Devastation Road

by Joanna Baker

  Chess took that as the question she wanted.

  ‘Mirrors,’ she said. She nodded towards the drinks fridge at the back of the shop and, sure enough, when I edged towards Chess I could see the front of the shop quite well, reflected on the glass doors. The person at the counter was Tara. She had this long rippling hair and the silhouette was unmistakable.

  ***

  Now of all the people I was hiding from, Tara was the one I most wanted to avoid. Apart from Chess, Tara and her cousin, Wando, are the only people my age in Yackandandah and we’d kind of grown up together. Actually, that’s not exactly true. We’d been together a lot when we were very small — the full pre-school, Yack Primary, birthday party thing — and I still saw a lot of Wando. And Wando saw a lot of Tara, because their mothers were twins and practically lived in each other’s houses. But over the years, Tara had kind of drifted out of my life. Tara’s father, Derek Roland, had taken up selling insurance, as well as running a lot of other businesses (he had owned the café that had just burnt down), and he must have been good at it all, because they slowly got richer and richer, and as that happened Tara had less to do with Chess and me. It wasn’t that she didn’t like me or anything (I’m not so sure about Chess), she just never had any time. The Rolands started having holidays at the Gold Coast and Thredbo and places, and they got a unit in Melbourne, and she just never seemed to be around any more. Even when I was at Wando’s place, which was pretty often, it never seemed to be when Tara was there.

  It shouldn’t have mattered. We were all at Beechworth High now, and I had a group of kids there to hang with, actually several groups, and there were a few girls I’d gone out with for about two seconds each, so I wasn’t exactly pining for Tara.

  The trouble was, while she was getting this interesting life outside Yackandandah, Tara also started looking good, and she developed this air of knowing a lot about the world. She went out with Year Twelve guys and I had no idea what was going on there, but it wasn’t because I didn’t think about it. Because that’s the tragic thing. The less time she had for me, the more interested I got. Lately, I’d been thinking about Tara a lot. Cruel world. I wanted to see more of Tara, and when I did see her I wanted her to find out that I’d got interesting, too.

  I did not want her to find me dizzy and nearly vomiting in the back of the bakery, where we used to come for raspberry cordial.

  ***

  Chess never got any of this. It never occurs to her that you’ll be judged by the way you behave. She doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks. She was tapping her skinny fingers on the table, still smiling about the mirror thing.

  ‘All right, David Copperfield,’ I said. ‘At least go and sit over there.’ I nodded towards the opposite seat and pushed her under the table. ‘And be quiet. Maybe she won’t hear us.’

  But fate doesn’t work like that. We’d done something about that in English. Shakespeare and those poets go on about it all the time. Fate is mean. When you’re feeling low fate will not look after you. In a situation like this, when you’re sitting at a checked tablecloth with a stand-out dork with her hair in a pink and gold elastic band, fate will not steer your friends safely back out onto the street. I watched in the fridge window. Tara shook some rain out of her hair. Then, after standing in front of Debbie the bakery girl for a long time without saying anything, she suddenly decided, for no reason at all, that she had to have a mineral water and, still without speaking, came to the fridge to get one. Debbie shrugged and turned to answer the phone.

  When Tara drew level with us, Chess was still crawling out from under the table and I was dabbing at the sauce on my sleeve with a paper napkin. The napkin had little blue flowers on it.

  Tara never says much. That’s partly what makes her so interesting. You never really know what she’s thinking. She let a few seconds go by before she spoke, but then disappointed me by opening the same way Chess had.

  ‘You look awful.’

  I wasn’t used to all this talk about my appearance. I spend a lot of time on it myself, gazing in the mirror, pulling at my hair, trying out expressions, but no one else ever seems to notice a thing about the way I look. Mostly I look just like everyone else. I have long fairish hair, which gets in my eyes, but which I can’t cut because my ears stick out. (I had a number four once and someone said I looked like a car with both doors open.) Apart from that I’ve never had a comment. Until today. Now I had to produce an answer.

  I tried a brave laugh. ‘I am feeling a little fried.’

  ‘He was trying to save your father’s shop,’ said Chess.

  Tara had blue eyes, set wide apart. They were very large, even slightly — what’s the word? — pro … something. Chess would know. They bulge a bit. Not enough to be ugly. They’re an amazing colour. She fixed them now on Chess as if she didn’t quite understand what had been said.

  Then she said, ‘He needn’t have bothered.’ She looked at me. ‘Nice of you, Matt. But the place wasn’t worth it if you ask me.’

  ‘Did you get your history assignment done?’ said Chess.

  Tara looked at Chess as if she was some kind of annoying worm, which was how a lot of people looked at Chess. Chess was looking back at Tara as if she was a fascinating creature she would like to know more about — not in an admiring way — as if she would like to dissect her under a microscope. This is how Chess looked at everyone, which is one reason people say she’s weird. Finally, Tara decided to answer her.

  ‘Haven’t started yet,’ she said, sounding bored. ‘I’m going to Wando’s now. We’ll stay there all night and knock it over. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do around here on a Saturday.’ She looked at me again. ‘See you around, Matt.’

  With that she made it clear that our company wasn’t worth spending any more time on. By leaving.

  There were a group of people at the counter. On her way out, Tara leant around them to put down money for the drink. Debbie put a hand over the phone, called Tara’s name and handed her a small paper receipt. Tara didn’t thank her.

  ***

  Time passed. Down near the cash register the phone was ringing. Again. Debbie picked it up and started murmuring in a cutesy-pie love-struck way. I closed my eyes and wished I was unconscious again. The shop radio was still playing that bubble-gum music it always plays, where the boys sing like girls and the chorus comes up every thirty seconds and makes you dig your fingernails into your own flesh.

  Customers came and went, interrupting Debbie a few times, but she didn’t hang up. It was a long conversation. Chess got herself a drink and put the money on the counter. Debbie smiled at her and giggled into the phone. Slowly I realised I wasn’t feeling sick any more.

  After her phone call Debbie came and joined us. She was a tiny girl, twenty-two I think, but she looked much younger. She’d worked in the bakery for several years and was often left to run the place, especially on Saturday afternoons when the owners were at the races. She was an amazingly beautiful girl. At least that’s what people told me. Small and fine-boned with skin like satin, and honey-coloured hair that she wore short enough to curl sweetly around her delicate white neck. Older people seem to like this sort of thing. For my taste she was a little too — well — dolly. And she had no dress sense. She always wore shiny slippery-looking blouses in pale colours, with high wobbly shoes and thick pink lipstick. Every time I saw her I thought of the little fairies girls buy at the show. The ones with sticks stuck up their backs.

  Nothing in Debbie’s manner matched the look. As she came over she was bolting down the last of a vanilla slice. She licked her fingers and reached across me for a paper napkin, sending up a wave of perfume. In her ears she had little gold and diamond studs. Most of Debbie’s jewellery was like that — gold and pearls and very small, which was why I noticed the pendant around her neck. It was a lump of yellowish stone on a thick gold chain. As she leaned across it swung outwards, almost landing in my pie. She didn’t look comfortable with it on. She wiped her fingers
and pushed it back into place on her chest.

  Then, instead of clearing away the half-eaten pie and wiping down the table, she took a diet lemonade out of the fridge, dragged over a chair from near the counter and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  OK, Yackandandah is a small town and isolated from a lot of what goes on, but even we know you can’t smoke in cafés and restaurants. Which was probably why Debbie had come to the back.

  What do you do? The last thing I needed in my lungs was more smoke, but she was running the place. High up on the wall above Chess’s head was a small extractor fan, about a 1940 model, rotating very very slowly. Debbie took a deep drag and blew the smoke upwards. The fan cleared out approximately none of it. Most of it drifted over Chess.

  ‘You got caught in a fire,’ said Debbie, giving me a pitying look.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said.

  ‘Are ya?’

  I nodded, realising it was true. I was starting to feel better.

  She flicked at the end of the cigarette, sending some ash onto my pie plate.

  ‘But you’re out of a second job,’ said Chess. Debbie had worked in the café on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  Debbie smiled mysteriously. ‘I’ll get over it.’ She took a swig of the lemonade. ‘Nearly time to close up.’ There was a funny light in her eyes that had nothing to do with what she was saying. She looked pleased about something.

  Chess glanced at her watch. ‘Fifteen minutes to go.’

  Debbie looked towards the door and shrugged. ‘No one much’ll come in this rain. Just a couple of people haven’t picked up their orders yet.’

  ‘Big day tomorrow,’ said Chess. The Yackandandah Primary School had organised a pie drive with the bakery. Mr and Mrs Weatherall would spend the whole of the next day baking pies for people to buy in huge numbers. They also, as a help to the school, took the orders themselves.

  Debbie didn’t look pleased about it. ‘I wish they wouldn’t have pie drives. People have been ringing me all day, fussing about their orders. I’ve left the phone off the hook. If they want to talk about pies they can ring me tomorrow. I’ve got other things to think about.’

  She sat back in her chair, looking happy again. She took the top off her drink between moist pink lips and guzzled about half the bottle. Her stomach made a little noise. She thumped it. ‘Shaddup, I fed yer.’ She grinned at us. Debbie had a wide smile and two rows of pearly teeth straight out of Hollywood.

  ‘You seem happy today,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve had some news,’ said Debbie, wriggling a bit in the chair.

  ‘Something to do with the phone call?’

  ‘Might be. I can’t tell you.’ She gave the sort of stretch a cat does when you stroke it. ‘In fact there are a lot of things I know today, that I can’t tell you.’ She paused as if she’d thought of something. ‘Come to think of it there are three.’

  She took a drag on the cigarette and blew smoke up and over Chess’s head. Other kids, and even some adults I know, would have resorted to some exaggerated coughing. Chess didn’t seem to notice. I know she hated smoke, but she was very polite like that.

  ‘One of the things must be good,’ I said.

  ‘How can you tell?’ said Chess.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ I said, happy to have a win over her. ‘There are ways of knowing things other than being logical.’

  Debbie’s next words pleased me. ‘You’re right. One is very very good. One is kind of interesting. It’s about the fire at Tara’s café.’ She screwed up her face, thinking. ‘And it’s a bit good I suppose. But the other one …’ She gripped the pendant around her neck. ‘One is very very bad.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Chess, pointing to the pendant.

  ‘Ye-e-es,’ said Debbie, as if Chess had made the right connection. ‘This. What do you think? It’s called the Eye of Ra.’

  It wasn’t much to look at. A stone on a chain, the kind of thing you see on women at markets, when they’re going for a mystical look. It went with thick oily perfume and tattoos of zodiac signs. It was totally not Debbie’s style. The clasp on the chain was big and clunky. Debbie pulled it around to hide it at the back of her neck and then rubbed the stone with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘It means I know things,’ said Debbie. ‘It’s like, you know, the eye of a god who sees everything.’

  There’s one thing about Chess. She never needs to pour scorn on people, no matter how much moronic drivel they dish up. Maybe because she finds all of us pretty stupid. She said, ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I’ve had it for a long time, but I’ve never worn it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Like I said. It means I know things — about fires. And a death. Knowing things like that can be dangerous. Today I decided it was time to put it on.’

  ‘Why now?’ I asked.

  Debbie gave me a knowing look that I found really irritating. ‘I just decided it was time, that’s all. Time to stir things up a bit.’

  ‘Stir what up?’ I said.

  Debbie lowered her eyelids. They were painted pale blue and lined in black.

  ‘You heard,’ said Chess thoughtfully. ‘She can’t tell us.’

  ‘Exactly,’ purred Debbie.

  ‘But that’s what you’re pleased about is it Debbie?’ said Chess.

  ‘I’m pleased about a lot of things.’

  ‘So, it’s worked, has it? The stirring up thing?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think it has. People try not to show these things, but it went home all right.’

  ***

  Debbie was right about having some peace. The rain had finally stopped, but for fourteen minutes no one came into the shop and, of course, the phone was off the hook. I knew that Mrs Dowling would be waiting for me at home, and there’d also be a message from the police about wanting another interview, so, like Debbie, I was relishing the rest. I stayed, and Chess stayed with me.

  Just as Debbie was levering herself out of her chair, murmuring about locking up and cleaning, a last customer came through the door.

  It was Wando. Tara’s cousin, my mate. There’s nothing much to say about him. He’s tall and heavy-looking with thick arms and legs but no real muscles. He has a big jaw, but apart from that his features are small and soft, like those of a much younger kid. He has hair like a chrysanthemum, which is pretty interesting. I could see him reflected in the fridge door and outside I could see Tara, waiting for him.

  Debbie said, ‘There you are Wando. Your Mum’s bread sticks. Forgot didn’t you. I thought I was going to have to bring them round.’

  There was a short pause then, and I thought about getting up and saying g’day. I don’t know why I didn’t. There was something about the silence that stopped me. The reflection in the fridge window wasn’t perfect. It was shadowy and the surface wasn’t quite smooth, so that when people moved they wobbled and rippled. But I could tell Wando was upset about something. Like Tara, he didn’t say anything to Debbie, which was unusual for him. Debbie noticed it too and maybe there was something in his face, because at the end of her sentence her voice kind of petered out.

  ‘What’re you doing Deb?’ said Wando quietly.

  She giggled a bit nervously.

  ‘Well, you know — der — bread sticks.’

  His voice went even quieter. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘This?’ In my dim mirror I saw Debbie put her hand on the pendant. She was doing mock innocence and she’d lost some of her nervousness.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ said Wando.

  ‘I found it in the bush, Wando.’ Now she sounded really brave, even nasty. ‘Down our way. Down by Devastation Road.’

  ‘Take it off, Deb.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m trying to worry.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ Wando’s voice had risen, hoarse and uneven.

  ‘Oh, but I do know.’

  He was at the door now, clutching the bags of bread.

  ‘Lose it, Deb, for your
own sake. Take it off and get rid of it.’

  Chapter 3

  I was up by ten thirty the next morning. Pretty early, I know, but I’d gone to bed at eight o’clock, partly because I was wrecked, and partly because Mrs Dowling came to sit with me again to make sure I was all right. While I was buttering my toast, I decided I should go and see if Mr Roland’s computer — and my homework — had survived the fire.

  Inside, Columbine Collectables was completely black and the air was sour with charcoal. The café part was gutted, with most of the floor missing. I tested each board before putting my weight on it, stepping carefully between charred scraps of shelving and smashed china. There wasn’t much else left in there. Poor old Muggins had vaporised.

  From the beginning of the corridor, where the walls had been wood and fibro, the place was just demolished. The kitchen was unrecognisable. Holding a sleeve over my mouth, I stood in what was left of the doorway, peering across to where the office had been, trying to convince myself it was the same place I’d been in two nights ago. Everything was tangled with metal strips and loops of wire, and the tin roof, the part that was still there, perched shakily on black, crumbling framework. Beside me was the old yellow stove, its door warped and falling off, its top stuck up with something that looked like pools of tar, and the wall had a kind of vinyl coating that had cracked into a fine network of black-silver scales. The floor was thick with slimy ash. As I moved around, it ground under my feet, sending up more of the rancid smell. My piece of toast stayed in my hand, uneaten.

  The computer was still there, the screen upside down on the floor, but it didn’t look as if I’d ever get at the hard disc. Not that that worried me. I hadn’t really expected to find anything left of my assignment. Mostly, I suppose it was curiosity that took me there. And at least I could tell Spearsey I’d tried.

  As I picked my way back out to the road, I heard a voice, ‘’Ere! Who’s that? Come on. Git out here!’