Refuge

by Richard Rossiter

  The present intruded: her tea was cold, and it was time to leave for work.

  As she made her way along the side street towards the train station, there was a familiar, pressing concern. Every so often, without warning, she could feel her breathing begin to increase and she began to perspire, at first under her arms and then elsewhere on her body. She knew if the symptoms kept going she would begin to tremble and experience paraesthesia. Once discovered, this was a word she held onto. She would utter it, mantra-like, in an attempt to ward off the panic attack that she knew was just around the corner. And it was. As she turned left onto the highway that led to the station, the sudden onrush of cars, the speed and noise of them—the sound of the airbrakes of trucks, the stench from the exhaust of buses—began to blur as if she were watching a movie where the film was in fast motion and objects no longer distinct, one image inseparable from another. And when she walked past the second-hand shop, which she could not avoid, she would keep her eyes steadfastly forward, or look down at the pavement, but never sideways into the window. That was the plan. But then, as she drew level with the shop door, muttering her mantra and thinking that anyone who saw her or heard her would believe she was stark raving mad, and just before the display was out of her line of vision, she would quickly glance to her left and see once again the object that she blamed for the frightening disorder that was coming upon her. The owner had a full-sized skeleton hanging there in the window.

  Ghoulish, she thought, but when she once asked the shopkeeper about it, he said it wasn’t real and a joke—nothing to be worried about. Even knowing it was plastic did not help. And it didn’t always, every time she passed it, make her feel as if she and the world were turned upside down; it was difficult to predict when her mind and body would begin to melt, and nor did she want to admit that such a trigger should be treated seriously, get the better of her, and so she refused to go the long way around to avoid the shop in her daily trek to the station. Once it started, she knew it would most likely get worse, and by the time she sat in her seat on the train she would think she was dying, scarcely able to breathe. But she couldn’t turn around and go home. She needed to go to work, and work needed her.

  This morning she scurried past looking up and down, up and down, and then she could breathe again. She was okay, just, she thought.

  In her calmer moments Prue tried to work out what it was about the skeleton. Of course she knew the obvious answers, the association with Tinny, her son Skel, her abandonment of them, her guilt and so on. None of it really satisfied her as an answer. She knew it could be seen as a talisman of the beginning of her new life—that it signified transition and change. That she had left her family, unhooked Tinny’s favourite possession and thrown it away at the local tip. He said it used to belong to his grandfather, an amateur bioarchaeologist, someone he’d never met. At first he said it was his grandfather, or what was left of him. He said he didn’t have much of a family and he had to hold on to what little remained. And she’d thrown it out. She didn’t really know why she had done so. It was a childish gesture, and yet she felt that something more lay behind it. Her tantalising dream-memory of bones being lifted out of the ground next door. And when she properly unearthed that something, and kept it firmly in her gaze, those plastic bones would no longer have control over her.

  Twenty-three

  The corrugated iron creaked as it adjusted for the umpteenth time to the change in temperature. It was a cold morning, clear and still. Tinny could hear the steady roar of the ocean. It wouldn’t be any good fishing—the swell would be too big. He pulled the blankets up over his head; it was early yet. The kookaburras had finished their welcome to the first hint of daylight and there was no need to get out of bed. The only job he had on—a quick run over a neighbour’s firebreaks—could wait until the afternoon. He stayed warm if he didn’t move too much and kept one of the blankets wrapped tightly around him, as if he were a mummy in a shroud. He could feel the chill of the air on his nose, but the rest of him was snug, although he was entangled in the top sheet, which was a bit uncomfortable. When he got out of bed he would tidy it up so it wasn’t so much of a rat’s nest. But not yet—he would stay a while longer, until the sun came through the window onto his bed. If he could settle down again, if he could postpone a visit to the outside loo.

  The fact of the matter was that Tinny was worried about his bum. For a time he’d had trouble going to the toilet, and now he had no trouble at all, so long as he could get there quickly. And there were signs of blood. He knew it was time to do something about it—which meant going to the doctor in town. He should make an appointment. He knew that.

  Tinny glanced over at the two mounds of bedclothes on the other side of the room. In winter the boys pulled their mattresses into this space so it became a bedsit for all three. No movement there. He raised himself to a sitting position to check the fireplace. There were still a few coals from the large root he’d put on before going to bed, so it wouldn’t be hard to get it going again. He pulled the blankets over his head. He’d wait for the sun—that’s what he’d decided. Then Tinny heard a noise interrupting the stillness of the morning. It was a chock, chock sound, as if someone nearby was chopping wood, but that made no sense. He lay there, listening, but the sound had stopped. Five minutes later, he heard it again and this time decided to get out of bed. He pulled on three layers of clothes at once—a T-shirt, shirt and jumper, and then his sloppy tracksuit pants, followed by socks and ugg boots and then his beanie. He addressed himself for the first time that morning: ‘Tinny, you are gold.’ He didn’t dare look in the mirror.

  Half an hour later and the fire, stacked with marri and banksia, was giving out some heat, but not enough to warm the entire shed. Tinny sat at the kitchen table in a patch of sunlight, eating his porridge. There was still no sign of movement from Skel or Rock. He’d have to rouse them soon to get them on their way to school. He stared into the fire, again congratulating himself on building the biggest fireplace a shed had ever seen. Stoves were okay—more efficient—but there was nothing like an open fire, especially one as big as this, where you could feed in logs the size of a small tree. It was like camping with a roof over your head. Then he heard it again, the chock, chock of chopping wood. He went outside and walked down the track for a bit, peering into the bush and listening for any sound of a person, or a vehicle. He could make no sense of it. As he walked back and drew level with his twin cab, he saw a kookaburra sitting on the side mirror, leaning over and gazing at itself. It did not move as he came nearer to the vehicle, but then suddenly leapt into action, charging the side window with a chock of its beak. ‘Tinny, you are a fool.’

  He went back inside, poured another cup of tea, put the teapot by the side of the fire and roused his sons. Moments later there was a loud bang on the window by the side of the fireplace. Tinny turned, momentarily shocked. There, clinging to the window frame, were two kookaburras, which had simultaneously hit the pane with such force that he couldn’t understand how they hadn’t broken the glass. Their tail feathers were spread, their bodies rocking as they peered at him through the glass. What were they doing? Why did they want to get inside? This couldn’t be an accident, it wasn’t a flight path, they couldn’t have seen their reflections … they must have decided at the same moment to go for it, to fly into the window. ‘You mad fuckers,’ he yelled at them, slapping the window with the palm of his hand until they stopped their flapping, their attempt to hang on, and flew off.

  ‘What’s that about?’ asked Rock.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Tinny. ‘Don’t know what anything’s about at the moment.’

  He noticed Skel staring at him with a fixed gaze, one that looked meaningful.

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ said Tinny, returning the look. ‘Odd things happen that you can’t always explain.’

  Skel’s expression did not change.

  ‘You’d better hurry up, you two, or you’ll miss the bus into town. Remember, it takes fifteen minutes, minimu
m, to get to the stop. Okay?’

  The boys ignored him, returning to eating their cereal with their eyes down, reading.

  Tinny ruffled their hair, which they also ignored, then went outside to get some more wood. There was no sign of the kookaburras.

  Twenty-four

  Clive entered the clearing where Greta’s shed stood, quiet and isolated. He banged on her door and it sounded very loud. No one seemed to be home, but he banged again anyway.

  Inside, Greta hurriedly pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt. She’d just stepped out of the shower when she heard what sounded like a fist on the side of the shed. She wrapped her head in a towel and then opened the door.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ he said.

  ‘Come in.’ It’s what you said when someone you recognised knocked on the door and stood there, waiting. But this man. She was too surprised.

  He walked in, looking around as if he didn’t know where he was, or what to do.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Do you feel alright? Can I get you something—a drink of water?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Sometimes it has wrigglies in it—mosquitoes, I think—

  but they don’t seem to harm you.’ She handed him a glass of water.

  How could he begin to tell her? ‘Some time ago, in fact more than two years ago, there was an accident.’ He fingered the scars on his neck and face, not knowing what he was doing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No, no. I am sorry.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No. Of course not. I am sorry because of what happened to you.’

  Again he could see the picture, watch himself approaching from behind. Feel the shock of her, the softness of her neck, his fingers delving into her skin. His hand shook a little and he put down the glass.

  ‘Do you mean the fire? Was it you who lit the fire?’

  ‘The fire? No, not the fire. That wasn’t me. Could have been Steve.’

  ‘Then what?’

  She saw him staring at her, but not into her eyes. She crossed her arms over her breasts.

  ‘At the coast. What happened at the coast.’

  He saw then that she changed colour. He thought he could hear her breathing. Like Maia. She had changed colour, all the dark leached out of her, her breath in gasps and rasps.

  No one around. He walked and walked, tripped over how many times? Came back to them on the ground and blood. The other car somewhere, not here. She drove past. You know that, don’t you? She’s in it with that feller Oliver. They don’t care—she didn’t bother to stop.

  ‘He told me things. I believed him—why wouldn’t I? Why would he make up stories?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Steve … it was Steve who said—’

  How could he say this now? The words stuck. His hands were clammy, waves over him. It made no sense. He stood up, steadying himself. She stood, too, suddenly, her hands near her face. He could see the fear in her.

  ‘What? What did Steve say?’

  ‘You heard it—you were there, driving, nearby, and you …’ His voice failed him. He was choking; he needed air.

  The woman did not move.

  He backed out, shaking his head, and heard the door bang behind him.

  The car loomed up so suddenly, around the bend. That’s right. Someone was on the wrong side of the road. Someone was wrong. Then his head lifted off his body, his neck stretched so far and back, back to the steering wheel, the car a plane into the trees, the noise so loud he couldn’t hear it, the noise came through his body and out the other side, to silence. A wheel spinning up there. The stink of petrol, then the heat of it. He dragged them from the back, from one seat—breathing, they were all breathing. Laid them down like sleeping babies. Then off. Where did he go? ‘Help! Help!’ He called out, unable to speak. There was a car. ‘She drove by, you know. Couldn’t be bothered stopping.’ The fear in her eyes, soft skin going hard, harder.

  He would stroke the silky skin of her neck, rubbing his finger around on the little lump of her throat, around and around. He would watch the rise and fall of her breasts, her even breathing. He’d put his finger into her ear, all softness and dark, an exotic sea shell. It was always like this, the mystery of her, that drew him on, raised him up, so he felt like a king in her presence. She did not seem to mind what he did to her, and she too, slowly, rose with him. He rubbed his thumbs on either side of her throat, the sweat between them, salty, urgent, calling out. Sometimes, later, he would see his fingers, the red marks, and apologise. ‘Like a cave painting,’ he said.

  Now she could not breathe, then she sucked in the air, great gulps and gasps of it. He held her quivering body to him, tighter and tighter.

  Twenty-five

  ‘Oh, Prudence Peaches, why did ya leave me? Why don’t ya heed me? Why don’t ya need me? Oh, Peepee, come back to me! Come back to Tinneee!’

  ‘Dad, Tinny, please stop. That stupid song. That racket. Why do you sing it anyway? You don’t even want her back again. You think she’s a bit crazy, remember?’

  ‘I keep myself entertained while I work, sweeping the floor, always sweeping the floor—but who’s that you’re talking about, Rock? Rock my soul. Your dearly beloved mother, who loved you so much that she left. Is that who it is? Anyway, why shouldn’t I want her back? It’s bloody lonely down here, as much as you and the Silent One provide me with scintillating company, wonderful, insightful conversation whenever I need it. What more could a man want? Well, my lovely one, if you haven’t already found out, a man needs a woman, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

  ‘You’re mad. You reckon she’s mad—just look at yourself. Why would any woman want to live with someone like you? Unless she’s mad as well, and I don’t think Prudence is mad.’

  ‘Prudence, eh? Your mother. Why can’t you call her Mum, eh? Eh, lover boy? Because she’s not your mum, is she? She might be your mother, on a birth certificate, but she’s not Mum. That’s because she was never around to be that, to care for you, look after you, to love you. But you know that. And yet you want to go and see her again, you and your floating brother, the lovely Skel. But does she want to see you, either of you, both of you? She thinks she’s beginning to discover all that she’s missed out on by running off. Let me tell you, you’re both in the same boat. She has to talk to you like you’re a stranger, not her flesh and blood, not the baby she gave birth to, because she’s got to earn that right—it doesn’t just exist somewhere out there, waiting to be claimed. You have to live it, from day one. Otherwise it’s all pretence, just a game. Mothers and sons. “Let’s play mothers and sons. I’ll be the mother and you can be the son.” And now you think the sun shines out of her … Let me tell you something—’

  ‘Dad, Dad. Tinny!’

  ‘You called my name? Did the owl call my name?’

  ‘Would you please stop raving? It doesn’t help. Doesn’t get anywhere. I know you probably enjoy it, ranting, but I don’t. And nor does Skel. You like making fun of it, but it’s hurtful. We didn’t want her to leave. It could’ve been much easier.’

  ‘Ah, yes, ease. That’s what you deserve after such a hard life with your dad. It’s time for the good life, life with the goodies. Goody-two-shoes. The Good Brothers. You’ve earned it. But what do you really remember of her, your beautiful mother? What’ve you made up in the meantime? You were too young to remember, to actually remember real things that happened. Ah, Sweet Pea, what trouble you are now causing. But nothing’s changed—you were always trouble.’

  ‘If she’s so much trouble, why do you keep talking about her? Why do you want her back?’

  ‘That, my boy, is a very good question. Maybe, like so many people, I’m addicted to trouble. Maybe I’ve been conditioned to associate love and pain, love and trouble. That’s Prudence Peaches for you, trouble and strife. And love. What can I do?’

  ‘I dunn
o. But I don’t think you should carry on so much if Skel and I want to see her. Before you said it was okay, it was what you wanted, but now it sounds like you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘Point taken, sunshine. It happens. When you get what you want, you discover it’s not what you really want. I’ll try to be a better dad, be someone who doesn’t mind you boys leaving him all by himself after all he’s done for you, all the sacrifices, after—’

  ‘Tinny, there you go again. Just shut up for a while! You haven’t done anything you didn’t want to do. If it was so hard, you could have let us go with Prudence.’

  Tinny looked at his son and knew he was right. He should shut up, but he did like the sound of his own voice. It kept him company. And inside was a hurt that kept leaking out of him.

  And then came a rattling knock at the door. Maybe he’d already heard it once and hadn’t taken notice.

  ‘If you two have paused for a moment, could I come in?’

  It was his neighbour. Of course she could come in.

  ‘So, you see the problem? He’s told me what he did, he feels sorry—I believe him—and he is still suffering from losing his family.’

  ‘But what he did was violent, really violent. It sounds like he wasn’t far off killing you. Did you go to the police at the time?’

  ‘Yes. It was reported, but they had so little to go on that nothing came of it.’

  ‘To try to strangle someone because a mate tells you lies that you were ready to believe … That is not good.’

  ‘I know that. Of course what he did was horrible, very wrong. But I think maybe he’s suffered enough … I just don’t know. And then you think they are two different things—me, his family—and if he could behave like this once, maybe he will do it again. Something else happens that sets him off.’