‘What on earth do you two find to talk about? As unlikely a pair as anyone could imagine. Have you spotted that new coat she’s sporting?’
‘Might’ve. Dunno,’ said Damon. ‘I don’t take much notice of what people wear, Mrs H. Clothes are only the outer wrapping of a person. They’re of no importance to me.’
‘Little liar!’ she looked him up and down.
‘It’s what’s on the inside that counts, Mrs H.’ said Damon.
‘You are quite right, too,’ she smiled. ‘Just what I said to Patsy in children’s. Mortified, she was, to see old bag-lady Esther in the selfsame coat Patsy had forked out six months salary for only just last month. Says she can’t possibly be seen in it ever again!’
Damon got angry. ‘You just tell that stuck-up bitch there’s a whole bloody heap more to Esther than she’d ever know. Jesus!’ very angry.
‘All right all right all right. I’ll get your coffee. Simmer down. Sorry I opened my big fat mouth.’
‘Make it black and three sugars. That sorta crap sucks,’ said Damon. ‘Bet Esther wouldn’t ever want to wear her new coat if she knew that library tart had one the same. Your Patsy isn’t good enough to wipe Esther’s arse!’
‘I’ll let her know,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not your fault, Mrs H. It’s just… oh, nuthin’. Anyway, won’t be staying for coffee. Just remembered. I gotta do something. Gotta go somewhere,’ and he hastily gathered books, papers, pens, shoved them into his bag. ‘Don’t bother about the coffee.’
‘Only take a mo… I’m sorry I said… didn’t think…’ Lois Henderson called after Damon.
He stood on the library steps and stared into the pouring rain, pulled up the hood of his jacket, thought again, turned back inside into the foyer of the library. Keeping a lookout on the main entrance doorway he cast an experienced eye over the assortment of umbrellas stashed by prudent customers outside the main door. Selecting the biggest and best he made his way out and straight into the heavy spring rain.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blinded by the driving of the rain against his sunglasses he was forced to remove them, shove them in a pocket. Street after mean street. Streets he now knew as well as any in this city. Almost running now, heedless of any traffic or of any other pedestrian fool enough to venture into this storm.
As he rounded the last corner the rain stopped. Heavy downpour one moment, nothing the next. Within seconds the black clouds rolled back, rolled on, and a clear, clean sunlight streamed down. Ahead he saw the warehouse, saw, too, the devastation of demolition. It was as if the building had been eaten into, devoured, bite by bite by some gigantic creature. Indeed it had. The machinery of demolition lay idle, shut down, silent. Gluttony had been momentarily satisfied and the monsters, satiated, rested. These mechanical monsters seemed to have no taste for dripping wet food! The operators of the machinery had fled to find shelter – or to seek an early lunch.
The door to Esther’s room stood open. Carefully skirting a pile of rubble, Damon picked his way inside. The monsters had put a hold on this latest feed only a mouthful or two from where she lived. From where she had lived.
There was no sign of the old woman. The room was neat, tidied, the bits and pieces of scrap furnishing stood in their usual places. The old grey army coat was neatly folded over the back of her chair. Damon did not bother calling out to Esther. Damon did not bother looking for Esther. He knew she had gone. He shrugged. It was a gesture of hopelessness, helplessness. He felt hot and then cold. He shook his head in a movement of near defeat and he slowly walked the little room, touching the odds and ends of the old woman’s living. She had been here. Hadn’t she? Surely she had been here, existing as something more than a figment of imagination? With an anguish, the like of which he had never felt before, he sank down to rest on his haunches. Squatting, he howled out his heart. Finally he stood and cast one last lingering look around the shabby and strange little room, savouring almost, the essence of the old lady who had called this place home. He sighed and looked about him, thinking to pick up a memento of the place, some reminder of who had lived here. Then he shook his head and spoke out loud. ‘Got the bloody plant in the shit pot. That’ll do,’ and then a whisper to himself. ‘Don’t even need that. I won’t forget you, old lady.’
He turned to leave. As he did so a ray of bright sunlight shone in through the open doorway and lit the room with a strong light. The sun’s ray caught at something on the old table, something that shot forth with a sparkle of white fire. ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Damon. ‘She’s forgot her old pins. Left her old safety pins.’
Esther had left more. There was a note beneath the pins. ‘Boy,’ it began, and the word had been underlined. ‘When you read this, I will be gone. Where? Who knows? As I have told you, my home is where my coat is and I now have a good fine coat to house me for at least another winter or two. For that, my thanks. My fine new coat has equally fine buttons and I have no further use for the trinkets I leave for you. May you travel as well in your life as I have done in mine and may the pathways of your life continue to broaden. Esther.’
The four old pins were heavy. The four old pins glowed gold in his hand. Most definitely they were not of brass. Into the curiously shaped hasp of each pin was set something he had not spotted before. Securely clawed into each pin was a clear, vividly bright stone, each just about half the size of the nail of his little finger and each shooting forth from its depths a fire of blue ice. He knew what they were.
Damon picked up Esther’s letter and read it again. And then he read it again. Taking great care he folded it once, twice, unzipped an inside pocket of his jacket and slipped it inside. He picked up the pins, felt them, weighed them in his hand. They were very heavy. He stared down into the fiery ice of each stone, first with his glasses on and then with them off. A broad grin spread across his face as he said, softly, ‘You old devil! Reckon you did something more than dance for a mad queen. Take a bit more than dancing to earn this stuff. Four old safety pins, eh?’
It was now that he saw on the wall, hanging from a nail, an ornate mirror of little more size than a pocket mirror. ‘Shit! That wasn’t there… Know everything that’s been in this room and that sure didn’t add up to much,’ and he bent, leaned across the table and peered into its small surface. ‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘Dear God!’ and his fingers moved to his face. The reflection that came back to him from the glass of the little mirror was of a face without blemish. A face that was whole. A face that bore no scar.
Good Face. Bad Face. Good Face. Bad Face.
The same face? Same Face?
One Face?
Damon found a scrap of cloth and, taking immense care, wrapped first the four pins and then the mirror and slipped them, too, into the zippered inner pocket of his jacket. Taking even greater care, and full in the knowledge that the place may only exist for another hour or so at most, he set everything to rights within the room. Then he put on his glasses, picked up his bag and umbrella, took one last look and left the room, gently closing the door behind him. ‘Thank you, old woman,’ he said, quietly. ‘Thank you, Esther.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunlight drenched the devastation and danced on the droplets of water that splattered, spattered the demolition machinery. That these machines were about to satisfy appetites again was obvious. Already the engine of one machine idled, rumbled hungrily. There was a smell of rotten building and fumes of burning diesel in the air.
It was as he skirted the pile of rubble near Esther’s doorway that Damon heard the voices.
‘Can you see the bastard?’ a yell.
‘Yeah. It’s up here. Not gonna scratch me and get away with it? Here kitty kitty kitty. Nice kitty. Come’n get yer neck wrung.’
‘Leave it there. Go straight in with the loader. You’ll squash the bugger flat. It can’t get out.’
‘No way. This one’s gotta be hands on. Here kitty kitty… nice kitty,’ sweet, w
heedling tones. ‘Hells bells, Kev! Should see the brute! Only got three legs. Hell! Never seen nuthin’ like it. OUCH!!’
There was a laugh from the other. ‘Can’t even get yer hands on a three-leg cat. Whaddaya?’
‘Be a no-leg cat when I done with it!’
Damon edged around the rubble, took in the scene. He knew the quarry. He eyed up the hunters. Two pleasant enough looking young guys but each with the blood-lust gleam of the hunter in their eyes. Damon called out. ‘You guys want a hand? After that bloody three-leg cat, eh?’
Surprised in their hunt, they turned towards him. ‘Yeah. What’s it to you?’
‘Been tryin’ for weeks to him. Got him cornered up in there? Great. Give us a go. I’m not as big as you guys. Bet I can get it out.’
‘Yeah? Feel free. But I’m gonna swing him,’ said one.
‘Sure, mate,’ said Damon. ‘Move over. Might take a couple of minutes but I think I can reach in there and grab it.’
‘Claw you to bits,’ and the hunter drew out a bleeding hand, sucked it. ‘Might as well be you gets eaten. What the hell you doin’ here? It’s dangerous. Can’t you read the signs?’
‘Cat hunting,’ said Damon. ‘Been after this one for weeks.’
‘Just remember he’s all mine,’ said the injured hunter.
‘Sure. Don’t care who does it. Just want to see it dead.’
‘You will. Come on, Kev. We’ll have a smoke while the kid has a go,’ and the two moved off to lean against their machines.
Very softly. ‘Tumbler. Tumbler. Come on Tumbler. Come on, puss. You can come to me, boy. Come on. It’s all right, I think,’ and the cat did. As quietly, as carefully as he could, Damon undid the front of his jacket, pushed the reluctant animal down into the opening, quickly zipped up again. Tumbler, less sure of rescue now than he had been, squirmed, wriggled, clawed and yowled a muffled yowl of protest.
‘Hey! What the hell?’ a yell from one of the two guys. ‘You bring that bloody cat back.’
‘Piss off,’ yelled Damon, over his shoulder, as he bent to pick up bag and brolly. ‘He’s mine. He’s all mine!’ and he sprinted as fast as Tumbler, bag and brolly would allow, racing away from the old warehouse. ‘Ow!’ he yelled. ‘For Godsake, cat! Be bloody grateful. I have just saved your life!’
Puffing, panting, run-out but well away from danger, he paused to catch breath, leaned against a lamp post. ‘It’s okay, puss,’ he patted his jacket. ‘We made it,’ and the cat settled into a vibration of purr that Damon could not only hear but feel. Damon glanced over his shoulder. No pursuit. But… he glanced again. Surely not. It couldn’t be. No. No, of course it wasn’t. No more than some strange trick of light – and yet he could have sworn he had caught sight of a flash of colour, of a deep, rich burgundy-red disappearing into the distance. ‘It’s okay, old woman, old Esther. It’s okay, wherever you are. I’ll be okay. So will your cat – but I reckon you know all that, anyway. Good Face Bad Face Good Face Bad Face,’ he murmured, stroked the cat, his cat, into a louder purr. ‘Good Face Bad Face… One Face,’ and, smiling slightly, he wandered along his way.
About the Author
WILLIAM TAYLOR is the author of over thirty novels, including the award-winning Agnes the Sheep, the Knitwits series, Possum Perkins and The Blue Lawn.
He has won the New Zealand Esther Glen Medal, the Aim Children’s Book Award and the prestigious Italian Premio Andersen Award for best children’s book of the year. He is also the recipient of the NZCBF Margaret Mahy Medal and has been a Writer in Residence at the Palmerston North College of Education, University of Iowa and the Dunedin College of Education.
Formerly a school teacher, William Taylor now makes his living as a writer of humorous and more serious fiction. He is the father of two sons, and has a grandson. He lives in a spectacular setting near Mt Ruapehu in the central North Island of New Zealand.
Also by the author
Possum Perkins, 1987
The Kidnap of Jessie Parker, 1989
Beth & Bruno, 1992
The Blue Lawn, 1994
Annie & Co & Marilyn Monroe, 1995
Nick’s Story, 1996
Circles, 1996
At the Big Red Rooster, 1998
Jerome, 1999
Hotmail (with Tessa Duder), 2000
Copyright
The assistance of Creative New Zealand and of the International Writing Program, University of Iowa, in the writing of this book is gratefully acknowledged by the author.
Published with the assistance of
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the written permission of Longacre Press and the author.
William Taylor asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© William Taylor
ISBN 978 1 77553 154 8
First published by Longacre Press 2000
9 Dowling Street, Dunedin, New Zealand
Cover design: Jenny Cooper Photographer: Reg Graham
Book design: Christine Buess
Printed by the Australian Print Group
Scarface and the Angel Page 7
