On one particularly memorable afternoon the pair dragged the old enamel bath out of the shed, set it up on rocks, filled it with the hose and lit a fire beneath. That evening they arranged candles in bottles all around, pushed the coals away, added saucepans of cold water to temper it, then stripped and got in. Elena lay back in Aaron’s arms, her white breasts showing above the water. The flickering candlelight threw shadows on the steam, up onto the house nearby, the bush around, the trees above. They were happy. Aaron blew out the candles so that for a moment everything was deep black; when their eyes adjusted there appeared above a sky full of stars and a flock of white gulls drifting past. Birds called from down on the lake, animals talked and skittered in the bush, the waves crashed on the shore. Elena shivered, just for a moment, but Aaron held her tight.
The weather turned, cold wind and rain, and Aaron stopped coming. That had been their summer of love. One night in her hammock Elena was woken by a noise; she lit a candle and as the flame rose up on the wick she thought she saw, briefly, Lyall’s face in the window. But it might have been the shadows.
The next day, with a towel held over her head, she traipsed through the wet bush to see him; the drops spitting off the leaves, water splashing down the gullies. The dog whined, but Lyall wasn’t there. She pushed the door and it opened. She looked into the little kitchen alcove, behind the bedroom curtain. Then she realised where she was, what she was doing. A black flutter came to her heart. She turned to go and as she did she heard the crunch of leaves and twigs outside. The dog didn’t whine—in fact, it seemed all the animals had gone quiet.
Aaron’s father told the police he thought they’d run away. Aaron liked the girl, he said, and had been spending a lot of time with her. The police recorded them as missing. But then shortly after a walker found Aaron’s battered body washed up on the beach out of town. A couple more days’ searching and the cops found Elena’s body in a shallow grave in the bush. The dead dog was still on its chain, black liquid oozing from its mouth. It took the police a while to piece it all together and to track Lyall down to his hideout near Ballina on the northern New South Wales coast. The autopsy dated Elena’s death to the day, more or less, that an elderly couple saw Lyall’s old station wagon speeding out of town.
Sorry it was so sad, said Hannah, I’d forgotten how sad it was. It was all that talk about getting away that made me think of it and then, Lauren, your story—and yours too, Marshall, about Tilly’s uncle. But I didn’t think through how creepy and sad it all was.
Did all that really happen? said Evan. What do you mean? said Hannah. She’s told me that story before, said Leon, unless she made it up then too. It sounded true to me, said Adam, the bit about the allergist especially. I agree, said Marshall. I believed it, said Lauren.
Hannah rested the stick on the arm of the chair. Marshall poured the wine.
Should we do another one? he said. Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow, said Lauren. There’s tiramisu in the fridge, said Hannah. Yum, said Leon. Everyone started stretching and standing up.
Tilly’s still in the car, said Evan. He was standing at the window, looking down. Marshall? Tilly’s still in the car. I’ll go and see what she wants to do, said Marshall. He drank his wine, hitched up his pants.
Sorry everyone, said Hannah; I’m sure I had a happier one there somewhere but that was the one that came out. Lauren and Hannah went into the kitchen. Adam? said Leon, from the couch. Adam was staring at his hands. Marshall’s down there now, said Evan; he’s trying to talk her in. She’s weird, that kid. Evan sat down. I feel like getting absolutely shit-faced tonight: no reason, I just do.
Lauren and Hannah returned, each carrying a tray. One had little bowls and spoons on it, the other the dish of tiramisu with a serving spoon sticking out. They put them both on the table. Tea? Coffee? said Hannah. More wine! said Evan, and everyone except Megan laughed.
Marshall came back up the stairs. He stood there, not moving. She said she won’t sleep in the same room as me, he said. Jesus they grow up fast. She can sleep in our room, said Lauren; Adam can go on the couch. You can try, said Marshall. She’s upset, said Megan. Lauren stood up. Maybe I should go down and see? There was a pause. Sure, said Marshall. Lauren went down. Tiramisu! said Marshall, picking up one of the little bowls. Everyone, come on, this looks great: tiramisu! They all began helping themselves to the dessert.
Evan came back from the kitchen with another bottle of wine and a fresh San Pellegrino for Leon. The uncle’s cottage, he said, I think I know where that is. You sit on that property another five years, a bit of maintenance, keep the grass down, pay the rates and you’d get four hundred grand minimum, and that’s on a bad day. The coast here’s stuffed; that’s pristine property out that way.
Lauren had come back up the stairs. She wants to sleep in the car, she said. I’ve given her a couple of blankets, she can use the toilet downstairs. I’m going to make her a toasted-cheese sandwich. She hesitated, waiting for Marshall’s objection. He had a spoonful of tiramisu. Lauren went into the kitchen. They all listened to her opening the cupboard, taking out the sandwich press, opening and closing the fridge.
I think I might hit the sack, said Megan. Me too, said Hannah. Me three, said Leon. I might stay up for a bit, said Adam. I’ll be there soon, said Evan, giving himself a splash of wine. There’s sheets and blankets downstairs, said Megan, goodnight. Night all, said Leon. That was good, wasn’t it? said Hannah. They went off to bed.
All right, said Marshall, and he sculled his glass. Lauren came back out of the kitchen with a toasted sandwich and went downstairs again. Marshall wasn’t sure what to do. All right, he said, go easy men.
They listened to his footsteps going down. Adam? said Evan, holding out the bottle. Half, said Adam. Lauren came back up. Close the fire door, she said, and she walked down the hallway to the bedroom. Adam gave her a late salute.
I think you’re right about having themes, he said, pushing a couple more logs into the fire and closing the door. I should go too, said Evan. Megan’s going to give it to me otherwise. Adam took his wine outside.
The balcony was new, architect-designed (Evan was right, the house was a hotchpotch of old and new). There was a barbecue with a rain cover to one side and an outdoor dining setting with an umbrella folded down on the other. A hardwood handrail, with seven tensioned steel cables beneath. Adam walked to where the apex pointed at the sea. The night was still. There were no stars. A moonglow shimmered on the water. A white gull, lost-looking, flew low across the patch of light and off again into the dark. He could see the shape of a suit jacket against the back window of Marshall’s car and a silver light inside. It took him a while to realise it was the glow from Tilly’s phone.
When he came back in, Evan was still on the couch. I thought you were going to bed? Fuck it, said Evan. Is she asleep? Adam shrugged. That balcony, he said, I tell you—twenty, thirty years of sea air man and, bang, down she comes. It’s built all wrong. Concrete cancer. Metal fatigue. It all comes back to bite. Asbestos. He drank. I can’t believe he brought her down like that—I mean, what sort of dick does that? This weekend’s going to go to shit, I can just feel it. He topped his glass. How are you and Lauren? We’re good, said Adam, we’re okay. Me and Megan too. A log collapsed in the fire, blowing showers of orange sparks against the glass.
We’re
a funny species, aren’t we? said Evan. Adam looked at him. God or whoever didn’t finish us properly when he put those things between our legs and then, when we do it—man on woman, man on man, woman on woman, whatever—we make cries of pain. Cries of pain, Ad—what’s that? The kid puts his ear to the door and that’s what he hears, one hurting the other. That Tim guy, said Evan, I felt for him. Did you?
Evan stared at the window.
My daughter, Aria, he said, from my first marriage, she was not much older than Tilly when she gave me and Kate a whole heap of trouble. I couldn’t even begin. It would be wrong to say that’s what caused the break-up but, thinking back, it must have had some effect. Do you know what I mean? But it’s all for the best, he said, drinking; Megan and I, we’re happy, and I get on with her kids, too. And Aria came through it in the end. She’s a woman now. And whip-smart too, I can tell you—she runs rings around me.
She was eighteen when it started; a mature eighteen, mind you, when I think about it, but in another way completely childish. At first it was just a few extra piercings, a couple of tats, peroxided hair, then more tats. She started going out with this guy, he’d bought her drinks or something—I don’t know—but here’s the thing: he was older than her, much older, the same age as me. She was shameless about it, in a way I guess you have to admire. We don’t want our kids cowering, do we? Shortly after Aria and this guy started going out she brought him home to meet us. But here’s the thing. My daughter Aria’s peroxided, tattooed, pierced—outrageous, in every way—while this guy’s as straight as a post. Sensible slacks, nice cotton shirt, he’s even brought a bunch of flowers for Kate! Evan threw his head back and laughed, as if Aria’s boyfriend handing his ex-wife a bunch of flowers was of all the things he’d seen in his life by far the funniest ever.
This guy’s name was Cameron, he worked in border security at the airport, a good, upstanding, righteous job. So he had money, and that wouldn’t have hurt. (Aria does like having things). But still, and it’s hard to say it even now, I could see on that first night when she brought Cameron home that they were in love, those two, really in love. How’s that? Huh? There’s Kate and me, sitting opposite, making conversation, and all the time we’re thinking, Jesus, those two are in love. That night, when he left, he shook my hand at the door and looked me dead in the eye.
Is this a story? said Adam.
No, said Evan, I don’t think so. It sounds like a story, said Adam. Maybe you should save it till tomorrow? But I won’t feel like telling it tomorrow, said Evan, I’ve had a few drinks and I feel like telling it now, because of Tilly in the car. And Tim. And Elena. It’s spontaneous, can’t you see? Well can you at least give it a title? said Adam. Border Official, said Evan; I’ll call it Border Official. Adam handed him the stick.
So, said Evan.
Evan: Border Official…
That’s all you want for your kids, isn’t it? Happiness? It seems strange to say it but Cameron and Aria made a great couple. They did everything together: breakfasts out, dinners at the coolest restaurants, shopping on Saturdays at the farmers’ markets, Sundays a bike ride along the river. (They met at a club but now clubs were beneath them, they were a sensible couple in love.) Aria still had her tats and piercings but in every other way she was straightening herself up to get, if you know what I mean, in alignment with Cameron. He was the yardstick. She’d even developed, almost overnight, a kind of insane love and respect for her parents. She was proud to bring Cameron home and to talk about him—in whispers mostly, with Kate. She’d also bring home little presents for us: a jar of jam, a bag of apples, a silk scarf for Katie, a stylish wine stopper for me. And all the time there was Cameron, shaking my hand, kissing Aria’s cheek, smiling his genuine smile.
That went on for about four months, then we started to detect that something was not quite right. My first instinct was to put it down to the fact that Cameron was working shifts. Sometimes he started at three in the morning and didn’t get home till lunchtime: by mid-afternoon he was asleep. I did shift work myself when I was young and it does your head in, I can tell you.
My next thought was that maybe the age difference had finally caught up with them. Maybe Aria was hanging out with men her age and Cameron was getting jealous? Or maybe he was putting expectations on her that she couldn’t help pushing against? Maybe she’d actually done something, gone back to the club one night and fucked some old school friend? Maybe that look into the distance was her saying: Yes, I did it, and I don’t care what you think. Maybe his look was him thinking that he didn’t deserve this young woman and sooner or later he’d have to yield to a rival? But, let’s face it, the last thing an eighteen-year-old wants in that situation is parental advice. Kate and I became mute observers, tiptoeing around the minefield.
Then one Sunday Cameron and Aria were both visiting and I found myself alone with him in the backyard. It was a warm day, a bright-blue sky. I offered him a beer. We sat opposite each other on the green plastic chairs. It looked right, but it felt wrong. There we were, the same age, old schoolmates maybe, or workmates, each looking into the mirror at his double: a man in his late thirties, moving too quickly towards middle age, thinking about where he was up to in life and looking, let’s be honest, a bit too often at the pretty girls. But there was one difference: One of these men was going out with the other man’s daughter.
I kept pushing this thought down, squeezing it out of my head and burying it in the patch of ground between us. I was trying to concentrate not on our differences but our similarities. Poor Cameron, I thought, he’s carrying all this around on his own: isn’t it my duty to help? And aren’t I well qualified? Same age, similar background. We both know Aria, each in our own way, I as her father, he as her lover: surely we can figure something out?
I asked him what was wrong. He seemed a bit shocked. I had to repeat myself. I mean, what’s wrong between you and Aria, I said. I don’t want to pry but she is my daughter and you have become part of the family. Kate and I have seen how something’s not quite right between you, there’s a stand-offishness or a tension, it’s making things uncomfortable around here. It’s not our business, I know, I said, but—bear with me—I feel that because we are a similar age (we’ve never talked about this, it’s never been mentioned) maybe I could be the person to talk to? I’ve been around, I said—yes, it was getting embarrassing—and I didn’t come down in the last shower. I had my share of women before Kate got pregnant with Aria and during that time I learned a thing or two about them. And she is my daughter, after all. Maybe, Cameron, I said, it is the age difference? I don’t want to say this, I said, but they do say a girl looks to marry a man like her father; that’s what they say, but really, I said, when it comes down to it, does she? Maybe Aria’s hitched up with this father-type a bit too early? Maybe she should live a bit first, I mean with people her own age? And if she has done something, I mean, with someone her own age, maybe the best thing is to talk to her about it, openly. Is that what’s happened?
Cameron looked at me blankly, though blankly is hardly the right word. Cameron looked emptily through me. He lifted his beer and drank. He stared at a spot on the ground. It’s none of that, he said.
Should we open another one? said Evan. I’ve got this great Clare Valley too. Adam shrugged: it was all the same to him. Evan got up. Ow, he said, holding his back.
Adam opened the fire door and put a
couple more logs in. He went to the window. Clouds had covered the moon; in the car below the light was still on. He pulled the curtains closed.
Are you still up? said Megan. She was standing in the hallway in her pyjamas. We’ll be finished soon, said Adam. Oh Jesus, she said. Evan was coming back from the kitchen, holding a fresh bottle. Ad and I are just having a bit of a boy’s chat, he said; boys only, for boys. She gave no answer. The hallway light went off; and there was silence again. Real silence: no birds, no wind, no waves, not even that background noise of the great surging sea. Everything was silent and still.
Well, said Evan, easing himself back into the cushions and taking the cap off the wine, peace and quiet. He poured them each a glass. Neither mentioned Tilly or the light below.
So—where was I? said Evan. Yes, there we were, me crapping on about women and fathers and daughters and Cameron was telling me I didn’t know shit. It’s to do with my job, he said. I asked what he meant. He said it was complicated. I said it was up to him but I was here to listen. He thought about that (Should I be telling my girlfriend’s father this?) until finally he said, again, almost defeated: It’s really very complicated. I waited. Aria and I have had a disagreement, he said, looking up, about something that happened to me at work. Telling you about this isn’t the problem, he said, it’s telling you why Aria and I disagreed. I didn’t follow. Why don’t you just start, I said.
I work at the airport, he said, as you know, I’ve worked there for years and, as you can imagine, there’s always been pressure to keep the undesirables out. But then a few years ago, I mean after the terrorist thing, the pressure increased. It is our job to keep our borders safe; nothing more, nothing less. The navy guys up north do their job and we do ours. A border’s not a gateway, it’s a fence, with a very small gap cut into it: I can’t tell you how many directives come down from on high about the importance of vigilance in the protection of that gap. Emails, memos, in-service training—one bad apple will spoil the whole barrow, they say. Look sharp, be suspicious, never believe what you’re told. It is a heavy responsibility and we all feel it, from the minute we put on our uniforms at the start of a shift to when we take them off at the end. And then, on top of that, they decide to make a TV show about us. I looked at him. He raised his eyebrows. Yes, he said, a TV show.
Demons Page 6
