At the Edge

by Lee Murray

  ‘Fancy meeting you here, Little Thunder,’ he said, grinning.

  She winced at the clumsy translation. Behind her, a distant thud echoed up from the darkening canyon.

  ‘You okay?’ said Ellingham.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  She’d spiked it with sarcasm, but he answered anyway.

  ‘Ka pai.’ He winked at her, swapping the club, the smooth green mere pounamu, from hand to hand. ‘I’m glad to hold this beauty again. It was a good idea to use it as bait.’

  ‘But something tells me you’re not exactly being held here against your will…’

  ‘Against my will?’ He raised a faux-shocked eyebrow. ‘I’m being paid to do a job and I’m having a ball. I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re asking. And you and your maroon leather will be staying here too, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Whaitiri reached down her top for the hand sanitiser and squirted a small, phosphorescent ball of liquid into her palm. She smoothed the cool gel across her fingers, massaging it into damp hands, all the while inching away from the edge. When she’d finished, she popped the bottle back in the messenger bag and swung the cotton hold-all to her back.

  ‘My leathers are red.’

  Ellingham laughed. The sound poured lemon juice on something raw in her gut. She took a step towards him.

  Ellingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘What you going to do, Thunder? I’m not the weak man I was last time. A bit older and greyer maybe, but these white hairs are signs of wisdom and a fat pay packet in a few months’ time.’

  The auto-lights flicked on in the vehicle park, backlighting Ellingham in a dirty glow.

  ‘Stay here with me and you’ll earn riches you’ve never even dreamed of,’ he said. ‘You can’t go back to Earth, and that holding pen they call Neo Terra is an insult, even for you. I bet your job pays you peanuts. If you stay, I won’t report you for murder.’ He pointed over the edge.

  Whaitiri snorted, taking time to curl her hair behind her ears. ‘That wasn’t murder. That was staff management. The guy couldn’t make a good vodka lime if you took him to Russia with a lime tree.’

  ‘Your mama wouldn’t have put up with that kind of bullshit talk,’ he said.

  Whaitiri came at Ellingham with her head down, using her shoulder to barrel him to the ground. The club flew out of his hands and she scooped it from the sand, holding the weapon to the older man’s teeth.

  ‘Don’t talk about my mother like you knew anything about her.’ His acrid breath coloured the air around her until all she could see was red. ‘Get up!’

  She hauled him to standing and made him walk the few steps to the drop off. When his footsteps faltered and he glanced behind him, she stopped.

  ‘What do you do here?!’ she demanded. ‘How do you earn this money?’ When he didn’t answer, she thwacked the weapon across his chest. Flecks of black sand stuck to his white business shirt.

  ‘Okay, hold onto your undies. I came to facilitate a few events.’

  She kept the patu pointed at his mouth. ‘What sort of events?’

  He shrugged and looked away. ‘Entertainment.’

  ‘What kind of entertainment?’ Her voice held steel.

  ‘Suicide parties.’

  ‘Suicide … parties?’ she repeated, unable to wrap her head around the juxtaposition.

  ‘You know, all the rage. Black mood, goth human teens wanting to leave this life. Desperate to piss off their folks, or depressed out of their minds. Elder Pleebards and drunk Multis and outcast Ustartians and the like come to watch. Gives them a stiffy. Or whatever those bastards get. I facilitate.’

  Whaitiri felt bile rise like a burning tsunami in her oesophagus. ‘You mean you throw them off the edge?’

  ‘No, idiot. It’s suicide. They jump. The audience love it! No mess, you see. Straight down. No smell. It’s too far. Nobody has the money or the inclination to make the trip to collect the bodies.’

  The burn turned to ice and Whaitiri fought the urge to bend and put her head between her knees.

  ‘But what if they don’t die when they fall? What if they’re down there, for days?’

  ‘It’s a two-k drop, sweetheart.’ A smug smile pulled the corners of his mouth.

  Whaitiri clocked a green-tinged moon rising behind Ellingham. The reptiles had roosted and the heat of the day was rapidly departing. She couldn’t hear the tinkle of music from the bar, but out of the corner of her eye she could still see the blink of the neon sign.

  The Edge.

  Th Ed e.

  The E g.

  ‘Look girl, I’ll be honest with you. You’re literally standing in the arsehole of the universe,’ he said, gesturing. ‘Most people come here to look at the arsehole or forget they’re an arsehole. But if you join me, I’ll give you a fair percentage of this game. For whānau, you know?’

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  Whaitiri had to give it to him, he was the best in the business. She smiled.

  ‘So what’s it going to be? Going to give an old man a break?’

  Whaitiri reached out a hand. Ellingham took it. But instead of pulling her to him, he brought a hard knee into her midriff, winding her and folding her like an ironing board. The mere pounamu thunked into the sand. Ellingham leaned down close to her ear.

  ‘You know what, I changed my mind. I’m mercurial like that. One minute I’m sharing, the next I’m a selfish wanker. That’s the way it goes when someone you thought you knew hunts you down and puts you away.’

  He thrust her to the ground, so close to the verge that her head hung over the side. He kept the mere close, malice darkening his gaze.

  ‘You’re a sick bastard who should be ashamed of himself,’ she snarled.

  ‘Why? Because I meet a need? Wasn’t it your own daddy who told me to get control of my life? And guess who’s pulling the strings now, Whaitiri?’ He reached for the mere pounamu and jabbed it into her throat, cutting off her air.

  ‘You always thought you were better than me, didn’t you? All of you did. But now they’re dead and, bitch, you’re nothing. Lost in the last place anyone will think to look for you…’

  Fighting for air, Whaitiri grabbed the club, her fingers slipping on its smooth surface.

  Ellingham smiled, knowing she couldn’t hold on.

  ‘My daddy didn’t name me Whaitiri for nothing, Uncle,’ she rasped, and pushed the hidden button on the ancient weapon’s side.

  An ear-splitting burst of noise and electricity emitted from the mere, thundering over Ellingham in waves of pain. He staggered, propelled backwards by the force and landed on a small boulder, something in his collar bone or maybe his shoulder snapping audibly as he fell. Squealing and shaking, his ears bleeding, her uncle shuddered back onto the sand.

  Whaitiri struggled to her feet, brushed the grains off her leathers and picked up the mere. She pushed the release and stopped the blaring noise before tucking it away in her bag. Then she plucked the tiny gel plugs from her ears.

  ‘Guess I did give an old man a break,’ she said.

  Her uncle moaned as she clicked the auto-cuffs in place, but Whaitiri ignored him. Leaving him, she strolled to her bike, hit the comms and radioed in. ‘He’s ready,’ she said. ‘Target subdued.’

  ‘Roger that, Thunder and Lightning. Retrieval in ten. Over.’

  The Multi appeared on the bar’s porch, leaning its weight against the picket fence surround. A welt the size of a small egg rose from the side of its face.

  ‘Do you have to take him, sweetcheeks? He was the best MC we’ve ever had. He really knew how to get in those jumpers’ heads, tell them all the crap things about the world, how bad their lives were.’

  Whaitiri pulled on her gloves, threw a leg over the bike saddle and wiggled into place, kicking the stand.

  ‘What are we supposed to do now?
We’ve got a bus full of jumpers and a bus load of audience arriving in an hour.’

  ‘How about telling them the world isn’t so bad? How about telling them to go home and sort out their problems?’

  ‘Are you kidding me, Maroon?’

  Whaitiri grinned. ‘Yeah, even I don’t believe that bullshit.’

  The Multi returned her smile.

  ‘Your backup is coming to clean us out, right?’

  ‘You’ve got five minutes. Want a lift?’

  She revved the bike into life. The noise carried over the edge, bouncing in infinite echoes. Moonlight bickered with the parking lights for dominion over the shadows, and the neon bar sign made a half-arsed effort to join in.

  The Multi got within five metres before Whaitiri threw the bike into gear and squealed off.

  Screamed curses carried over the noise of her engine until the dust clouds blurred all sight of The Edge in her rear-view mirrors.

  Street Furniture

  Joanne Anderton

  I drag my desk chair to the kerb, and set it under the dingy gum tree. It’s the one Dan found for me at the tip. It has rusty legs and chipped wood painted an ugly green. The goblin sitting in it the next morning is not what I expected.

  ‘The fuck do you call this?’ he says. He’s wearing torn jeans and a singlet, thongs, and a cigarette droops from the corner of his mouth. His hair is a mess and his eyes are red.

  I gape at him as he stands. He’s taller even than Dan, and he stinks like smoke and beer. If it weren’t for the pointy ears sticking out of his hair and the fact that he just feels like a goblin, I wouldn’t believe it. You ever seen a goblin, then you know that feeling. Like the air’s all humming around him, and he’s a little transparent around the edges.

  ‘You don’t look like David Bowie,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

  ‘Fuck David Bowie.’ He spits the cigarette out onto the dry grass, but even in the heat it doesn’t catch alight. It just burns away, hazy and a little unreal. ‘Do you actually want anything, kid? Or should I be on my way?’

  ‘Wait!’ I cry, terrified he might leave. I did what I was supposed to do – put out my furniture and caught a goblin all of my own. He can’t just disappear like that. ‘Yes, I do want something.’ I take a deep breath to calm down, the way Mum does when Jessie’s fussing. ‘I want you to kill Dan.’

  ‘Who’s Dan?’ he asks.

  ‘Mum’s boyfriend.’

  He lifts an eyebrow, then shrugs. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Your name?’

  I hesitate. In the movies and the books you’re not supposed to give up your name so easily.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘I thought we’d been through this? Want me to stay, or not? Need a name if we’re going to make a deal.’

  ‘Emma. What’s yours?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Anything you want it to be. Your furniture, you get to decide.’ Then he turns to point at the chair. ‘But I need something better than this piece of shit to kill a guy.’

  My heart drops. ‘I don’t own anything else.’

  ‘Not my problem, kid.’ He digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights a new one with a flame that appears when he clicks his fingers. ‘But I’ll tell you what. How about I give you a chance to get me something decent? I’ll hang around a bit. You find me a nice sofa or an armchair – oh, and a bloody lamp, thank you very much – and then I’ll kill the boyfriend for you. Fair?’

  Where am I going to get a sofa? ‘Okay.’

  ‘And be quick about it. Don’t want to hang around this shitbox place for long.’

  That night, Dan’s in a foul mood because he’s been out with his mates, and because my chair is gone.

  Usually, Dan doesn’t pay much attention to me. Only when I’m in the way, or make a mistake like this. I don’t want him to notice me. Not the way he notices Jessie. Jessie’s his little man. He’s going to make sure Jessie grows up strong. Dan will teach him. Jessie’s not even his kid, but Dan will teach him anyway. Like his own father did.

  ‘How did she lose a fucking chair?’ he screams at Mum, like it’s her fault.

  He rounds on me. ‘What did you do with it, you little shit?’ Reaches down to grab me.

  And suddenly, he stops. He frowns, and then gasps, like he can’t breathe. He bends forward, hand pressed to his side. And my goblin is there, right behind him, grinning at me as he slams a bunched fist into Dan’s ribs.

  Dan shuffles into the kitchen, complaining, wheezing. The goblin winks at me, then leaves the house, passing right through the closed door, back to his chair.

  Mum watches me for a minute, her mouth moving like she’s got something to say, but doesn’t know how.

  ‘Sorry Mum,’ I whisper. I didn’t mean to make Dan angry. Most of the time, he takes his angry out on her.

  I don’t really remember my dad, but I’m sure he never felt like this. Jessie wasn’t around much before he died, so he’s never known any different than Dan. Sometimes, that makes me sad. Bet it makes Mum sad, too.

  ‘You need to be careful, Em,’ Mum says, voice as soft as mine. ‘You don’t always know what your choices will lead to.’

  I don’t remember my dad all that well, but I remember life without him. The time before Dan. I remember moving from place to place with Jessie, tiny, screaming, and always sick. Mum looking so tired, Mum looking so worried. I remember being hungry.

  I remember Mum crying.

  Dan changed all that. Dan came with a house to live in and food to eat, and even clothes to wear when I started school.

  Dan changed all that, but then Dan changed.

  He’s mean to her, but she won’t do anything about it. He’s mean to Jessie, but I don’t think she sees it. I remember being hungry and cold, with nowhere to stay, and I wonder if that’s why. Because Dan’s horrible, and I hate him, but since she’s been with him, we have a home.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ I say, and take her hands. She’s been biting her nails again. ‘I’ll look after us this time.’

  She squeezes me tightly. ‘But sometimes,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t realise the cost—’

  Dan interrupts, demanding a glass of water from the kitchen. She drops my hands, and is gone.

  *

  I press my face against the window of Vinnies. There’s a sofa inside and I know, just know, that it’s the one. It’s small, and seventies-looking. Thin wooden frame and sagging cushions covered in yellow and brown fabric. I don’t need to be able to smell it to know it stinks like old cigarettes and mothballs. My goblin should feel right at home.

  It’s also fifty bucks. Which is not very much money for a sofa, even I know that. But it’s fifty bucks more than I have.

  I turn from the shop with a sigh, hitch the torn strap of my heavy school bag onto my shoulder and continue home. The walk home takes me past the small, rundown houses with ramps and handrails, where the old folks and their electric wheelchairs live. There’s a lady who usually sits out the front of one. Joyce. She’s decent, gives me barley sugars from her purse, but she’s not here today.

  The usual pile of junk on the curb has grown, and I pause to stare at the goblin who lives in it. Why doesn’t my goblin look like this? He’s tall and handsome. Hair dyed in funky colours sticking out at cool angles. He’s wearing an old leather jacket patched in just the right places, and no shirt underneath. Dark jeans torn at the knees. Tattoos down his chest and piercings in his ears. He’s lounging on an old leather couch and footstool, thumbing through an even older looking book, and being just generally magic and awesome.

  ‘You again,’ a gravelly voice grunts behind me. ‘Thought I told you to piss off.’

  I turn so quickly I stumble under the weight of my bag. An old stooped man carrying a plastic cup of tea and a packet of biscuits scowls at me from under enormous eyebrows. He’s filthy, his clothes tatte
red and torn, the skin of his fingers so dirty they’re black. And he stinks.

  ‘Sorry!’ I squeak and try to get out of his way.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ the goblin says. His voice is deep and drawling. Something about it makes me shiver. He puts down his book and stands in one motion, so smooth he could be liquid.

  ‘I—’ I stammer. It’s difficult to speak to him. The old man shuffles past me and hands the tea to his goblin. ‘I did it.’ And now I sound like an idiot. ‘It worked.’

  ‘Of course it did,’ the old guy mutters. He puts the biscuits on a small table. This goblin also has a couch, a desk, a shelf full of books, even a collection of records and something to play them on.

  ‘Didn’t we tell you?’ the goblin says. He holds out a hand to me. The old guy watches as I weave my way through the rubbish. I’m not sure why, but he’s never liked me. Not when I thought he was just a homeless bum, living in rubbish. Not that time after a bad night with Dan, and a horrible day at school, when I was bruised and hungry and really didn’t want to go home. That was the first day I realised that what had always looked like a random pile of junk was actually an entire room of street furniture. That was the first time I saw a goblin.

  ‘You see us when you need us,’ the goblin says. He takes my hand and bows over it, kissing my skin. His lips are cold, like an ice cube. His hands are strong. ‘Put your past on the curb, and we will sense it. Your need. Your desire.’ He does not smell like cigarettes. He smells like incense. ‘And we come running.’ He smiles at me and I’m all shivery again.

  ‘So piss off back to your own one,’ the old man snaps. He’s scowling at me so hard I can see veins across his forehead. I tug my hand out of his goblin’s grip, feeling hot.

  ‘I don’t think that was necessary,’ the goblin says. ‘We can at least be civilised, can’t we?’ He peels open the packet of biscuits and bites into one, slowly. I glance over my shoulder as I hurry away. The old man coughs loudly, the noise thick and choking, his whole body shaking. The goblin just watches, and continues to eat. I wonder what the old man asked for when he called his goblin. And how can he be so dirty, when his goblin has such a wonderful room?