Eyrie (19 page)

T
hey gave him thirty bucks for the iPod and ninety for his laptop. He suspected that without the shiner he’d have gotten more, but he was content enough afterwards, trolling op-shops with cash in his pocket, looking for something to please the boy. He started at Save the Children, moved on to Oxfam, then the Vinnies. But they had nothing he was after. Then at the last stop, closest to home, he scored. He walked out of the Good Sammies with a perfectly serviceable game of Scrabble and change from a fiver.

At home, tucked into the grille of his security door, was a fair pencil rendering of a mudlark. He pulled it out and went on to Gemma’s. At his knock he saw the tiny moon of the peephole flash a second. She pulled the door back on its chain and peered out warily.

Just me, he said.

Christ, what happened?

I walked into a cliché, he muttered.

I’m serious.

It’s nothing. Really. And look, he said, holding up the battered box.

T
he whole Scrabble business was a mystery to Keely. Kai had the Nintendo, after all, and kids were supposedly addicted zombies after only a day or two’s feverish toggling, but although the boy seemed to enjoy murdering thugs and aliens, and often shouted disconcertingly at certain leering villains, the excitement wore off after the first mad binge. He never completely forsook Super Mario, but tended to lose energy after half an hour or so and drift to the laptop whose charm lay in the keyboard as much as the screen. As far as Keely could tell, Gemma had never played Scrabble with him. Perhaps he’d seen something on TV – he didn’t say and Gemma couldn’t recall, didn’t find the question nearly as intriguing as Keely did. The boy was in his first year of school and yet he could already read extremely well and write after a fashion. Keely wondered who’d taught him. It didn’t seem possible he could have absorbed it all himself. He got simple words arse-about, and certain letters as well. It was strange to watch him hunched at the computer, wheezing slightly, experimenting – building words with cautious pecks at the keys, consciously or inadvertently creating lists that plunged down the screen like ratlines.

Keely was excited at the prospect of teaching Kai to play, but he wondered how the kid would fare. It wasn’t the raciest board game invented. But from the outset Kai seemed less interested in scores than in the words themselves. Games might begin in a spirit of boyish competition, but Kai seemed to fall into a trance, rousing now and then in a momentary shiver of recognition. Keely imagined the syllables emerging from chaos. He recalled his own childhood, how words hid as if aching to be found, transformed by his gaze, reaching out to meet him. He was fascinated by the way the boy handled the tiles, how he turned them over in his hands, running the tips of his thumbs across their faces as if tempted to slip them into his mouth like milky chocolates. His fingers twitched, tantalized, over the board, as he breathed upon his row of letters on their little pine plinth.

Kai was an exacting playing partner. He did not like tiles to fall out of alignment on the board. And there was no point making conversation or daggy jokes between moves because he’d stiff you. The only time he tolerated noise was during the initial shaking and shuffling of pieces in the box lid before the game commenced. Then he seemed like any other kid. He liked to rifle through the tiles like a miser with his loot – Scrooge McDuck in the vault – but once he settled down it was all sober concentration. He did not enjoy the letter Q. And blanks, letters that were mutable, seemed to cause him anxiety; they had to be marked laboriously with a pencil before he could accept them as real, and even then they troubled him, as if there were something untrustworthy about their nature. But defeat didn’t bother him. And thankfully he was bored by the tedious endgame. Like Keely, he had no interest in plugging holes with two-letter words or suffixes, scrounging points in endless rounds of lexical puttying. Once the rich pickings were gone he began to fidget and Keely was only too happy to concede a comradely draw and start afresh.

They played afternoons and evenings all week; it became a routine. And apart from his morning swim this was soon the thing Keely most looked forward to. Something to digest, really, the knowledge that a game of Scrabble with a six-year-old had become the highlight of his day. But there was weird pleasure in it, something he’d been missing for longer than he cared to think.

Often as not Kai came straight from school bearing a new sketch – a wattlebird, a kingfisher, a heron – and Keely sent him home for his fruit and biscuits and lime cordial before he returned with the Scrabble box pressed to his chest. Around five Gemma came by to dragoon the boy into showering and Keely followed them up the gallery to 1010 where she’d already have the makings for dinner on the bench. Evenings settled into a pattern of school notes fixed to the fridge door, and reading before bedtime. Their conversation became desultory, as if the adults were partners in a faded marriage. It amused him, and he was grateful for it, but often he yearned for more. Not high conversation, nothing taxing. But he would have liked to know things, to press her for details, facts about her life and Kai’s. He wondered about her sister, Baby. There were so many gaps, years and relationships, disasters and hurts he was left to infer. And there were moments, too, when Gemma’s physical proximity caused him pangs.

Even so he felt that his life was different, that it had finally tilted towards something coherent. The headaches seemed more bearable. He could suffer Gemma’s diffidence because of Kai. At day’s end, he and the boy played their games of Scrabble and Super Mario, talked birds and habitat, rifled through the dictionary, googled odd facts in a long and pleasurable post-ponement of bedtime. The nightly challenge was to present the kid a story, like a cat dragging in a rodent. As Keely perched at the bedside, waiting for any flicker of inspiration, the boy noted the progress of his shiner as the contusion flared, morphed, and began, thankfully, to fade. It was kind of charming – flattering, really – having him catalogue every change of colour.

You like this shiner, he said to Kai.

No, said the boy. Just makin it go away.

*

The kid had tropes and sayings, things that stuck in Keely’s head.

At the start of a game:
Seven tiles, he said, almost chanting. Seven letters. Like seven days. 7-Eleven. 24/7. Always seven. Gotta be seven.

Then at bedtime:
Wattlebirds. They eat spiders. If there’s too much spiders there’s too much poison. In the world.

When Keely’s jokes wore thin:
No, Tom. No falling.

At dusk
: Look. The lighthouse. Counting the night.

During an episode of
Friends
:
Eagles. They’re killers. Do they get to go to Heaven?

In Keely’s flat:
Really, but. Where do words come from?

*

At home alone at night, he sat up late resisting all temptation, exhausted but unable to rest his mind. He tried re-reading
Catch-22
and marvelled that he’d found it so mordantly funny in his youth. Now it was too distressing. He wanted to shout at the novelist: no more, no fooling, no falling.

Mostly, though, he felt okay, more or less functional. Just bubbling with thoughts that kept him from sleep, watching the Parker Point lighthouse measure out the darkness.

He thought a lot about Kai. Especially the way he resisted sleep. As if it were something to fear, not a release. Except for those final moments, the slipping away, the kid avoided physical contact. Keely had to police himself, refrain from tousling the kid’s hair or shoving him playfully in passing. As a boy he’d loved being monstered by Nev, rolled on the floor in a headlock, tickled until he was blue. He liked to be overwhelmed by him and then have at him with camel bites and knee jabs – just to feel and make himself felt in return. But Kai could find space where there seemed to be none; he could sidestep any well-meaning pat or squeeze, as if his body anticipated yours, as if he were monitoring your every movement.

The boy retreated into silences, reveries, fugues. During which he was impassive, unreachable. He could blink you away, delete you from his presence, and these silent lockouts sent Gemma into furies. There was so much Keely didn’t understand. It was as if he’d stumbled into a play halfway through the show. And he wondered if he’d ever catch up.

But he adjusted to some things rapidly, even if he didn’t know what they signified. Like the bedtime ritual, which he came to need as much as the boy. There was something about that period of potent, dreamy calm between the pair of them, the intimacy of the whispered story and the long silences that ensued. The way Kai drifted beside him in the shafted gloom, unmoored from the day and his defended self. Every night came that moment of panic before surrender when the boy made solid contact, seizing him, the arm shooting out like a baby’s startle reflex, the hand gripping Keely’s shirt as if he were steadying himself before finally letting go.

I knew you, said Kai one night. I knew you before you had a face.

I don’t understand, he murmured. What do you mean?

But the boy was silent, perhaps asleep already, and Keely was left to turn it over in his mind, the thought that Kai had been waiting for him, lying alone in the flat night after night while Gemma worked, waiting for someone to keep him safe. The idea was intoxicating. It made a man feel enormous and substantial. That he might be necessary.

T
owards the end of the week he noticed Gemma becoming increasingly fractious. Sent on an errand he bought the wrong brand of paper towels. He cooked with too much garlic and like Kai he left the toilet seat up. She was fed up with their nerdy boy talk, their birdy bullshit – and why was he always here in the flat anyway, taking up space? She didn’t want a wife and besides he wasn’t even paying his way, so why didn’t he stop botting off her and leave them in peace?

On Thursday he gave Kai a quick game after school but sent him on home alone for dinner. Keely figured he’d make himself scarce a while. But on Friday evening she came by with a takeaway roasted chicken and reminded him of the prison visit next morning. She had the night off, she said girlishly. And for someone just back from the supermarket she seemed a little too carefully put together. She was giving him the willies.

Gemma left him the chook but he stayed away and jerked off miserably during the SBS movie. Later he thought of calling Harriet – she’d probably be still at work, the number wouldn’t take long to find. He suddenly wanted to hear her voice, tell her about this boy who held his arm, but he wasn’t mad enough yet to do it. She’d think it was either vengeful or pathetic. He’d make her cry and hate himself.

So as drunks rolled festively through the streets below, he carted himself off to bed. He couldn’t think about tomorrow. Tried to hypnotize himself. Fox his way down step by step, turn by turn, avoiding all thought. And mostly failing.

*

He dreamt he was swimming, coursing towards the sea on his own, fleeing shadows, making himself tiny with fear.

I
t was a long, hot drive out into the valley. They had the drab entirety of Perth to traverse – every grey and khaki suburb, every baking industrial park, car yard and junk-food franchise on the ravaged plain. The Saturday-morning drivers were torpid and maddening. Heat rolled down from the ranges in waves. Although they began the journey with Gemma at the wheel she was so erratic from nervous excitement she had to pull over and surrender the controls to Keely. Almost as jittery as her, he followed her directions, submitting to her liverish commentary until he got to the outlands where droughted horse paddocks gave way to housing estates of heartbreaking ugliness.

In the back with his sketchpad and pencil case, Kai sat subdued to the point of complete withdrawal. The boy had been to Bandyup before but he would not be drawn into conversation about it. At home whenever Gemma mentioned his mother he rarely engaged. The whole thing gave Keely the yips.

His eyes hurt. His head pinged and throbbed. Smears of light caught on everything, gave his vision a nasty lag, like old-school video. It was the shits, feeling this bad after a booze-free evening. He hadn’t even gobbed a pill for twelve hours and now he felt worse than if he’d been on a bender. For relief he thought of worthy analgesics: Panadeine Forte, Nurofen Osteo, Mersyndol.

When the turn-off finally came he missed it. Gemma slapped the dashboard in disgust. He pulled over violently.

For God’s sake, he said, startled as much as angry. Just calm down, will you?

Turning around on the highway, he took his indignation out on the car, conscious of how unhelpful the histrionics were.

The women’s prison was a squat brick campus set well back from the road. Except for the coils of razor wire it looked no nastier than the schools he’d gone to in the sixties and seventies. And yet his mouth went dry just rolling up the drive.

They were a few minutes early. He found somewhere permissible to park. Left the motor running for the sake of what paltry relief the aircon provided. Gemma opened and closed her handbag repeatedly. She checked her face in the mirror, tried to fold Kai’s hair behind his ears. Other vehicles began to coast in around them.

I’ll swing back at eleven, said Keely. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll wait here – in case you come out early.

You’re not comin in? she said with feeling.

Oh, he exclaimed dishonestly. I didn’t realize.

Well, Jesus. You don’t
have
to.

No, it’s that I didn’t —

I asked for Kai’s sake.

Not a problem, he said. Of course.

Jesus.

Really, he said, turning off the engine.

See? she said to Kai, twisting in her seat. Tom’s comin too. You ready to see your mum?

Kai shrugged.

Love! she said too brightly. She’ll be
that
excited.

The boy packed up his things without expression.

When they opened the car doors, the heat was withering. Keely felt it shrink his throat and cause flares at the edge of his vision. Gemma took Kai by the arm and Keely followed. All the way to reception she prattled about shade and airconditioning but once they passed into the industrial chill of the interior there was surprisingly little relief. With its muddle of signage, its antiseptic smell and atmosphere of tamped desperation, the building could have been the annexe of any social service – the dole office, Homeswest, DOCS. This side of the glass attempts had been made to create a sense of normality, but the strain was palpable. The false cheer amongst visitors. The sideways looks. Keely felt a scalding flush in his cheeks.

He followed Gemma, did what she did, tried to seem relaxed. They joined a queue, exchanged thin smiles with others. But they’d barely begun the process of registration when Gemma turned and seized him by the sleeve.

Oh Christ, she said. They’ve brought the dogs.

What’s that mean? he asked.

Down the line a uniformed officer and his eager mutt capered in and out.

Non-contact, said Gemma through her teeth. It’s gunna be a strip search – Jesus! Tom, take him.

What?

Kai, she said. Take him out.

But why?

Just get him in the car, drive him around for a bit.

Gemma —

I’m not havin em touch this boy.

Are you sure?

Of course I’m bloody sure, just go – now!

Bewildered but galvanized, he steered the child back towards the entrance.

Everything alright? said the officer at the door.

Change of plan, said Keely.

Imagine so, she murmured a little too knowingly.

They stepped out of the refrigerated enclosure and into white sun. Keely felt it dig into the pits of his eyes and the pain travelled through his shoulders, elbows, hands.

He didn’t know what to tell Kai. Then wondered if the boy needed anything explained anyway. Keely got them onto the highway for the sake of being gone, yet the moment he was free, giddy and slightly guilty for the relief of it, he was faced with the immediate problem of where to go and what to do out here in this desolation of overpasses and spiky bush. There was nothing: no shade, no houses, no shops. Enormous signs rose before them touting wildlife parks and tourist-trap wineries.

After a few minutes Keely pulled in at a semi-rural roadhouse where articulated trucks parked in lines at high-flow diesel pumps. Watermelons sat piled in crates. At the edge of the gravel apron there were trailers for hire and horse manure for sale.

You must be thirsty, he said to Kai.

Yes, the boy allowed.

Inside the place stank of fried bacon and scorched coffee. Homely smells after the prison. And the place was cool but not cold. Keely bought a Coke and a packet of chips for the boy. Scruples be buggered – the kid needed some sort of treat. Got an apple juice for himself. He chugged it before he’d even drawn up a chair. Kai opened his drink and then his chips and set his sketchpad on the table. Keely hadn’t even noticed him bring it in. He watched the boy lay out his pencils.

Well, he said. That was all a bit awkward, wasn’t it?

The boy glanced past him.

I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your mum.

Kai selected a pencil.

Your nan will explain everything.

It’s drugs, said Kai.

I see, he said haplessly.

A waitress sloped by on tender feet and informed them that if they wanted to sit inside they’d need to buy a meal. Keely couldn’t face the heat just now and he was anxious to avoid any unpleasantness, so he ordered a BLT. Maybe the kid would pick at it.

Lucky you’ve got your nan, he said.

The boy chewed his lip.

What’re you drawing?

Kai shrugged.

Can I see?

Kai rolled a pencil on the laminex as if weighing up the request. Then he pushed the pad across. Keely took it up and flicked through pictures of magpies, a Pacific gull and several failed attempts at a pelican. After this came a series of simple, almost stylized images that were not at all birdlike. It took Keely a few moments to understand what they were.

Kai, what’s this?

Just me, said the boy, considering a salty crinkle-cut chip.

An outline?

Kai licked the salt off the chip. Keely looked again at the emphatic line, the splayed limbs. It was the classic pictograph of a dead body, the sort of thing you saw every night on TV.

What’s it about? What’s it for?

I draw it when I dream it.

When you
dream
it? You mean the same dream you told me about?

Where I land. I’m there for a while. Then I’m gone and that’s all that’s left.

This line?

The boy ate the chip, took a gulp of Coke, and burped quietly.

Are you sure this is a dream?

Kai offered a look of studied patience and did not quite meet his gaze.

Well, that’s pretty interesting, he said, trying to disguise his alarm.

The boy retrieved the pad and thumbed through the pages.

Does it make you afraid?

Kai took up the pencil and commenced to roll it again.

Kai? Can you say?

The boy pursed his lips in a manner suggesting assent.

Keely pressed his thumbs into his temples, tried to think.

The waitress returned with a colossal sandwich. They looked at it, man and boy, and Keely saw that Kai wanted it but needed coaxing. He passed him a knife and fork.

Bet you can’t finish that, he said.

Kai set aside his pad and pencils, drew the plate to him and went to work with his usual finicky precision. Keely could have watched him do it all day. The boy’s fine blond hair fell across his face. He brushed it aside with a forearm and chewed methodically, eyes half closed in concentration.

Keely got up to buy himself more juice and at the counter he looked back at the kid working his way through another mouthful.

He’s lovely, said the waitress, clearly mistaking this for a Saturday access visit.

Yes, said Keely. He is.

*

As Gemma got into the car she brought with her an acrid smell that suggested an electrical fire, and he saw by the cooked colour of her face that he’d kept her waiting in the sun for some time. For several minutes nobody spoke. The Hyundai’s airconditioner buzzed impotently. And then at the freeway on-ramp Gemma began to blot her eyes with a tissue.

Sorry you didn’t see her, Kai, she said.

Keely wasn’t sure the boy heard. He watched him in the mirror as he gazed out at the traffic, licking his lips without expression.

Not your fault, Keely murmured.

No. It’s not.

She hunched forward suddenly. She beat a fist against her brow in a ghastly, silent sob. Keely did his best to focus on the road and traffic ahead but he monitored the white flash of the tissue clenched in her fingers, the veins rising in her neck, one livid ear. She gave out a small, strangled sigh. And after a few moments she’d mastered herself.

The dog, she said at last. They bring it out when she’s blown her privileges.

I don’t follow you, he said, anxious about the boy.

She wouldn’t say, of course. But I could see it right off.

I guess you’ve had practice, he said lamely.

You just know. When it’s suddenly non-contact, when they strip you and put the dogs over you, means she’s not clean. Christ, she coulda said when she rang, to spare the boy. She knows what it means. She doesn’t even care
that
much. How can she let us go in there and have him felt up like that? Jesus, you’re lucky they didn’t follow you out and do a car search.

How could it matter? he asked. There’s nothing here.

Mate, the dogs’d be howlin over this thing. You think this doesn’t stink of what they’re lookin for?

But we’re not carrying anything, Gem.

As if that makes any difference. The dog gets a positive, they think you’re supplyin. And suddenly it’s all hands on deck. Big search, more bullshit.

But they’d see we’re clean.

Jesus, you haven’t got a clue.

Keely steered the car. Nauseated. Angry. Fighting blips of phosphorus he could taste now.

After a moment’s silence she lit a fag and cracked a window.

This piece of shit, she said.

On the freeway he threaded through the citybound traffic.

I was only there ten minutes, she said. You know what she wanted to talk about? The car. She wants me to sell it, wants the money in an account. She wants the computer stuff sold. Can you believe that? She wants money. I’ve been down this road, I don’t need it.

It’s just the drugs, said Kai.

Yes, love. That’s what it is. But she’ll get better. We’ll go again another time. When she’s right again.

The boy said nothing. They rode home in silence.