposite of a profound truth

  may well be another profound truth.

  Niels Bohr

  Peter's day had been almost tolerable until the insane Japanese poets caught up with him.

  Your cells will DIE!

  The cells in YOUR BODY

  Will commit SUICIDE!

  The pamphlet had been thrust into his hand. Cheaply printed on rough, recycled paper, it proclaimed its lunatic haiku in bold print. Otherwise, it was blank. He automatically turned it over and found on the other side an even briefer message:

  You have NO-ONE to blame

  but YOURSELF!

  Underneath this was a simple design: a thick circle with a stylised arrow through it. A design he knew well—the symbol of OWE. He snarled by reflex and screwed the pamphlet into a fist.

  Carol! How could you have fallen for this shit?

  He turned to find the person who had shoved it at him. Only one face stood out from the crowd: yellow hair and grey eyes above a tall, gangly frame. The man was staring at him, and Peter briefly considered provoking a confrontation. Instead he just glared back.

  The man came closer, parting the crowd like an icebreaker. Peter stood his ground and maintained his challenge.

  'They're wrong,’ said the man when they stood face to face. ‘However close they may be at times to the truth, they are still wrong nonetheless...'

  This puzzled Peter, who had expected a fanatical rant. ‘What?'

  But the man didn't stop to expand on the comment. Before Peter could grab his arm, he had slipped away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Left with a surplus of anger and no obvious vent, Peter threw the pamphlet into the nearest bin and stormed, shopping forgotten, back to the car.

  Damn it, he thought, and damn them. Damn them all to hell...

  * * * *

  Jed came home shortly after seven-thirty. The house was dark. His cousin had taken residence in the lounge, listening to an old Mahavishnu Orchestra CD with a half-empty bottle of Scotch for company. A news channel flickered silently on the wall-screen. Sympathetic images danced in his eyes.

  'Hey, Peter,’ said Jed, dumping his rucksack by the door and taking a seat. Where Peter was tall and dark, with a lean body and neat features, Jed was overweight and fair, his hair dangling in coiled streamers to an untidy shoulder-length. Torn jeans, tatty sneakers and t-shirt said ‘student’ and didn't lie.

  'Hey yourself,’ Peter replied without looking away from the screen.

  'How was your day?'

  'Shithouse. Yours?'

  'Not bad. I made a new friend—someone you might like, for a change.'

  Peter may not have heard for all the response he made.

  Unfazed by the rebuff, Jed reached down to remove his sneakers. ‘I'm starving,’ he tried again. ‘Feel like a pizza?'

  'No, thanks.’ Peter glanced at him this time. ‘There's been another processed meat scare.'

  'Damn. And I don't suppose there's anything in the fridge.'

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  Jed sighed mournfully. ‘That only leaves tinned food.’ He waited for a moment to see if Peter would exhibit any further signs of life. ‘I'll get cracking, then.'

  Peter's eyes returned to the wall-screen, where a blandly beautiful reporter was covering the situation in Tokyo. Jed followed the same report on the small TV in the kitchen. The containment facilities of a biotechnology lab had been breached by a minor earthquake, releasing unknown quantities of bioagents into the local water supply. The lab had been experimenting with a promising new cancer treatment involving a series of viruses designed to make rogue cells commit suicide. Although the newscast down-played the risks of a new plague—one potentially as deadly as AIDS or monkeypox—Jed noticed that the reporter remained carefully up-wind of the wreckage.

  He concentrated on preparing dinner, such as it was. Another night eating irradiated food didn't appeal to him, but they had little choice. Tinned produce, even if it did nothing to reduce the possibility of inorganic poisoning, at least guaranteed a temporary reprieve from the risk of bacterial infection.

  When he returned to the lounge carrying a steaming plate in each hand, the CD had finished but Peter hadn't turned up the sound on the wall-screen. The bottle was now two-thirds empty.

  'Here you go, grumble-guts. Get it in you and you'll feel better.'

  That, surprisingly, made Peter smile. ‘You sound like Aunt Jenna.'

  'Like mother, like son. God, if Mum saw you like this she'd have a fit.'

  'Yeah, I know.’ Peter sat up and worried at his greasy scalp. Accepting the plate he scooped a mouthful of beans past a self-deprecating grimace. ‘But there's no helping some people.'

  'Sure there is,’ said Jed. ‘You just need to leave the house more often; get some sunlight, meet some people—'

  'I tried to today, and was hassled by lunatics.'

  'You know what I mean, Pete.'

  'Find another woman?’ Peter's eyes hardened.

  'No, not necessarily. But that's not a bad idea. Since Carol left, you've really let yourself go.'

  'And why not? I can afford to.'

  Jed shrugged. Peter had been hard to live with at the best of times, but since his wife had walked out on him he'd been almost unbearable. Sometimes he woke Jed in the middle of the night, stumbling around the house as though looking for something he couldn't find; or he hid in his room for hours, weeping, letting the hurt and the despair pour out of him in retching torrents; or he drank himself into a stupor on the lounge, as on this occasion. Grief was normal, and different people dealt with it in their own way; it simply bothered Jed that Peter didn't seem to be even trying to lift himself out of his misery.

  'I've said this before, Peter, and I guess I'll keep on saying it until it sinks in. Let her have the divorce, her own life, whatever it is she wants. Take responsibility for yourself, and you'll start feeling better eventu
ally. Trust me.'

  'Why should I? What do you know about these things?'

  'Well,’ Jed smiled, hoping to lighten the mood, ‘I did take Psychology 1A—'

  'Carol was my wife, not some laboratory rat.'

  'Exactly: she was. See? It's not that hard.'

  Peter simmered in silence for a long, uncomfortable minute, then returned to his food. ‘You were going to tell me about someone you met today. A girl, was it?'

  Grateful for the change in subject, Jed began to talk more animatedly. ‘No. A guy called Tate. We sat next to each other in the refec and just started talking—hit it off really well, as though we'd known each other all our lives.'

  'Talking about what?'

  'Mind-games. Physics, mainly.’ Jed did his best to recall the thread of the conversation. ‘Imagine a particle travelling through space between two points, A and B, and an anti-particle travelling backwards in time from B to A. There's nothing in the theory, Tate said, to suggest that the latter isn't possible. An anti-particle travelling backwards in time appears exactly the same as a particle travelling in the usual direction. We wouldn't be able to tell which is which. You don't even need a time machine to do it, because the flow of time is symmetrical at that level; it works both ways.'

  Jed picked up a pen and a piece of paper and sketched a quick diagram. ‘Next he had me imagine a collision between the particle and its opposite. The resulting annihilation releases an awful lot of energy and stuff, which is interesting in itself, but not as interesting as the possibility that the anti-particle is nothing but the original particle leaving the scene of the interaction by travelling backwards in time. That is, the anti-particle may never have existed as a separate thing at all. We might be incorrectly interpreting what really happened.'

  Peter studied the diagram closely. It showed the trajectory of the particle as a straight line with an arrowhead at one end; this line met a second line, the path of the anti-particle. Parallel to the second line was a dashed arrow heading away from the intersection, with ‘p backwards in time’ written next to it. Instead of a collision between two particles it resembled a reflection.