Loop (13 page)

‘What do you want
me
to do?' He was almost whining, out of his depth. This wasn't part of the deal. It's easy to do the ‘macho' thing when you're trying to impress, but now …

I didn't feel dirty or anything when it happened, or even when Doctor Lansing told me I was pregnant. But at that moment, looking at Sergio squirm, watching him trying to find a way out of the mess he was half responsible for, I felt degraded. I'd actually let
him
…

I don't know what I'd expected when I told him, but I knew one thing for sure. Even if he'd offered to ‘do the right thing' (that was just the sort of corny phrase I could imagine him using!), I would have told him to shove it. The thought of spending a moment more than necessary with him was puke-making.

Then he came out with it.

‘There are places you can go. To get rid of it, I mean. I could …'

He trailed off. He must have read the look on my face. But he couldn't duck in time.

Right between the eyes.

I don't spit as a rule, so I was pleased with the accuracy. He looked as if I'd punched him in the groin, and for the first time since I'd found out I felt good.

‘Goodbye, Serg. Have a nice life.' It was an exit line I'd heard in a movie and I'd saved it up. I didn't use it when I broke up with Chris; I was too emotional. But this time I felt strangely calm.

I walked away. It's important to keep your dignity.

I could feel him watching me as I turned the corner. I sneaked a quick look over my shoulder – and walked straight into the path of that damned car.

Diary

Sunday 15 August

gemma got runover by a car and mum was reeL scard! she Lefme wiht misis raby and misis raby Let mepLai with the xbox gam., but im not reeL good i cant' mak the littleman jump an the monstrs aLwais get me but its fun but gemma dint' die I dint' think she wood becos she Lovs me im riting her a getwel cade shes not hom yet mum sais I mis her alredy (im riting her a getwel ca) oups I sed that alredy

Gemma's story

They kept me in for three more days. I guess they weren't taking any chances ‘in my condition' – that was the hospital social worker talking. They must train those people to use all the old clichés. Actually, she wasn't too bad. I have a suspicion they set her on to me to find out if I'd walked in front of that car on purpose, because of my ‘condition'. They didn't know me too well!

The worst was over. Sergio was ancient history, and the worst injury I suffered was a greenstick fracture of my right leg. Not too bad under the circumstances.

And Mum knew everything.

At first, she was all for calling Mr Leone and letting him know what a … Mum doesn't usually swear, so I'll do her the favour of leaving out exactly what she thought of Mr Leone's only son. Anyway, I convinced her it really wouldn't achieve much, and the less I had to do with Mr Leone – and his only son – the better. After all, I'd never consider marrying Macho Man, even if his father's Chilean pride forced him to offer.

When I said that, a strange look crossed Mum's face. At first I thought she was mad, but then I realised it was something else. She looked nervous, worried.

Then she spoke, and it was as though she was speaking to herself, talking herself into something.

‘Gemma, there's something you should know,' she said.

Deborah's story

And so I finally told her. There was no point in pretending anymore. She was old enough to know the truth. About Joe and me. And Georgie.

Gemma's story

‘But times were different then,' she said. ‘It was twenty-five years ago and people … Your father and I made a mistake and we had to do the right thing.' I laughed at the phrase and she looked confused. And hurt.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I was just thinking of something else.'

She looked at me for a moment. ‘We knew we didn't really love each other. What we'd mistaken for love was – well, you know.'

I
knew all right!

‘But you got married anyway?' I was feeding her lines. It made it easier for her to go on. She was still nervous.

‘Of course. That was what you did in those days. There weren't as many single mothers then. But most marriages of that kind didn't last more than a few years.'

She paused again and I knew that she was building up to something important.

‘I want you to understand something. When I say we didn't love each other, it doesn't mean … You have to understand, your father and I …' This was really tough on her, but I kept quiet, listening. ‘I
did
love your father, and I still do. And he loves me. But not in
that
way. We were always good friends. The best. And we always would have been, even if we had broken up in the early years. We almost did, you know, when he first met Susan. It was long before you were born, and he fell for her …'

She paused again, but she was smiling sadly. She didn't sound a bit jealous.

‘Of course, by then we had Georgie. He was born a month early. We'd only been married six months. And there were the complications. They don't know how long he was without oxygen, but at least they saved him. Your father decided he couldn't leave us alone, not with the sort of care the boy would need. He broke it off with Susan. I told him not to, but you know your father …'

I was beginning to realise that I didn't know him at all.

‘After Susan left the scene, we settled down and made the best of it. There are a lot worse things than living with your best friend, you know.'

She took hold of my hand and squeezed it. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was still bruised. I just smiled. She went on.

‘At times we tried to be more, and sometimes, for a while, it almost worked. We had
you.'
She smiled again and looked quite proud of herself. ‘But whatever the spark is, whatever it takes to be more than friends, it was never really there between us. Still, we never regretted a moment of it. How could we? We had the two of you. And each other.

‘Then last year we met Susan again. And we both knew.' She hesitated, remembering. ‘We talked it through. It was never going to be easy, but Georgie's bigger now, and this time I had you to help me. I couldn't let Joe do it to himself again. You know the rest.'

I did now.

All of a sudden the anger was gone, and the self-centred monster I'd despised for so long was my father again.

Twenty-four years he'd cared for us, worked for us, ‘done the right thing'. Those words didn't seem half as corny now.

Twenty-four years. Mr Leone's little boy hadn't even managed twenty-four seconds.

Mum was looking at me. She'd run out of words and the silence was painful for her. I wasn't sure what I was going to say, so I just started talking while my brain tried to catch up.

‘Do you think they'd mind if I took a short holiday in Brisbane? I think it's time I got to know Susan properly. And Dad.'

Diary

Monday 7 March

Gemma cam home today. I got to cary the baby in from the car Mum sed to be carful and (i) I was. (Miss Tompson sais I have to be carful with my capitle leters. and full-stop. but shes hapy with me. (s) She sais Im the best studet she has!) Gemma sais I can hold the baby eny time I want solong as Im carful.

Hes (bautif) reely nise exept that he crys if his napis wet (he has evn mor acidents than me!) but he liks me And I lov him. Im going to teech him to rite the best uncle in the world! as soon as he gets to be neely as smatr as me.

I no what his nam is going to be. Gemma wisperd it to me in the car on the way home but she told me not to tell Mum not yet. Its a surprise, shes' calling him Joe the same as like Dad.

FREE

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Raid

When the wolves came, we were unprepared.

Chelsa heard them first, padding softly through the snow north of the camp, growling their insults at us as they came. Then I caught a glimpse of grey fur slinking between one evening tree shadow and the next. The wind was from the south, or we would have scented them. But wolves are smart; they don't make elementary mistakes.

Tactics. Approach downwind. Wait until dusk. Strike quickly and get away before they know what's happening. It's been their style for a thousand generations, ever since the
humana
drove them from their lands.

Who can blame them?

Mostly, they don't hurt us. They insult us, call us slaves, maybe nip us a little. But we aren't the enemy. We're just the creatures they might have become, if they'd accepted the truce as our ancestors did.

And you have to admire them. They keep up the fight, against all the odds, though their numbers grow smaller season by season, and the
humana,
with their weapons and their cruelty, are winning the war.

Perhaps it was always so. Perhaps there was never a chance of winning, or driving out the
humana
– of surviving. But wolves are proud. And free. Even if they are doomed.

Urak, our team leader, bared his teeth, offering the ritual resistance. I could see his hackles rising, but I knew it was fear rather than any desire to fight. We were shackled, free to move but not to escape. What chance would we have stood against them if they chose to attack?

Chelsa was all for warning the
humana,
but Urak said no. This was a food raid, nothing more. They could be in and out almost before our masters were aware of them. Clean and without too much bloodshed. Give them away, and who knew what might follow? Wolves have long memories. Next time, they might decide to make us pay.

And there would always be a next time.

It is no accident that Urak is team leader. Chelsa held his gaze for a moment, then bowed his head.

And we remained silent.

I had never seen a pack in action. This was my first trek. But I had heard stories. Back at the settlement the old dogs told wild tales of the trails they had worked and the things they had seen, but especially of the wolves.

Even as a pup I had learned to admire them, in spite of the warnings of my mother and her friends.

Barbarians and fools!
That was what she called them.
Hiding from the
humana
all summer and starving in winter. And calling themselves free.

But I listened to the stories. And I was not so sure.

Being my first trek, the traces that tied me to the sled were biting into my shoulders. My pads were raw from the frozen trail, and I had felt the bite of the whip more than once, when our master had deemed our progress too slow.

Fools?

I watched them circling the camp. They had never worn the traces. They had never had to wait, tethered to the snow, for one of the
humana
to decide it was time to ration out the food. Maybe they did starve. Maybe they lived on the edge. But no one threw rocks or hard-packed balls of snow at
them
if they decided to howl at the moon.

And no one told
them
what to do.

I was not so sure that they were barbarians – or fools. And neither, I think, was Urak. I watched the leader's eyes as the wolves moved closer. I'm not sure what I had expected: fear, anger, loathing. But there was little of that. What I saw was admiration, a kind of pride.

A wolf appeared at the treeline, with the forest behind him and a stretch of unbroken snow in front. He paused for a moment and looked across at us, maybe twenty bounds distant. He remained motionless, his yellow eyes fixed on us, on Urak. And I saw the leader bow his head, as Chelsa had done a few moments before.

Then the wolf raised his muzzle and released a howl that split the night in two and brought the
humana
stumbling from their tents. It was our signal.

The pack was ready, and we could make as much noise as we desired, as if we were warning the
humana.

It was the way it was always done. Warn them too soon and there would be retribution later. But once the attack was joined, it didn't matter. We could bark and growl and tear at the thongs that bound us, to demonstrate our loyalty to our masters and avoid punishment later. It was the wolves' concession to the ‘slaves'.

I remained silent. The wolf had stood unmoving until the last possible moment, until the
humana
had had time to grab their weapons and look around for a target. Across the barrier of snow, he had caught my gaze and held it, and I had not looked away.

Then he was gone. A flurry of snow and the treeline was empty, except for a line of paw prints heading straight as a sled-track up the hill and into the forest.

The raid was simple and effective. The food was kept in a tent to the rear of the camp –
humana
food mostly, but some sides of dried meat and other delicacies.

The trick was to get the enemy to leave it unprotected.

The
humana
are proud, and they have the death-sticks, but they do not think like a wolf.

The pack began howling and running between the trees at the front of the camp and the
humana
began firing. But the moon had slid behind a cloud just before the raid began, and the wolves were almost invisible among the shadows.

Occasionally a brave individual would make a dash across open ground, to draw the attention of the
humana.
Sometimes the howling would cease, and a silence like death would come over the scene. At moments like that you could smell the nervousness of our masters – the fear.

Humana
fear the wolf. They tell it in their stories, they show it in their hatred. It is why they fight the war with such cruelty. But they will never understand the wolf.

And they will never out-think the wolf.

I watched the deception, watched them fire at noth-ing, laughing nervously and cursing, and hoping to make a lucky kill. But I knew that at the rear of the camp the wolves were at work, digging into the food tent and dragging out their prize.

Gradually the howling ceased, the firing stopped, and the
humana
began to relax. Only later would they realise how they had been tricked, and what they had lost.

Smart

MacAlistair sinks to his knees in the doorway of the supply tent and surveys the damage. Kenyon is still furious, cursing the filthy animals and kicking the snow in frustration, as if his anger could change things.

But MacAlistair just smiles. ‘Smart,' he says, and scratches his head through his woollen hat, watching the word steam into the air inside the tent. Then he stands up and turns back to the others. ‘Break camp! We've got a long way to go!'

‘Still think you could train one?' Baines is standing a little to his right, staring up the hill at the line of wolf tracks that disappear into the trees a little over thirty metres away.

MacAlistair follows the line of his gaze. ‘Don't know. I'd like to try though.'

Baines just smiles and says nothing.

Trap

They brought him in a few days later.

His paw had been damaged by the trap, but he showed no sign of the pain he must have been feeling. His yellow eyes stared hate at his captors, and he licked at the wound only when he knew that no one was watching. The
humana
built a small cage to put him in, propping the door shut with a branch. Even uninjured, he could never have escaped. Some things even a wolf is incapable of.

I remembered his look on the night of the raid, and the memory of it stirred something in me. Not pity. Not regret even. I understood what had made them resist all those generations ago, rejecting the warm fire and the promise of food.

He was in a cage but he was still free, in a way that we would never be. We had the open sky above our heads, and we were never really hungry, and yet there is a hunger that food does not satisfy.

Urak felt it at times, I was sure. Even Chelsa, maybe, in the depths of the night, when the moon was full and the howls of the pack echoed from the dark forest.

I felt it now.

I looked across to where the cage stood, and felt the power of his eyes. And I knew what I must do.

The leather was tough, and it took most of the night to chew through it, but I was determined, and as the first streaks touched the horizon I felt it give. A sudden lunge and I was free.

The branch was wedged into the ground, and though I scrabbled with my claws the ground was frozen and I could not move it.

I looked at him. He watched me but made no comment, almost as if he were amused. But the pain was written in his eyes and it made me angry. I ran at the branch, leaping at the last moment. I felt the pain as the side of my body struck, but I felt it move. Once more and it fell away, the door sprang open and he was free.

But he made no move towards the safety of the trees. What was he waiting for? The
humana
might wake at any moment.

I looked back towards the others. Urak was standing, staring at him. Then he shifted his gaze to me, and I understood.

I bowed my head to the leader, and he bowed back.

Until that moment I had not realised what I had intended. I had only thought of freeing him, of giving him back to the forest. But his was not the only cage.

We turned and made our way towards the treeline. For a moment I paused to look back, but only for a moment.

Crazy

‘We can still catch them.' Kenyon holds his rifle in his right hand and gazes at the traces disappearing into the trees. ‘They can't have got too far. I don't know why you didn't just shoot the wolf in the first place.'

MacAlistair says nothing. He is staring away into the distance, a smile touching his lips.

Baines watches him for a moment before turning back towards the tents. ‘Because he's as crazy as the flamin wolf.'

Kenyon pauses before following. ‘The bitch won't last a week out there. Not in winter. Pity. She was a good worker. What a waste!'

‘Don't bet on it.' MacAlistair whispers the words, as his companion makes his way down the slope. But he is talking to himself.

Free

I felt winter in the air today.

Soon it will be time to join with the pack again. Farak is teaching the young ones to hunt. They will be of no great help this coming winter, but they must learn. As I learned.

It was difficult at first. I had never had to hunt for my food before. Some of the pack were against me.

Not our kind,
they had said.
Slave.

But Farak is … Farak. And what he decrees is law in the pack. I survived the snow and the hunger, and I learned.

Summer in the forest is freedom. I watched my cubs grow from blind, mewling bundles into rude and independent imitations of their father. But still they favour me a little. They make odd wolves.

Winter will be a testing time for all of us. But I would not trade the hunger and the cold for all the doled-out rations of the drivers' camp.

For I still remember the smell of leather …