But I’m not going to ask what that is.
I keep my head bowed, thumbing my palm. It probably looks insolent, but I don’t care.
“Okay, Charlie,” she says, in a tone that is still stern. “You can stop digging.”
I remain silent, but I look up as she points to the mound of dirt.
“Now: fill it in.”
It takes me a moment. She starts to walk away. I look in horror at the dirt pile. Then I wheel round.
“What?”
“Fill it back in,” she says with her back to me.
“What do you mean, fill it back in?” I yell, and I feel a fullness in my throat and a heat on my face.
She turns around. I can see that she’s pleased with herself. She suddenly looks like her father. Like a haughty marmot.
“I mean, fill this hole back up with that dirt, Charlie. You’re not leaving it like that. I don’t want a great big dirty hole in my backyard. It won’t take you long. And hose yourself down before you come inside, thank you.”
I am furious. Down the street, I hear the kookaburras start up again. I shake my head.
“No,” I say firmly.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes widen. “What did you say?”
“I said no. This is ridiculous. I’m exhausted. I’m not filling it in. If you didn’t want a hole, you shouldn’t have asked for a hole. Forget it.”
“What did you just say to me?” She leans forward.
“What are you, deaf? I said I’m not filling it in! This is stupid. I worked this hard for nothing!”
“Well, you’re not the only one, young man. That’s life!”
“No it’s not!” I shriek at her. I don’t care anymore. “That might be your life, but it’s not mine!”
“You watch your mouth!” She’s yelling too. An angry vein embosses her forehead. “Charlie, you either turn around and finish your job or you will spend the rest of the summer in your room. I mean that. And you can forget about Christmas! You want a purpose for this hole, young man? Why don’t you drop your bloody attitude in there and bury that? What’s it going to be? It’s your choice, Charles Bucktin.”
That’s not a choice. That’s holding a turd in either hand and asking me to eat the one on the right or the left. I turn my back on her. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of an answer, or a look at the salt glaze filming my eyes. When I think she’s gone, I clamber out slowly and sniff. With a heavy heart and legs, I glower and scrape the earth back in, cursing her under my breath, muttering that I might like to bury her ugly bloody head in this pit of injustice.
Of course, she hasn’t left yet. And of course, she’s just heard every word of vitriol. I realize this when she clamps a hand on the back of my neck and squeezes like she’s trying to dig out my vertebrae. Her nails are like razors. She hisses in my ear.
“You are a very rude boy!”
And she shoves me onto the mound of which I’d been so proud. The dirt is soft and cool and yielding. I move to shield myself from her, but she doesn’t hit me. She just snatches the spade from the ground and marches back to the house with it.
“Now fill it in!”
***
It is almost dark when my father lopes out into the yard. I’ve almost finished. I’m covered in dirt and so exhausted that I can’t stifle a groan every time I doze more earth with my palms.
“Okay. That’s enough, Charlie. Come on.”
I don’t look up. I keep working to display my anger.
“Charlie! Did you hear me? Come on, I said stop. We’ll clear it up later.”
I want to keep going, but I can’t. I rest on my knees.
“Mate, what on earth is going on with you?” he asks. I am immediately defensive.
“What? Nothing. I don’t know. Why?”
“Well,” he says, with endless patience, “because you’re a smart and reasonable kid.”
“Not really a kid. I’m fourteen soon,” I interrupt. I’m not sure why.
“Well. Okay. Exactly. Even so, I’ve never heard you swear, least of all at your mother. You’ve never disobeyed a strict instruction either. It’s unusual, isn’t it?”
I want him to keep talking to me like this. Like a contemporary. A colleague. Like I’m smart enough to keep up.
“Listen, Charlie,” he goes on. “If you needed to go into town today, you should have asked one of us. Okay? It would have saved a lot of grief. Particularly for you, by the looks.” He gestures toward the filled hole.
“It’s not that,” I blurt, but stop myself. The urge is there to tell him everything. To let him take care of it. But I shake my head quickly. “Forget it.”
“Your mother is worried, Charlie. And you can’t blame her. To some extent, we both are. Something very unsettling has happened. You’ve heard about Laura Wishart. Nobody is quite sure what is going on yet. So, in the meantime, we’re trying to do the right thing by keeping you as safe as we can. It’s most likely nothing, Charlie. I certainly hope so. But you can see why we might want to be careful just now?”
Why does he have to be so sensible? Why does he have to phrase things so well? He should have been a lawyer, like Atticus Finch. But he’d have to stand up for something then.
I look down. That’s not at all fair. But I don’t care. I’m angry. And sore.
He kneels and sighs.
“The world seems to be shifting, Charlie. It’s different to when I grew up. It’s really starting to change. Even here.”
“You’re right about that,” I say bitterly.
“A lot of people are scared. Especially right now, with Laura missing. There’s a lot going on.”
It’s rare for him to talk to me like this. The last time was when he offered me the golden ticket to his library. I feel awkward and a little exhilarated. I’m not sure how I should respond. So I nod.
“Anyway,” he says, hoisting himself up. His knees crack. “Your mother has just declared that you’re to go without dinner this evening, and she will be alerting you to this as soon as you get inside. But what I suggest you do, instead of arguing, is to nod and take it on the chin. Okay? It’s her bridge night tonight, so you can have something to eat after she leaves. I think you’ve been punished enough.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I can build you a shed out here and then knock it straight back down if you want.”
To my surprise, he laughs.
“You’re just like your mother, Charlie.”
“Rubbish,” I say. “Don’t tell me that.”
He chuckles again.
“She does a lot for you, you know.”
I stand up and spank the dirt from my shorts.
“Yeah, well, so could a maid,” I say quietly.
He frowns.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
He breathes out through his nose and keeps his big doe eyes on me in a way that makes me feel childish and uncomfortable.
“Listen, she just wants to feel as though she’s respected. I know you’re growing up, Charlie, but she’s still your mother. She wants the best for you. But if you still have a problem with something, there are smarter ways around it. You just have to be a bit more canny, okay? More diplomatic. Believe me, my boy, you’ll do better than to try to lock horns with her. Do you understand?”
“I guess,” I admit sullenly.
“Concession doesn’t necessarily mean defeat, Charlie.”
“Who said that?”
He smiles. “I did.”
We linger a moment beside the filled pit in the fading lilac light.
“Where have you been this afternoon, anyway?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Actually I’ve been at the Miners’ Hall, helping to organize the search. They started just after lunch.”
My chest tightens and I feel hackles bristle my neck. This is my first real chance for answers.
“Really? What do they think? Where is she? Do they know? Where are they looking? What will they
do?”
“Well, these things start small, Charlie, then the arc widens. The longer she’s missing, the harder and wider they search. For now, though, the best thing to do is to keep calm and look in the likely areas.”
“What likely areas?” I ask.
“Like along the river, the immediate surrounds. And I’d imagine her family and friends are being interviewed. Then they’ll start to piece together an idea of what may have happened. But I have a feeling she’ll probably turn up tonight. I bloody hope so.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” It feels dangerous to be asking these questions. There’s a woodpecker tapping at my sternum. But my father fields my concern as thoughtfully as he does any other.
“Then the arc will widen. They have spotter planes on standby for tomorrow. Also, they’ve requested dive crews from the city, to search the river, but I hope to Christ they won’t be necessary. I’m not sure, Charlie, until it happens. Volunteers will probably keep pressing further into the bush, and there will be town meetings and the like, to gather support and information. Every day that she is missing, efforts will get more desperate.”
“But what if they still can’t find her? What if she’s still missing? They can’t look forever, can they?”
What if they find Jasper’s clearing? And the dam? How clear are the clues? Would they send down a dive crew? Right to the murky bottom? Could they really find her?
“Well, no. Of course they can’t. There’s only so long that these resources are available.”
“How long?”
“I really don’t know, mate,” he says. My interest does not arouse suspicion. He doesn’t narrow his eyes, he doesn’t ask me questions.
“Okay,” I say. He claps a hand on my shoulder and then thumbs my grubby cowlick. Gives a reassuring smile.
“Listen, as I say, it probably won’t come to all that. She’ll turn up soon. My guess is that she is staying with a friend, or that she’s run away from home. Something of that ilk. Don’t get too worked up, Charlie. People disappear and reappear all the time elsewhere, but in Corrigan events such as these get amplified, simply because everybody knows everybody, because it’s otherwise so quiet.”
I nod.
“Do you know Laura well?” he asks.
“No. Not really. I know her sister, though. Eliza.”
“Right. I don’t know Eliza. But I’ve taught Laura for a couple of years now. She’s a quiet girl. Very smart. Very independent. But as I told these people today, there’s something about her that seems troubled and volatile. It’s as though she holds you at a distance, so I don’t know her as well as I know some of my other students. But hiking on out of here on her own sounds like something she might try to do.”
“Really?”
“It’s what I suspect, Charlie. I’m not sure what their household is like, I don’t pretend to know what happens under their roof. I mean, it’s not fair for me to speculate as to why she would want to up and leave, but I do feel there’s a streak in her character that could lead her to do something like that. To leave without telling anybody. They’ll probably pick her up someplace close, or she’ll be in contact when her money runs out.”
“You think so?” I ask.
He scratches his chin and flattens his hair. “I really think it’s most likely, yes.”
“Is it just you who thinks that way?”
“Everyone has the same end in sight, Charlie; everyone wants her home safe. But they have to be open to all possibilities.”
“Like kidnapping? Or murder?” I blurt. And then I freeze, like I’ve been caught out. Like I’m holding her under the arms, staring into a spotlight. I am terrified. I hold my breath.
He sighs and tilts his head. He speaks softly.
“I suppose that is a possibility, Charlie, but it’s a very, very unlikely one.”
“Really? Then why would you have me stay inside? Why isn’t anybody playing out on the street?”
His mouth opens and closes again. I’ve got him.
“I said it is unlikely, but it’s not impossible. See …” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “With things like this, when people don’t really understand what has happened, they’ll assume the worst long before they have to. It’s a little like when people are afraid of the dark. Often it’s not the darkness they’re afraid of, it’s the fact that they don’t know what’s in it. And because they can’t see, because they’re not sure, they start to imagine there are more sinister things afoot than there ordinarily would be. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.”
“All I’m trying to show you is how quickly reason can be put aside once things like panic and fear start to seep in. Especially in a town like this, where people gossip like they’re bloody spies. So, for now, don’t worry too much about Laura. She’ll turn up, mate.”
I look down at my filthy feet. It’s her turning up that I’m most worried about.
I give a short, involuntary shrug, feeling the heat of Laura’s truth and the coldness of my lie. The invisible ants are crawling all over my body again. I need to bathe. To go soak in a cloak of furiously hot water. I want to scrub the skin off my body, to scratch out the grit.
But while I’ve got him here, like this, I want to keep it going. I want to ask him about Mad Jack Lionel. I want to hear the true story of his horrible crimes and pin them up against the others I’ve steeped myself in today. But I can’t risk it. If he suspects me of knowing too much, of being involved, then it could all unravel. It could imperil Jasper Jones. I decide to wait.
I must look impatient, because my dad claps my arm and bids me inside.
“Remember,” he says. “No dinner for now, and just take it on the chin, okay? And tell her you’re sorry. See how much easier life can be if you just give in a little.”
We move inside, his hand resting on my bare back.
***
Later, after our front door has closed behind my mother and her friend Beverly, who has come to pick her up for bridge, my father oversees my construction of a corned beef sandwich.
“Make sure you leave everything as you found it,” he warns. “And don’t cut too much of that loaf. Otherwise she’ll find out, and I’ll be the one digging a hole, for both our bodies.”
“It’s a grave matter,” I say, and shake my head slowly and theatrically. My mood is considerably less shitty since I’ve bathed and she’s left.
“And I’m dead serious.” He smiles. The kettle whistles on the stove top, and he kisses his mug to it. He makes me a coffee with plenty of condensed milk. I press my sandwich so hard that red-onion relish bleeds out the sides. At least the work today has blessed me with hunger.
As we both fork off to our respective rooms, I stop him just before he heads in.
“Are you writing in there? I mean, a book?”
He pauses, startled. He regards me quizzically.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought that maybe that’s what you were doing in there, is all.”
He shifts his weight back as he answers, turning his head, surveying his library.
“No, no, mostly I read in here, Charlie. I do all my marking as well. That’s how I spend my time. Best leave the novels to the novelists, I think.”
“You’re probably right,” I say quietly, looking away. We both shuffle away and close our doors. I sit heavily and set my plate down on my desk and think about the way he flinched and looked away when I asked. And I wonder why he lied.
***
Jasper Jones has not come to my window.
I’ve been waiting here for hours now. I’ve even removed the glass slats from their frame for a quick exit. But all I’ve done is offered entry to all manner of insects, which busy themselves around my lamp. I try to swat at them, to no avail. So I try to mash them between two books which I clap together like cymbals.
Jasper Jones is not here and I need him to be. I wonder where he is. I wonder how he is doing. If he’s lying low, or i
f he’s out investigating. I wonder how close he is to finding an answer. I hope he hasn’t been back to his clearing. What if they followed him there? What if they went looking for him?
Though I reckon he’s more cautious than that. I figure that it’s probably caution that has kept him out of my backyard. Things need to settle down before we meet again, before we really begin to sleuth for the truth.
Even so, I could do with a reassuring dose of his company so I don’t feel so alone in this.
I’m tired, but I’m restless. The night is breezeless and balmy. I crawl out through my window, just to see if Jasper might be lying in wait for the rest of our lights to blink off. I stand in our backyard. It’s absurdly quiet. I think of the search party. Whether they’ve retired for the night, or if they’re pushing through the bush, wielding torches, calling out Laura’s name.
I turn. Down the side of our house, my father’s library light casts a hazy yellow rhombus. I feel a little piqued. Hurt, because he confided in me so recently and then drew a curtain across it.
A cruel part of me urges me to sneak up to that window and peek in. To peel back the curtain like a magician unveiling a trick. I want to catch him in the act, reveal the lie.
Maybe I should start another novel. A less ridiculous one. Prove to him I’m smart enough. I could write it about Jasper Jones. And it could stand alone as he does; shoulders squared, spine straight. And I could throw it on my father’s desk one day, after it’s been published and he still has no idea. Casually, like it’s nothing. And I’d tell him that life might be easier if you give in a little, but it’s better if you hold on to something so hard you can’t give it up.
A car pulls up abruptly outside our house. I press myself against the boards. It’s not Beverly’s car. Perhaps it’s the police. Maybe they’re waiting for Jasper. A stakeout. Maybe they’ve come to get me. For questioning.
The Hillman sits and idles for an eternity. Then, finally, my mother emerges, laughing. It’s a strange sight. I think maybe she’s quite drunk. She leans back in, looks like she’s rummaging for something. Then she slams the door and waves, retreating slowly. The car departs with her smile. When she turns to walk back inside, her face is as blank as when she left.
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