All I Ever Wanted (10 page)

‘You don't have a tattoo?' she asks, like she doesn't believe me.

‘No.' Rule number eight. ‘You'll be fine.'

‘Oh.' She looks doubtful.

I turn to a page of bird sketches. The pen work is delicate and precise, the shading more like the pictures you'd find in a field guide. My eye is drawn to a hummingbird, so brilliantly sketched its wings look like they're in motion. I trace my finger around the image.

‘That's beautiful,' Kate says. ‘A hummingbird's wings can beat over a hundred thousand times a minute. They're the only bird that can fly backwards.'

‘They're my designs,' the artist says, leaning over the counter. ‘So, who's up?'

She leads us behind a curtain and takes the photocopy away. Kate lies face down on the table. Her fingers leave dents in the vinyl.

‘You can change your mind,' I say. ‘This is forever.'

She stays there, stubborn.

The artist returns and presses a transfer to the small of Kate's back. She winces as if the needle is going in already. The wraith is ugly against the white of her skin; the perfect
fuck you
, just for Jordan Mullen.

I can't let her do it. ‘Stop.'

Kate twists up onto her elbows. ‘I want it.'

‘It doesn't look right. Give me your purse.' I fish out the worn copy of her treble clef and hand it to the artist. ‘This one.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

She holds my hand when the needle starts.

TWELVE

Kate and I eat hotdogs in the park, discuss the merits of nipple cream versus haemorrhoid cream for fresh tattoos and then catch the bus back to her house. It's nearly three.

Jordan's car isn't in the driveway. I'm disappointed, Kate's relieved. She's got a dressing the size of a toddler's nappy stuck to her back and her shirt doesn't cover it. She keeps touching it as if it can't be true.

Kate Mullen, band nerd, has a tattoo.

I remember doing the same thing when I was seven and I had my ears pierced—I kept looking in the mirror, twiddling and turning the studs, until my ears got swollen and infected.

It's way too early for me to go home. Mum definitely said to be out all day. Kate asks me in, but I can tell she wants to be alone with her wonder. She'll go over her shining moments and, for a while, she'll be happy. She's right. Everything is changing—only I want to erase the last few days, not replay them.

‘See you later, then,' I say, one foot already on the curb.

‘Wait. I have something for you,' she says and goes into the house.

I look up. An alien cloud hovers overhead, bloated and grey. Fat drops hit the pavement and disappear. I stick out my tongue to catch one, but they're not real rain, just a promise. It's still hot, but the afternoon is damp around the edges. It would be perfect to walk home in the rain after everything that's happened today.

Kate comes back out, walking carefully, moving her legs but not her hips. She hands me a CD in a plastic case.

‘I made this for you,' she says. ‘Some of it needs work, but mostly I'm happy with it. Let me know what you think.'

She shrugs, but I believe, for her, this will be another moment. She's putting herself out there.

‘I'll be able to say, “I knew you when.”'

She laughs. ‘I wish. Hey, are you busy tomorrow?'

Yeah, I'll be busy. Confessing my sins. Reclaiming my life. ‘Yeah, I am.'

‘Oh, it's okay. I mean, you're…'

We're back at the awkward beginning. I look down at the CD to avoid her eyes. She must have spent hours putting it together. The tracks are listed on the back and on the front cover her treble clef is printed in pink. Her name doesn't appear anywhere, but there's a dedication on the back.
For Mim, the brave one.

It shouldn't be this hard to shut her down. Hurting Kate will be too easy, and I hate him, but not enough. I have to do this quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

‘Well, I'll see you back at school.'

I walk away without looking back. I have the weirdest feeling that I can't name, but it fits somewhere between nostalgia, homesickness and guilt.

The alien cloud follows me home like a balloon on a string. For all its fat promise, it doesn't drop any more rain. At the top end of our street a few houses still have Christmas lights up and kids have tied tampons to little plastic parachute men and lobbed them over the power lines. A pair of shoes with knotted laces swings next to them. Plumes of red dust rise off the plains and the sky is rose-tinted.

I watch two kids cross the road a few houses up from the Tarrant place. Later, when it's safe, they cross back to their side. Step for step, I take the same detour, for what must be the three thousandth time since I was old enough to walk by myself, old enough to understand that all kinds of evil exist in the world and some of it is in that house.

On the other side, I stop. I sit on the curb facing the house with my chin between my knees. My heart bangs so hard I think anyone could hear. I can smell my own fear. Tahnee and I used to dare each other to run past the house when we were younger, but we could never do it. I could do it now, if she was here. She always did make me feel like the brave one.

Screw the rules
. I am so
sick
of being afraid. I haven't been moving away from anything at all. I'm still right where I started. Kate was right: everything's changing. Maybe things don't happen unless you make them.

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and the wind swings around as if it's unsure which way to blow. I feel like I've been blindfolded and spun around until I'm nauseous and dizzy.

Inside me, something lets go.

I cross back and stand at the corner of the Tarrant block. The driveway is empty. A loose roof-sheet lifts and slams back down. Somewhere, talkback radio blares, a child squeals and a lawnmower starts. My hair whips straight out behind me—like in
Carrie
—and I can smell burnt sausages and fried onions.

I line up at the starting gate. My hand shakes. I jam two fingers between my lips, blow a wharfie whistle— and begin the long walk. The wind suddenly drops and in the lull, the sound of my thongs slapping against my feet is too loud. One of the kids across the street looks over his shoulder. He calls to his friend and they both stop and stare.

I keep walking, counting in my head,
one, two,
three, four…seventeen, eighteen…twenty-six, twenty-seven…
twenty-eight steps on cracked, uneven concrete.

At the corner of the next house, I stop and look back.

At first there's nothing. Then I hear the slow drag of the chain on the wooden porch. Gargoyle stands on the step, panting, his massive chest heaving. He's been lying there the whole time. He still looks sunken and ill. Maybe he'll never be the same monster again, maybe his light's finally gone out. He watches me warily but stays where he is.

I did it. I took a chance and things aren't so bad. He must remember the bucket and the blanket, my hand on his head, his life in my hands. He must know I'd never hurt him.

The screen door opens and Donna Tarrant pokes her head out. She looks around. Our eyes meet for a millisecond but she can't hold my stare. Her arms hang like they have no bones and I feel desperately sorry for her, shackled to her pathetic, miserable life. I want to scream and call her names. Instead, I wave.

As if that's his cue, Gargoyle starts his dash, claws scrabbling, the chain reeling out like it's attached to an anchor thrown overboard. A guttural growl and he's airborne, flying towards me, his red eyes crazy with hate. I can feel my nails biting into my palms and a rush of adrenalin that's going nowhere. You never quite know if that chain's going to hold him, if he'll keep coming at you or zing back like a yo-yo.

When he comes to the end, I'm still standing in the same place.

Gargoyle slobbers and rages.

Donna Tarrant quietly closes the door.

The witch is spraying her garden again. Most of the water mists away on the wind.

‘Why do you tease that dog?' Mrs Tkautz yells in her mangled speech. The dropped side of her mouth flaps uselessly.

‘Because I'm godless!' I screech.

But I'm not mad at him. It's the nature of the beast. He can't help it.

In front of our house there's a silver car with government number plates. A woman wearing a man's suit and sensible shoes gets into it and drives away.

THIRTEEN

The night sounds in our street are mostly familiar.

Burnouts, the slow rumble of a drive-by, far-off sirens. A night bird that screams like a woman. Shouts, crying, laughter and quiet murmurs through thin walls. Cats raiding bins. You can tell when someone is passing on the pavement by the barking dog relay. Always four houses ahead. You can tell who's watching the same program by matching the flickering lights through front windows.

Mum's asleep on the couch, exhausted after today's cleaning blitz. She hasn't moved since I got home and when I asked her about the government woman, she just shut me down. Told me to mind my own business. The horizontal weight of her drags the lines away from her face. She looks smooth and relaxed. When she's still, like this, I want to touch her skin to see if it feels the same, to see if it's soft and warm like I remember it.

I turn the volume on the telly way down and lie on my bed. I find a tattered
National Geographic
under the bookshelf and try to read it, but I can't get past the first page. I eat for the sake of it, sweet things in crunchy packets that smell like bliss and taste like guilt.

I check my phone. Tahnee still hasn't called.

I imagine I hear Jordan's car, but by the time I get to the window all I can see is the faint red glow of taillights.

Then the power pops and cuts out. There have been warnings on the news about planned outages, but it could be a fuse. The thought of putting my hand into the spider-infested fuse box makes me shudder. I look through the window again. The whole street's out. Gradually, dim lights appear behind curtains as torches and candles are found. People start coming outside because there's nothing to watch. It's so still when everything stops. For weeks the hum and drip of air-conditioners has been the soundtrack to summer.

Mum sleeps hard, and the sudden quiet doesn't wake her. I grab a can of Coke and go out to the porch. It's cooler, but not much. I sit with my bare feet up on the railing, the vinyl seat sticking to my legs. Across the street, Benny's cigarette glows when he inhales.

This time, when the car passes, I know it's not him. The engine sounds the same, but this car crouches low on fat tyres and its tail-lights look like slanted eyes. It slows past our place, but doesn't stop. It could be Welles or somebody else who has heard that the boys are in remand. I press back into my seat and breathe out to make myself smaller. I can't see Benny, only his cigarette, so maybe they can't see me.

Power cuts always make me nervous—the dark leaves gaps for things to creep out of. If I'm ever home alone and I hear a strange noise, I turn the sound up, not down. People can go crazy in this heat.

I go inside, kick off my thongs and curl into the corner next to Mum. She's out to it, but it's comforting. Even comatose, Mum's formidable.

My legs go to sleep under me.

When my phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin. Mum stirs and rolls over. I run to my room, muffling the ring-tone against my stomach.

Private number.

‘Hello?'

A hiss and a burst of static.

‘Hello? Who is it?'

Nothing, then the hang-up tone. I press ‘End', blood pounding in my ears. Outside, the night bird screams.

A few minutes later I get a message.

Can u come over? I'm freakin out here.
The message ends with a crying smiley.

It's not Tahnee, unless she's blocked her number.

Who's this?
I text back.

Next door,
comes the reply.

Lola.

I tiptoe past Mum to get my thongs.

A board creaks and Mum opens one eye. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Nowhere,' I lie. ‘Power cut.'

I go out the back way. I climb the fence rather than risk going into the street and my bare legs catch on the asbestos. A corner snaps off. I imagine tiny filaments, floating on the air, worming their way into my lungs. Lying dormant for twenty years until I've forgotten how they got in there.

Mosquitoes whine near my ears.

I tap at the back door. There's evidence of an old break-in. A splintered door jamb, a square of cut mesh. I hear a chain rattle and the sound of a deadlock releasing.

‘Why didn't you come to the front?' Lola asks.

At least she's dressed this time. She's not wearing make-up. Now I can see how young she is.

‘Hey. I'll tell you later. Can I come in? I'm getting bitten.'

‘Thanks for coming over,' she says and sprays insect repellent past my head, into the night. ‘I hate the dark.' There's one stumpy candle flickering in a corner. She uses her mobile as a torch to light my way, probably forgetting that her house is the same as ours, only in reverse. The smell is far worse this time. Musty and old.

‘You're not working tonight?' I ask, then remember that it may not be polite.

She slides a pile of clothing off the couch and dumps it onto the floor.

‘I can't work if the phone's out. I have a one-nine-hundred number,' she says, as if that explains everything. ‘Even when I'm not working I have trouble sleeping at night. My body clock is backwards.'

She goes to the kitchen. I hear the suck of the fridge door, then the chink of bottles. When she comes back she has two Bacardi Breezers. She whacks the tops off on the edge of her table.

‘Thanks.' I take a tiny sip. ‘What exactly do you do? If you don't mind me asking.'