Bone Song

by Sherryl Clark

  ‘Mother won’t notice if I’m not there. Even if she does, it’ll probably be a relief for her. She can keep making all her plans, which don’t include asking my opinion.’

  We walk down the street, talking and laughing; the afternoon sun warms my face and it’s like we could be two friends walking anywhere, having a good time. ‘Plans about what?’

  Dobie growls deep in her throat; it startles me for a moment. ‘She’s manoeuvred me into going back to Barton. That’s the pathetic girls’ school I got expelled from.’

  ‘Expelled? What did you do?’ I can’t imagine getting expelled.

  She laughs. ‘I pretended I was selling drugs to the other girls. Uppers and stuff. I wasn’t really. They were those little peppermint candies, but the girls there are so moronic that they believed me, and paid me lots of dollars.’

  I want to ask her why she did it. I guess the answer would be to annoy my mother, but I don’t understand that either. There are lots of things I’m dying to ask her, but that means if she answers, she’ll ask me questions too. How can I answer them? Even if I could talk about it all, there’s the secrecy thing. Mum and I have only survived this long by not telling anyone who we really are, or why we’re running.

  It’s funny. Dobie’s as different from me as she could be, but I used to live like her. Money, clothes, nice house. I was supposed to go to a private school when I got to high school but we left before that. A little light blinks on in my head; I wonder if her mother is like my dad, if she’s into controlling people and owning them. Before I can follow this thought, Dobie says, ‘Did I shock you?’

  ‘Huh? No, I was thinking…’ My brain backtracks. ‘If you got expelled for that, how come they’re taking you back?’

  ‘Mother bribed them. She’s an expert. They couldn’t resist.’ Dobie kicked at an empty beer can on the sidewalk.

  ‘So… you’re leaving the Gate? When?’ I should be glad to see the back of her but instead I feel hollow.

  ‘Don’t know. She won’t say. I think it’s part of her strategy, to make me stress out over it. I haven’t given up the fight yet, don’t worry. She doesn’t win that easily.’

  We turn into my street and I swallow hard, trying not to see the rubbish, the bare dirt, the broken brick walls, the graffiti. Usually I don’t see it. I’m used to it. Now I’m looking through Dobie’s eyes, and it’s pretty ugly.

  ‘You live in this street? That must be hard.’ She’s chewing on a thumb nail, her head on one side. She sounds a bit astonished, not at all snooty.

  ‘It’s what we can afford right now. One day we’ll have a house again, maybe when I’m working.’ We’re in front of my building. I don’t give her time to think about the lift, just head up the stairs. She’s puffing by the time we reach my floor but she’s still gawking around like she’s on an archaeological expedition. Maybe I should have let her ride up in the lift after all. Somewhere on the floor below, someone is playing 50 Cent with the bass up so high that I can barely hear the words above the thumping. I unlock my door and go in without waiting for her.

  ‘Hello, Liss, where have you been?’

  That stops me in a hurry. I’d been so worried about Dobie’s reaction to where I live that I’d forgotten about Mum! She comes out of our little kitchen and peers over my shoulder at Dobie. The nose and eyebrow rings are not going down very well, neither is the purple spiked hair. ‘Hi, Mum. Um, I’ve been at school…’ Can’t say in detention, she’ll freak.

  ‘…with me. Hello, I’m Dobie.’ Dobie holds out her hand and Mum shakes it, smiling. She seems OK so far, not giving Dobie a hard time; she’s also not shaky or slurring her words as far as I can tell.

  ‘Hello, Dobie. Liss, you didn’t tell me you had a new friend.’

  ‘Er, I haven’t.’ Because I hate Dobie. Don’t I? ‘I mean, we’ve been in the same class all term but…’ I sound hateful and Dobie looks a bit embarrassed. ‘We only got to know each other properly this week.’

  ‘Ah. Would you like a coffee and some muffins? I bought double choc chips on the way home.’ She opens the brown paper bag and the rich, sweet smell drifts out. My stomach grumbles louder than the music downstairs.

  ‘That’d be great, Mum. First we have to fix Dobie’s jeans. I’ll go find the sewing box.’ I think it’s in the hall cupboard; that’s where we keep inessential stuff we can leave behind if we have to. As I pull open the door, the music downstairs cuts out and I hear a meow that’s no longer squeaky, it’s more like a siren.

  ‘What is that noise?’ Mum says behind me. ‘I thought I heard it when I came home. It’s not in here somewhere, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, it is. Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do with it.’ I figure if I keep talking fast, she’ll be OK about it. ‘I know I can’t keep it, I know that, I haven’t even given it a name or anything, but I couldn’t leave it to die. Maybe I could take it to the RSPCA.’

  ‘You haven’t told me what it is yet.’

  ‘Can I see?’ says Dobie. ‘Is it still in the bath?’

  ‘It’s a kitten, a black one.’ I hate the tears that smart in my eyes and I blink them back hard. ‘I’ll take it to the RSPCA tomorrow.’ The sooner, the better. That way I definitely can’t get attached to it.

  Mum opens the bathroom door, an inch at a time. The kitten hasn’t managed to scale the sides of the bath so we all squeeze into the tiny room to stare down at it. It stares back and lets out that almighty yowl again, then tries to scrabble out of the bath, making it halfway up before sliding down in a little heap again.

  ‘Hey, he’s really cute,’ says Dobie, reaching down to pick it up.

  ‘He? It could be a she. Watch out for all its fleas.’

  ‘Fleas?’ Now Mum has that edge in her voice that I’ve been waiting for and I need to sidetrack her somehow, but Dobie beats me to it.

  ‘We’ll wash it, right now. The fleas’ll be gone in a few minutes. Got some gentle soap and a little brush, Goody?’

  ‘Goody?’ Mum’s frowning, looking suspiciously from Dobie to the kitten and back again. ‘Who’s Goody?’

  Much as I hate to, I explain. ‘It’s just a nickname Dobie’s got for me, that’s all.’ Dobie’s cuddling my kitten, tickling it under its chin. I want her to give it to me, not to claim it like it’s hers, and I want Mum to go away, right now. ‘Can we have a muffin now, Mum?’

  It works. She says, ‘Wait until I make coffee,’ and turns away at last, heading for the kitchen. Relief floods through me, a warm rush that makes me sag against the doorway. So far, so good.

  ‘Here, he’s yours, you hold him while I fill the sink.’

  I cradle the tiny, furry thing in my arms and all at once, I love Dobie. How did she know? ‘How can you tell if it’s a he or a she?’

  ‘I already looked.’ She swishes the bar of soap around in the water. ‘It’s a he, trust me. That’s OK, Midnight can be a name for a boy.’

  ‘I told you, Mum won’t let me keep it. She’s already upset about it.’

  ‘Is she? I didn’t notice.’ Dobie adds more cold water. ‘There, not too hot. Ready?’

  ‘I can tell when she’s getting edgy about something. She’ll keep fussing until she builds it up into something major. Easier to avoid it if I get rid of it tomorrow.’ I try to extract the kitten from my arm but he digs his claws in like he’s seen water before and he’s terrified. We unhook him from my skin, paw by paw, and I lower him gently into the water. He paddles desperately, trying to get out.

  ‘Hold him by the scruff of the neck, like his mum would,’ says Dobie.

  When I do as she says, he quietens down and suffers the soap and being wet. Fleas are floating in the water already and Dobie picks more off his fur as she spots them. Wet, he’s a scrawny piece of nothing, like a baby rat but still with those huge eyes. When we’ve got rid of the worst of the crawlies, I grab the old towel we use as a bathmat and wrap him up in it.

  ‘Dry him off a bit,’ says Dobie, letting the water out of the sink and making
sure all of the fleas are washed down the plughole. ‘Then you can brush some more out before he starts licking.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I can feel the kitten shivering inside the towel.

  ‘My grandma had cats and one of them had two kittens once. I was there when the cat was giving birth. It was awesome.’ For a moment, her face lights up with that great smile, then she scowls and turns away. She’s like an early spring day, sometimes sunny and bright, and sometimes a storm arises out of nowhere.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dobie

  Why does thinking about Grandma still hurt so much? It’s more than three years since she died. Remembering her and me crouched next to the cat in its box, drinking hot chocolate and watching to make sure nothing went wrong because she was an old cat – it’s like a big hand has grabbed my guts and twisted hard. Grandma always knew about what was important, how a cat having kittens was about new life, how baking cookies was an art that needed lots of practice so we baked dozens, how dancing was an expression of the soul. That’s what she said, anyway, and she said it to Mother as well.

  Mother’s reply to that was, ‘Then ballet is the highest expression, one well worth striving for.’ She wouldn’t give in. Modern dance was ‘common’, experimental choreography was prancing around showing off half-nude bodies, and the music was just noise. I’d started off with ballet when I was seven, but by the time I was ten, my passion was modern dance: ballet was boring and restrictive.

  Goody sits on the futon couch, cuddling the black kitten, and starts brushing its fur with an old toothbrush, the only thing she could find. I fill the toothbrush cup with water and keep picking up fleas, dunking them in the water until they drown and float. Much simpler than squashing them. I don’t know what Goody’s on about with her mum. She seems OK to me. A bit paranoid maybe. She’s like a saint next to my mother.

  There’s a clatter in the kitchen and something smashes on the floor. ‘Shit.’ Goody’s face goes all tight and she hands me the kitten, heading for the kitchen. I try not to eavesdrop (that’d have to be a first for me) but this place is so small I can’t help it.

  ‘It was just a plate, Lissy. Look, I’ve cleaned it up.’

  ‘Mum, have you taken two pills again?’ Silence. ‘You were fine when you came home. Why did you take two?’ Goody sounds like she’s trying not to cry.

  ‘I just… it’s hard, you know. You brought someone, I didn’t expect it. She looks like a criminal. All those holes in her face. And the kitten.’ Her voice slurs a little. I make it my mission to extract every single flea off this kitten.

  ‘I told you, I’ll take it to the RSPCA tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to! It’s not fair. Why shouldn’t you keep it? You have nothing, just your stupid mother who drags you around the country. God, I’m so sick of this!’ She’s crying but it sounds funny, like she’s doing it in slow motion. A chair scrapes across the linoleum.

  ‘Mum, sit down and drink your coffee. I’ll make you some dinner soon. Eat a muffin. It’s OK. Don’t cry, all right?’ There’s pouring, clinking spoons, muffled crying still, then Goody emerges carrying two mugs of coffee. ‘I’ll just fetch the muffins,’ she says, putting the mugs down on the side table without looking at me.

  ‘OK.’ The kitten is purring. ‘Hey, he likes this. I think I’ve got most of the fleas.’

  Goody checks the toothbrush cup. ‘Yuck. I’ll tip it out.’ The crying in the kitchen has died away; she comes back with four muffins on a plate. ‘Have one. They’re from the bakery down the street. Better than home-made.’

  I give the kitten back to Goody and take a muffin, munching slowly; I watch her brushing as I scan the room at the same time. Three of these lounge rooms would fit into our dining room. We’ve got cupboards bigger than the bathroom. There are no pictures anywhere; the walls are bare, the floors have no rugs, the couch is a futon that someone obviously sleeps on, judging by the pillow on the floor. Probably Goody.

  The muffin is brilliant, soft and rich and chocolatey. I could eat about twenty of them, but I leave the rest on the plate for Goody and her mum. Goody puts the kitten on the floor where he shakes himself and tries a few licks before opening his mouth and yowling. Within seconds, there’s a bowl of milk in front of him. He laps and purrs at the same time which is so funny that Goody and I get the giggles.

  ‘He sounds like he’s purring underwater,’ she says. ‘Hey, Midnight, slow down.’ She strokes the top of his head with one finger. This girl will not be taking this kitten to be put down tomorrow, trust me. I check my watch. It’s well after six – should I phone home? Hmmm, what’s the best strategy? Am I being good or not? Will it change Mother’s mind about Barton? No.

  ‘What about your jeans?’ Goody says. ‘This furry thing sidetracked me. I’ll get the sewing box.’ The kitten has finished the milk and its tongue rasps on the bowl.

  Goody puts an old chocolate box down in front of me and sits on the floor, picking up Midnight who immediately starts padding on her stomach. I open the box and check out the rows of coloured thread, the square green pincushion, the scissors and folder of needles. This is so dumb. I don’t know where to start. I’ve never sewn a thing in my life. She’ll think I’m totally useless, and I am.

  ‘Do you want to take your jeans off in Mum’s bedroom?’ Goody thinks I’m shy. Well, that’s better than useless.

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ I jump up and undo the button, pull down my jeans and step out of them. When I hold them up, the rip looks gi-normous. ‘Oh, wow, these are history. Are they worth fixing?’

  ‘Not really. But you only need to sew them up enough to get home. Here, hold him.’ We swap the jeans and the kitten. Goody picks black thread out of the box, cuts off a length, threads a needle and begins stitching. While I tickle Midnight under the chin, I watch closely. I figure if I ever manage to get away from Mother, I’ll need to know this kind of stuff.

  I can see it’ll take a while. I can’t help it, I have to ask. ‘Er, is your mum OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ Goody hooks through two more stitches. ‘Sort of. She’s taken two of her tranquillisers, instead of one. They make her really slow and dopey when she does that.’ Four more stitches. ‘She kind of goes through cycles where she’s worse than usual. This is one of them.’

  ‘Is she sick?’

  ‘No.’ Goody looks me straight in the eyes as if she’s testing me out. ‘She’s terrified out of her wits. She keeps waiting for Dad to find us again. Next time he might kill her. But not if I have anything to do with it.’ She looks down again and keeps stitching.

  Her words blast through my mind. Her dad is one of those maniac husbands? They’re on the run from him? Does this kind of thing really happen to people outside of TV? It’s almost too weird to believe, except she said it and I don’t think she’d make up something like that. I hope my face is staying blank. I’d hate to be like one of those people salivating over a gory road accident or murder. I’m so rattled, I don’t know what to say next. I honestly don’t want to be a snoop, but I can’t sit here and say nothing.

  ‘How long have you been, er, on the move?’

  ‘Running. We’ve been running for two and a half years. This is our third hidey-hole. He’s found us twice.’ She twists her mouth around and then bites her lips. Her tone is flat, like she’s trying to be factual about it, trying to make it sound an everyday thing. But it’s not. It’s horrible, scary. In fact it’s totally fucking terrifying. How can they live like this? Well, they don’t, der-brain! They hide, like she said, and her mum has to take tranquillisers to cope.

  ‘That’s… this is… God, I’m so sorry.’ Goody glares at me and I stumble on. ‘I mean, I’m not piling pity on you ’cos I know you’d hate that.’

  She shrugs. ‘It’s OK. When I told you just then, I thought I was going to be sick. It’s such a big secret, you know? McCardle’s not even my real name. We have to live now with just the essentials, ready to run again. I can’t have friends or anyt
hing.’ She knots the thread and cuts it. ‘Or boyfriends. I had one once. Jamie. In the first city we lived in. He was so cool. He played the guitar in a band with his friends. One day I was there, getting ready to go to the movies with him the next night, then the next day I was gone. I couldn’t even write and tell him what happened and why in case Dad found out we were friends and interrogated him.’

  One tear drips down her face onto my jeans and she brushes at her eyes. ‘I’m used to it now. If it’s what we have to do, we do it.’

  ‘So me being here is not a good idea. No wonder you tried to brush me off.’

  ‘No, I didn’t – well, yeah, I guess I did.’ She smoothes my jeans down and folds them neatly. ‘I hated you the most, I think, because you had everything that I used to have and you just wanted to chuck it away.’

  ‘I’m not a spoiled bitch, truly.’ Goose bumps have blossomed on my legs and I rub them, trying not to shiver. The sun’s nearly down and this room has grown chilly. ‘There are reasons why I’m fighting my mother, important reasons. They’d probably sound pathetic next to your problems, but they’re important to me.’ I think about telling her now, but it would sound so feeble after what she’s revealed to me that I keep my mouth shut. She doesn’t need to hear my whining anyway.

  Goody hands me my jeans. ‘There you are. That should get you home.’

  That’s an invitation to leave if ever I heard one. But I can’t blame her. She looks pale, her face drawn tight, and she still has to deal with her mum who’s probably passed out. ‘Thanks a million. I mean, I could’ve worn my underpants on the outside and pretended I was the new Superwoman but that might’ve got me arrested.’

  I’ve raised another smile which makes me feel better. I pull on my jeans and button them up. ‘If I lost some weight, this wouldn’t happen.’ Oh boy, now I sound like my mother. I pick up my backpack, ready to go, but I don’t want to leave it like this. ‘Hey, do you want to – would you be able to – come shopping tomorrow?’