All the Birds, Singing

by Evie Wyld

  ‘Where are you from?’ I said, with more aggression than the question needed. He frowned.

  ‘Originally?’

  ‘Are you from Australia?’

  ‘Barnsley. My mother’s from Stockton, my father from Leeds. I grew up in Barnsley. I live in London.’ And the accent was gone, just a trick of my ear. I settled back down in my chair. There was a silence. ‘And you – obviously – are from Australia.’ And then it came: ‘What brought you to the island?’

  ‘Sheep.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said in a way that meant I was supposed to carry on talking. Instead I got up and poured another drink. After a second’s thought I decided it was more out of the ordinary and awkward not to pour him one too, so I refilled his glass. He looked up and smiled. Drink made men dark but it also made them sloppy. I added water to mine.

  The stew had cooked too long and stuck to the pot. I put two bowlfuls out on the table with the bread.

  Lloyd took the towel off his head and shook out his hair, which dried into waves, grey around his ears.

  I searched for a moment for a bread knife and remembered it was still upstairs.

  ‘I’m out of knives for the time being,’ I said, ‘so you’ll have to tear the bread, and spread butter with the back of a spoon.’ Lloyd nodded like this was not unusual.

  12

  It’s so hot I feel as though I’ll bloat up and explode like a dead possum, and after checking the sheep, I find myself on my bike, with wind through my hair. The feeling that Otto won’t know exactly where to find me takes hold and I keep going. I cycle into the mirage, can feel the sun flaying my back and shoulders, the lids of my eyes, but it’s worth it to feel like I’m en route to something. I imagine finding a waterhole that’s not dried up in the drought; I think over and over, I’ll just ride to the end of this mirage, but there’s nothing here. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I become aware of the heat in a new way. Thirst comes and then goes again. The mirage is replaced by black and red stars. All I want to do is keep going, if it takes a week of riding, if the sun kills me, I want to be at the coast, I want to open my eyes in the water to see the deep cool nothing below the surface and to let the tide take me where it likes. Away.

  I come off the bike when I hit a rock, and it throws me over the handlebars. Apart from skin off my knees and hands, I’m fine, but it’s hard to get up. There’s a shrub that casts a small shadow and I wheel myself over to it, and slump there. There is salt on my lips, I am thirsty and burnt, but not unhappy. I lie there and watch a whistler high up, riding the hot air, and I imagine it is a seagull and I am in the bottom of a boat, jumping with sea lice. Karen is with me, we’re drinking Cokes and she’s got her fingers laced through mine. I will stay here, I think, I will pull up the anchor and lie in the hull of the boat and let it take me to wherever the centre is.

  I walk down the corridor of my brain and don’t even look at the doors either side.

  When I wake up, Otto is standing over me, his face a rage. He picks me up, puts me over his shoulder, and the feeling is of my sunburnt skin being pulled off. A taste of what it is like to be burnt, properly.

  When I wake a second time, I am in my bed and Otto is feeding water into my mouth, and then he rubs cream into my back and over my face. ‘Bloody disgrace,’ I hear him say.

  The next morning I have a fever and the room spins. Otto isn’t talking to me, just comes in with a sandwich now and again, stands over me till I eat it, until I am well again. When I feel well again, I come out of my bedroom in a towel and Otto is there in the living room watching the soaps. He doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Well,’ he says to the TV, ‘the princess awakes.’

  ‘I got lost,’ I say.

  ‘Got lost in a straight line? That’d take some doing.’

  ‘I was looking for a waterhole,’ but while I’m trying to think up a story, my eyes catch on something out the front of the house, and I trail off. My bike is lying on its side, wrecked. It has been driven over repeatedly, squashed flat into the ground.

  ‘My bike,’ is all I can say.

  Otto looks at me. ‘I didn’t see it,’ he says, and he doesn’t even try to make me believe him.

  Later that night, I am in my room and he unlocks my door, lies down next to me and wants sex, but I don’t want anything to do with him. I am angry and I push him away.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You sulking?’ I don’t reply. ‘You’re lucky I don’t beat the hell out of you with the back of a brush, girly,’ he says and stands up. From the doorway he says, ‘You don’t fool me.’ And then he slams the door and makes a point of locking it noisily. I hear him go to the living room and put the TV on. The fridge door closes and shakes the house.

  In the morning, he greets me with a grim look in his eye.

  ‘Low on meat,’ is all he says and takes me by the wrist to the truck, where Kelly is already waiting, panting with excitement. We drive out to the sheep and from the back of the truck he brings a heavy black canvas bag. I think about the shoe under the house. The earring in the woolshed. The things Kelly finds to eat in the tall dry grass.

  Otto grips a ewe with a dreadful kind of strength I haven’t seen before – like he’s been keeping his muscles in hibernation until this point. It is different from the strength he uses when he is shearing – it’s cruel, like he wants her to know what’s coming. He swings her up the ramp in front of him, and she gives out a terrible sound, and I stand there outside the woolshed, mute. Kelly is also silent; she crouches low to the ground by Otto’s side, slinking here and there with those cloudy eyes and a look of a snake about her. The rest of the sheep have their ears forward and are backed into the far corner of the pen. One by one, they must be thinking, and I tackle the urge to kick down the fence and tell them to flee. They will only stand there. From where I am, I can see into the woolshed, the hook with its dark stain beneath it.

  ‘Get in here, girl, I want you to see how it’s done,’ shouts Otto, and I pretend I can’t hear him, because I can’t move. I see him shake his head and the sheep’s cries rattle my bones. He takes a wide-bladed knife from his bag and slices once across the white throat of the sheep and she is still alive and trying to bleat. Otto holds her firm between his thighs, and her back legs are going like crazy and the red comes out of her neck like a tap has been turned on. He cuts again and her voice fades out into a gurgle as he goes through the windpipe, and the stamp of her hooves weakens. There is a scream in me that wants to come out, but I won’t let it, I won’t look away.

  Otto drops the ewe, who still moves, but softly, she is not going anywhere, and only now does Kelly start to bark, baring her teeth close to the sheep’s eye which is rolling back, showing the white; the dog lunges again and again at the sheep, not biting, just snapping at the air near her face. I hear my name shouted again and I follow, and inside the woolshed is the smell of new blood.

  ‘You need to learn how it’s done.’ He wipes his forearm under his nose to get rid of the sweat, and leaves a streak of brown blood on his face. He stares at me, an unbroken gaze that prickles the hair on my neck. There’s something about him in the blood fug that is natural. A bird squawks from on top of the shed. Otto shrugs and the tension breaks. ‘No matter, we’ll do another.’ My knees weaken.

  The sheep is dead now, and Kelly drools over it; no longer concerned with scaring it, she’s waiting to be given a taste. Otto takes a smaller knife and cuts the tendons at the sheep’s back ankles before poking some hooks in and hoisting her off the floor with a pulley and rope. I see a bead of blood land in her open eye.

  ‘And that’s how them Muslims do it,’ he says, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He cuts off one of her front feet and gives it to Kelly, who accepts the hoof like it has always belonged to her. She stands, legs apart, and grinds her teeth into it.

  ‘Right,’ says Otto, ‘go and grab one then.’ I stand still. ‘Come on, get a move on.’r />
  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve seen you pick a sheep up. Come on,’ says Otto, ‘don’t be wet.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  Otto looks at me through a narrowed eye. ‘Part of having animals, girl. I told Carole about this, an’ she didn’t listen either. Didn’t pick you out as being spooked by a bit of blood.’ There’s a small smile around his lips; he’s trying not to show it but he is amused, and he is enjoying seeing me scared.

  I can feel my strong arms floating from my shoulders, as weak as feathers. I want to do something to make him understand that it is important that this doesn’t happen. I am sorry for my bad behaviour, I want to tell him, I want to say I won’t do it again, I promise. I will take the beating with a brush, but not this. But all I can make is the word ‘Please’.

  He stomps out of the shed and comes back with a wild-eyed sheep, the one with black spots on her nose. Otto has a smile on his face, he’s let it out, doesn’t care what I know about him. He looks at me like I’m a kid who’s thrown a tantrum and he is going to teach me a lesson and then laugh about it afterwards. It is going to happen regardless of how much I don’t want it to happen, and I can see he has a hard-on through his shorts, and he is doing this because he likes me best when I’m small and like a child and he can tuck me into bed and feed me with a spoon and I see the horrible certainty of the challenge, and I will show him that I am stronger than he thinks, and the sheep with the black spots on her nose will be the sacrifice.

  Somewhere a tarpaulin flaps in a breeze that doesn’t reach me. I reel it in just as the tears have filled my eyes, I blink them back inside, and take the knife from the boards, where it is still hot and red from the last sheep, and the ewe with the black spots is whipping about underneath Otto, and Kelly has stopped crunching her sheep’s foot and is watching, interested as I transfer the sheep between my legs and pull her head back to expose her throat. I clamp a hand over her black-spotted nose so she can’t make those terrible sounds any more, and in one motion I cut her throat, as deep and hard as I can, I want her to be dead before she knows about it, but she still writhes about under me as blood pours out of her, and as her strength goes, so does mine, but I hold her to me, I press my face into the wool at the back of her head. Kelly is barking again. Otto is silent and watching, and he glances at the knife I’m still holding, his smile gone.

  Once Otto has taken off the ribs and shoulders, we dump the carcasses out in the paddock next to the house, and Kelly high-steps it next to us, animated and puppy-like. We don’t throw them far in, and she goes and bites and bites again at what is left. I wish he had taken the heads off. Kelly goes down on her shoulder and rolls on the remains. We have sex almost immediately as we get back in the house and I let him do what he wants with me, which is everything. Afterwards, when he’s gone, I drop to the floor and do push-ups until I see black dots.

  In the morning, after my shower, I’m standing over the bathroom sink and my eyes fall on Otto’s eardrops. Without giving myself a chance to think, I take off the lid and pour them down my throat. Otto comes in to find me heaving into the toilet.

  ‘What’s the matter, pet?’

  I feel crook, but I ham it up anyway.

  ‘I need to go to the hospital.’ Once I’m there I can slip away, or tell someone, a kind-looking nurse, that I have to get away from him, I picture her helping me into her car and driving me to the station, giving me money for a ticket to the coast. Otto feels my forehead as I’m spewing. I will it to be hot.

  ‘It hurts,’ I say, clutching my stomach. I want to give him the idea of a burst appendix. Otto runs his hand over his face.

  ‘Look,’ Otto says finally, ‘I’ll go into town and get you something to settle your stomach.’

  ‘I need to see a doctor.’

  ‘You’ll be right.’ He goes to leave.

  ‘I want to see a doctor, I’m really sick,’ I say, making my voice as weak as I can, but Otto has made up his mind, I can see it on his liver-spotted face.

  ‘I’ll get you some medicine. You’ve just had too much sun again,’ he says in a way that I know to be the final word.

  I listen to Otto’s truck drive away without me. I’d imagined myself drinking a Coke and buying some more Holidays, smoking one in a gas station.

  I’ve thrown up all the drops, but I keep thinking of the wax inside Otto’s ears; I know it was only the drops I swallowed, but it feels like his wax is coating me on the inside. I go to breathe some fresh air, but Kelly sits silently on the other side of the screen door, watching my movements. I flick her the bird but she is not impressed.

  In Otto’s bedroom there’s a picture on the wall of a bunch of purple flowers in a pale yellow vase, but that is the only concession to decoration in the place. It’s from another person, Carole probably. I never come in here, not even to clean – he always comes to me in my room, and the smell of the place is like he keeps a bowl of stew under his bed.

  In the wardrobe I find a moth-eaten suit with a yellow stiffness around the armpits, and four dresses that would have belonged to a tiny woman. Below them are three small lady’s shoes: two purple wedges and a single pink stiletto. All three have a deadly point that I can’t imagine getting a single toe into. I stare at the pink shoe on its own. Out the bedroom window I catch movement in the paddock, but it’s probably just a bandicoot or a rat. I hold my breath and watch, but nothing comes out of the tall dry grass.

  Up on a shelf above the dresses is a chocolate box with no lid, in it the driver’s licence of Carole McKinney from Carnarvon – it puts her age at forty-two. There are two bracelets made of blue and orange coral and a pink lipstick without its top. Underneath these objects is a large colour photograph of Carole and Otto on their wedding day. Otto is wearing the suit with the armpit stains and has Kelly standing next to him, staring straight into the camera. Otto’s arm is around Carole’s shoulders, so the armpit is visible. Carole wears one of the dresses that hangs in front of me – it’s over the top, purple and with one shoulder bare, the other with a large satin bow on, like Carole is a present that is ready for unwrapping. She holds a small white hairy-looking dog with both hands. Her hair is in a short permed bob and has yellowish highlights all through it, her eyes are barely visible beneath the layers of mascara she wears, and there’s that hot-pink lipstick, just about holding in her astonishing buck teeth. Carole is smiling, trying to keep the teeth in check, and she is presenting one long brown leg for the camera. Otto stands firm on both feet, straight-backed with a look that could bake biscuits. All of this is going on outside Darwin Registry Office. My hands start to sweat when I recognise the earrings Carole is wearing, and I have to put the photograph back in the box so I don’t mark it. I would like to tear it up.

  I go into the kitchen and I take out the box under the sink which is filled with rusted can openers and bent spoons. I find a curved boning knife, and go to put the box back under the sink. In the space behind where the box normally lives is a golden syrup tin I’ve never noticed before. I lever up its lid with a spoon and inside is a thick roll of money. I put it and the box back, and then I put the knife down the side of my bed. I lie down on the bed and think about that money, about how far it would go. There’s the sound of Otto’s truck coming up the drive. He brings me a can of Coke and some peppermint syrup.

  13

  I woke up early and lay a minute in bed trying to put things in the right order. I’d got into bed and lain there listening out for creaks on the stairs. None came and I had listened for the hammering on the wall, but it was quiet too. Something had changed in the house. Even the fox stopped shrieking. I’d slept deeply, not dreaming. When I woke, there were large beads of rain on the window, and the glass boomed now and again in its frame, but the sky was not deep brown any more. I could see the hedgerow at the top of the hill flattened by the wind.

  Downstairs Lloyd was asleep on the sofa, an old Bible open on his chest. He’d left the lamp on and when I pressed the button t
o turn it off he snapped awake.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, holding his hand up to his face. I picked up the phone and dialled Don’s number. Still no reply. I was late – he might have come and gone already. I turned round and looked at Lloyd and his Bible.

  ‘You god squad?’ I said. He kept his hand over his eyes a few moments. When he took it away, he looked at me.

  ‘What?’ he said, then looked down at the Bible. ‘Oh.’

  I started to fill the kettle.

  ‘No – the only book I could find, and I thought I’d give it a go.’ He yawned extravagantly.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘It beat lying awake listening to you.’

  I stopped scraping. ‘Listening to what?’

  ‘Jesus, you were having some kind of horror-film dream. I went up, thought you were being murdered, but the dog wouldn’t let me in. You were shouting away, didn’t wake up when I called out your name.’

  ‘I have to go and look after the sheep now,’ I said. Then I turned and walked back up the stairs to my room. The bath was filled to the brim with water. I pulled out the plug and watched it start to drain away. I dried my hands on a towel and went downstairs and stood in front of Lloyd.

  ‘I have to go and look after the sheep now,’ I said again.

  All sheep were accounted for, and the cold air burnt my lips and took the white smoke of breath from my mouth. There was a new smell to the day, the wind had changed direction and it brought with it salt and bonfires. Snowdrops that had come up in the night were pinned to the earth by the wind. I marked the sheep that looked like they had triplets and twins and Dog chased a rabbit into the woods.

  I crutched a dozen or so of the furthest along, and while I worked, a fox appeared at the edge of the woods. I stopped what I was doing and watched her. Compared to the sheep she was small and skittish.

  ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ I asked out loud. If I was any kind of farmer, I’d be there with my gun and I’d take her out. I watched two skinny cubs amble up behind her. They were far too early, and she’d be needing food to keep her milk up, to keep her strength up. I looked at the ewe I’d just crutched, settled comfortably in the grass, saw her sigh at the solidness of herself against earth.