Kill the Possum

by James Moloney

  Kirsty knows this sounds cruel but she’s not her mother. She looks hard into his face and says, ‘I’m going to survive what’s happening to us. Ian tried to molest me, all right, and it was awful but the thing is, he didn’t really hurt me, he didn’t get the chance. If he had, I might be a wreck, but he didn’t, so I don’t have to think about it twenty-four-seven. I want to be like all the other kids at school. I want to be happy. Is that such a terrible thing to want, Dylan?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says, but it’s an automatic reply and she knows it even better than he does. She explores his features, for a deeper response. His green eyes most of all. She wants his answer, needs to know what he truly thinks of her. ‘You don’t think I’m a cold-hearted bitch for saying that, do you? It’s not like I don’t care about Mum and Melanie…’

  She can’t read what he’s thinking and plunges on more desperate than ever to make him understand.

  ‘I know Melanie’s with her father tonight, but I’m pretty sure nothing terrible will happen. She’s still a little girl. Cartwright didn’t try anything with me until I started to look… well you know what I’m talking about.’

  She falls silent now to let him speak. How will he judge her? She knows him well enough now to understand this about him. Dylan Kane likes to judge right from wrong.

  ‘I think you’re incredibly brave,’ he says without hesitating for a moment. ‘I mean, the way you stand up to that mongrel and the way you are at school, like… who would guess. I never knew how hard it was for you. What you said about wanting to be happy, of course it’s all right.’

  This is what Kirsty hopes to hear, what she craves. She’s never confessed such things to anyone. How could she when no one outside the family knows about Ian? And no one inside it could hear such things and still love her. But Dylan knows and those few words from his worried, bloodless lips melt the stone inside her.

  ‘I just wish I could do something to help,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t talk about Sundays. That would really help,’ says Kirsty, wanting to laugh. The sensation is so similar to crying. She’s light-headed with relief, with the joy that comes freely to others but which she has to work for. An impulse takes hold of her and surprising both of them, she hugs Dylan. She’s giddy with the recklessness of it. The hug is over and now she’s crying. She is so grateful to this boy for what he’s said. Tonight, it’s all right for her to be happy.

  THE SECOND SUNDAY

  10

  Dylan gets a call

  Dylan stares at his computer screen, vaguely annoyed with what he sees. He shouldn’t be - this is his favourite blog. The familiar names are like friends, even if the real people behind them live on the other side of the globe. He scrolls down, reading the posts by Flame_On_3, not that he needs to read them closely because he wrote every word himself.

  The response by Galileo to his last post is what has him frowning.

  Wind can generate power 24/7 and that has to make it beter than solar which is gr8 during the day (as long as the sun isnt behind a clod) but at night its totally useless.

  It’s not useless, he says to himself. They’re developing ways to store energy using high-pressure steam, or something like that, anyway. He read about it last week on the Net. He starts to write this up as a new post, but he’ll have to go find the site from last week for the details and his heart’s not in it.

  Dylan’s distracted by something else, too, something that’s happening three kilometres away. Or is it already over? He looks again at his watch as the sound of his mother in the kitchen comes drifting up the hall. It’s freezer food or scrambled eggs on a Sunday. Nothing fancy, but tonight his stomach is too churned up to want any.

  All afternoon he’s been thinking about going round to the Beals’ house so he’d be there when Cartwright arrived. He told himself it was the courageous thing to do until he somehow saw himself as one of those old Romans who liked to see human beings torn to bits by wild animals. A voyeur. He switches off the computer and heads for the lounge room where he’s quickly a modern day voyeur watching the The Simpsons serve up their own mixture of brutality and tenderness.

  Then a buzz nearby drowns out Homer’s voice. Dylan sits up, wondering what it is and then remembers putting his mobile on the cushion beside him. He flips open the shiny oyster and recognises the number instantly. Can’t stab the talk button fast enough.

  ‘Kirsty.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asks without any greeting.

  ‘At home.’

  ‘How fast can you get here?’

  He’s on his feet instantly. ‘What’s happened? Is anyone hurt?’ Kirsty doesn’t answer that, just says. ‘Get your mother to drive you?’

  At the Beals’ house, he takes the stairs two at a time, expecting to find Kirsty waiting for him at the door. Instead his knock goes unanswered until he tries the handle. Unlocked. He slips tentatively into the lounge room, the battlefield, which he scans for the wounded. There aren’t any casualties in sight although a dining chair lies on its side near the kitchen.

  Then he hears the sharp crack of wood breaking from the rear of the house. Is he still here! A cry follows, angry, violent and wretched. Somewhere in the house a tormented beast writhes in its cage. It can’t be Cartwright because there was no Commodore parked in the street. Dylan recognises the lonely anguish, he knows who it is now. A long ripping sound follows, mingling with more animals cries.

  Another voice joins in, from a different direction this time. In Mrs Beal’s bedroom, someone begins to wail hysterically. ‘I can’t stand it any more. I want to die.’

  The place is a mad house. ‘Kirsty!’ he calls.

  She appears from her mother’s room. ‘It was worse than ever. He went to town on Mum because she’d complained to the Department that he’s not paying maintenance again. You saw how he does it, goes up close with that vicious look on his face and the things he says that pull out your heart and stomp on it. He didn’t let up until she was a jelly.’

  ‘What about Tim? I heard noises from his room, things smashing, furniture and stuff.’

  Kirsty glances behind her, into the hall, towards her brother’s room. There’s a fear in her eyes when she turns back again that Dylan hasn’t seen before, not even when Cartwright had his pit-bull face shoved into hers. ‘He tried to stop it, tried to get between Ian and Mum. He shouldn’t have done it. Oh Dylan, it was awful.’

  ‘Cartwright beat him up! Is he hurt?’ Why are they hanging back in the lounge room? If the guy’s bleeding, they should get him to a doctor.

  Kirsty’s face takes on a weary mix of resignation and a hint of anger that tells Dylan he doesn’t understand. Not yet.

  ‘Cartwright doesn’t beat you up, not like you see in a Mafia movie. Punches leave marks, broken bones are evidence. He’s too smart for that. He’s so much bigger than Tim. He got hold of Tim, started slapping him across the face. Do you know what it’s like to be slapped in the face, Dylan? It hurts like shit but that’s not the worst of it. It’s so personal, it’s like… like…’ Kirsty’s face grimaces in concentration as she searches for the words. ‘Like getting the crap kicked out of your soul. And he just kept slapping Tim, over and over and over until he was bawling like a baby and begging him to stop.’

  Dylan sees it happening, the relentless pounding of an open hand, Tim held by the scruff of his shirt, unable to raise his arms in defence. He feels the blood rise from his chest, into his neck as though the pressure will blow his head from his stiffening shoulders.

  He sees Kirsty touching her elbow gingerly.

  ‘You tried to stop him.’

  She nods and breaks eye contact to stare across the room. ‘He threw me off, though, and I hit my elbow against the table.’ She massages it, her mouth forming a circular ‘ouch’ when she finds the tender spot. ‘You should’ve seen the look on his face, Dylan. You’ve never seen anyone enjoy himself so much.’

  Dylan has seen it. He knows. ‘What about Melanie?’

&n
bsp; ‘I sent her to Mrs Fuller along the street. Not the first time. She’ll keep Melanie until I go and get her, but I can’t until everything settles down here. That’s why I called you. Tim’s trashing his room. The mood he’s in, I’m worried he might… you know, hurt himself, something really bad. I went in once to talk to him but he threw things at me. Oh Dylan, help me,’ and finally Kirsty gives way to tears.

  She throws herself onto him and Dylan finds himself overwhelmed by her need. He holds her as tenderly as he can which isn’t easy when he has to keep her from flopping to the floor as well. He’s glad to be here, though, proud of his presence, and that Kirsty has let him into her problem. He feels the weight of it more heavily than the girl in his arms.

  A dull thud from along the hall brings Kirsty to herself. ‘We have to stop him,’ she whispers. Together they hurry to Tim’s door. It’s already open a few centimetres, enough for Dylan to see that everything’s been dragged out of the cupboards. The curtain rods have been wrenched from their sockets and the curtains themselves ripped and dumped on top of the clothing. Every piece of furniture is turned over one way or another, even the bed, the smaller pieces smashed into firewood. Only the wardrobe remains upright because it is built into the wall.

  ‘Get out,’ Tim roars when Kirsty pushes the door wide enough to step inside. He picks up a lamp, the shade already damaged by his rampage and hurls it at her. While she is dodging this Dylan slips past Kirsty until he’s behind Tim. He pounces quickly, locking his arms around the boy who immediately bucks wildly.

  ‘No, no,’ he pleads except the words sound more like grunts. Although he’s stronger than Tim, Dylan has to strain every muscle to keep his grip and all this time the inhuman sounds continue to claw free from Tim’s throat.

  ‘He thinks you’re Cartwright,’ Kirsty cries.

  ‘Calm down, mate. It’s me, Dylan. I’ll let you go as soon as you stop struggling.’

  It takes a while but slowly Tim stops fighting and allows Kirsty to step in and hug him so that, for a few seconds, he’s sandwiched between them. The effort to break free has taken the last of his energy and his fight too. He goes limp and begins to cry onto his sister’s shoulder while Dylan holds him upright.

  Together, they help him to the least cluttered patch of floor and sit him against the wall, Dylan on one side, Kirsty on the other. Tim’s head falls forward almost onto his chest as he sobs convulsively, his tentative attempts at words jumbled and meaningless.

  Kirsty has her arm around his shoulders. ‘Don’t blame yourself. It’s Ian who’s done this to us,’ she says softly into her brother’s ear. Slowly the sobbing subsides.

  ‘I’ve got to check on Mum,’ says Kirsty, climbing wearily to her feet. ‘I’ll come back when I can.’

  Tim lifts his head, attempts a smile and finally human speech emerges. ‘I’m all… all… all right now.’ But the stutter renews his humiliation and he begins to weep again. Too late. Kirsty’s gone. There’s only Dylan. He slips his arm around the boy’s shoulders as Kirsty had done. Apart from this, he still hasn’t got a clue what to do. He can stop the destruction if Tim starts up again, but the guy needs words. Dylan’s no good at that. He’s like his grandfather, better with his hands, finding solutions to problems you can see.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, blindly following Kirsty’s lead. ‘Cartwright caused all of this. The bastard,’ he adds hotly. His own anger hasn’t receded far. That mongrel would be bloody pleased with himself if he could see Tim’s room. An extra victory.

  ‘I don’t know how he can treat you like this, and then say he cares about you. What a joke. He’s a joke, he’s a monster, a vicious monster and bloody disturbed if you ask me, a madman.’

  More spills out of Dylan, some of it spoken, some simply spat out inside his seething head. He’s not sure which. Cartwright is heartless, a menace, a disgrace. There should be some kind of price to pay for what he’s done, some way to get back at him. Tim shouldn’t have to put up with this. Someone’s got to stop him.

  ‘Y…y…you’re right,’ Tim responds and Dylan realises that his last thoughts definitely did escape. ‘There’s so much h…h…hate in him. I hate him. I’m going to do it. No more f…fantasies. I’m going to k…k…kill him.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ says Dylan casually. ‘He’s got it coming, the things he does to you. Be the perfect solution.’

  Suddenly Tim has hold of his arm. ‘I am going to d…do it,’ he says, appalled at the way his tongue mocks him. He takes a breath and using an effort of will that startles Dylan with its intensity, he speaks again. ‘No joking, Dylan. I mean it, I’m really going to kill the bastard.’

  Kirsty puts her head on Dylan’s lap

  While Dylan takes care of Tim, Kirsty is with her mother. At least she doesn’t need help to restrain her. Here the problem seems reversed; it’s the listlessness that distresses her. It’s hard to believe this is the lively, smiling woman who took Kirsty to school for the first day of Year One, who stood outside the classroom with the other mothers, waving and weeping, then laughing at themselves. Tom Beal was still alive then, of course. Then he got sick and her mother had to take whatever jobs she could get. There were few smiles after that.

  Has an hour passed since she left the boys or only ten minutes? However long it’s been, the pills have done their job. Leaving the motionless figure she goes to the door of Tim’s room. It’s still early. Too much to ask that Tim be asleep as well. But he is, with his head in Dylan’s lap. It’s a scene of such tenderness she almost cries.

  Signalling to Dylan that he should stay where he is, she rights her brother’s bed and tucks the sheets around the mattress. Together they get Tim comfortable, so exhausted he barely stirs. She knows that exhaustion herself, knows it has nothing to do with tired muscles.

  When it’s done and she and Dylan are in the lounge room again, he asks, ‘Are you going to get Melanie?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she says, falling onto the sofa. She’s given out so much of herself in the last few hours and she needs a few moments to take some of it back. ‘Sit here with me for a while.’

  He slips his arm around her with none of last Saturday’s hesitation. She leans into him, saying nothing because she’s all talked out. Almost drifts into sleep.

  ‘Why did your mum marry this guy?’ Dylan asks as his hand gently kneads the flesh over her kidney.

  Nice feeling. But the question leads all to easily into the things Kirsty was thinking herself while she waited for her mother to fall asleep. ‘My dad was good to her, good with us. Maybe she thought all men were like that once they got married.’

  It was more than that, though, and in her exhaustion she lets go of confidences that a wide-awake Kirsty might have kept hold of. ‘Mum didn’t like being alone,’ she tells Dylan. ‘She hated having to do everything herself. I don’t mean the housework and taking care of us. Not that. I mean making all the decisions about money and cars, insurance, that sort of thing. She said that to me once. It’s funny how you see your mother differently. Comes in little bits, something new every year. Do you get that with your mum? I look at her these days and I think all she ever wanted since she was my age was a husband to love her and a house full of kids.’

  Kirsty pauses, wondering if she has the right to pass judgement in the words she can feel forming. She says them anyway, she needs to. ‘Sometimes I wish she’d had… oh, I don’t know… more ambition, maybe.’

  ‘How did she meet Cartwright, though?’

  ‘At the car place she started working at after Dad got sick, one of those big outfits that sells you the car and does all the service on it afterwards as well. She was in the office and Ian worked with the spare parts or something. He didn’t exactly sweep her off her feet by the sound of things. I think he was just there and before they knew it, Melanie was on the way.’

  Kirsty has her own theories about her mother’s carelessness but to share these with Dylan would be too much of a betrayal.

  �
��It was good for a while, you know. Ian didn’t like Mum speaking to other men, I remember that, but I think she was flattered by it at first. She didn’t go out much anyway, didn’t need other blokes for anything. It started to go bad, though, when he saw how much we were all costing him. I remember the arguments about money and Mum all embarrassed at the Woollies checkout because she didn’t have enough for the groceries. By then he’d started in on us, as well, Tim especially. There was something about him that Ian didn’t like, the way he cried so easily, maybe, or how he couldn’t kick a ball to save his life. He was just a little boy, for Christ’s sake, but he was always on at Tim to be a man. Just got worse and worse. You’ve seen the way he is.’

  ‘Christ, yes, I’ve seen it. Bloody criminal,’ says Dylan, bringing her awake again with the sudden stiffness of his chest and the fire in his words. ‘What he does to Tim, to all of you. It can’t go on like this. Your mother has to do something.’

  ‘Nothing she can do,’ says Kirsty with the same softness she’s used for all her words tonight. She wishes Dylan would do the same. It’s what she wants, what she desperately needs, some comfort, some tenderness from him, like she saw in Tim’s room.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because she’s made complaints before,’ says Kirsty, sitting up to meet his green eyes. They’re darker now, almost black in the half-light of the lounge room. ‘I told you, his brother’s got all his mates on side. Cops won’t listen. The more complaints Mum makes, the more they think she’s a nut case causing trouble. There’s no evidence, no bruises. I mean, look at tonight, Ian slapped Tim around but there’s barely a mark on him. He’s too clever for that.’