“C’mon, guys,” I said. “It’s my birthday. I know I’ve been strange lately, but…well, it’s my birthday.” Lame, I admit, but the silence was getting to me. “Good cheer is customary. Animated conversation, the spontaneous carrying of the birthday girl in a chair around the restaurant to the lilt of amusing birthday songs. Frankly, at the moment, this could be the annual meeting of the local undertakers’ association. Perhaps we could start with a smile and, if no one dies, see where that gets us?”
Jason finally looked at me. He had an I’ve-been-treatedin-a-very-shoddy-fashion-so-I’ve-the-right-to-behave-like-an-anal-sphincter air of grievance, but my words had clearly chipped at his resolve. I could see a flash of light soften his eyes and it wasn’t just the reflection of candlelight. Once again, I felt a lurching in the pit of my stomach like the one I’d experienced when I first set eyes on him.
Fact File
Common name: Jason Evans
Scientific name: Hunkia britannica
Habitat: Originally from England, the Hunkia britannica is a rare example of a successful foreign invader. It has flourished in the climate of Australia and is regarded by all observers as a particularly magnificent example of non-indigenous fauna. Can be enticed from its regular habitat into the arms of human beings by careful maneuvering and encouraging remarks about soccer.
Mating habits: Devoutly to be wished.
Appearance: Tall, rangy, and athletic in appearance, the Hunkia britannica is a splendid physical specimen. Beautiful skin tone, finely toned musculature, deep brown eyes liquid with sensitivity and eroticism, dribble, dribble, dribble.
Toxicity: Nontoxic. Pleasurable feelings of well-being can be achieved if rubbed against skin.
Status: Divine.
Jason opened his mouth—and then the Fridge materialized dramatically at his side.
She took off her jacket like it was an unaccustomed action. Her fingers were shaking and her face was so lined it looked as if it had been slept in. There was a small tic near the corner of her right eye and her mouth was pulled down. She got rid of the jacket and didn’t even glance in our direction. Jason was on his feet, showing manners more at home in the late nineteenth century. It was clear the Fridge didn’t know who the hell he was. She even gave him the jacket, probably expecting him to exchange it for a wine list. Jason arranged it carefully on the back of her chair.
“Hello, Mrs. Harrison,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
The Fridge blinked. I could see her summon her willpower in an attempt to occupy the time and space the rest of us filled. It was as if she was returning from some place far away.
“Jason,” she said. “Yes. You too.” Her voice was overly cheery, with little fault lines at the edges. In that moment I felt intensely sad. It was silly. I knew what had happened. It was written all over her. And it was what I had been praying for. Yet sudden tears stung my eyes.
The Fridge sat down and pulled her chair toward the table. She smiled, but it was nothing more than a series of muscle stretches.
“Hey, birthday girl,” she said, finally making eye contact. “Sorry I’m late. I…I had to make a phone call. Have you ordered? Ah, drinks. Yes…Jason, be a love, will you, and attract the waiter’s attention. How are you, Vanessa?”
But she didn’t take her eyes from me.
The Fridge ordered a bourbon and Coke and didn’t stop chattering. I took the opportunity to get another glass of wine. I had a feeling I was going to need all the artificial courage I could find this evening. A large part of me wanted the silence back.
“Well, seventeen. Who would have thought it? It seems like yesterday…Oh, by the way, your present. I hope you like it.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out an oblong package. She handed it across the table and it felt solid and heavy in my hands.
“I didn’t know what to get you. It’s so difficult. I mean, you’ve reached the age where I can’t get you clothes. I have no idea what kind of music you like—it all seems foul-mouthed nowadays and chanted by large people with an unhealthy interest in drive-by shootings. That’s if you can have a healthy interest in drive-by shootings. Anyway, if they haven’t got a criminal record, they just record one. Hah! Calma, don’t just sit there like a brick. Open your present!”
I wanted to get up and hug her. Instead I pulled away the wrapping. It was a book. A leather book, with gilt on the edges.
I could smell its age. I opened it to the flyleaf. The Complete Works of Shakespeare, dated 1821, with a foreword by the Reverend Bowdler. It was perfect.
“Oh, Mum,” I said. For once, I was lost for words. I ran my hands over the leather binding and put it carefully on the table, well away from the pools of condensation puddling by the water carafe. Then I got up and the Fridge stood and we hugged. I squeezed hard, my arms around her waist, my head on her left shoulder. She smelled of Givenchy and defeat.
“Mum, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. The words felt like something solid lodged in the back of my throat.
She increased the pressure of her arms around me before putting her hands on my shoulders and stepping back. Her smile was small and broken.
“Me too, sweetie,” she said. “Me too.”
ReWND™
Mrs. Aldrick was surprised to see me, which I suppose was understandable. She’d seen Vanessa off to school. She knew I should have been there too. Maybe, as we faced each other on the doorstep and I stared her straight in the eye, she knew why I had come. I suppose I’ll never know.
At first she didn’t want me to come in. She made excuses, but I was having none of it. She was the only solution. For Vanessa’s and Mum’s sake, I needed her to listen and I wasn’t leaving until I’d given it my best shot.
We sat in the unnervingly spotless kitchen. She looked at me as if I was the manifestation of all her fears—a past that she hoped was dead and buried but which had quickened and returned to haunt her. As I talked, she ran her fingers over the polished surface of the table, her eyes darting around as if for aid.
I told her everything I suspected and, even as she tried to deny it, the doubts gnawing at me disappeared. Her words were nothing compared to the way the sinews in her arms moved, the slump of her shoulders, the relentless flickering of her eyes. It was all true.
When I got to the marks I’d seen on Vanessa’s body, she inhaled sharply and her face twisted. I got the impression she’d hoped against hope that what had been in the past had remained there, that her daughter was safe. Wishful thinking. Maybe deep down Mrs. Aldrick knew, but it was a knowledge she was desperate to avoid. I forced her to face it.
I begged her to keep Vanessa at home from now on, to stand up to her ex-husband for her daughter’s sake. I explained the research I had done on restraining orders and the process by which you could apply for one. It seemed bizarre—I was barely seventeen, yet I was advising someone over twice my age on issues that left my tongue coated with distaste. Neither of us wanted to have this conversation. Yet I floundered on, pushing words through the barrier of her silence. I told her about the Fridge, that there were two people she could protect if she summoned the courage. I gave her Mum’s shift times for today. I’d got them by calling the casino. I couldn’t force her to do anything. I didn’t try. I just gave the information, sprinkled the seeds, hoped for germination.
When I left the house, she was sitting at the kitchen table, dragging her fingers over the surface, eyes fixed on the pattern of smudges she’d created. Mrs. Aldrick had made no promises. She had barely spoken. But I felt an irrational hope and it warmed me all the way to school.
FastF™
At least the Fridge’s handing over of her present liberated Jason and Nessa from their smug self-discipline. Vanessa passed me her package, a lumpy and appallingly heavy object. I nearly pulled a muscle as I took it from her. For a moment, I thought she’d bought me a boulder. But it turned out to be a sandstone Buddha, intricately carved and full of tranquil flowing lines.
“Pu
t it in your bedroom, Calma,” said Vanessa. “In the corner where the chest of drawers is. It should counteract the strong yang energy in the room, as well as dissipating the shar chi, the killing breath, caused by the inauspicious juxtaposition of your wu xing.”
“You couldn’t run that by me again, could you?” I replied.
“Feng shui.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “I thought there was something wrong with you. It’s lovely, Nessa. Thank you.”
“And here’s mine,” said Jason. At least his present was small and didn’t look like it might induce a hernia just opening it. I moved the Buddha to the edge of the table, where it threatened to tip the whole thing over, catapulting the water jug into the laps of diners over my shoulder. I ripped at the packaging on Jason’s gift. I’m not the kind who patiently peels back sticky tape and methodically unfolds wrapping paper. I’m more the rampaging rend-and-shred-with-the-nails type, scattering paper like confetti.
It was a cell phone. A lovely, shiny cell phone—the kind that flips open. There was a small lens at the back. I’m not technically minded, but it looked like a phone with a still-image manipulator, video capture card, wireless Internet and espresso-making facility.
I was stoked.
Now I could do what everyone else did at school—develop weak eyes by fiddling with the settings or installing ring tones of execrable taste.
“Thought it’s something you could use,” said Jason. “You can be a very difficult person to get hold of.”
“It’s brilliant. Thank you. I don’t deserve it, Jason.”
“Too right. You don’t.”
He didn’t say it in a nasty way, though, and I knew we’d be all right. Later on, when there was just the two of us, I’d explain. I’d explain everything. And he’d kiss me and tell me he understood and that he thought I was a brilliant girlfriend and a wonderful friend and caring daughter, and we’d download ring tones until our fingers ached. I wanted to use it right away, but he explained I’d have to call the service provider to activate the SIM card.
“How can I do that?” I asked. “I don’t have a working phone.”
He took out his cell and gave it to me.
“There you go, Miss Impatient,” he said. “Follow the directions on the card.”
It took a while to work out how to turn his bloody phone on, but I managed to get through all the steps for activation. The service provider guy told me it would take a minute to do whatever he had to do, but basically I would be connected almost immediately.
“Course, you need to charge the phone up for about two hours before you can use it,” Jason chipped in.
“What?”
“I’m pulling your plonker! I’ve already charged it. Calma, I think you’re ready to join the world of electronic communication. Who you gonna call?”
I realized there wasn’t anyone. The only people I cared about were sitting a foot away. Jason suggested I call him, but that was just too sad. Anyway, I had a better idea.
I punched in the number and there it was. My first call. Someone picked up after three rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is table twelve. Any chance of someone taking our order?”
There was a puzzled pause, but it did the trick. A young man was over before I could flip my phone shut. We ordered and I took the opportunity to get another glass of wine. Despite the expression on the Fridge’s face, a strange combination of happiness and misery, like she’d been violently sandbagged from behind in the middle of a wedding party, I was feeling fine. And it wasn’t only because of the alcohol suffusing my bloodstream and buggering around with electrical impulses in my brain. It was good to be with these people.
Once we’d ordered, Jason showed me how to use the camera on the phone and I snapped away happily. I took pix of the three of them, the Fridge in the middle with her arms around Jason and Nessa. I took pix of my presents. I even got Jason to take one with his phone of my phone. I balanced it up against the Buddha so it appeared that the divine one was ordering a pizza. Boy, this wine was strong.
My father arrived halfway through the appetizers.
I was dipping the last of my fishcakes into a small puddle of sweet chili sauce when I became aware of someone standing next to the table. He ran a hand over his scalp and glanced nervously around. I swallowed the final morsel and took a sip of chardonnay. I was cool.
“Can I help you?” I said.
His eyes flitted everywhere and I saw more clearly than ever what a weak, contemptible creature he was.
“I’m going,” he said. “Back to Sydney. Thought you’d want to know.”
I brandished my new phone.
“Would you like me to call a taxi?” I said sweetly.
That shook him. He struggled to keep his temper and failed. Typically, what followed was bluster.
“You’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And when I’m gone, it’ll be too late for you to change your mind. There’ll be no point crying to me then.”
I raised my glass in a mock toast.
“Have a good trip,” I said cheerfully.
He left then. The last I saw of him was a drooping figure slinking off into the darkness.
Vanessa’s father arrived halfway through the main course. A shadow loomed over the table and I froze with the fork poised.
Nessa’s dad didn’t look as if he was about to add his personal best wishes to the celebration. Watery blue eyes washed coldly over us, before settling on the Fridge. Nessa nearly choked on her vegetable stir-fry.
“Dad!” she said, her voice thin and timid. “What are you doing here?”
He ignored her.
“Jean. A word. Now,” he said.
It took a moment for the Fridge to recover her composure. She looked faintly sick and her brow was rumpled as if with a migraine. She placed her knife and fork slowly down onto her plate.
“Not now, Mike, please. This is my daughter’s birthday meal. I’ll call you later.”
He grabbed her wrist.
“Not ‘later,’ Jean. Now. Outside.”
Jason was on his feet immediately. Nessa’s dad turned his head slowly and looked at him like he was something you’d find on the bottom of your shoe.
“Can I help you, sonny?” he said.
There was silence. I could feel tension knotting my muscles. The Fridge twisted her hand to break the grip. She kept her head lowered.
“I’m not going outside with you, Mike. I’m not going anywhere with you. It’s finished. Don’t you understand that?”
The expression on his face darkened. Rage writhed across his features. He slammed his fist down on the table and a jug fell over. A stream of water flowed across the tablecloth and onto the floor. The only noise in the whole restaurant was the sound of dripping. He bent his head towards the Fridge.
“No one does this to me. Do you hear me? No one.” His voice was low and tight with malice. “I decide when things are over. I decide. And you are going to regret this. Trust me. You are going to seriously regret this.”
“Dad, please…”
He jabbed a finger towards Vanessa and she cringed back in her chair.
“And as for you…,” he said. “You are going to wish you were never born.”
“It’s too late for that, Mike,” said the Fridge. “She must already feel like that, thanks to you. But it’s finished. You are never going to hurt any of us again.”
It was like she had slapped his face. He took a step back and then the storm he carried within broke. His voice crashed over us, like thunder.
“You bitch!” he screamed. He clenched his fist and drew it back. At that moment I wasn’t aware of doing anything, but I stood and my hand gripped something. In the second before his fist would have slammed into my mother’s face, I brought forth lightning to match his thunder. The flash froze him. I held my phone up. The image was small but clear. You could see the arm raised and poised to strike, his features snarled into a grim
ace of dark joy. And there, cowering under the fist, a tired, frail and scared woman. I pointed the phone at him like it was a crucifix and he was the devil. He even stepped back a pace or two.
“I’m calling the police,” I said. “You’re through, Collins. We have witnesses”—I pointed around the restaurant—“and we have photographic evidence.” I dialed the number. “You have a couple of minutes to run for your miserable life. Enjoy those minutes, because I promise you’ll pay for your crimes. Calma Harrison will never rest until you pay.”
He glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if realizing what he’d done. He didn’t look so menacing now. As I talked to the police, he dashed to the front door, changed his mind and ran towards the restaurant’s toilets. He was going for a back door, but it wouldn’t do him any good. I had meant every word.
We sat at the table and waited for the police. The customers around us had started talking again. Shock was starting to bite. I kept my head down and tried to suppress the tears threatening to overflow. I felt a hand on my arm.
“Thanks, Calma,” said Vanessa. “I feel safe now, safe for the first time in years. And it’s all because of you.”
I smiled and glanced over at the Fridge. She was smiling as well.
“I was a fool,” she said. “I couldn’t see it. I probably didn’t want to see it. Thank God you were watching over me, Calma.”
I couldn’t say anything. My emotions were too tightly wound. Jason looked at me and there was admiration in his eyes. Admiration and…something more.
We held hands, the four of us, and waited for the police to come. A siren droned in the distance. It was getting closer. I felt at peace.
Manuscript ends
Manuscript starts again…
I remember Dad reading me a bedtime story, Little Red Riding Hood, when I was four or five. I hated that story. I didn’t want Granny to be eaten. I didn’t want the wolf to die. The best ending, it seemed to me, was for them to sort themselves out and become friends. Maybe the wolf could enroll in an anger management program, Granny could get hormone replacement therapy, Little Red Riding Hood could grasp the basics of stranger-danger and they’d live out their lives happily, going on picnics and playing croquet. Each time Dad read me the story, I’d hope for a different ending. But it never happened. The story had its own inflexible pattern. Maybe that’s where it started—this disappointment when nothing turns out as you expect.
Am I Right or Am I Right? Page 16
