Intruder

by Christine Bongers

  ‘Is this your first time round dogs since, you know . . . ?’ He waved a finger along his jawline and then froze as the heat rushed into my face. ‘Uh, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I scrabbled for the end of Herc’s lead, desperate to escape the awkwardness of the moment. ‘Look, thanks for, um, you know, but –’

  ‘No, wait –’ He was crouched in front of me, effectively blocking my escape. ‘Uh . . . that was dumb . . . sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you . . .’

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Yeah, you are.’

  The quiet certainty in his voice made me want to argue the point. ‘I just don’t like people thinking that I’m some kind of wuss.’

  ‘Wuss?’ His lips twisted as though he’d tasted something bitter. ‘Yeah, well, none of us likes people thinking that, do we?’ He thumped down beside me, his back to the wire.

  Now he was the one who seemed upset. ‘Are you okay?’

  He blew out a long breath, started to say something, then shook his head and looked away.

  I didn’t want to pry, but he’d been nice to me, and I was sorry if I’d hit a nerve. ‘Hey . . .’

  He glanced sideways at me through a thick bristle of lashes that were ridiculously wasted on a boy.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I continued. ‘I just about fainted in front of you. It’s not like I’m one to judge.’

  He hesitated, eyes scanning my face.

  ‘Your business,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s cool.’

  For some reason my words had the opposite effect. He nodded and swung round to face me.

  ‘See this?’ He swept his fringe back from his forehead revealing an ugly, barely healed scar slashing upwards from his left eyebrow, across his temple and disappearing into his hairline.

  The breath hissed out of me, my hand moving involuntarily towards his face. But I checked myself in time, embarrassed, and tucked my hands under my legs. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Yeah, I moved schools because of it.’ He let his hair fall back into place. ‘My mum sold up and we moved suburbs. I can’t even be in the same postcode as the guy who did this to me.’ He paused, then nodded at my chin. ‘If a dog did that, you’ve got guts coming here.’

  I looked away to cover my confusion. He’d just called me brave after I’d almost had a full-blown anxiety attack right in front of him.

  He pushed himself to his feet. ‘If you want to give your dog a run in there, I can give you a hand.’ He extended a sun-browned arm towards me. ‘You’ll be safe, I promise.’

  I hesitated, but the offer was too good to refuse. I wasn’t sure if I was up to taking Herc in there on my own. ‘You really don’t think I’m a wuss?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said gravely. ‘Unlike me, who you will always find in the girls’ toilets at the first sign of danger.’

  I laughed, the tension falling away, and let him haul me to my feet.

  He pushed open the first of the two gates leading into the enclosure. ‘You don’t need to worry about any of these guys. They’re a pack of pansies. Most of them would roll over for a seven-week-old pup. Well, maybe not Napoleon . . .’

  He pointed to a little brown and white dog sitting quietly with a group of owners, their backs towards us, at a picnic table in the shade.

  ‘He doesn’t look very scary.’

  ‘He’s not. But for a Jack Russell, he has attitude. Napoleon loves people but might have a bit of a go at your dog.’ He glanced down at Herc. ‘Though this bad boy looks like he can handle himself.’ He pointed towards the tables. ‘The old Bill there is Napoleon’s owner and he doesn’t put up with any nonsense. He’ll give him a blast if he gets a bit snappy. You ready?’

  I nodded and he pushed open the second gate.

  Herc bounded through, heading straight for the dogs now clustered around their owners at the park bench.

  I flailed along behind him, off-balance and half-spooked by what I was getting myself into. All the dogs apart from the little Jack Russell swung round and galloped towards us. I yelped and let go of the lead.

  ‘Good idea.’ My self-appointed guide loped up behind me. ‘You’re better off letting them get to know each other, without you, or the leash, getting in the way.’

  The five dogs circled each other, kaleidoscoping into a butt-sniffing daisy chain. Taking it in turns to plug their noses into Herc’s hindquarters and then circle round to Eskimo-kiss him on his mashed-in chops.

  ‘Eww, that can’t be hygienic.’

  He laughed. ‘Works for them. Just don’t let him kiss you on the lips afterwards.’

  Herc sucked it up for about twenty seconds, then dumped them all for a scratch-and-sniff tour of the area. The others simultaneously lost interest and trotted back to shelter in amongst their owners’ legs under the picnic table. Leaving me stranded in the middle of the dog park with the black-haired boy.

  I stared at my thongs, wondering how lame it would look to pull out the Herc Instructions and check how long I was supposed to stay.

  ‘So, is he yours?’ he asked. ‘Or are you walking him for a friend?’

  ‘Actually,’ I said without thinking, ‘I’m walking him for an enemy.’

  His reaction threw me. He had a great laugh – one of those happy, free sounds I’d never dream of making myself. ‘Now, why would you be doing a thing like that?’ he asked, eyeing me with interest.

  ‘Apparently I need a guard dog,’ I said wryly. ‘And it beats the bejesus out of the alternative.’

  I wasn’t sure why I was admitting this to someone I’d only just met. But there was something about his easy laugh and open face, something about the way he had shown me his scar and called me brave . . .

  Later, I would wonder if that was why I did what I did. Why I lowered the barricades and let someone I didn’t know waltz on in, past my heavily fortified defences.

  Later, I would tell myself that he had caught me at a vulnerable moment, when I was off-balance, out of my element and under threat. That it was hardly surprising, given the events of the past twenty-four hours, that I’d cracked and forgotten to re-bolt the long-padlocked rooms inside me.

  That might all explain why I spilled my guts to a stranger. But it didn’t explain why I noticed that his eyes were dark brown. That he had a chip on the inner corner of his right-front tooth, and a cute habit of letting his hair flop forward to hide his scar.

  But I wasn’t thinking about any of that at the time. When he asked why I needed a guard dog, the floodgates opened and words poured out, tumbling over themselves in their rush to be heard.

  Before I even realised what I was doing, I had told the black-haired boy all about last night’s prowler.

  Nine

  Somehow we found ourselves on a park bench in the shade, well away from the other dog owners.

  Herc had collapsed on the grass in front of us, his legs spread-eagled around him. He looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Oblivious to the poodle who was trying to jump-start some life into him, tap-dancing on his back and worrying her little fangs into the flesh around his head.

  I tucked my knees under my chin, wondering why it was so difficult to leave when I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. Talking had loosened the tightness in my chest, making it a bit easier now to breathe.

  ‘Sorry.’ A fall of hair curtained my face, hiding a self-conscious flush. ‘I just did a big verbal vomit all over you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. That’s what my mum says, and I reckon it’s true.’

  ‘My dad says the opposite: “We keep ourselves to ourselves, that’s the rule.”’

  ‘Weird rule.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘You gotta talk to someone. What happens when he’s not hovering over you?’

  I laughed abruptly. ‘J
immy doesn’t hover. He’s more of a fend-for-yourself type of parent.’

  He frowned at that, but all he said was, ‘Hey, bit late I know, but I’m Al.’ He held out his hand, plastering a big game-show-host grin across his face. ‘Alexander Armitage. But you can call me Al.’

  ‘Katharine Jones.’ We shook hands. ‘But everyone calls me Kat.’

  I bit my lip, wishing it were still true.

  Hardly anyone called me the pet name from my childhood. After Mum died, I’d lost all my old friends to new schools that rowed in winter and played water polo in summer. For a while we’d kept in touch on Facebook, but the constant bombardment of happy snaps and the endless competition for friends and likes made me feel lonely. Everyone else was always so busy, with new friends, new interests. Their lives were opening up, while mine had shut down. I felt like I had nothing to contribute, so I deleted my Facebook account. My old friends moved on, leaving me behind.

  I was the only one from my primary school, St Frances de Sale, who’d gone on to the local high school. No-one there knew much about Mum, and the longer I didn’t talk about her, the harder it became.

  New friends demanded intimacy – sleepovers, shared secrets, all the deets. When I couldn’t give them what they wanted, the social window slid shut, leaving me trapped on the outside.

  I hid the hurt, pretending to be happy with my own company. Burying myself in my books. Earning the straight As that came easy when you didn’t have a life. I drifted between groups, antennae constantly tuned to the time to move on. I’d failed to make any true friends since I started there.

  I acted as though I didn’t care. But towards the end of the school year, I’d find myself in the girls’ toilets most days, drawn by an irresistible urge to check the mirrors, to make sure I was still there.

  I hardly recognised the person staring back. My naturally dark hair dyed a forbidding blue-black, falling heavily from a side part, with razored strands pulled forward to hide the ragged scar along my jaw.

  At the first hint of footsteps, or the flush of a toilet, I’d slip away from the mirror, and back into the glare and anonymity of the schoolyard.

  ‘It’s been a brutal couple of years,’ I murmured, more to myself than to him. ‘Last night just kind of rounded it all off.’

  ‘Snap.’ A melancholy note entered his voice, a sharp contrast to his former cheerfulness. ‘I spent most of last year avoiding the biggest antisocial personality disorder in school: Beau Harding.’ Al tilted his chin and bared his teeth. ‘He gave me this,’ he said, pointing to the chip I’d noticed earlier. ‘And then, this.’ His finger traced the arrow-shaped scar on his forehead.

  A chill iced my veins. ‘Did he cut you?’

  He shook his head. ‘He liked wearing this big nasty ring. The first time he picked me in a fight, it chipped my tooth. The last time, it took a big chunk out of my forehead.’

  ‘That’s awful. What were you fighting over?’

  ‘Nothing. It started when I made some stupid comment about his neck tattoo –’

  ‘Let me guess – it said, “Make good choices”?’

  Al laughed. ‘It was in runic script, so it could have said anything. Which he didn’t like me pointing out.’ He shrugged. ‘Then he found out that my mum had helped keep his dad in jail . . .’

  My eyes widened. ‘Your mum’s a cop?’

  ‘Nah, she’s a forensic psychiatrist. Does a lot of work for the parole board. She didn’t think Beau Harding’s dad was ready to be “reintegrated into society”. Lucky for society . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh, Al, that’s really horrible.’

  ‘It was.’ He grimaced. ‘Head wounds bleed like stink. It was like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when it happened. The school had to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Did they expel him?’

  He shook his head. ‘Suspension and compulsory counselling. It was nearly the end of the year, so I left school and never went back.’

  ‘But he was in the wrong,’ I protested. ‘You shouldn’t have been the one to leave.’

  He looked away. ‘I didn’t want to go back there.’

  I couldn’t blame him. ‘Were you scared he’d keep hassling you?’

  Al hesitated. ‘Mum took out a restraining order so that Harding couldn’t come near me, or harass me in any way.’ He ducked his head, evading my gaze. ‘But there was other stuff going on, so we moved at the start of the holidays.’

  I wondered what could have been worse than what he’d already been through, but didn’t press him. ‘Are you glad you moved?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Al replied, shrugging. ‘New suburb. New house, right next door to a dog park. New school just around the corner.’

  ‘Hey, that’s my school. We might be classmates next year.’

  He smiled; a flash of light. ‘Hope so. I could do with a friend. You’re the first person my age I’ve met since we moved here.’

  I smiled back. ‘Maybe the new year will be better for both of us, then.’

  The afternoon sun streaked gold through the trees. A breeze had sprung up, riffling his straight black hair as we talked.

  I liked that Al was new to the area. That he’d be going to my school. That he was a good listener. That he came to the dog park every day and that, by the time school started, I might even have made myself a friend. Most of all, I liked his hairless knuckles, the lack of any rings on his fingers . . .

  The thought jarred me upright. ‘Wait a minute, that guy –’

  ‘Who? Beau Harding?’

  ‘Yeah. He didn’t wear a silver ring, did he? With squiggles on it, like in Lord of the Rings? On his index finger?’

  ‘Nah, he hated that kind of stuff. Used to say fantasy was for skinny little loser dweebs like me. He liked his memorabilia much nastier.’ He gingerly thumbed the scar above his eyebrow. ‘This came from his swastika ring. To be honest, that’s the only one I ever saw him wear.’

  An icy finger trickled down my spine. ‘Nasty’ was the right word for it.

  He caught the shiver and leaned in to reassure me. ‘Kat, you don’t need to worry about Harding. He may be a knuckle-dragging neo-Nazi Neanderthal, but he’s also practically an albino. Unless he’s had a hand transplant, he’s definitely not your prowler.’

  I forced myself to settle back against the park bench. ‘Okay, then what about blue-cattle-dog guy as a suspect?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hoodie Guy – didn’t you see him? That bloke with the blue cattle dog slinking past the park when I first arrived?’

  Al barked out a laugh. ‘Slinking. I like that. Yeah, I know exactly who you’re talking about. The weird dude who wears a hoodie no matter how stinking hot it is?’

  ‘That’s him. He wouldn’t look at me, and he took off across the park so he wouldn’t have to walk past me on the bike track.’

  Al squinted at me through a thick bristle of lashes. ‘You’re not thinking he might be your prowler?’

  I didn’t know what I was thinking and the frustration of it leaked into my voice. ‘I couldn’t see his hands, and that was the only bit of the prowler I saw. What do you reckon? Do you know him?’

  Al sat back on the bench, spreading his hands. ‘I’m pretty new round here. I don’t know anyone apart from the dog park people. But I have seen him before. He walks past all the time.’ He paused. ‘Does seem a bit odd, now that you mention it. He always has that dog with him, but never comes into the park itself. Just walks straight by, and bolts if anyone gets too close to him.’

  My skin prickled. ‘Maybe he’s casing the area?’ I suggested. ‘Pretending to walk his dog, but really spying on everyone’s comings and goings?’

  Al frowned. ‘We’d need a bit more evidence before jumping to that conclusion. But we could keep an eye on him, just in case.’

  He said we. Like he was planning on
sticking around. I liked that, but wasn’t so sure about him giving Hoodie Guy the benefit of the doubt.

  Al leaned forward, remembering something else. ‘Sequoia and half the dogs in the street have been going nuts around midnight almost every day this week. They’ve woken up the whole street. I thought maybe it was just people coming home late from Christmas parties setting them off, but maybe it was your prowler sniffing around. The dogs probably scared him away.’

  ‘He was at my place round midnight.’ My heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. ‘And he knew that my dad was at work. That means he’s been watching my house. Watching me.’

  I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat, finally voicing the fear I’d been pushing away all day.

  ‘Al, what if last night wasn’t random? What if that prowler is some kind of stalker?’

  Ten

  Al’s gaze turned thoughtful, but in the end he just shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t get too freaked out if I were you, Kat. If this guy’s working the area, he’d be watching all the houses; seeing who’s home and who’s not. He’d know everyone’s movements, not just your dad’s. He probably tried a heap of doors before he found one that was open.’

  ‘True.’ I sat back and tried to think it through logically. ‘Which means it isn’t personal. It’s like the watch sergeant said: the prowler’s an opportunist. I forgot to lock a door and he took it as an invitation to enter.’

  ‘And you won’t be making that mistake again, will you?’

  ‘Damn straight. From now on, we keep the doors locked and the bad guys out.’ I glanced sideways at him. ‘I’m not usually this paranoid, but this has been doing my head in. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘You should probably thank my mum.’ He grinned. ‘She’s trained me well. Her job is pretty stressful. She consults to the police and to the courts, and likes to unload at the end of the day.’

  ‘Are you planning to follow in her footsteps and psychoanalyse bad guys too?’

  ‘Nah.’ He reached up and plucked one of the seed pods from the overhanging branch. There were dozens of them, dangling like Christmas decorations. ‘I’m more a science-slash-maths nerd. For instance, I know that this seed pod comes from the rainforest blackbean, which is one of the few native species you’ll find around here. I googled it as soon as we moved in.’