Dreamrider (12 page)

I found the free-range eggs. The first carton had a cracked egg in it. The second carton seemed okay. I took out each egg in turn, felt its cool hardness in my hands, replaced it carefully. There was a flicker of red at the end of the aisle, but by the time I registered that it was there, it had gone. They didn't have music in this supermarket. I liked that. I liked the sounds of trolleys rolling, the faint burr of the airconditioning. I got jam as well. Strawberry. Dad liked it on his toast sometimes. Shower gel, the cheapest brand, and toilet paper. I got a good brand. Dad was fussy. Said it was false economy to get the cheap stuff. He didn't want his fingers to go right through it. That didn't apply to shower gel, though. It was really important to remember the rules. I didn't make mistakes anymore.

I browsed the deli. Fresh fish is great. So are green prawns with lumps of ice around them. We get frozen fish fillets in breadcrumbs. They don't taste of much, but they are easy to cook and they keep forever in the freezer. This time, the flash of red lingered. I saw it disappear round the end of the frozen food aisle. My heart beat a little faster. I studied a tray of fetta cheese and tried to concentrate on my peripheral vision. But I didn't see it again.

‘Can I help you?' The woman had a plastic cap on. For hygiene, I supposed.

‘A kilo of barramundi, please.'

It came to over a kilo, but I said that was okay. Then I chose a large red emperor. The fish was whole and its eyes were still bright. Over forty dollars worth of seafood. The waxy white paper felt good in my hands. I put the packages into my basket and went to the milk section. It was opposite the frozen food section, but the row was deserted. I got three litres of Trim. The bakery was close to the checkouts. Halfway there, I glanced to my left. The central aisle stretched to the far end of the supermarket. I saw a tennis shoe, scuffed, disappearing a few rows down. Just the heel. I looked at the breads. There was some terrific focaccia. I picked up two with black olives and mushrooms. I also got three loaves of white sliced, generic supermarket brand. Flavourless, but cheap.

I went down the cleaning products aisle. I tucked the focaccia and the waxy white parcels under a shelf of dishwashing liquid. I liked the feel of them in my hand. When I'd finished, you couldn't tell they were there.

I knew Jamie was around. Somewhere. But I didn't see him, not properly. Just the odd flash of red hair, a red shoe disappearing down an aisle.

At the checkout I took the milk out of the trolley last. If you take the milk out first you get a smudge of condensation along the rubber mat and the rest of your groceries get wet.

I know about these things.

6
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I put the groceries away and the receipt and change into the pot on the shelf. It was five-thirty. I'd found another receipt in the rubbish bin outside the supermarket. For eight dollars something. Probably not a good idea, but I put it in the pot anyway. It would almost balance.

Mary was jumping around as I did this. She wanted to know everything that had happened at Leah's. She made me sit at the kitchen table and go through every detail. If I skipped the most insignificant thing, I'd have to stop and start again. She quizzed me on the colour of the house, whether the kitchen was tiled, the way the potatoes were cooked. It was exhausting. Her eyes were wide and she kept clutching at my arm. It was as if we were sharing a movie. I almost laughed. But she was deadly serious. She hardly left the house. Everything that was important to her was filtered through me. I felt responsible. So I told her everything in as much detail as I could. When I'd finished, she leaned back in her chair, sighed and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I opened the backdoor.

Mary's hands were trembling as she lit her cigarette.

‘Phew,' she said, sucking the smoke down deep. ‘They sound a wonderful family, Michael. So does this mean that you and Leah are . . . you know . . . I mean . . .'

I smiled. Not just at Mary's stuttering, but because it was such a perfect reflection of my own feelings. Did this mean that Leah and I were . . . you know? I didn't know. I didn't want to think about it too much.

‘We're friends, Mary,' I said. ‘I guess I can say that much.' And the words sounded good.

‘I'm so happy for you,' she said. ‘And when am I going to meet her? Maybe you could invite her round for tea one day.' Panic instantly crossed her face as she considered the disarray in the kitchen. ‘You'd have to give me plenty of notice. I'd need to get the place cleaned up. The house certainly needs it. What sort of food does she like? I'm not sure if I could do anything complicated. I wouldn't want her to think that we were slobs, or unsophisticated. There's a good cookbook around here somewhere. Where did I put it?'

And she was off, rummaging around in drawers as if Leah and her family were due at any moment. I got up and put my arms around her.

‘I love you, Mary,' I said.

‘I love you too, sweetie,' she said. ‘It's got to be around here somewhere. I can't remember the last time I used it, but I do remember unpacking it. Maybe it's still in that crate in the laundry.'

I led her back to the kitchen table and eased her into a chair.

‘Calm down,' I said. ‘I'll invite her, okay? But don't worry, she's not the sort of person to worry about recipes or a few cobwebs.'

Mary leaned forward and grabbed me by the arm.

‘Oh Michael,' she said. ‘Things are changing for you. You deserve it. You really do. You've waited so long . . .'

Her eyes welled up with tears. She lit another cigarette from the butt of the last and blinked through the smoke. I changed the subject.

‘How's the costume going?'

There was material scattered around the kitchen. An ancient sewing machine was on one end of the kitchen table. A black bin bag, crammed with old clothes, was overflowing onto the floor. When Mary got stuck into a project she didn't hold back. She would have been working on it all day. But I knew she'd never complete it without my help. It was just the way she was. Lots of energy, but she never finished anything. I'd probably have to hire a costume at the last minute. Not that I was going to tell her that.

‘I've got a few ideas, Michael.' Her face was bright. ‘I started on something, but then had a re-think. The key is to have a costume that no one else would even consider. So I discarded all the obvious options. Then I got to thinking that possibly . . .'

She gabbled on and I just sat there and held her hand.

What is given can also be taken away. I've learnt that. And then you're worse off than if you'd never had it in the first place. So I held on to Mary and half-listened as she poured out her ideas. I held on, like she was the one piece of wreckage in a cold and lonely sea. If I let go, I would drown.

I couldn't get to sleep. The night was hot and humid and I was covered in a thin film of sweat. The fan didn't make a difference. It just moved the stifling air around. I kicked off the top sheet and struggled to find a comfortable position. The pillows seemed leaden and wet where my face touched them. Little sounds around the house were magnified. The creaking of the tin roof as it contracted slightly under the night's relative coolness. The tutting of geckoes. The distant howl of a dog.

Mary and I had eaten late. Well, I'd eaten late. Mary had just smoked. Said she was too wound up. I heated up the crumbed fish fillets with potato wedges from the freezer and some frozen peas. I made a plate for Dad and put it in the microwave. Sometimes he wanted food when he came home late. Sometimes he didn't, but it wasn't worth taking the chance. After I had cleared up the dishes, Mary and I worked on the costume. It was fun. A complete disaster, but fun. It cleared my head of stuff.

Now, though, lying in the dark with night noises all around, I thought about what Leah and I had decided to do. It was simple enough. In theory at least. And it would give us proof. If it worked. Of course, none of that would matter if I couldn't even get to sleep. But the more I tried, the more awake I became. I sipped water from the glass on my bedside and checked the clock. It was 12.30 a.m. I had been thrashing around in bed for two hours. Dad would be home any minute. I was praying he wouldn't smell cigarette smoke in the kitchen. I couldn't face the satin shorts, the gloves, the strange dance under harsh fluorescent lights.

I heard a key in the lock, followed by the grating of the front door. It was slightly warped, probably with the humidity, and wasn't a good fit in the frame. I listened to the clatter of car keys on the kitchen table and the fridge door opening and closing. A click as the overhead fan was switched on and then the backdoor opened. Silence. I turned my back to the door and tried to settle again. At least Dad didn't seem to be the worse for grog. I could tell from the sounds.

I was aware of changes to my body, the relaxation of muscles, the slow thudding of my heart as I rode towards sleep. And then the door swung open and a wedge of light flooded the bed. I pulled the sheet over my nakedness and rolled towards the door. Maybe I should have pretended I was asleep. But that had never made any difference in the past.

Dad stood for a while, looking at me. He didn't seem drunk, though I noticed a slight swaying. The expression on his face was not anger, but I couldn't really read it. After all this time, I still couldn't read his moods accurately. Not one hundred per cent. My mouth felt dry and my tongue thick. I sat up and gulped more water. Dad stood a few moments longer and then sat on the bed next to me. The silence was heavy. I couldn't help myself. I had to break it.

‘How was work, Dad?' I said.

He rubbed his hands over the stubble of his chin.

‘Ah, you know, Michael,' he said. ‘Work is work. Has to be done. What about you? How was school?'

‘Okay.'

‘I got a phone call today. About a meeting at your school tomorrow?'

‘I know. Sorry.'

‘So what's going on?'

His voice wasn't angry and I relaxed a little. Maybe the gloves wouldn't come out tonight.

‘They wouldn't tell me much over the phone, just that it was about your progress so far, a new school, a few issues. Blah, blah, blah.'

I shrugged.

‘Are you getting bullied again?'

I weighed up the options. I could lie, but Dad probably wouldn't believe me. Anyway, there was no point, what with the meeting tomorrow. But then the truth always had a price tag. I was too tired to talk about cowardice, the wisdom of fighting back, that it was all in the eyes, that the power came from the shoulder, that the key was movement. Keep moving, son. Sometimes, though, you don't have any choices.

‘A bit. It'll settle down.'

Dad sighed and laced his fingers over his knee. I had expected anger, but he just seemed tired and calm. In a strange way, that worried me more than anger. I knew what to expect from anger.

There was another stretch of silence. I took a sip of milk and glanced around the room for differences. I didn't think I'd fallen asleep, but sometimes it's difficult to tell. Nothing.

‘What are we going to do, Michael?' he said. His voice was small, defeated. I rubbed a thin trickle of sweat from the side of my face.

‘About what?' I said.

‘Everything,' he replied. ‘What are we going to do about everything?'

I didn't say anything. I didn't understand the question. A number on my alarm clock flickered and changed. I sat up further in bed and pulled the sheet around my legs.

‘I'm thinking of moving on, Michael. What do ya reckon?'

My heart thumped. I nearly blurted out that our bags weren't even unpacked, that we'd just got here, that I'd finished only three days at school. But I didn't. I shrugged. Dad rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

‘I don't like it here, Michael. In fact, I hate it. It's a shitty place.'

He'd said that about the last place. And the place before that. I felt panic at the thought of another frantic round of packing, loading the ute and taking off down dusty roads for hundreds of kilometres, picking a place on the map at random. Finding a house no one else wanted to live in because it was in desperate need of renovation, or there was evidence of a recent rat infestation or the electrics were dodgy. Starting yet another school, watching out for the kids with cold eyes. And for what? So that in a month or two, or half a year, Dad would say we were going again, that the place was driving him mad. I suddenly realised I didn't want to leave this town. I didn't want to leave Millways. I didn't want to leave Leah. I was tired of running, chasing Dad's dreams. Or escaping his nightmares. Yet I didn't tell him that. I didn't have the courage. Coward, see? Someone told me once that some victims enjoy being victims, encourage it even. That was me. I let everyone bully me because deep down I liked it. I nearly cried at the thought.

‘Do you miss your mum, Michael?' asked Dad.

It was like a jolt of electricity passed through me. Dad hardly ever mentioned Mum. I didn't know why he was doing it now.

‘I miss her,' he continued. ‘Sometimes I think I miss her more now than I did just after she died. You know, they tell you things will get better, Michael, that time will heal. But it's a lie. It doesn't get better. It will never get better.'

I bit at my fingernails. I saw, with something approaching horror, that Dad was crying. His face was twisted with the effort of keeping it in, but a tear was crawling down his cheek. I felt embarrassed, as though I had caught him naked. At that moment I would have been happier out in the backyard, the gloves on, circling. It was so strange. I wanted to reach out, touch him, but we didn't do that. The past weighed my hand down. Dad gulped and wiped his cheek as if angry at his own weakness.

‘I miss her too, Dad,' I said finally.

It was the closest I could come to touching him. I wanted to say that I felt angry as well. Angry at her for leaving us. That if I could bring her back from the dead, it would be to yell at her, punish her for what she'd done to us. How dare she? And I also wanted to tell him that anger can only get you so far. Eventually you have to stop running.