Swimming on Dry Land (16 page)

‘Who was it?'

Eddie's there too. ‘I don't know. All of them.' He sounds defensive.

‘Why the hell didn't you stop them?' Something crashes, a thud; I can't tell what.

‘Who is looking after him?' Michael's voice again.

Moni looks at me and whispers, ‘Why is Dad shouting?'

I march up to the door and am about to grab the handle when it swings open. Michael stands there, staring wide-eyed at me. Neither of us speaks.

And then Moni steps between us. ‘We're going to make some supper. Are you hungry?'

He puts his hand on her head. ‘Not now.' Looking at my chin, he says, ‘There's been an accident.' His voice is squashed.

I call after him as the door closes. ‘What accident?'

The sitting room is a mess, the model town strewn across the floor. The base is broken in two parts. Moni scrabbles around retrieving all the buildings, and attempts to piece the model back together. It will never be the same as it was.

Eddie's voice comes out of nowhere. ‘They were like a pack of hyenas.'

I spin round to find him pressed up against the back wall. The sight of him makes me shudder. ‘Did Michael hit you?' He is covered in blood and his shirt is torn.

He shakes his head, stuttering: ‘I tried to stop them. They wouldn't stop. Kept shouting things, horrible things. They tore him apart.'

I move closer to examine his face. There are no cuts.

‘Mr M's in a desperate state,' he says.

It takes me a moment to understand what has happened. ‘I'll go and help Michael,' I say, but Eddie bars the door.

‘It's not safe. There was too much drink, too much free drink, with the bar closing.'

Mr M's blood is drying on Eddie's face as he leaves.

Moni asks me to explain. I tell her there was a fight, which Uncle Eddie tried to stop. As I go through the door I say, ‘It'll be alright.' If she could see my face, she'd know I was lying.

There are days-old dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, breakfast still on the table. I open the fridge and throw out the rotten milk, cheese and sliced ham that hasn't been covered. I make some pasta and stick a plate of sweet biscuits on the tray. Mr M loved my girls, I know he did. How could they think that he would hurt my little girl?

Moni is scribbling in her book when I return with the food. She has managed to piece the model back to its original order. ‘The train station is broken,' she says, putting her book down and picking up the small model station.

‘Never mind. I doubt there'll be a train station now.' I set the tray on the edge of the table and hand her a plate. Once I taste the pasta, I realise how hungry I am. Moni needs encouragement to eat; I pass her a biscuit, and lean in to read what she has written.
Dad is helping him. He'll be alright. When you come back we can go and visit. You can tell him he is BLAST. He'll like that.
I read on until Moni senses what I'm doing and snaps the book shut.

We play Scrabble, which is probably Moni's favourite game, except for reading words out of the dictionary and guessing their meaning; she is word mad.

‘Niobe. Is that a word?' she asks, cocking her head as she examines her letters.

I have to give it to her; the dictionary is in the caravan, and after a few seconds of intense thought, she is convinced it is a word. Can't tell me what it means though.

We are down to the last few letters when Eddie gets back. ‘How is he?' I ask, pushing myself up, trying to ignore the pins and needles in my feet. Moni stands too, clutching her letter-holder in her hands.

‘We've put him in one of the portacabins. Susan will fly out first thing tomorrow.' There is an odd sense of calm about him.

‘Will you watch Moni?' I ask.

Eddie nods. ‘It's alright now,' he says, smiling with such a peaceful look on his face.

I will never forget that look.

After taking a torch from the hall cupboard, I head out to the caravan. Michael is round the back, burning rubbish in one of the oil drums.

‘Do you think Mr M will be alright?' I ask, startling him. Smoke and darkness distort his face as he carries on slamming rubbish into the drum. I watch the flames lick the sides, moving back to get away from the heat.

When Michael has thrown the last bit of rubbish onto the fire, he asks. ‘Are you coming with us?'

Our eyes drive through the smoke. I shake my head, too upset to speak.

‘I'm going to finish packing,' he says. ‘Why did you let him film you?'

Thoughts come and go but nothing stays long enough for me to form a proper sentence. So Michael heads towards the caravan.

‘Wait,' I plead.

He stops. The fire spits and roars with the unexpected breeze. I take a step towards him, staying this side of the oil drum. ‘Do you hate me?' I ask. My whole body is trembling.

Michael talks the way he talks into his Dictaphone. ‘Moni and I are leaving tomorrow, if the pilot gets back, or else the day after. If we ever find Georgie, it won't be here. You know that as well as I do.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Moni doesn't want to stay here.'

I stare at him, trying to make sense of it all. ‘We can't give up.'

‘It's not about giving up,' he says.

‘Would you really leave without me?'

He doesn't answer. A large brown moth hovers about the flames. Michael tries to bat it away but it comes back; there is a faint hissing sound as it catches fire.

I shoot past him into the caravan and pick up the first box I find, flinging it through the open door, then I throw out the next one and the next. He tries to stop me, wrestling a box of books out of my hands. I snatch some clothes from the suitcase and stuff them through the window, lunging for another box before Michael pins my arms to my sides. He pulls me into him; my back presses up against his chest. His breath warms the nape of my neck.

‘Calm down,' he says, still holding me.

I laugh and cry at the same time, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. His grip slackens, but he doesn't let go. His body feels warm where his skin touches mine. I inch my legs back so that my calves touch his legs, just for a second. I can feel the hem of his shorts through my dress, against my thighs. His arms drop.

‘Don't let go,' I whisper, staying where I am.

Feeling his hand against my thigh, I search for his other hand and pull it around me, planting it onto my stomach. Slowly he turns me round. I run my fingers over his hair and down his face, as if I am blind, as if this will help me remember what is now completely lost. As my fingers travel over his lips, he bites them.

I slap him so hard, my hand burns. He doesn't move until I go for him again, and then he lunges at me while I kick and punch. He defends himself, grappling with me as our joint weight casts us to the floor. I lose track of where my arms and legs are, our limbs flail about so much. We keep moving and resisting each other; each time we pull apart, we get closer. And the smell, our smell, wet, frowzy, mildew, covers everything. My dress gets torn. Grit from the floor wedges in my back. Eventually we shed our clothes and cling onto each other, battling through sex as if we were at war, losing ourselves until we both surrender. And for a second I see Eddie. I feel Eddie. Then just at the moment Michael's body goes rigid against mine, I tell him, ‘I love you.' He opens his eyes and stares at me in disbelief.

After that, he pulls away and lies by my side. Our hands barely touch; our bodies stiffen like two river logs, already drifting apart. He turns to face the wall. I watch his back for a while before pulling on my dress, which is now missing three buttons. Taking a cigarette from my bag, I prop myself against the caravan door and light up, finding the smoke vaguely reassuring. The petrol pumps look like headless soldiers reflected in the faint moonlight.

The bed creaks as Michael gets up. He moves about the caravan. I don't look to see what he's doing until he presents me with a sandwich on a piece of kitchen towel. He's made one for himself.

‘I've told Moni we're leaving tomorrow,' he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, talking between mouthfuls.

I put the sandwich down beside me and continue to look out past the service station. At night the bush comes alive, as if it is breathing. ‘I know she's not alive. But we have to find her. We can't just abandon her.' I talk and think and talk, not knowing which is which.

Michael says, ‘I'm not suggesting we leave the country. I just know she isn't here.'

‘How do you know?'

‘It's Moni you should think about.'

He crosses over to the table and sits down on the cushioned bench. Using his teeth, he pulls off the top of his pen and starts to write.

I stub out my cigarette on the step and pick up the sandwich, dusting off the ants. There are suddenly so many ants. The crumbs get attacked as soon as they hit the floor. After putting the kettle on, I wipe the surfaces while I'm waiting, watching the army of ants troop across the steps. I pour boiling water on them, scattering them like shrapnel; some get swept along in the tide, a warning to other unsuspecting ants. My father always said, if you don't wipe them out straight away, they'll take over.

‘I'm going to check on Moni. I'll sleep on the settee tonight,' I say.

Michael grunts and shrugs, making that annoying clicking sound with his false tooth. I snatch the torch off the draining board and hesitate long enough to realise that I am hoping he will say something. He doesn't even look up.

I cross the tarmac, ignoring the rising panic in my chest, in my throat; it won't go away. I creep through the shop into the hall. The lights are out and the sitting-room door is open. Moni mumbles in her sleep: a low persistent drone. I stand at the end of the camp bed and watch her. Whatever she is dreaming plays itself out in her body as if she were awake. I want to wake her up, to hear her voice, to tell her something, anything. Instead, I rearrange her sheet and lightly touch her cheek.

In Eddie's office, I run my hands across the wall, feeling the small lumpy contours where the plasterer got lazy. Why do we need walls? What are we so afraid of? That someone will come and knock them down, that without them we'll be exposed to each other as we really are? Is it just that we all need a place to hide?

I poke my head around Eddie's bedroom door. ‘Eddie?' There's no answer. The blinds are drawn; it is completely dark. ‘Are you awake?'

I just want to hear a voice, any voice except my own. My mind keeps throwing out the blackest thoughts. I creep back through the office, the sitting room, and tiptoe down the hall. I close the bathroom door behind me. The toilet seat feels refreshingly cold through my dress as I sit. Turning on the radio, I let the air fill up with chatter: soft drawling voices that lull me to sleep. I sleep awake on the toilet, not knowing whether my eyes are open or closed.

The sun is gushing through the window when Moni pushes open the door.

‘What are you doing?' she asks, stepping up to the sink, pinching her toothbrush between her fingers.

‘I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?'

‘Uncle Eddie's gone.'

‘Gone where?'

‘To get Georgie.'

She turns on the tap but there is no water. ‘See if the kitchen taps work,' I say, getting up and stretching my legs, which have gone stiff. My neck is killing me. I switch off the radio and follow Moni through to the kitchen. She spits the toothpaste froth onto the dishes in the sink. These taps don't work either. ‘He's probably gone to fix the water. Let's go and find Dad. He might have made breakfast. You never know.' I give her a bit of undiluted orange squash to wash away the taste.

Today must be the hottest day on record, despite the swelling clouds. The melted tarmac sticks to our flip flops, making it hard to walk. Flies attempt to feed off our sweat. I hate these flies. I hate that rotten caravan. I hate feeling like I'm being barbecued.

Eddie's truck has gone. (I never asked him what he did with that kangaroo.)

Moni points at the galahs lined up on the telegraph wire. ‘Shall we feed them?'

‘Your dad might have fed them already.' As we approach the caravan, I say, ‘This looks like a good place for breakfast. What do you think?'

I see myself playing waitress to Moni and Michael as they peer at invisible menus. How could I have risked losing the most important thing? Moni raps on the door and calls out, ‘Is this café open?' She marches in. I'm right behind her.

Everything is packed, except for the pictures I bought in Wattle Creek, and the drawings Moni and Georgie made of Mr M. I check the cupboards and the wardrobe. My clothes are still hanging up, but the rest have gone.

‘I'll go and find him,' Moni says, ripping the pictures and drawings down, leaving them on the table before she darts outside.

‘You can't go on your own. It's not safe,' I call after her, but she has started running. I try to follow but my legs buckle under me. ‘Come back,' I shout, struggling to stand. I watch her shrinking as my eyelids flicker.