‘If my idea works out, we’ll get an AVO, at least. Maybe get rid of him forever. Only one more Sunday, that’s all we have to survive.’
Tim keeps the rifle in a safe place
Cartwright is coming this weekend. Today is Thursday, only Friday to go. Tim’s mother will deliver Melanie to his house on Saturday morning and Tim will go with her as back-up, although Cartwright doesn’t usually have a go at them on Saturday mornings. It’s not like Sundays when they’re trapped in their own home. Yes, they’ll take Melanie to her father on Saturday and Tim will go along for the ride, but he can’t pretend it’s an act of courage. Sunday’s the thing and Sunday is coming.
A knock at his door disturbs his thoughts. ‘I’m going for the bus. What about you?’
‘Three days in a row is enough.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Kirsty replies without opening the door. There’s a hint of disapproval in her voice, like that woman on Saturday night when he told her Dylan was drunk. He doesn’t care. It’s hard to care about anything when Sunday is coming.
He waits ten minutes then tosses the sheet aside and goes to his wardrobe, a not-quite-finished built-in which gave up its secret to him the day they moved into the house. Where it meets the wall, a panel isn’t properly secured, giving access to the narrow space between the inner and outer walls of the house. He’s used it ever since to store the things he doesn’t want his mother to find.
The rifle only just fits into the space and he made such a racket getting it in there on Saturday night that he woke Mrs Beal who came to see what all the noise was about. The weight is no shock to him any more, not after he carried the rifle through the bush. He shudders to think how one touch on the trigger would have sent a bullet anywhere, into Dylan’s back, even. It didn’t have to be his finger, either. A twig could have caught it, the same way something had hooked into Dylan’s eye. He thinks of the blood on his friend’s cheek as they huddled together on the bus. What a mess - the whole thing was a disaster.
He looks down at the rifle in his hands. The safety is on and the magazine with four bullets still pressed against the spring has been removed. He takes the fifth bullet from his pocket where it has remained all week, after he ejected it on Saturday night. Slots it into the magazine with the others.
He pushes the magazine into place under the belly of the rifle and checks again that the safety is on. On Saturday, he couldn’t see much in the darkness when Dylan worked the bolt. Here’s his chance. The silvered steel slides backwards easily, but when he pushes forward, he meets a resistance. He increases the pressure and suddenly the resistance gives way and the bullet is shoved into the barrel.
Tim’s uncomfortable, even with the safety on and keeps his finger well away from the trigger. But the bolt intrigues him, the way it moves so smoothly within its metal sleeve, and he pulls it back again. The first bullet ejects sharply, tumbling end over end through the air of his bedroom until it lands soundlessly on the bed. Forward, new round in place. Eject, this time noisily onto the floor, third bullet into the barrel. Eject. He continues until the magazine is empty and then crawls around on the floor to retrieve the bullets and press them one by one into the magazine.
With all five rounds safely separate from the rifle, Tim raises it to his shoulder and sights along the barrel. He aims at familiar things in his room, the broken lamp, the leg of his bed, the centre of the door. The rifle can’t hurt anyone without any bullets. He lets his finger roam tentatively to the trigger, then, out of curiosity, tugs gently.
Nothing. The trigger is frozen in place by the safety.
But there are no bullets, he tells himself, and lowering the gun, uses his thumb to flick the safety to off. This time, when he raises the rifle into a firing position and squeezes, a sharp click fills his ear.
Instantly, he pulls the gun away from his face. The movement is reflected in the mirror and drawn to it without thinking he finds himself staring into his own startled eyes.
He knows now what it feels like to pull the trigger, except there are no bullets, no damage, no death.
‘You couldn’t do it when it counted.’
He feels a familiar disgust in his stomach and hurriedly crams the rifle back into its hiding place, slipping the magazine on the floorboards beside it.
20
Dylan has more visitors
On Thursday afternoon, the doctor checks Dylan’s eye.
‘Amazing thing, the eye. Recovers faster than any other part of the body,’ he says while the light from a small torch delves between the open lids. Dylan doesn’t like the look of that torch. It reminds him of things he’d rather forget.
‘Ah, excellent,’ the doctor says, turning the light off with a snap. ‘You can go home tomorrow, have the weekend in your own bed. How does that sound?’
Dylan grunts without conviction but the doctor is already thinking about his next patient, leaving Dylan to stare up at the television set high on the wall beyond the end of his bed. Daytime TV is such crap. He stabs at the remote and wonders whether to ring his mother and tell her the news.
Visitors begin to invade the ward and two of them are for Dylan, he discovers, when Eric’s head appears around the curtain. Fiona is behind him, hanging back a little.
‘Your grandma wanted to bring you flowers,’ Eric announces with a laugh, ‘but I changed her mind,’ and he holds out a packet of Easter eggs, the small solid chocolate ones that Dylan likes. There’s no doubt about Eric - always spot on with his gifts.
‘How’s the eye?’ he asks.
‘Fine. Doc says I can go home tomorrow.’ He’s pleased with the brighter note he hears in his own voice. The visit has cheered him up already, even if Fiona looks a little hesitant as she kisses him. He’s not one for grandmother’s kisses anyway, but he submits without flinching.
‘No permanent damage, that’s the main thing.’
Just what you’d expect Eric to say. Practical as ever. No enquires about how he’s feeling and that’s a relief. No wonder the single word ‘fine’ is used so often. It kills off all the more complicated options.
They talk about what happened. Dylan has straightened out his story now, after stumbling under interrogation from his mother which he explained away by claiming he’d been drunk at the time of the accident. She’d tut-tutted about that and once he was home he expected a serious talking to, but she didn’t suspect for a moment that he’d sold her a load of bullshit.
He told a different story to Kirsty and if the two of them ever get together he’s in trouble. But he doubts that will happen. He has bigger things to worry about than that, anyway.
Beside the bed, Fiona’s still edgy for some reason and keeps glancing towards her husband. When he gives a solemn nod, Dylan knows something important is coming and turns his good eye to his grandmother, unsure whether he’ll like what she’s about to say.
‘Dylan,’ she begins, ‘I was very upset, well, we both were, but me in particular.’
‘It’s all right Grandma, I told you, my eye…’
‘Not about your injury,’ she says, cutting him off, ‘though we’re concerned, of course. I’m talking about your father.’
No, he’s not going to enjoy this. He looks down at the sheet across his knees now.
‘It’s the way you speak about him, so savage and angry, almost like you hate him. That’s a very sad state of affairs… if it’s true.’
She pauses and Dylan realises he’s been asked a question. ‘I don’t hate him,’ he says automatically, unable to tell whether this is the truth or a blatant lie. There are so many things he can’t weigh up properly as he once did. Has gravity shifted while he was asleep? He feels like Rip Van Winkle.
‘I’m… we’re glad to hear that,’ Fiona tells him, although it’s clear she’s no more certain of his answer than he is. ‘You’re entitled to be mad with Peter, of course you are. He acted very badly, let you down, certainly, but your father’s a much better person than you give him credit for. The way you went on a
bout him last time you were over at our house… it just broke my heart.’
‘Yes, he knows that,’ says Eric, touching his wife’s arm gently.
Fiona looks at his restraining hand and seems to come to herself. ‘Oh, Dylan, I’m sorry, I’ve been telling you off, haven’t I? I didn’t come here to do that,’ and there are tears in her eyes. ‘I love you both and I can’t bear what’s happened between Peter over there in England and you here in Australia.’
Is that all it is, a physical distance, Dylan asks himself. He wishes his grandmother would stop. He doesn’t understand what happened last Saturday night, and he’s not sure he wants to. He panicked and his panic had something to do with his father. That’s all he knows, except that he almost murdered a man and… no, he can’t think about that now. And he doesn’t need Fiona to stir things up any further.
‘Tell him what we’ve decided,’ says Eric.
Dylan’s not happy. Decisions have been made concerning him that he knows nothing about. No, he doesn’t like this conversation at all.
Whatever’s coming, Fiona is pleased about it and seeing this, Dylan’s anxiety goes off the scale.
‘Eric and I are planning another trip to England, later in the year, but before it gets too cold over there. Little Robbie will be a year old by then and we’ve only seen photos, of course. We went over to see the twins when they were much the same age and it was such a good time, better than when we were there for the wedding.’
So they’re going to England. What’s this got to do with him? Dylan can see Fiona watching him, gauging the response in his face to this news. He doesn’t get it.
But his grandmother hasn’t finished yet. She takes a quick breath and says, ‘We want you to come with us and get to know Peter for yourself.’
Mrs Kane has something to say about the trip to England
It’s not going to happen, of course. There’s no way Dylan is going to England with his grandparents. Where do they get off, even thinking about it? He’d told Fiona that he didn’t hate his father but the idea of him still boils Dylan’s blood. Didn’t stay around for a single birthday, spared barely a thought in the fifteen years since for the son he doesn’t give a shit about. No, he’s not going to England. Wild horses, that’s what they say, isn’t it; wild horses couldn’t drag him over there.
But through his last night in hospital, he sees himself on the plane, the three of them sitting in a row with Eric in the middle. Would Peter Kane meet them at the airport? He pictures the arrival hall at Heathrow even though he’s never been in an international airport in his life. ‘There he is, there’s your father,’ Fiona would call out beside him. Or maybe they’d get a cab and he’d meet his father on the front path of one of those quaint cottages the English seem to live in.
In the morning, it comes to him that he won’t have to make the decision. His mother will crush the idea like a cockroach. Splat! He’s relieved to have thought of this and now that he doesn’t have to worry about England, he waits impatiently for her to collect him. His eye doesn’t hurt at all now and if he treats it carefully the bandage will come off in a week. Easy, and his mother can tell Eric and Fiona where to shove their trip to England.
Here she is. All the paperwork’s been done. They’re out of the car park and into morning traffic in no time.
‘You can still go to work if you want,’ he tells her. ‘I’ll be fine.’
There’s that word again, but he means it this time.
‘What’s sick leave for if you can’t have a day off to spend with your son?’ says Rosemary.
It seems he’s going to be mothered and doesn’t argue. If he has company, he won’t spend all day thinking about last weekend and that’s a bonus. He’s exhausted by the effort to forget it ever happened.
‘Did Eric and Fiona come to visit you yesterday? They rang to ask me if it was okay,’ his mother says as they wait at a red light.
‘In the afternoon, yeah.’
‘Did they talk to you about their little plan?’
Dylan sits forward in his seat. ‘You already know?’
‘Yes, Eric spoke to me about it last week.’ She tells him this calmly as the Corolla powers away with the traffic. There’s no extra punch at the accelerator, no heat in her voice. ‘What did you say?’ she asks as though they’ve invited him over for dinner.
‘What did I say? Mum, are you telling me they discussed this with you? I thought you’d freak!’
Rosemary thinks about this while they cruise in the middle lane of the freeway. She’s looking straight ahead as safe drivers are supposed to do, hands on the wheel in the ten-to-two position. Cautious, always cautious, that’s Dylan’s mother. She answers him the same way.
‘I think they’ve got a point, Dylan. You’re pretty hard on poor old Peter. Probably picked it up from me, I suppose, but I don’t always mean the things I say. Angry talk gets to be a habit. The truth is, I probably forgave him a long time ago. Can’t live your whole life in a fury. He left fifteen years ago, after all.’
Fifteen years. It was Dylan’s whole life, or just about. The road ahead has lost its lanes. He doesn’t know how to steer.
‘Eric and I had a long chat, actually. I always liked him. Fiona not so much. Peter was the apple of her eye, her favourite. Didn’t make it easy for me. Not that it matters after all this time. The thing is, it’s not good for you to be so against your own father. Not healthy. I’m your mother, Dylan, you’re the apple of my eye, the best thing in my life. I want what’s best for you. I told Eric, if you want to go to England, I’m okay with it.’
The shock hasn’t gone through his system yet, but Dylan still has a ‘get-out’ clause. It’s been there all along, a fail-safe dose of reality that he can count on to stop all this swerving around. ‘He won’t want to see me. He’s got his new family all set up.’
Dylan’s about to mention the new wife but that would be cruel in front of his mother. It links to darker thoughts too, that he hasn’t dealt with yet and hopes he never has to. ‘Why would he want to ruin his cosy new life? He probably wants to forget he ever lived in Australia.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that,’ his mother tells him firmly. They’re off the freeway now. Almost home. ‘People like to forget their mistakes, it’s true, but when they’ve put a bit of time between them and the mess they left behind, they’re more ready to face it. Peter wants you to come.’
‘I suppose Eric told you that,’ says Dylan, dismissively.
‘No, Peter himself. I rang him last weekend…’
‘You rang him up! In England!’
‘Don’t sound so shocked, Dylan. Eric gave me the number. He knew I’d want to sound things out properly before I’d let you go. Anyway, Peter seems quite keen on the idea. He’s even going to split your airfare with his parents. Wish I had that kind of money to splash around.’
The Corolla pulls to a halt in the carport but Dylan doesn’t get out, doesn’t open the door, doesn’t move. He’s weeping quietly, one eye leaking tears onto his cheek, the other dampening the fresh white bandage.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ says Rosemary Kane, reaching across to squeeze her son’s hand. ‘Tears are good for your eye. The doctor said so.’
21
Tim Beal waits for Sunday
Tim doesn’t go to school on Friday. He sleeps late because he stayed up watching television until the early hours of the morning. His mother came out of her bedroom at one o’clock but instead of telling him to go to bed, she slumped beside him on the sofa and watched with him to the end of the movie. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. The Beal family cycle was cranking up. Thursday night meant less than seventy-two hours to Sunday, Friday night would be worse and Saturday unbearable.
At eleven, hunger forces him out of bed and still in the shorts and t-shirt he’d worn yesterday, he settles again in front of the TV. Daytime television is such crap. He takes a DVD from the untidy collection that’s become permanently theirs courtesy of Kirsty�
�s job. Back to the Future. He’s watched it so many times he can lip-sync the dialogue with Michael J Fox.
There’s a scene he likes best towards the end of the movie and he waits for it. Marty McFly’s father wants to stop Biff, the bully, from hassling the girl who will one day be his wife. Biff’s twisting the skinny runt’s arm and laughing at him. A lifetime of humiliation has led to this single moment and that moment will determine a lifetime yet to be lived. The weedy nerd balls his fist and punches Biff who goes down like a sack of potatoes. It’s beautiful, so incredibly beautiful.
Tim watches a second video that might as well be a snow storm of static. Sunday is coming. He goes back to bed and sleeps fitfully until almost three. When he rolls out again, the young Mr McFly is on his mind. He returns to the DVD player and hurries through scene selection and fast forward until he finds the bully, the punch, the sack of potatoes. Replays it. For a few moment he feels good, feels alive.
Light footsteps on the stairs tell him that Melanie is home from school. Her key slots into the front door and moments later she’s in front of the television with him. ‘Not that old thing. I’ve seen it five times. Can I watch TV instead?’
He’s seen enough. Tosses her the remote and heads for his bedroom to get out Cartwright’s twenty-two. Is it Ian’s or is it his now? The sharp odour of gun oil is in his nostrils and he realises he has been smelling it faintly each time he’s opened his wardrobe all week. Yesterday’s practice has taught his hands how to handle the bolt. Working it back and forth isn’t enough and taking the gun from the secret wall space he fits the magazine into place and taps it home with the heel of his hand.
Go. First bullet in, eject, second, eject and so it goes until all five rounds lie scattered around his unmade bed. He fills the magazine again and repeats the fun. But before he slots it into place for a third go, he changes his mind, tosses the magazine onto the bed and raises the gun to his shoulder.
Kill the Possum Page 16
