by J. P. Pomare
The man is not long gone when I see Jim returning, striding briskly down the hill.
‘All clear,’ he says, and we drive the rest of the way home.
Inside, he sets the butter on the bench and puts a pot on the stove. I open the fire and scrunch up newspaper, but there is no wood in the wicker box, so I carry it out through the sliding door – I stop almost immediately. There is something red and shiny by the back door. My throat clenches. I recognise it straight away; shaped like a tiny bean, no bigger than the top half of my thumb, it is a heart. The creature it belonged to had been small.
‘Jim,’ I say, my voice trembling. I drop the wicker box and stumble backwards into the house, falling to the wooden floor.
‘What is it?’
‘There,’ I say. ‘By the back door.’
He rushes forwards, drying his hands on the thighs of his jeans. ‘What the fuck is it now?’
Tears are coming, my chest heaving.
‘Oh, that? Come on, Kate. That’s nothing.’ He plucks the heart between his thumb and forefinger and hurls it out into the backyard.
‘It was a heart,’ I say. ‘Why would someone leave it there?’
‘It would have been a dog or a cat,’ he says. Stepping closer, he squats down and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. I imagine the animal’s blood smearing on my skin. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Could it be a threat? Maybe someone knows we’re here.’ Someone left it where it could easily be stood on, split beneath the sole of a foot. I look out at the yard, watching for movement.
‘Nonsense, no one could have found us and arrived so quickly. I’ve been careful,’ he says. I think of that phone call I made. ‘It’s wild around here, you have to remember that we’re not in the city anymore. Cats will often leave part of their prey for their owners as a gift.’
There is no blood, no dash of red to mark the spot where it had been left. I imagine it sitting in a mouth, the blood curling in the saliva beneath the tongue. I imagine it warm and beating.
‘You’re okay,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. It’s gone now. All gone.’
Breathe, I tell myself over the pounding of my heart. Breathe.
‘Go lie down, Kate. Go on. I’ll do the fire and make dinner. Let me get you one of your pills.’ He lifts me from the floor and lays me down on the couch, where I curl into a ball. Classical music fills the room, and outside the rain starts pattering on the tin roof. The sky is darkening. I haven’t seen the sun in days.
‘Swallow,’ he says, fingering the pill into my mouth, holding out a glass of water. My heart beats like a hummingbird. Some small things can trigger this anxiety. The bath in Portsea, that creamy porcelain seashell with gold feet; I imagine it now.
The rain thickens outside. A drip sounds in the corner of the room. Our eyes meet. We hear another one. Jim walks towards the sound, then clucks his tongue. ‘There’s a leak. It’s only small but we’ll need to get it sorted.’
That night rain runs over the gutter, sheets of it distorting the world outside my bedroom window. It makes me want to pee so I knock on my door and soon he comes to let me out. Walking to the bathroom I hear the metronomic plop of water dripping through the roof into the pot in the lounge.
•
The next day the rain has cleared, although the thick clouds threaten to break open again. Jim is on the roof repairing the leak.
At his desk, I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and begin writing.
This morning, I had a vision. I was standing in the hallway at home, drinking from a bottle, some spirit that burnt inside. Then I was driving. If I remember that, then perhaps he has been telling the truth about everything else but I just know I did nothing wrong.
I’m starting to look better, healthier. I wish I could be back with you. Maybe one day soon I will, but I need to get happy and feel good again. I’m eating lots and walking and I also chop wood in the afternoons. Can you imagine me with an axe?
I hear Jim calling from the front door. ‘I just rang Terry from next door. He’s got some silicon out in his shed and a ladder. Won’t be too much longer.’
‘Okay,’ I call back.
I read through the letter once more. Chopping wood implies we are somewhere cold, I suppose. But wouldn’t it be obvious from the postage stamps what country we are in? Perhaps that’s how the man in black found us. It strikes me that Jim, who has been so careful about hiding us, has been lax about sending letters. I saw him hand over the last one at the shop, but there’s no guarantee that it was sent. I add a line.
He locks me away at night. I am scared of what’s going to happen to me and I don’t know what to do.
I seal the letter in an envelope. There are no postage stamps in his desk. He must have hidden them. In the kitchen I pull out drawers and open cupboards, searching. I stash the letter in the cupboard above the fridge, while I keep searching. Moving down the hallway I open the linen closet and lift up the towels to scan the dusty wooden shelves. The hot water cylinder is pewter, spotted with age. I slide my hand along the top of it. I imagine spiders scattering from my fingers. My hand hits something. It’s rigid with a velvet feel, like something stuffed. I pull it down. A mouse snapped in the steel loop of a mouse trap. I drop it, a quick inhale, hand to my heart.
The front door slams open and Jim rushes in. ‘Get down,’ he hisses. ‘Get on the fucking floor.’
I stare at him.
‘Now!’
I drop with my chin to the wooden floor. Blood pounds in my chest. The letter is in the cupboard. He can’t be angry because of that. The mouse is inches from my face. He crouches, staring out through the lounge and into the yard. ‘Stay there.’ His eyes are wide, searching. He has a piece of paper screwed up in his hand. He creeps to the kitchen, makes a gap in the blind with his thumb and forefinger, and looks up towards the road.
‘What is it?’ I hiss.
‘Someone’s found us.’
before <
TEN
‘THESE ARE THE types of events that serve no purpose other than to stir a semblance of loyalty from the masses.’ That’s how my dad always saw the public meet-and-greet days with his old rugby club. To him, anything that wasn’t about playing better and developing the game was pointless. In better moods, he saw such events as a means to an end: keep the fans devoted, retain members, get more money and pay players and coaches more. Normally I would try to get out of going, but I didn’t have any other offers and I knew Dad didn’t want to go alone. He appreciated my company.
Dad pulled on his coat with the Melbourne Gators badge on the chest and his green scarf. He had had his hair trimmed and on the morning of the event he dragged a razor over his cheeks. He even slapped on some of the aftershave that he still had from before Mum died.
We walked down, opting to take public transport to avoid the standstill traffic heading into the city. He perched himself on the seat of the rattling train, watching the world out the window while I stared at my phone. A man on the train approached to shake Dad’s hand and take a photo. When he smiled, really smiled, he could light up the whole carriage, but when he forced his face into an approximation of a smile for selfies it looked like it hurt.
When we were alone again, I asked if he was excited. He smiled and nodded. I couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm.
‘Really?’
‘Of course not,’ he said with a laugh.
His last full year of playing – while Mum was sick – people remembered as the best, most fierce year of his career. He was fearless. Then Mum died, Dad hurt his knee and in his own way he too vanished, retiring from the sport in his late twenties.
Families clogged up the paths of the park surrounding the stadium. There was barely enough room to move without the occasional fans approaching Dad for a photo, or a signature, or simply to shake his hand and express their admiration. They seemed startled to see him, no longer that nugget of muscle they remembered but a man who was simply in decent shape for his age but otherwise ent
irely average. He could’ve been anyone. Photographers asked me to stand next to my father and smile into the camera. It wasn’t until a few days later that I saw myself in the newspaper, Dad’s arm draped over my shoulder and that pained smile on his face.
I pulled out my phone. I was bored already. Without thought, I found myself opening Instagram, finding Thom’s page – a habit I’d fallen into. Almost a year had passed since I last saw him in person, since he had stopped turning up to swimming; fortunately I could keep an eye on him via his Instagram. I checked for new photos or to see if he had any live videos, but he only seemed to post photos of other people. I was too afraid to comment on any of his posts but I always liked them; in return Thom had liked the few photos I had posted too. It was a sort of torture checking his social media accounts because I knew eventually he would post a cute photo of him and Sally, which would break my heart all over again.
I found something new on his page. It had been uploaded four minutes ago. I could see the stadium in the background and all the purple scarves. It had been taken from up on the hill looking down over the crowd. The crowd I was standing in. I turned back, glancing up. People were streaming towards us. He’d been there four minutes ago.
Dad continued doling out signatures. I called to him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Just going for a walk.’
He raised a thumb.
I pushed through the churning mass of people and up towards the hill. Glancing down again at my phone I attempted to locate the exact spot the photo had been taken. I moved through the thinning crowd higher up the hill, scanning faces, but there was no sign of him.
I opened Instagram again. The photo had been posted nine minutes ago now. I looked out over the crowd; I was standing near the spot he had been but now he could be anywhere. Feeling lost in the crowd, I rushed back down the hill, searching each passing face. What would I say even if I found him? I could feel the moths beating about my chest. He’s here.
Back beside where Dad stood, I pulled my phone out. I was getting desperate now. Posted 14 minutes ago. Despite my better judgement – and Willow’s advice to stay distant, cool and avoid being needy – I decided to write a comment beneath the image.
Omg I’m there too!
I hesitated before posting. I was staring at my words when I felt a gentle nudge at my elbow. Turning back I looked up into his eyes. Thom. He had grown a little taller. His brown hair was raked back. Eyes dark and pinched at the corners – eyes made for smiling. Black jeans slashed at the knees. He still had strong swimmer’s shoulders beneath his white long-sleeved T-shirt, but now the rest of him had filled out too. Hanging down one shoulder was a camera.
‘Hey, stranger,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I said, blood flooding my cheeks. I wondered if he knew what I’d done to Sally.
‘So,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
‘Okay. I mean, good.’
‘Right.’ Wry smile, fingers running back through his hair. ‘This shouldn’t be so awkward, right?’
I laughed a little, shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just been a while.’
‘Yeah, it has. I knew you would be here,’ he said. He had grown surer of himself. He flashed his white teeth. ‘I mean when I saw your dad.’ He nodded in the direction of Dad. Was it possible he’d sought me out?
‘So what have you been doing since you quit swimming?’
‘A bit of photography,’ he began, lifting his camera in his palm. ‘School. What else?’
‘And Sally? Are you . . .’ I didn’t know where that came from; impossibly, my face felt even hotter. I tried to smile but couldn’t.
‘Sally?’ he echoed, brow furrowed. ‘Do you mean Sally from swimming?’
I couldn’t hold his gaze. I recalled how acutely I had felt the ache of jealousy in my gut when I found out about them.
‘I thought maybe you two were still going out.’
‘Going out?’ He shook his head with an uncertain smile on his lips.
‘But . . . I thought –’
‘Me and Sally? I mean Sally’s cool but . . . no. What gave you that idea?’
Willow. ‘I don’t know.’ I attempted to laugh through the heat of embarrassment, but it sounded more like a deflating balloon than genuine laughter.
‘It would be cool to catch up properly, I mean without all the –’ he threw out his hands, indicating the crowds ‘– families.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied, noticing Dad close by fidgeting in his pockets as he tried to wrap up a conversation with a fan.
‘So,’ Thom continued, suddenly shy, ‘maybe I could text you or something.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It would be cool to stay in touch.’
‘Do you want to give me your number? I mean unless you’ve still got a boyfriend?’
Still. ‘No boyfriend.’
‘No boyfriend?’ he asked. He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all year.’
I couldn’t form a response. Everything was happening too quickly for me to think clearly.
‘Here, give me your phone.’
I pulled it from my pocket, unlocked it, closed Instagram and handed it to him.
He punched something in. ‘Okay, I’ve put my number in your contacts. So it’s up to you if you want to catch up some time.’
‘But what if I don’t text you?’
Those dimples, I thought as he smiled.
‘You’ll text me,’ he said. ‘I give it an hour before I hear from you.’
‘Is that right?’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘I’ll see if I can hold out.’
That old feeling stirred inside, the fizzing excitement spreading to my fingertips, my toes, tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was really happening.
‘I’ve got to run, actually. Believe it or not I’m not just here to charm you, I’m meeting friends.’
As he walked away he held up his phone and mouthed one hour, with a wink.
After Thom left, Dad found me.
‘Don’t leave me alone again please, Kate.’ He was looking around, eyes wide in mock fear. ‘These people are relentless.’ He met my gaze. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What is it? There’s something on my face, isn’t there?’
‘I’m not smiling at you,’ I said.
‘What is it then?’
My phone began vibrating in the pocket of my jeans. An alarm was sounding. Dad looked over. I pulled the phone out. It wasn’t an alarm; it was a reminder.
Have you texted Thom yet – Mark as complete?
‘You’re doing it again,’ Dad said with laughter in his voice. ‘Look at that smile. What is it?’
‘It’s nothing, Dad.’
Another alarm sounded on the train home exactly one hour after I had seen Thom.
If you haven’t texted Thom already, maybe you should do it now? – Mark as complete?
I found his contact and sent him a message.
Whew. One hour and one minute. That was tough.
A second later he sent one back.
A valiant effort. So tell me, what happened to the boyfriend?
What had Willow told him? I guess it was easier to go along with it than to try to explain.
It didn’t work out.
Well I’m eternally grateful. You know I used to have the biggest crush on you.
Used to?
A few minutes passed as the train rattled along, excitement blooming in every inch of my body.
Okay, maybe I still do.
> after
ELEVEN
A STRANGE ENERGY surges through my body. Someone has found us. I swallow against the claustrophobic press of the hardwood floor on my throat. Jim gestures to me to rise, then points towards my room.
‘Stay in your bedroom,’ he says. ‘Someone is out there, looking for you.’
I hurry down the hall. At the bathroom, I stop and climb up to stand on the toilet and peer out the window towards the street. Looking up through the branches of the tree at the front of the house, I can just s
ee the road but I don’t see anyone standing on it. I head back into the hall to my room. There I close the curtains and sit on my bed with my arms wrapped about me.
Who are they? Who are we running from? The police? The media? The men online? It’s been eight days since we fled. They’ve found us and now we’ll have to leave again. Or I could travel alone. Me llamo Evie. I could go to South America, or Japan or Europe. Bonjour, je m’appelle Evie. I could escape him and everyone else.
He comes into my room and sinks onto my bed. He pulls me against him. My shoulders hunch at his touch. ‘It’s okay. They’ll go away.’ His body is warm against mine, and I can hear him swallow. ‘We are going to need to be more careful. It’s not the police, Kate. Well, not yet anyway. It’s someone else.’
It sucks everything from inside of me; I’m reminded of the life I will never have. ‘No one was there. I looked up towards the road from the bathroom window.’ I don’t go so far as to challenge him.
His jaw knots and his mouth barely opens when he speaks. ‘Don’t even begin to think that we are in the clear. Don’t think they won’t come after us again and again. I’ll make sure they never take you but you’ve got to listen and trust me.’ He presses his face against my damp cheek.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. He leaves and closes the door. Sometime later, I hear his socked feet come up the hall. The lock on my door slides into place.
•
I haven’t been out of my room for two days except to go to the bathroom. Yesterday, while he thought I was in the bathroom, I rushed up the hall on the balls of my feet to collect the letter I’d stashed in the cupboard above the fridge. It was gone, which means he found it.
We didn’t run away; he just keeps me hidden now. Sitting in a square of sun on my bed, watching the sky outside, I sense he is close by. The mattress compresses behind me as he kneels on it, resting his hands on my shoulders. I shrink away.
