Kill the Possum

by James Moloney

  ‘I’m going out,’ he announces.

  Mrs Beal looks up without a word. She never asks where he’s going. Then he’s jogging to the end of the street just in time for the bus.

  The first bus takes him past school and closer to town before he switches routes. He takes a seat in the second bus after a brief glance towards the back to make sure Dylan is on board. He is.

  Twenty minutes later they are together on the footpath approaching the entrance to Cartwright’s street. Tim’s heart begins to bounce around inside his chest and he has to fight down the sudden urge to vomit, but he settles when they find the street deserted. A dog barks from inside one of the high-set houses as they pass, but no one looks out through a curtain. The only word exchanged under the street lamps is a whisper of, ‘There,’ from Tim when the easement comes into sight. They reach it and turn left into a lane little wider than a car.

  After twenty silent paces, Dylan takes Tim by the upper arm and brings him to a halt. ‘Stop for a minute. Let our eyes adjust to the darkness.’

  When they finally arrive at the end of the long driveway they find an unkempt yard full of sleeping obstacles. There’s a rusting hulk of an ancient washing machine, three tyres stacked precariously nearby and something thin and straight which turns out to be discarded guttering from the roof.

  The ground here slopes gently away from the street behind them, but beyond Cartwright’s house it rises again sharply into bushland which means the house actually stands in a hollow. From this side, it looks high-set like all the others in the street, but the hill behind is so steep that the back of the house is almost touching the ground. Twin tracks snake from the end of the drive to between the concrete stumps where Cartwright parks his Commodore. The space is empty now, of course.

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ says Dylan, breaking his own rule of silence.

  It’s when they move on towards the house that Tim’s doubts separate themselves, ghost-like, from his determination. He’s been here many times when Melanie’s been delivered to her father. He can’t stop thinking that Cartwright is watching him approach from the front doorway, as he sometimes does. Tim would rather walk through the gates of hell.

  They are only a few metres from the house now. ‘Here, put these on,’ Dylan whispers, handing him a pair of thin rubber gloves. They climb the slope and slip around to the back of the house.

  ‘How are we going to get onto the roof?’

  ‘Does Cartwright have a ladder?’ Dylan asks.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘We’ll have to go look.’

  But before either of them can step onto the more vulnerable ground beside the house, Dylan has a different solution. ‘The wheelie bin,’ he whispers. Rolling it would make too much noise so together they carry it, until it’s positioned in the best spot beneath the guttering.

  The climb is awkward and each needs the other’s help, pushed or pulled, before both are on the roof.

  Under the faint light from Tim’s torch, Dylan goes to work immediately with the screwdrivers, whispering instructions when he needs Tim’s help. They get one tile tilted upwards and soon he’s removed another from beneath it. After this, the task is easier, although the sliding of tile across tile brings its own problems.

  ‘Someone’ll hear,’ Dylan breathes in exasperation. There doesn’t seem to be anything they can do to muffle it and despite the trees he is worried the sound will skitter away through the breezeless night.

  Slowly, slowly and wincing at every tiny clink and scrape, they remove three more tiles until they can lower themselves down onto the rafters.

  ‘Do you know where the manhole cover is?’

  ‘Never been past the front door. Wouldn’t want to,’ Tim explains sharply.

  They begin a search but since the torch light is so weak, they can only explore a metre at a time, being careful to keep their feet on the wooden beams. The upper side of the ceiling is filthy and the same fine dust lines the rafters as well.

  ‘A couple of bloody great possums, that’s us,’ says Dylan. ‘Hey, there’s the manhole.’

  A stout wooden frame sits between two rafters and lying snugly at the bottom of this frame is a single square of plaster board about half a metre along each side.

  ‘At your house, he kept his gun close to the opening, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, he didn’t even climb right into the ceiling, just stood on a step-ladder with his head and shoulders through the hole. The rifle was wrapped in an old blanket.’

  Dylan uses the torch to explore outwards from the manhole in an expanding spiral. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s here.’

  Tim feels his heart sink. All this trouble and no gun.

  Dylan moves back towards the manhole. ‘Bring the light here,’ he says out of the darkness. When Tim joins him he finds Dylan on his knees, reaching down to the square of plaster plugging the hole.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Dylan lifts the cover out of the hole and peers down into the blackness. Before Tim can ask again, Dylan has manoeuvred his body into the hole, and suddenly drops out of sight.

  ‘Toss the torch down to me,’ he calls softly to Tim.

  ‘Look at the dust you’ve left on the floorboards. I can see your footprints from here,’ hisses Tim in alarm.

  Dylan looks down unconcerned. ‘I’ll get a rag from the kitchen,’ and he disappears. He’s gone longer than Tim expects, longer than he can endure.

  ‘Dylan?’ The call is soft and utterly useless. Tim feels for the framework of the manhole, grunts and hisses as he gets himself into place and then lets go.

  As he’s straightening up, Dylan returns.

  ‘You didn’t come back. I was worried.’

  Dylan drops to his knees and with a dampened cloth, wipes away the dust from the ceiling until there’s no trace.

  ‘How are we going to get back up there?’ Tim asks, regretting his impulsiveness.

  ‘Don’t need to,’ says Dylan smugly and points the torch at a key in his right hand. ‘Spare for the back door. I found it in a drawer in the kitchen. Come on, we need to look around, work out where the rooms are.’

  Tim’s conscious mind sees the sense in this. It’s something else within him that keeps his feet heavily in place.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing… it’s this house…’ How can he explain, without sounding like a nut case, that the walls around him are like Dracula’s castle, the cyclops’ cave that he saw in an old movie on one of his many days away from school? He keeps such embarrassing fears to himself and tags along behind the light, aware of his palms sweating inside the rubber gloves in a way that didn’t bother him before. The backs of his hands prickle and itch.

  They search the cupboards in the hall and open a large wooden chest in the lounge room. Nothing. But in a small bedroom a cardboard box sits on the upper shelf of a wardrobe. It rattles promisingly and when the lid is lifted free there are rows of bullets.

  ‘If he’s got a box of ammo, he’s still got the gun,’ says Dylan and there it is, wrapped in a blanket, as Tim predicted, along the back of the same shelf.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Tim says softly as they examine the weapon in the furry light of the torch. ‘Does it work?’

  ‘I don’t think it’d be a good idea to test it,’ Dylan replies in a tone as dry as the dusty ceiling above them. He flicks the blanket over the rifle and begins to lift it back onto the shelf.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Putting it back of course.’

  ‘But we came here to find it.’

  ‘And we did. Now that we know where it is we can get it any time.’ He pats his pocket where the back door key rests safely. He moves on to search the rest of the house, forcing Tim to keep up or be left in the pitch black.

  ‘In here,’ Dylan calls as Tim feels his way along the hall again. He follows tentatively through a doorway and stands beside Dylan, staring at a double bed. The sheets have
been tossed aside in a twisted mess and the pillows lie askew.

  This is where Cartwright sleeps. They’re at the heart of the monster’s lair and before he can turn away, a panic grips Tim so completely he can barely breathe.

  He swivels back towards the door but all he can see beyond is darkness waiting to swallow him. He must stay with the light or be lost to his own fear.

  Dylan shines the torch into his face. ‘It’s all right, he’s not here.’

  His hand reaches forward to grasp Tim’s shoulder. ‘We’ve beaten the bastard at his own game. He invades your house and now you’ve done the same to him. He doesn’t know we’re here and he never will. This is the place, Tim. Here in this room, this is where we’re going to kill him.’

  They back out of the room and retrace their steps to the kitchen, then through the back door and onto the rough concrete area that provides a narrow strip of flat ground before the slope leading up into bushland. The wheelie bin is still in place. More heaving and groaning gets them onto the roof again so they can replace the tiles.

  They have two in position when Dylan says, ‘Wait, the manhole.’

  He takes the torch back into the roof, returning three minutes later. ‘That was close. He’d know he had visitors if we didn’t put that back.’

  The tiles are in place, the wheelie bin returned to its spot beside the house. The torch dies in Dylan’s hand.

  ‘Gloves,’ he says, and both pairs go into his pocket. But before they start towards the easement, Dylan walks further up the slope to the edge of the scrub which marks the boundary to the property.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Tim asks.

  ‘Oh, this bit of bush. I’ll have to check on a map, but I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘Further up, on the ridge, there are some tracks made by trail bikes. I knew a guy who had a little eighty cc thing. Went with him a couple of times.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ says Tim.

  ‘It’s a different way to get here, that’s all. Come on, I’ll explain later.’

  They emerge from the narrow driveway into the street. No one sees them and once they round the corner, they might never have been here at all.

  ‘Quarter to nine,’ Dylan remarks, breaking into a jog. ‘Come on, I have to get moving.’

  16

  Kirsty’s first party.

  Kirsty’s going to kiss Dylan tonight. She’s already decided. It’s just a matter of the right moment between them - and a bit of courage.

  He’s late meeting her outside the video store, though, and she’s not impressed by what he’s wearing, either. ‘It’s a party, Dylan. You could have done better than a daggy pair of jeans. And that shirt’s got dusty marks on it.’

  ‘Oh shit, sorry.’ He pats at his shoulder and his left side, below the ribs.

  Not the best of starts, but it’s all forgotten when they reach Phoebe’s. The sound is pumping into the street, there’s people everywhere, on the road, the footpath, the front garden. Inside, Kirsty recognises a boy from school asleep on the sofa with a bottle of vodka wedged between his thighs.

  ‘You want something?’ Dylan asks, pointing to a cruiser in another girl’s hand.

  ‘I’m fine with Coke.’ She looks around for a moment. ‘I wish it could always be like this,’ she says, then slaps her hand over her mouth because she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  ‘Yeah, s’pose,’ says Dylan who’s downing a cruiser like it was water. He doesn’t know that she’s talking about the girls who are waving her into their circle, Chloe, Alana and Phoebe who looks panicky to see her house so totally taken over. Kirsty keeps Dylan close behind her, trying to manage the moment as they approach. The girls know him from school, of course, but tonight he is someone different, her boyfriend, and she wants to show him off.

  These are the things Kirsty Beal thought she would never have. If Dylan would just loosen up a bit, her night would be perfect.

  ‘That’s Rachael,’ she tells him, ‘the slim one in the tight jeans.’

  He doesn’t respond and when she looks up at him, she wonders if he even heard.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks gently but she’s getting irritated.

  ‘I was thinking about something… at school.’

  ‘Oh come on, Dylan. Forget school, you’ve got all week for that.’

  He cringes and thrusts his free hand into his pocket. Takes another gulp from the bottle. Has she made things worse? Maybe he hates this party and wants to go home. Phoebe is right about him. He has a geeky streak in him and all these people are putting him off. He’d probably prefer a small group or just the two of them. He’s good when they’re alone.

  Kirsty remembers the promise she’s made to herself and grabbing his hand tightly, she takes a risk.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  They’re quickly away from the worst of the crush. No, a bit further. When they’re half-hidden behind a falling down trellis near the back fence, she stops and makes him face her. No words are needed. He’s got the idea. Finding the right angle of head and neck is awkward but human beings have been fitting together this way for a long time. It doesn’t seem to matter if neither of them has done it before. She’s kissing him and after the shock of the first tentative touch, he’s kissing her. He’s showing some enthusiasm at last. They go on kissing until it feels like they’ve been doing it all their lives.

  ‘Wow,’ he says when they part, making her laugh. He can be so cute sometimes. She kisses him again. Then he pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her with surprising force. ‘Oh, Kirsty,’ he sighs into her hair.

  She feels the need in him through this desperate hug. A lot of people need her, Tim, her mother, but this is just for her, a different kind of need. She welcomes it, in fact, for it means she can release her own need for him. It’s a wonderful feeling, another of the things she worried she would never have. He doesn’t say anything too over the top. There is no, I love you. No promises. This embrace is whatever she wants to make of it. She delights in its intimacy, a touch for her and no one else.

  Back among the bodies, Dylan’s a different guy, relaxed and funny with the girls. Whatever was distracting him seems forgotten. When the cruiser is gone, he takes a beer from Byron, who has appeared at Chloe’s side. Dylan’s getting a little drunk but she doesn’t care as he slips his arm around her and this time it’s not for show, this is natural and as she’d wanted to do that day in the school yard, she keeps her own arm interlaced with his.

  Under the ghost gum

  The Beals have a quiet Sunday but the next morning Tim is up before the rest and takes an early bus to school. Waits for Dylan under the dying gum tree and when he arrives, they make more plans.

  ‘I’ll go up into the bush one afternoon and see if I can find those trail bike tracks. Have to get some old clothes from somewhere first. We can’t have anything that links us to the scene.’

  ‘What about the rifle, Dylan? I’ve never shot one before.’

  ‘We can’t exactly get our hands on one to practise. Do you know how a bolt action works?’

  Tim shakes his head.

  ‘Go to the library, the public library, not here at school. Look up how they work, a diagram or something.’

  Kirsty can’t deny the evidence

  ‘You kissed him, don’t deny it,’ Chloe is saying to Kirsty.

  They aren’t alone, either. Phoebe and Alana form part of the circle which is completed by Rachael, looking so different in her shapeless uniform. Those jeans on Saturday night, the heels and the way she’d done her hair… she could have been a model out prowling the night clubs.

  ‘I’m not denying it,’ says Kirsty, delighted by the conversation and wondering if she might squeeze herself into pants like Rachael’s one day.

  ‘Ah, but it wasn’t just a quick snog. You just about had the guy’s tonsils out,’ Chloe teases her.

  ‘No I didn’t. It was pretty tame, really. Just a kiss.�
�� She’s careful not to tell them it was her first real pash.

  ‘Bet he got a surprise, though,’ says Alana. ‘The way you led him away into the dark, looked like he was going off to be shot.’

  ‘Wasn’t like that. It was his idea, actually.’

  Now she’s lying and they’re not going to let her get away with it.

  ‘Time for an action replay,’ Chloe announces as she opens the bag at her feet and lifts out the little video camera. The look on the other faces tells Kirsty that there’s something going on here. They’ve all been waiting for this moment, directing her towards it with their questions. Her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach. They’re not going to turn on her now, are they? They haven’t drawn her into their group just to set her up like this?

  The screen is quickly detached and the video started. There is Kirsty in the frame, tugging a bewildered Dylan along behind her. There’s no doubt who is leading who. And the video doesn’t stop there, either. There wasn’t much light down by the back fence on Saturday night, but this camera is state-of-the-art. She sees her arms around Dylan’s neck, his around her - the long, lingering kiss.

  ‘Seven, eight, nine, ten. I’m surprised you didn’t suffocate,’ Rachael comments dryly.

  ‘Kirsty Beal, this is your life.’

  The video ends.

  ‘Just an innocent kiss, eh?’ says Chloe.

  Kirsty is off-balance. All she can do is lock her eyes onto the girl’s face. But there’s no malice in Chloe’s smile. This is just for fun after all and she can feel the muscles of her stomach relax again.

  ‘You didn’t think there’d be evidence, did you?’ Chloe goes on, extending the exquisite fun of her sting. ‘So, girl, are you going to tell us the truth about Saturday night?’