After Ariel: It started as a game (24 page)

She bent down, her breath hot in his ear. ‘
Go to your room and practice
!’

Reluctantly, he walked slowly down the hallway upstairs into his room, where dark wardrobes, heavy curtains and the little bathroom and toilet closet encompassed his world. Another room had been turned into a music room with a grand piano where his mother accompanied him, a music stand, and a cupboard with all his music stacked neatly on the shelves. A violin stand in one corner, with a standard lamp parked at the correct angle for reading the scores. There were no toys, but plenty of reading material. Dingo loved books.

He went to the window and looked down into the garden where the visitor’s three children were playing tag. His school work, music – everything had to be done inside. Frances had set up a study area across the hall from his room.

Among the few people who came to the big house, with acres of land behind it, were the delivery man with the groceries, the meter reader and a big bluff man whom he knew to be the vicar from the church down the road. After his father died, and they come to live in town, it took awhile before he knew that he was isolated from other children.

By the time he was eight, he knew his mother was mad. Other mums took their children to school because he saw them walking along the road from his window high above. Sometimes they would look up and wave. He always waved back, until the day his mother caught him at it and slapped him so hard across the face that he lay on the floor crying for hours. After that he didn’t dare.

Trouble arrived. Two women came to the front door and demanded to be let in. His mother argued, but when they threatened to call the police, acquiesced and invited them into the lounge room. After a short time, she stormed upstairs to his room. Mouth pursed, she ran to his chest of drawers and dragged out clean clothes. ‘Get changed into these. Come downstairs and behave. When they ask if you’re allowed outside, you say you go out every day!
Understand
?’ As she had her ‘or else’ expression in full force, he agreed.

Somehow they got through the interview with the ladies he understood later were “social” workers, and it was a while before anyone disturbed them again. His mother pointed out that as long as he kept up to his schooling and the Education Department was happy, no one would care what happened at home. The ladies came once or twice after that and he was trotted out for their inspection. One day he even played the piano for them and they nodded and smiled and said what a good boy he was. The word “prodigy” was mentioned. His mother smiled and smiled until they left, after which he was sent to the rooms his mother had set aside for his studies and bedroom. It was two days before she came for him, smiling and smiling and he was allowed down to the kitchen to eat.

Then came the day that his mother’s old school friend found her and even Frances couldn’t stop Anna and her sister, June, from visiting. They brought their children and June’s newborn baby girl with them. Feigning graciousness, Frances invited them to afternoon tea thereby setting the stage for the worst day of his life.

As he stood watching the children playing in the garden, he was astonished to see his
mother
come out with her friends. Mouth agape, he stared as they joined in the children’s game.
Why can’t I play too?
She won’t let me even go outside. Well, I’m going!

Filled with rage, he ran down the stairs and along the hall toward the front door. As he passed the lounge room, the sound of the baby screaming stopped him. Tiny fists waved above the edge of the pram. He walked over and looked down. Red-faced, angry, the baby roared on. Its legs kicked free of the blanket; he could see runny yellow poo seeping from the side of the nappy. What to do? A large duffle bag was parked by a nearby chair. He rooted through it. Because his mother only allowed uplifting programs and the news on TV, he didn’t know what to do with disposable nappies or other baby accoutrements.

Hey baby, don’t cry.

 The baby’s screams increased. Frightened in case something was wrong with it, he yanked the sodden blanket toward him, jumping back as the baby came with it, rolling over the low side of the pram. The tiny thing jerked its arms as it started to fall. He grabbed, unaware that he had the child by the neck as he wrenched it away from the teetering pram. The baby’s head felt like a doll’s. Surprisingly heavy, the baby dangled from his hands, legs kicking feebly and then slowing.

The screaming stopped.

The body stilled.

Stunned by the suddenness of it all, he stood with the child hanging in his large, powerful musicians’ hands. He looked down at yellow baby poo dripping down his bare leg into his sock.

Footsteps thundered into the house toward the lounge room.

‘What have you done?’

Something connected with the side of his head, sending him crashing to the floor on his back, his hands still around the baby’s head and neck, her body bouncing on his chest. His mother was thrust to one side and the child’s mother hurled herself at him.
‘You killed my baby! You’ve killed her!’

The baby slipped through his fingers and rolled onto the floor.

The screaming went on and on. He got slowly to his feet, trembling as tears welled. His mother grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him through the door onto the wood floorboards of the hallway. ‘Get up to your room, you stinking, rotten little shit.
Murderer
!’

He crawled over to the bottom stair and leaned his back against the post, disconnected from the drama, unable to process what had occurred. Somewhere in the dim recesses of confusion, he knew the accident wouldn’t have happened if the adults hadn’t been outside having a good time.

Sirens sounded outside. His mother rushed out of the lounge-room to the front door to usher in the stampede of ambulance officers, carrying bags. No one told him what was happening. Sounds of frantic activity, combined with noisy crying came from the room. The other children gathered around the bottom of the stairs, with him but apart, all too frightened to make a sound. Another ambulance pulled up at the front gate and two more officers came through, this time pushing a trolley.

After what seem forever to the small boy, they came out of the room wheeling a tiny mound on top of the trolley. No one looked at the waiting children or spoke to them. The baby’s mother, held up by her friend, staggered out the door. His mother marched over to the waiting group of four children. ‘Your father is coming for you, so go into the kitchen and I’ll get you something to eat.’ 

Terrified, the visitors scuttled away leaving Dingo cringing on the bottom step. ‘You get upstairs. I’ll deal with you later.’ She grabbed him by the back of his collar and shoved him up the first few stairs before turning away. The front door opened and two uniformed police officers spoke to his mother. It was all too much. Dingo ran up the stairs, holding in sobs until he reached his room.

He didn’t know how long he waited for someone to come.
Would she kill him this time?
Perspiration gathered in the small of his back and trickled down into his underpants. His shorts and socks were spattered with yellow poo. Too traumatised to make a sound, he slumped down into a corner and buried his head in his hands. Next came sounds of people arriving, voices raised and then – presumably the other children – leaving, followed by car doors slamming. Voices came from downstairs for a long time but finally darkness fell over the silent house. At one time he thought he heard the telephone ring and his mother moving around, but she did not come upstairs.

He must have fallen asleep. Suddenly the light in his room came on and Frances was looming over him. He braced himself to protect his head.

‘Come downstairs. Someone wants to talk to you.’

He followed her to the kitchen where two policemen were standing, holding their caps in their hands. His mother steered him, none too gently, to the table and pushed him into a chair. The male policeman, who had to be older than God for the wrinkles on his face, sat opposite; the woman took the seat at the end of the table. Dingo kept his head down, hoping the throbbing in his ear would stop. His mother started making tea with jerky movements, as though she wanted to rip the teapot apart with her bare hands.

‘Okay, son. Tell us what happened, in your own words.’

Saying nothing had always been his best defence when things got bad, so he remained silent.

‘You do realise what happened to the baby, don’t you? What were you trying to do with her, son? Were you trying to change her nappy?’

Soothed a little by the quiet tones and non-threatening body language, he nodded slowly.

‘Why didn’t you go and get her mummy?’

How could he tell the policeman that he was
never
allowed out of the house? Mum had told him time and again it was a secret and now she was watching him like a hawk, her prominent hazel eyes bulging like they always did when she was about to hurt him. She might get into trouble...
one, two three, four...five...if I get to ten will the policeman be gone?
He shrugged, staring at the table, his fingers twisting around each other.
One. Two. Three. Four...if I count in even numbers, then when I get to...twenty...they might go.
He so wanted to tell the truth, but he knew what would happen when the police left.

No matter how hard they tried, the policemen weren’t able to get an answer. He wasn’t capable of forming the words, could only just hold back the terror writhing deep inside. Though he wanted them to leave him alone, he was more frightened of being
left to the mercy of Frances...
perhaps if he counted to fifty...give them more time to go or keep them there so she couldn’t hurt him?
At long last, reluctantly it seemed to even
his
young mind, the police left after a quiet conversation with his mother at the front door.

He stood up. Perhaps if he got to his room before she did, he’d be safe. Sensing his mother’s attention turning to him, he tore upstairs, ran into his room and slammed the door behind him. He threw himself under the bed, trying to shut out the panic which threatened to send his heart leaping out of his chest. He knew something terrible would happen to him when the police were gone. He scrambled out and rushed to the door. Panting with terror, he started to push his chest of drawers across to block it. His muscles cracked, his feet scrabbled at the bare floor boards but he made it, just as his mother’s footsteps came up to the other side of the door.

‘Open this right now, you little turd!’ she screamed, pounding on the panels. He climbed back under the bed and jammed his fingers into his ears as hard as he could, but her voice screeched on and on –‘
The baby’s dead! You killed my friend’s baby! You don’t deserve to live.’

Hours later, he opened his eyes, rolled over and looked up at the window to watch the stars coming out. What was his mother doing? He hoped she was snoring her head off in a drunken stupor. Could he sneak downstairs and get something to eat? His tummy was hurting with hunger. Trying ever so hard not to make a noise, he pulled the chest of drawers back from the door, opened it and peered out. Sneaking along the darkened hallway held no fears. For Dingo, shadows had long been a sanctuary. He stopped at the landing to hear if she was moving around below.
Nothing.

Feeling it might be safe he inched his way down, pausing every few steps to check for any sound. Knowing where the floorboards squeaked was a distinct advantage. He passed the lounge-room door, yellow police tape proclaiming a crime scene.

Safely in the kitchen, he opened the cupboard and took out the biscuits. There could be no dinner in case he woke her up, though experience had shown that it would take the house falling down to do that when she was drunk.

A soft click almost sent him into orbit, but he relaxed as the cat slithered through the cat door. Moving as fast as he dared, he took her dinner out of the refrigerator, scooped it into her bowl, checked her water and then sneaked a banana from the crisper. Stentorian snorts almost sent him into shock, but when they faded, he was even more frightened. When she was snoring, he was safe; if the sounds stopped she could be up and around. A Big Cat had nothing on Frances when it came to stalking and pouncing on her prey – him.

It was not until he was at university that he looked in the library microfiche files dating back to when he was eight, that he discovered that the police and Coroner’s Court had absolved him of responsibility for the death of baby, Lucy Swales. It was then Dingo realised the depth of Frances’ madness. She had never told him the outcome of the investigations, preferring to hold the child’s death over his head throughout her life.

*

Music threaded through with faces sent his body into orbit.
‘Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Why didn’t you let me go? We were having so much fun.’ Ariel’s face loomed close to his. He pushed her away and then he saw it again – the baby! You’re dead you’re dead you’re dead! He stumbled back, but they advanced, slowly, staring...someone was panting...it was the journalist.

He tried to run, to catch up, but the women bounded ahead of him, laughing, each holding a hand of the baby, who was running along on fat little legs. Something was wrong...the baby had been only a few days old – but he was running! They looked back at him and stopped. The journalist aimed a camera at him, started taking photos, laughed and ran to join the
...Ariel! Out of her box! He had to catch her but she was so far ahead it was impossible. No, no wait for me! He tried to keep up but his legs moved in slow motion. His arms thrashed, he forced his legs to wade through the sheets.
You must always be gentle, darling. They don’t all want to play.
That was on a good day. Her bad days didn’t bear thinking about.

His eyes flew open.

The gorgeous patterned ceiling of the room seemed to be coming down on him. He wiped his face with the edge of the sheet, damp with his sweat and eased his legs out of bed. Light streaming from the window showed the bedclothes half on the floor, pillows thrown around the room. He turned to sit on the side of the bed and tested his feet on the floor before he wobbled upright, supporting himself on the side table.
What am I going to do now?
Pam had the camera all along. No wonder there were no photos in the one he’d taken from the journalist’s bag.