by Kathryn Hore
‘Can I buy you a coffee?’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind. But no,’ she answered. ‘I’m here with Bruce.’
She must have noticed that I was shocked, because she practically scowled at me. What kind of excuse was that for not accepting an offer? And what kind of a name for a dog was Bruce? I wanted to slap her square across her pretty face. I wanted to chain bloody Bruce to an awning post outside the café and have my way with the princess right there in front of him. I wanted to teach her not to be so weird and annoying, and to teach her dog not to sit on chairs in cafés.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked her, trying hard to remain civil.
‘Yes, it was nice meeting you. You seem like a decent person… for a cyclist.’
Fuming, I turned around and left the café before I ended up doing something I would regret.
I rode around the block several times, and when I saw her leave, I followed her home.
You can’t begin to imagine how relieved I was to see that she had Bruce on a lead, although the fact that it was the exact same shade of red as his collar and her tracksuit made it look more like a fashion accessory than a means of control. Bruce walked by her side, not in front or behind, and didn’t stop to sniff at the base of power poles or trees. He trotted along with the same air of calm self-satisfaction as his owner.
Veronica’s posture was perfect. Her hair swung from side to side like a pendulum and the tight mounds of her buttocks bobbed up and down hypnotically with every step she took. Her pace was so quick that I was able to follow quite comfortably on my bicycle without losing balance.
I won’t give details of the location, but when she arrived at her house, I watched from behind a tree as she jogged up the front stairs and onto the verandah. She unleashed the dog and slipped her red trainers off before reaching into the pocket of her hoodie and removing the keys to the house. She unlocked three doors. The first was a wrought iron grill, the second a security door with a fly screen, and the third a solid wooden door. She was obviously an anxious woman, locking three doors just to go for a jog and a coffee, and that provoked an even stronger desire in me to continue pursuing her. It wasn’t the dog she needed to keep her safe and sound. It was me. She needed me to make sure she didn’t fall victim to a rapist or a pervert.
I know what you are thinking, and you are quite right, of course. However, at that point in time, the irony of my situation was lost on me. I failed to realise that stalking a woman was not normal behaviour for a man who had always considered himself both law-abiding and of sound mind. Likewise, the cognitive dissonance — a term you have taught me — of fantasising about protecting a woman while feeling a barely controllable urge to take her by force failed to dawn on me until recent weeks.
Once Veronica and her dog had gone inside, I heard a low whimper and found myself looking behind me, half expecting to find a stray puppy. Of course, there was nothing and nobody. I was alone in the street.
My bladder was full, so I urinated against the tree, and then I got back on my bike and rode home.
My intention had been to resist the urge to go back to Veronica. But I couldn’t. The thought of going to bed without catching another glimpse of her filled me with a kind of heavy emptiness.
As the sun sank behind Mount Coot-tha, I rode back to Bardon. It was already dark when I arrived in her street and hid my bike behind the tree I had used as cover earlier that day. The air was cool and dark clouds threatened to empty their load on me, but I remained undeterred. I sniffed at the air and was convinced I could smell her delicious perfume, the one that she wore jogging for whatever reason. Of course, it must have been a figment of my increasingly incongruous imagination.
I was wearing my black cycling shorts and jersey so that I wouldn’t be easily spotted in the dark as I entered Veronica’s garden and crept up to her house.
There was a light on around the back, but the house was up on stumps, and although there was a deck, there was no exterior staircase leading up to it.
I was going to have to climb.
After glancing up at the neighbour’s house to make sure that I wasn’t being observed, I clambered up one of the steel posts that supported the deck and climbed over the railing. Making a quick escape wouldn’t be easy, but I somehow hoped that if Veronica did catch me, she would be so kind as to invite me inside. A woman living by herself must get lonely sometimes and need a little company.
Stepping over to the window, being careful not to bump into the deck chair or empty washing basket and making sure I stayed out of the light, I soon learned that I was wrong. She wasn’t lonely at all. Veronica and Bruce were sitting on the couch, watching television together. They had their backs to me, and if it hadn’t been for the window, I would have been able to smell her hair.
The boxer’s ears twitched for a moment and my muscles froze in response. But it didn’t turn around or start barking.
Veronica seemed to be eating dinner, judging by the way she raised her right arm with her elbow pointing out every few seconds. Then, she did something that disgusted me, and I almost made the mistake of gasping. She offered some of her food to Bruce and let him eat it from the fork. He licked it off and I screwed my face up as I noticed his slobber sticking to the fork once she had pulled it away.
She then ate another mouthful.
My disgust soon changed to indignation. An elegant woman like her had no right to behave in such a disgraceful way. She was breaking the rules of basic human decency. Letting her dog sit next to her on the couch while she ate dinner was one thing, but sharing her meal and her fork with him — no, it — was outrageous.
I felt like slapping her, and I felt like giving Bruce a hiding. She needed me there beside her, not some filthy mongrel.
I heard a growl. Then, an instant later, Bruce spun around. He snarled at me through the window and gave a warning growl.
By the time he had started barking, I was off the deck and sprinting back toward my bicycle. I had no idea whether Veronica had seen me.
It wasn’t until I was on two wheels and speeding away that the realisation struck me that the first growl I had heard had been different from the second.
That was the first of many nights spent peering into Veronica’s house. Each time I rode up to Bardon, I knew that I was sinking deeper into a pit of obsession and anguish from which it would be difficult to climb back out, as indeed it has been and continues to be. Nevertheless, Veronica was under my skin. I pitied and despised and craved this strange and vulnerable woman. I was convinced that she needed me. She was lonely and afraid. That’s why she was so close to her dog. The animal offered her the companionship and sense of security that a single woman needed, but it wasn’t how she ought to live. I had to show her that it was me she needed.
Before long, I started sleeping in the park opposite her house and stopped going to work. My memory of this time is unclear, but the more I watched her, the more I wanted her and the more I hated Bruce. I was bitterly jealous of the dog. I became very adept at creeping around in the dark and quickly learned how to avoid being detected. It all came down to paying attention to the direction of the wind, so as to avoid him catching my scent, and to moving in complete silence.
I had suppressed the last night I watched Veronica from my memory until you dug it up. Of course, I am glad you did. Otherwise, I would still be roaming the streets like a lost dog and thinking about her. Now, I am becoming human again.
It was raining heavily that night but I was impervious to the wet and cold as I crawled out from the reeds growing by the bank of Ithaca Creek and shuffled over to Veronica’s house. I forced myself to ignore the bolts of lightning that struck nearby and the crashes of thunder that boomed across the turbulent sky. I steadied my legs and carried on.
I had fallen into the habit of climbing a jacaranda tree that allowed me a very narrow view of Veronica in the shower. Sometimes, Bruce was in there with her, even though it seemed to be against his will, judging by the way she held h
im firmly by the collar with one hand while she scrubbed at his body with the other. Naturally, I preferred it when she was alone, but whenever Bruce was with her, I took great pleasure in admiring the way her breasts jiggled as she energetically rubbed soap into his coat.
But that night, the bathroom light was off. I had evidently missed the show.
There was purple light, not unlike the colour of jacaranda flowers, coming from the room one window down, so I moved a little further along the branch, well aware that I was increasing my chances of slipping, losing my balance, having the branch snap under my weight, or even being struck by lightning. None of that mattered to me at all. I simply had to see her.
The room’s white lace curtains were almost closed and rain was hammering against the window panes, but every now and then, I managed to catch a glimpse of movement. The gap between the curtains exposed the purple lamp whose light fell upon a flat floral patterned surface behind it.
I realised with delight that I was peering, for the very first time, into Veronica’s bedroom.
A flash of lightning lit the sky for a moment and the corresponding boom of thunder made the branch I was perched upon shake. Undeterred, I ventured a little further along, grasping the rough, wet surface as firmly as I could.
The movements I had noticed were ever so slightly clearer now.
After another minute of observation, I noticed that they were rhythmic, like dancing. A moment later, I was able to distinguish a heavenly glimpse of Veronica’s white skin through the rain-spattered window. I started breathing heavily, and despite my discomfort, my penis went hard and bulged against the jacaranda branch. There was no doubt about it. She was masturbating. As I watched, I found myself rubbing against the tree in time with her.
After a while, her body arched and she shifted a little toward the head of her bed. It was then that I caught sight of what was on the bed with her.
I felt sick to the core as I realised what was happening. It was disgusting and inhuman. But my shock was cut short by a fork of lightning that ripped through the dark clouds and struck nearby. The last thing I can remember before coming into your care is falling from the branch and hitting the ground as a thunderclap rattled my bones.
#
Professor Broughton poured another dram of whisky into each glass.
‘Remember, Charles, that you promised to keep your lips sealed.’
Charles Radic simply stared at his tutor with an expression of horror and disbelief.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Well, I suppose so. Tell me, it is true? You’re surely playing a joke on me. It’s too bizarre to have actually happened.’
Professor Broughton shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s all too real, Charles. Truth is stranger than fiction and all that, right? Now, do remember, you mustn’t repeat it to anybody. Your lips are sealed.’
‘Repeat it!’ Charles said, frowning. ‘I don’t even want to think about it ever again.’
BULLETS
Joanne Anderton
It had once been a sheep, and it wasn’t dead yet. A mangle of smouldering wool, scorched skin, and cooked meat, breathing in puffs of hot ash. Outrun by flames, tangled in underbrush, or crushed beneath a falling tree, who could tell? Everything was charcoal now.
I pull the mask from my nose and mouth and breathe the warm smoke in. Load the rifle, aim between what’s left of the poor thing’s ear and eye, and give it peace with the slow squeeze of the trigger. Try to ignore the shakes, the tears stinging my eyes. I’m soaked in sweat and covered in ash, but supposed to be grateful that I’m still alive. At this point, it’s hard to even give a shit that the house is still standing.
Thank God, mum. We thought you were a gorner this time.
Yeah, real fucking lucky.
This is not the way it was meant to be. Killing stock on my own with the sky still red.
Something rustles in the ash, the distinctive kick of dying feet and the moan of a painful breath. I pull the mask up and head for the sound. It’s hard to breathe through the surgical cloth but it eases the coughing at the end of the day. Winding my way through split, black gumtrees and simmering hubs of still glowing embers, I dig in my bag for more bullets. It’s difficult with the thick gloves on, my fingers slip and pinch through empty cardboard boxes.
The ground is uneven. I trip on a crumbling stump, clutch at a fragile branch that cracks in my grip, and almost fall on top of them.
A whole bloody herd.
‘Shit.’
They’re clustered together, so close in places I can’t tell one corpse from the other. Ten of them, maybe more. Even with their sleek fur all charred and their long manes burnt away, there’s a wildness about them that tells me these aren’t my horses. They lie in a way that makes them look like they’re still running. Legs bent and heads tossed back. Free things. Brumbies.
‘Shit.’ What else is there to say?
Then one of them moves. It kicks at the ash with blackened hooves, it breathes and it whinnies and I’m running over to it, jumping the bodies of its brothers and sisters in my haste. Poor thing can’t still be alive. Its skin is hard and cracked like stone, but still its great barrel of a chest rises and falls in fast, jittery motions. Its lips are shrivelled back to reveal great white teeth that clench and clack.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I scramble for bullets but all I find are empty boxes. ‘Shit!’ Nothing. My bag is empty, my gun too. I’m standing here watching this beautiful creature die slowly, painfully, and I’ve run out of fucking bullets?
Its breathing is violent now, all four legs spasming, neck shaking. I take an unsteady step back, whispering pathetic apologies under my breath.
Then the creature splits in half, cleanly down the middle.
And a naked young man falls out.
#
His skin is piebald, his eyes are blue, his hair is long and always tangled with burrs no matter how often I brush it out. He is very strong and eager to please. Sometimes, he is too hot to touch. If he holds a piece of paper too long, it will catch on fire, but he doesn’t get burned. The flames just dance on the white and grey patterns across his palm.
I gave him water to drink when I first got him home, and wiped the ash from his body with a damp cloth. He steamed, the scent reminding me of my husband on a hot day, and the stables on a humid night, human and animal, flesh and grass both.
For a long time, I just stared at him. He stood tireless in my kitchen, naked and silent. Watching me in turn. But I couldn’t stand there doing nothing for ever, and as soon as I moved, he followed.
He doesn’t speak, at least not that I have heard. But I’m accustomed to silence.
Why don’t you sell up and buy a place in town? You must be lonely. And we worry about you, mum, all alone out there. Something could happen to you, and no one would know.
I’ve never felt alone out here. Not even after Mark died.
It started with the fence around the house. Thing was a mangled wreck from the flames, posts gone, wire tangled and useless. Just goes to show how close the fire came. He watched me dragging wood for new posts, straightening coils of wire from the shed. It was odd, I won’t deny that, to be hammering posts into the earth with a naked man by my side, focused on my every move. But not as odd as leaving a fence unmended. Only took two, maybe three, before he seized the sledgehammer from me and set to work. He didn’t so much as pause for a breath until the fence was complete.
The pale patches on his skin don’t burn in the sun. He does start spot fires though, around his feet, if I’m not careful.
After the fence, he just turned to me, expectant. It was nearly night by then, so I led him back inside. Gave him more water. Vegemite sandwiches. I fished out some of Mark’s old clothes from the boxes I keep them in…
It’s not healthy, mum. They’re just collecting dust. You’ve got to start letting go.
…but quickly worked out clothes weren’t a good idea on him. Wasn’t wearing them
an hour before they started to smoke.
He’s good at the manual stuff, the things Mark used to do. The chopping and the digging and the lifting. He reminds me of my husband sometimes, more than I’d like to admit, in his silence, his maleness, the strength of his youthful body. I remember muscles like those, the way they felt beneath my hands, his warmth a furnace against me.
Together, we emptied the shed so he could sleep on the cool cement floor. Every evening, I comb the burrs from his hair. Every morning, they’ve returned.
#
I lock him in the shed as a plume of dust heralds the arrival of an ancient, battered ute. The bloke that steps down from the vehicle is just as ancient with a stooped back, wiry frame, and leather skin. Old Jimmy, my closest neighbour and a good twenty-minute drive away. He leans back with an audible crack, tips the notched edge of his lanky, grey Akubra, and says, ‘You were lucky, missy.’
No matter how old I get, this man will always call me missy. Doesn’t matter that I was married for forty years before Mark’s death, either.
‘The Collins family lost the house, but they were evacuated, so at least no one got hurt.’ He inspects the damage even as he rambles. Usually, I’m expected to bring tea and some kind of cake when he appears. It’s the way things are done. This time, I just watch him shuffle. ‘Way too much stock lost, that’s the real problem.’ He’s taking in the mended fence, the cleared firebreak, the larger trees chopped and stacked in neat piles, and I know he’s wondering how this little missy who’d come to this place as a young and silly thing in love, and who’d never worked a farm before in her life could have done so much clearing up in only a couple of days.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I had to shoot a lot of sheep. I ran out of bullets.’ It’s a long drive into town to replenish them too.
He mumbles something about head of cattle, and acts of God, but I don’t listen. I don’t like the way he keeps using the word luck. He thinks I got off easy. He doesn’t think that’s fair.
