The Other Side of Beautiful

by Kim Lock

  ‘Is it serious?’ Mercy said. ‘Can it drive?’

  He got to his feet, brushing his hands on his shorts. ‘It can drive, but we’ll both be deaf as a post by the time we’re back in town.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That is, if we’re not dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mercy repeated. Frowning, she squatted and peered under the van, but on first glance all she could see was sand, rocks and shadows, with bright daylight out the other side. Looking more closely, she identified a piece of pipe hanging down.

  ‘Is that it?’ she asked, pointing. ‘The muffler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be hanging down in the dirt like that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So how do we—can we get it back … up?’

  Andy was walking a lap of the Hijet; he appeared to be looking for something. He put his hand on the back door. ‘Mind if I take a look, see what we’ve got to work with?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The rear door lifted open with a squeak. Wasabi barked again, bounding from the front into the back to lick Andy’s face as he climbed in.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Mercy asked.

  ‘Something I can tie it back up with.’

  That sounded simple enough, Mercy thought, brightening, as she examined the fallen piece of pipe again. Of course. It just needed to be tied back up.

  ‘Is that why it got so loud, all of a sudden?’ Mercy said. ‘Because it wasn’t muffling anymore?’

  ‘That’s right,’ came the sound of Andy’s voice. ‘Hey, d’you mind if I take look in this cabinet? The one under the bed?’

  ‘Sure, go ahe— Wait!’

  Andy’s head appeared.

  ‘Sorry,’ she hastened to say. ‘There’s just, under the bed, there’s, um …’ Jenny Cleggett. Cremated remains. A box containing the ground-up skeleton of an unknown human. None of those statements were utterable, probably not even in ordinary circumstances, let alone while they were stranded on a two-wheel track in the outback with a muffler dragging in the dirt, an hour from the main road.

  ‘That’s, uh … my underwear.’ Her face was already hot from the sun, but heat flooded it anyway. ‘Maybe I should just take a look myself.’

  Mercy climbed into the van, and Andy shifted aside to make room. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and hopped out.

  ‘So would anything do in particular, to tie the pipe back up?’ she asked, lifting the mattress and checking the box of ashes. The rough track had loosened the flaps and she retucked them firmly, apologising to Jenny in her head. But he did say to take you for a good trip.

  ‘We need a length of wire,’ Andy said, his voice coming from somewhere outside. ‘Or maybe some nylon rope, although that wouldn’t last as long.’

  Mercy was considering whether an emptied out can of condensed tomato soup could be fashioned into some kind of muffler-holding device when Andy reappeared.

  ‘How attached are you to listening to the radio?’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was one,’ she replied honestly.

  ‘Good.’ He lifted his hand, and in it was a bent-up coat hanger. ‘Because now you don’t have an aerial. Sorry.’

  After convincing her she wouldn’t asphyxiate running the engine for a few more seconds, Andy directed Mercy to position the van at an angle over the track, straddling one of the wheel ruts to allow more space underneath. The un-muffled engine roared like an angry god. When it was silent again, she climbed out and walked to where Andy lay in the sand.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  A string of expletives issued from under the van, punctuated with words Mercy didn’t recognise—she caught what sounded like bawbag and bampot and something about being fucking scunnered.

  ‘Need some help?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, strained. ‘Pipe’s just a bit fuckin’ hot.’

  ‘Please don’t burn yourself. We can’t fix that with a coat hanger.’

  Mercy lowered herself to the ground next to his legs. For about ten minutes she sat quietly, listening to the tink and thunk of whatever Andy was doing to tie the pipe back up. Occasionally, when she heard his breath labour or a few more heavily accented curses roll out, she’d say, ‘All right?’ and he’d reply, ‘All right.’ Beneath her the sand was warm and the afternoon sun was turning sharp and yellow. Andy had one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee and his heel on the ground. Red dirt streaked his bare skin and caked into the tops of his boots.

  She did it without thinking. With the flat of her fingers, she swept her hand over Andy’s thigh, brushing the dirt off.

  Andy jumped. Something went thud.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing. ‘Didn’t mean to startle—’

  Wriggling backwards, he emerged from beneath the van. Red dirt coated his whole body, dark oil smudged his arms, and trickling from his forehead and dripping from the end of his nose was a bright trail of blood.

  And then Mercy realised Wasabi was missing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  All Mercy could find to treat Andy’s scalp wound were tissues, and as she was digging through her supplies hoping she might have, at some point, bought hand sanitiser, she realised Wasabi wasn’t yapping at her, waggling his fat body or licking her face.

  ‘Wasabi?’ Craning to look over the seat, she checked in the back but it was empty. Wasabi wasn’t in the van at all.

  Slamming the door, Mercy jogged a lap of the van. She whistled, calling out, ‘Here, boy!’

  Nothing. Just the track disappearing around a bend, the breeze shushing in the bushes, sunlight and shadow.

  Andy was crouched in the shade of the van, palm to his forehead. Flies buzzed at the blood seeping down his forearm and dripping from his elbow, plopping into the dust.

  ‘I can’t find Wasabi,’ Mercy said, alarmed.

  ‘What?’ Andy looked up. His face was pale.

  Pushing him gently off his haunches, she sat him on the sand and lifted his palm away from his forehead. Fresh blood welled up. Matted hair clumped over the laceration in his hairline but Mercy couldn’t see bone so, reassured, she wadded a large handful of tissues and pressed them onto the wound.

  ‘Ow!’ Andy cried.

  ‘Sorry. Here, hold this.’ She took his hand and pressed it back over the tissues. ‘Keep some pressure on it. You’ll live.’

  After giving Andy a cup of water, Mercy jogged up the track, calling out to the dog. Putting her fingers between her teeth, she gave a long, sharp whistle, a shrill burst that echoed through the scrub and sent birds aloft and screeching.

  ‘Wasabi!’

  Spinning on her heel, she saw Andy staggering towards her, hand on his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t find the dog. He’s run off. And you should be sitting down.’

  ‘Ah, shit. Are you sure?’

  ‘Wasabi!’ she bellowed.

  Andy winced. ‘I’ll check the van again. Maybe he’s tucked himself away somewhere.’

  ‘The noise of the engine frightened him. I shouldn’t have left him.’

  ‘Was the door open?’

  ‘The windows are down. He must have jumped out. Oh god,’ Mercy said, putting her hands to her own forehead. ‘It’s such a long jump for his little legs. What if he’s hurt? Wasabi!’

  They checked under the seats, inside the cabinets, and Mercy even checked under the mattress but there was nothing but tinned beans, cask water and human remains. Andy needed to sit down again, so he leaned against the van and checked underneath, looking behind all the wheels while Mercy wove in and out of the bush along the edge of the track, calling out, her voice growing increasingly panicked.

  ‘Wasabi, come here!’

  But Wasabi did not come.

  Digging out a can of beans, she whacked it with a spoon, yelling out, ‘Din din dinner!’

  Nothing.

  ‘Shit!�
��

  Stepping off the track, Mercy pushed further into the bush but thick melaleuca clawed at her and when she turned in a circle, she momentarily lost sight of the van and then she couldn’t breathe.

  A typical puppy, Wasabi had been. Chewed what he wasn’t supposed to: books on the bottom shelves of the bookcase; the vacuum cleaner cord; shoes (he particularly loved Mercy’s work sneakers, redolent of blood and piss and vomit). He shat where he wasn’t supposed to (for weeks Mercy had picked tiny curls of turd off the living-room floor mat) and he yowled plaintively at three am. A typical puppy behaving the way a puppy was expected to, and doubly so because Mercy was never home. Could she scold a three-month-old puppy for upending the kitchen rubbish bin and spreading smelly litter all over the house when he had been left alone for twelve hours? Could she expect a six-month-old puppy not to jump all over the couch and rip the cushions to shreds when he hadn’t been taken for a walk for three days?

  She’d bought him just before she started her internship, naively thinking that the end of med school signalled the beginning of control over her own life. Maybe a cat would have been a better choice, Mercy had thought to herself in the early days, coming home in the bleary dawn after night shift to an avalanche of exploded toilet paper up and down the hallway. Or even a goldfish, she had thought, walking an excitable, yapping, twisting Dachshund in the dark streets at two am before work.

  But Mercy had gotten Wasabi for the same reason anyone gets a puppy: because they embody happiness. Their fuzzy little faces are gorgeous and irresistible. Their love is unconditional. And no matter how long Mercy was gone, no matter how wrecked she was when she came home, no matter whether she had snapped at him or even ignored him, Wasabi was always there. He never blamed her, never criticised her, never expected her to actualise him. Always wagging his tail. Always happy to curl up on her lap and be petted, for as long as Mercy needed.

  Simple. Everything.

  Mercy scrambled her way out of the bush and back to the track. Colour had not returned to Andy’s face, but the blood was no longer dripping.

  ‘I can’t find him,’ Mercy said. She could feel herself slipping, losing her grip on the ground as if she was floating up into the air. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Andy said. He tried to get to his feet but his face turned a nauseated green and he slumped back down. He took his hand away from his head and the wound began to ooze again. In the dim recesses of her mind Mercy had the vague thought that she should be concerned about Andy’s wound, but panic was flashing through her like fireworks. She shoved more tissues at him and muttered to keep the pressure on.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ she said, scanning the bush. ‘He could be anywhere.’

  ‘He can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Wasabi!’

  ‘Wait,’ Andy said, grabbing her arm with his free hand. ‘Hear that?’

  ‘What?’ Mercy held her breath, but all she could hear was the thump of her own heart.

  ‘It’s an engine. Someone’s coming.’

  No sooner had he said it than the vehicle burst into view. Roaring up the track was a troop carrier, covered in dust and packed with bodies. It was the carload of people that had arrived at the waterhole earlier.

  The vehicle pulled up behind the Hijet, engine idling. Three faces crammed through the window.

  ‘You all right?’

  Mercy hurried over. ‘Have you seen a dog at all? A little brown sausage dog? He might have been running along the track.’

  There was a brief conference inside the troop carrier, then: ‘Haven’t seen a dog. Are you missing one?’

  Mercy wrung her hands and glanced at Andy. He was trying to stand again; blood crusted his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. It came out in a sob.

  The engine shut off. A crowd of Aboriginal youths poured from the vehicle. Ten people altogether, aged between what looked to be fourteen and early twenties.

  An older girl in a bright yellow T-shirt asked, ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘He’s dark brown,’ Mercy said around the lump in her throat. ‘With light brown paws and eyebrows. And he’s got two tan patches on his chest, here,’ she added, pointing to her own breasts. ‘Like he’s wearing a bikini. He’s small. Are you sure you didn’t see him?’

  The driver was a tall, lithe guy in his early twenties, and before Mercy realised what was happening the man had issued instructions, dividing the group in two, then each smaller team was disappearing into the bush.

  ‘Wait,’ Mercy said. ‘I don’t want anyone getting lost.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ the driver said. ‘We’ll find him.’

  ‘I can’t—’ Mercy tried to keep sight of each body as they took off into the scrub. She threw another glance at Andy; he was leaning heavily against the Hijet, clump of bloodied tissues pressed to his head, blinking as if he had water in his eyes.

  Mercy’s voice was thin. ‘I really don’t feel comfortable—’

  ‘No worries,’ the driver said with a big smile. ‘This is our backyard. We know every rock and tree in this place.’

  ‘Wasabi!’

  ‘Wasabi!’

  ‘Wasabi!’

  The scrub echoed with whistles and calls. Mercy was too panicked about teenagers disappearing into the bush, and losing Wasabi, to worry about the colour leaching from Andy’s face and the blood that began to trickle again when he insisted on standing up to help search.

  Mercy walked a long way up and down the track, calling until her voice was hoarse. Standing on tiptoes to scan the bush, she tried to listen for all ten voices but it was impossible. Petrified of not only losing Wasabi but ten other people as well, after thirty agonising minutes she was seriously considering driving—muffler or no muffler—to the highway to call for help when she heard a far-off shout, replies lifting up into the late-afternoon air, and a few minutes later, all twelve of them—a relieved Mercy, a sore Andy, and ten perfectly happy youth—were back at the vehicles.

  Thirteen if you counted the sausage dog in the arms of the girl with the yellow T-shirt, tail wagging, pink tongue delightedly licking the girl’s face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bert’s first aid kit was better described as a surgical theatre in a box, Mercy thought. The thing had an actual suture kit. Not that Andy would need stitches, much to Bert’s disappointment. (Nor would Andy need an IV for that matter, as Bert had suggested to Mercy, producing a 20 gauge cannula needle, to Andy’s alarm.)

  They had made it back to the showgrounds by late afternoon, the van popping and farting more than usual but otherwise back to its regular volume. After Andy’s colour had returned and his wound had stopped bleeding, Mercy had made Andy drive while she clutched Wasabi in her lap. Though the dog was untroubled by his brief yet profound junket alone in the bush, Mercy was too afraid to let him go. Even now, as she leaned over Andy, swabbing away his blood with his breath on her throat, Wasabi was tied to the leg of Andy’s chair.

  Mercy rinsed away dried blood and shreds of tissue from the wound in Andy’s hairline in a state of hyper-awareness of her surroundings. The crackle of swab wrapping prickled her scalp. Wasabi flopped on the grass, panting, and Mercy imagined she could feel the blades of grass tickling her own belly. One of Andy’s knees was between hers, nudging the inside of her thigh.

  When she asked if Andy learned how to tie up mufflers from one of his sisters, he laughed and admitted he wasn’t entirely unskilled in that area himself.

  ‘What do you do, then?’ she asked, squirting disinfectant and realising she still didn’t know.

  ‘Aircraft mechanic.’

  ‘You work on planes? Plane engines?’

  ‘Aye, so I do. Ouch. That stings.’

  ‘I pulled your hair, sorry.’

  ‘Some bedside manner you have.’

  ‘Wrong end,’ she said, without thinking. ‘I’m not usually at people’s heads.’

  His eyes flew open. ‘What end are you usually at?’
/>   She applied a Steri-Strip with more vigour than necessary and he winced. ‘You’d think someone who works under vehicles all day would know not to hit their head on it,’ Mercy pointed out.

  ‘You would think that,’ Andy said, meeting her eyes. ‘Just like a doctor knows not to get sunburnt.’ For the briefest moment, his fingers brushed the skin above her knees. Mercy felt it through her whole body.

  Moonlight sifted in through the windows. A low growl of thunder rattled the van. The air was dead calm, sticky and warm, the eerie quiet that precedes a storm.

  Mercy lay on her back, cat throw puddled around her legs. She rolled her head to the side; the box of ashes sat on the cabinet. The time on her phone read 1.30am. The park had gone quiet hours ago; from up the row of caravans she could hear someone snoring. But Mercy could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she felt the plummeting sensation she had felt hours earlier when she realised Wasabi was gone. What if they hadn’t found him? What if those kids hadn’t been there? Worse still, what if one or all of them had gotten lost, or been hurt? Racking through those what ifs, of course, opened the floodgate on all the other what ifs and into her mind they poured, gushing and churning, irrational and pointless but oh-so-seductive to chafe over, until sweat sprang out on her skin and she sat up, thinking she was about to be sick.

  When the nausea passed, Mercy looked at the cardboard box resting quietly on the cabinet. Jenny Cleggett.

  ‘What should I do?’ she whispered.

  The box was silent.

  Thunder cracked, closer now, and she heard a low shushing noise as a breeze began to stir the treetops. Bright blue light flashed as a bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. Wasabi whimpered and tried to burrow under her legs.

  Mercy grabbed the dog’s collar, panic spiking. She swung her legs off the bed and the throw slipped to the floor.

  It was as though the inside of her body was trying to push out in all directions. She should go back home, but she had no home. She should be responsible but to whom? A good person (‘a good girl’, said her mother) doesn’t take off across the country in a crappy old van, ignoring voicemails, hiding from journalists, bumming mechanical repairs from Scottish men, animal rescue from local teenagers and medical supplies from better prepared, responsibly-stocked retirees.