Refuge

by Richard Rossiter

  He walked inside—the boys were out somewhere—and he went to the chest of drawers, yanking the bottom one because it always stuck. In here was his past, his collection of photos. There was one, almost forgotten, that he wanted to find. He flipped through the albums, but it wasn’t there. Then he took out a large plastic bag, a bin liner, and upended the photos onto the floor. There were hundreds. His own, his mother’s and some of her father’s. They were all keen on capturing the moment—to make sure, he thought, that the past did exist, that it wasn’t all blur and swirl, shadows in corners, glimpses behind the shed. It was people staring at a camera, gathered together on the front lawn, grainy, faded children at a birthday party, class photos all smiling at the camera, until the boys got too old to smile, and then a few years later they remembered to do so again, thinking it looked seductive. There were photos of Tinny running and jumping. Tinny at the beach. Tinny with cousins. And then he stopped; no more Tinny. But somewhere there was one, he knew, of Tinny being held by his father. He was smiling at the camera, his father’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. You could see only the arms, the grey heavy-knit jumper worn by fishermen and bought in Ireland. The pattern suggested the nets they cast into the sea. Tinny liked this photo. It was probable that now he was the only one who knew whose arms they were. He could fill in the rest of the body for himself, the chest, the head and face, the eyes, smiling, the lips, the tousled hair. He didn’t know what made him think of it, but it had become essential that he find it. He scattered the photos, glancing quickly through piles of them, all different sizes, some black and white and then the first faded colour ones. When he found it, it was smaller than he remembered—but the face, his face, was just as he thought. The boy was smiling with his eyes more than his mouth. Just like his father.

  He liked that jumper, and his beanie, his father did. Tinny could see him: a man in a boat, a tugboat in the harbour, his hands resting on a wooden wheel, varnished, magical when his father let him hold it and steer the boat. Most of the time he couldn’t go on board; there were huge, dangerous ships to be towed and nudged, hawsers strained to breaking point against the tide and wind. Then he and his mother would, for a treat, stand on the wharf and watch the battle. The tugs always won and he would clap his hands when the ship, usually a dirty-looking cargo, but sometimes a clean one carrying passengers, would sit alongside the wharf, the men hurrying to secure it before it pulled away again like an unruly horse not wanting to be tethered, chafing to be free.

  He would tell the other boys about his father driving tug-boats. He thought they envied him. Then, when he got older, his loud and boisterous father would come and sit with him and his friends. Now they liked him for different reasons. He would give them beer, share a joint, treat them like grown men. He never grew up, and Tinny sometimes wondered about him and how he’d started along a pathway where his father moved gradually to the periphery, although Tinny did not know this at the time. At that time he still loved his father, and so did his mother. His father did not discover what it was like to be old, and now Tinny was pleased for him. He didn’t think his father would have been at all gracious as his body deserted him: he had no time to become sour and resentful. That was left to his mother, although, to be fair, she ‘put on a brave face’. But Tinny knew that underneath there was nothing. She was empty. And it was up to him to try to make up the loss, the lack in her. And there, he believed, he had failed. She moved into a retirement home before she needed to and slowly closed him out. She wasn’t good at looking after herself. He felt like an orphan. He was surprised, at her funeral, how many of the other residents of ‘God’s waiting room’ (his mother’s name for the ‘village’) turned up. Out of these acquaintances, she must have made some friends. Why she needed to reject him, he could only guess. Perhaps it was his father.

  He returned the heap of photos to the bag and pushed the lot into the bottom drawer, along with the albums. The one of himself and his father’s arms he put on the mantelpiece.

  All night Tinny’s mind was distracted by oceans and fish, the thump of an engine, the frightening tightening of lines and hands on a wheel and shoulders. He did not sleep a wink. First thing, before dawn, he made his way to the sea. The wind was in the east, light and calming. The ocean flattened out like it couldn’t be bothered. It was going to be hot, but that was for later. He walked over the slippery rocks and out onto the reef; every now and then he trod on something sharp, which made him hobble for a step or two. He walked to the edge, where the sea surged lazily over the lip of rock, ran across the reef for a few metres, then petered out. Tinny, naked, dived in and, with thrusts of his arms and legs, pulled himself to the bottom. He paused for a moment, then stretched out his arms and floated to the surface. He gulped some air, then put his face down in the water, arms and legs outstretched; he was a dead man. Below him, all was a blur of green, of weed and rock, of shadows. What else that he couldn’t see? He rose with the swell, weightless, buoyant. If fishes were wishes, the ocean would be all of our desire. His father was full to the brim with such sayings.

  Thirty-one

  In Hamburg, Greta was pacing around the small sitting room of her sister’s flat. ‘Clive told me he was walking by the edge of the river and that his head was full of voices from years ago, when they had just left school. “Is she a screamer? Does she go off like a rocket? A firecracker?” That’s what they’d say to him, as if they knew. He said it was all they could think of, especially with her, you know. She was part Aboriginal Australian. But it sounds like they were a very proper pair. Very religious. He told me they said horrible things about both of them, quoting the Bible at him about going forth and multiplying.

  ‘I thought Clive was going to cry and I couldn’t take my eyes off his gloves. They were so big. I didn’t know he was there until the screen door banged and he was standing inside the shed. I started to walk backwards, but he just ignored me and sat down as if he’d been invited to and everything was normal. When he first visited me, he couldn’t get the words out; he just left. Another time, I spied him on the track to my place, so I hid in the bush. It’s why I left, Eve—he really frightened me. He kept on and on about her, his wife, how special she was. And his little son. I think he thought that if I could understand that, then I would understand his behaviour towards me. What he did. It would make sense.

  ‘When he walked in I asked him why he was wearing gloves, and I told him I’d seen him with them once before. And then he looked at his hands, or the gloves, and seemed surprised. “It’s the feeling of skin,” he said. “I love the feeling of skin, especially the soft skin, like on your throat, or the inside of thighs, of a woman.” I can still hear him. It was such a strange thing to say but his tone was quite neutral, as if what he was saying was some commonplace observation.’

  ‘Sounds like he should be locked up, in some institution for the insane or deeply disturbed, or whatever they are,’ said Eve.

  ‘I know—I was just shaking my head, not understanding. Then he said he was worried, but if he wore gloves he would be alright, and he asked me if he could stay for a while because it was a safe place. He said he was sorry about what had happened to me, because he was seeking revenge, not justice, but at first he thought it was justice, but he had been wrong. He thought it was justice because of what this friend Steve had told him. But that’s another story. It’s peculiar; it’s as if he needs to confess, but at the same time doesn’t fully grasp what he’s done. I had no idea what to say to him, so I made a cup of tea and after a while he just got up and left. He didn’t say another word.’

  ‘The man’s psychotic,’ said Eve. ‘You should’ve contacted someone—you can’t just run away. I think you’re right to be frightened of him, but to leave everything, to be driven out? You know.’

  ‘It’s not forever. I know that. But who would I contact, anyway? What could anyone do?’

  ‘He’s admitted to strangling you. You passed out. It was serious. You could tell the police, then something wo
uld happen.’

  Greta told Eve that, illogically, there was a part of her that felt sorry for Clive even though she was worried about what would happen if she went to the police and they didn’t succeed in prosecuting him, or what would happen when he got out of jail, if that’s where he ended up. Restraining orders weren’t any better in Australia than they were in Germany. ‘And what happens then? Revenge, or what he calls justice, is something he thinks is okay. I was the wrong person, so he’s sorry, but then I’d become the right person. The person who went to the police. What then? I couldn’t live there.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing there anyway, but this sounds like an excuse.’

  ‘And you know, somehow those big gloves on his hands, him sitting there in my house, they looked worse than bare hands. They made him look so strange.’

  ‘We should stop talking about this. If you’re not prepared to do anything, then endless talking is a waste of time.’

  Greta looked at her sister. She didn’t want to admit that Eve was right, or that once again she had run away from a difficult situation. She did not want to say that perhaps she deserved what had happened to her. ‘Okay. Let’s talk about Reinhard. How’s he getting on being the father to two little girls? Does Katrin know that he’s Maren’s father?’

  ‘I don’t think so, and remember, she does have her own daughter—their own daughter—Sabine.’

  ‘Who’s almost the same age.’

  ‘Let’s not play some silly game of payback, because I don’t want to talk any longer about your strange man in Australia. I never see Katrin—there’s the occasional telephone conversation, and Reinhard visits here regularly. It’s what I wanted before Maren was born and it’s what I want now.’

  ‘Yes, it’s pretty convenient that his job requires him to work in both cities—’

  ‘Can we just leave this?’

  ‘You tell me nothing. I’m wondering, when you say visits, do you mean Reinhard stays the night, or does things around the flat, or takes Maren out? What does he do?’

  ‘All of the above, sometimes, Ms Busybody.’

  ‘So your relationship is not over?’

  ‘Not at all. And there’s no need to quote relationship at me. It is that, in every sense. I know you don’t approve, but it works, and everyone’s happy. He’s not just a sperm donor, you know.’

  ‘So long as Katrin’s kept in the dark.’

  ‘I think that’s where she rather likes to be.’

  Greta smiled at Eve. Uncertainly. ‘That’s good, then. As you say, everyone is happy.’

  ‘Except you, perhaps. Why are you so critical of my situation when you’re not, apparently, in any relationship, and you’ve had to come all this way from Australia just to get away from someone? I do understand my arrangement is unusual but, as I’ve said before, where is the harm?’

  After a pause Greta shook her head. ‘I don’t know; secrets, especially in families, don’t seem right.’

  ‘Not ideal, certainly, but for me the alternative is worse. Anyway, families are full of secrets. You should know that.’

  Greta could not begin to explain the conflict she felt within her; she did know there was a prevailing sense that something bad was about to happen, an unnameable threat, and that at some point she would have to stare it down.

  ‘Hey, dreamy, I have to pick up Maren from preschool; do you want to come with me?’

  She could not avoid the scenes on TV. Berliners were burning BMWs. In London they ran screaming down the streets, smashing shop windows and stealing the contents. There seemed to be no policemen around to stop them. People were enraged, black and white, and they didn’t know why. What they did know was that they hated what they saw around them; they had to pull it all down, burn it, destroy the buildings in whatever way possible. They wanted their country back from the invaders, whoever they were. None of it made sense. Cars and trucks were driven into crowds, their drivers welcoming death with open eyes.

  ‘They have to do it,’ Eve said. ‘They don’t know the reasons. Their lives have lost all meaning, all purpose. They will destroy everything in front of them—and themselves. They know, somehow, that the world is so far astray that all you can do is knock it down. Start again. Or maybe not.’

  ‘What about workers in Paris, or Athens?’ asked Greta. ‘The Arab uprising? Bombings in Bali and Baghdad and Damascus? India, Pakistan, even China—everywhere you look, there is violence. And America and England. Syria, Afghanistan. It is endless. The world has gone mad. With Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump leading the pack. And the people, so passionate, so destructive. They think they know the reasons.’

  ‘I think it’s adrenaline,’ said Eve. ‘Their lives take on some meaning with the rush of pursuit, of danger, of conquest. It’s why we have wars. They need some excitement. Their artificial lives don’t do it for them, as hard as they try, as long as they look at the screens in front of them. Just doesn’t work. It’s all fantasy, mass masturbation. So they run, always as a mob, screaming meaningless abuse at supposed enemies, unreal threats.’

  ‘Eve, you’re in danger of sounding condescending—privileged, even. And wrong. If you don’t have enough to eat, can’t speak freely, can’t get an education—’

  She ignored her interruption. ‘Don’t imagine you’re safe in Australia. Lock your doors or you’ll get robbed, stabbed, raped. People love it. They’re living dangerously in the suburbs. He’s just waiting to get you, he’s in the next boatload of refugees—I’ve read about what you’re doing there—who are going to take over the country, rape your wife and daughter, or, worst of all, bugger you, you know, those Middle Easterns, strange people. They’ll take your job, pinch your land. History repeats.’ Eve had looked at her, with that half-smile. ‘So you can’t run away, even in Australia.’

  Thirty-two

  The sun was shining. Prue closed her eyes and held on to the image. She could see her little-girl fingers on either side of her face, splayed against the pickets. She had one eye pressed to the gap, then changed to the other. There were men in the yard, digging holes.

  She had a name, and a year, more or less. She flicked through the microfiche with the clumsy reader. Why wasn’t it online? What’s wrong with the world? Frawley. If she could remember the name, she was probably four, maybe five. Mrs Frawley, and they hadn’t found her straightaway. But that wasn’t what she was looking for. Why were there men digging? January, February, March, no articles on holes in backyards. April twenty-ninth, and there it was, a brief paragraph near the bottom of page five. It must have been late news, squeezed in at the last moment.

  Gruesome find in suburban yard

  Following a tip-off, police searched a suburban backyard and discovered human remains buried beneath a footpath. A police spokesman said they were treating the death as suspicious, and that a post-mortem examination was underway. Forensic officers were at the scene, scouring the yard and surrounds for more evidence. No further details will be available until police have completed their enquiries.

  She could see the little girl, eyes wide. Did she say to her mother that the men had found Mrs Frawley?

  A week further on, and there was another article.

  Man charged in grisly find

  Last night police charged Anthony Frawley with the murder of his former girlfriend, Jennifer Thomas. It is alleged that Frawley killed the woman after an argument in her flat. Her body was discovered in the backyard of his mother’s house in Mosman Park. Jennifer Thomas was reported missing nine months earlier. Frawley was questioned at the time by police.

  There was more, about other missing persons, young women—but now she was back there again, another image, perhaps some months later. It was hot, and there was sand in her bathers. She was thirsty. A woman came up to her with a little boy who was eating an ice cream. ‘Where is your mummy? Have you lost her?’ She pointed to the water. She was in the water, swimming. Later, Auntie Jean came and took her to Sydney. But not then.

  When s
he thought about what she now knew, and what she thought she remembered, Prue realised there was something not quite right. Her father, Dick, had already left before there was any knowledge of what a terrible thing Anthony Frawley had done. And yet in her dreams or memories or whatever they were, her father somehow knew what was happening and was angry with her mother. She couldn’t make sense of this.

  Thirty-three

  Quentin Thompson stepped off the train, hoisting his schoolbag onto his shoulder. It had too much stuff in it and was heavy: books, files, sports clothes. He could never work out what he needed, essentially, and so took a precautionary approach. If he carried it by his side, he thought his arms would stretch out until they got so low he would look like an ape. It had been hot and airless inside the train, but now, out in the full glare of the midafternoon sun, the heat was intense. The wind was still blowing from the east, so hot and dry you could feel it withering you up, and everything else in its path. His eyes watered in the glare.

  No one else from his school got off at his station, so he walked by himself along the footpath to his house. He was in no hurry to get home.

  He walked around the back and opened the door, which was never locked. He noticed how dry the lawn looked and wondered why his mother hadn’t watered it. Not for days, by the looks. It was her job, not his father’s, who worked long and unpredictable hours on the tugs. There was silence in the house, the air stuffy, but not nearly so hot as outside. ‘Anybody home?’ he called out. He went to the fridge and drank some orange juice from the carton, then decided he would eat some cereal. You could never be sure what time dinner would be, or even if there would be any. It all depended. He wandered into his room and unpacked some of his bag onto his desk, took off his shoes and socks, and his shirt, and lay down on his bed. He leaned over and turned on the tiny fan that sat on his desk. There was a faint stirring of air. His head ached from the heat. He dozed for a while, then picked up the novel they were reading in class, To Sir, With Love. He read a page, then put it down. He wondered where his mother was. He got up and walked down the passageway to her room, where the door was ajar. He pushed it open and saw that she was in bed, a lumpy form with the bedclothes piled on top. The room had a sickly-sweet smell and the whiff of sweaty clothes. He went to her wardrobe and opened the door. There was no movement from the bed. Sitting on the bottom shelf was a bottle of sherry, about a quarter full. He picked it up, walked to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. He knew his mother wouldn’t ask any questions. He made a cup of Milo and took it to his room and started on his homework. He turned on the radio, with the sound low. He liked working with the background of pop songs, interrupted occasionally by the comments of the announcer or a weather report. There would be no rain, fire weather, more talk of the ongoing drought. Maybe that was why the lawn hadn’t been watered.