I Am (Not) the Walrus (11 page)

She releases me from the head lock, steps back, and looks me up and down. “That's why I had second thoughts about showing up at the park.”

“Now how do you feel?” I say. “Are you sorry you did?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she says.

“I haven't made any plans,” I say. “Why? Do you want to go to the park again? Maybe we could look for some penguins.”

“Why don't we go to Brunswick?” she says, and then looks at me as if it's me who's just asked her a difficult question.

In actual fact, it's me who doesn't know the answer. A trip to Brunswick would mean spending the whole day with her, but if I give the bass back tomorrow I'm not going to have anything to play on Monday night.

As if she can read my mind she says, “Don't bring the bass. It'll just be research.”

I give a short laugh of relief. “Great,” I say. “Fantastic.”

“I'll meet you at the bus station,” she says, half-turning away from me. “How does ten o'clock sound?”

“Perfect.”

With that, she pirouettes and marches down to the end of driveway. She turns, gives me a final wave at the corner, and then she's gone.

I stand there for a moment, still with a teacup in each hand. After a minute I go back in and shut the door. Right away I spot her umbrella. My first thought is to run after her. Then I think that perhaps we ended on a good note. Maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie for now. The umbrella has a little tag with an address on Summer Street.

It's only a couple of streets away, but I can give it back tomorrow.

16

Saturday

Still holding the two cups, I head back into the kitchen. I could use more tea so I put the kettle on again.

While I wait for it to boil I sit back on Shawn's old chair, the same chair that Michelle was sitting in half an hour ago.

I pick up the pile of envelopes with the message from Rupert on the top.

I scratch my chin.

Who is he?

It's a good question.

More to the point, why did he phone?

Did he remember something about Julie McGuire?

I sift through the other letters. There are four or five offers for credit cards, and one slim letter from the Navy.

If Rupert did remember something then I suppose I should ring him back. On the other hand, I think I would rather find her without this bloke's help if it's at all possible.

I turn off the kettle, fix my tea, then head back to the table.

The first thing that catches my eye is the letter from the Navy. All thoughts about Rupert vanish and an ice cube forms in my chest. As far as I know they've never sent us anything.

Letters from Shawn are usually fat and addressed by hand. This one looks more official.

I hope it's not one of those letters they send to tell you something awful has happened.

I tap it on the table, then glance over at the kettle. I could steam it open, although if the letter really does contain what I'm dreading it might contain, then steaming it open would probably make things worse. If it does contain the dreaded news, then I should phone Mom.

With that, I know what I have to do. I take the letter out to the hall and dial Mom's number at work. I get transferred and put on hold, then finally she picks up.

“Good evening, caller,” she says. “This is Emily Holland. Which of our services can we help you with today?”

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “It's me. Toby.”

It sounds like there's a party going on in the background, except with no music, and nobody laughing. Actually it doesn't really sound like a party at all, just a lot of people talking at the same time.

“You've got me at a bad moment, Toby,” says Mom in a fierce whisper.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Call back in twenty minutes on the other line,” she says.

“Mom! Wait,” I say. “There's a letter from the Navy.”

“That's lovely, caller,” she says in a breezy voice. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Mom!” I say. “I think it might be very important.”

I listen to the chattering again and a noise that sounds like a man yelling. I hope I never have to work at a place like this.

She takes in a long breath, and I know she is thinking exactly the same thing as me. “Alright. Open it, but please be quick.”

Cradling the phone under my chin, I tear open the envelope, fold out the single sheet of paper, and skim it.

“Is he okay?” Mom's voice breaks into my concentration. “Whatever it is. Please tell me.”

“He's okay,” I say. “He's alive.”

“Thank God for that,” she says, and blows out a long breath. “But what? They didn't just write to tell us he's okay.”

I start to speak, but my mouth is too dry so I swallow and try again. “He's in the Glasshouse,” I say. “It says here that he stole something from another rating.”

“The bloody fool,” she says. “The bloody, bloody fool.”

“But at least he's okay,” I say.

“Great, he's okay for now,” says Mom, “but how long's he going to be okay in that place?”

“I don't know,” I say to fill up the emptiness.

“We're going to have to go back to London, Toby,” she says, “so we can be near him. We have to do what we can to help him.”

“I know,” I say.

“Are you going to be all right with that?” she says.

“When were you thinking of leaving?” I say.

“When's your concert?” she says.

“Monday.”

“I get paid on Tuesday,” she says. “Let's go on Wednesday. Let me get back to work. We'll talk more when I get home.”

After I hang up, I flatten out the letter and have another go at reading it. I get the general idea, but I can't focus on more than a few lines before my mind wanders and I have to go back to the start again. It's half an hour until Zack comes over, but I can't just sit here. I could practice my bass lines before he arrives.

All of a sudden I feel very tired. It seems like hours ago that Michelle was here, even though she only left about ten minutes ago.

I take another look at the note from Rupert.

Great.

Now that he has my number, he's probably going to call every day.

One good thing about leaving Port Jackson is that he won't have our London number.

I look at the phone and imagine it ringing in the empty house, day after day.

There's something that bothers me even more about the note, but the more I try to think about it the sleepier I get.

I make my way up to Shawn's room, even though he'll probably never see it again now. I stand in the doorway for a moment and take it all in. I'm going to miss a lot of places, but this is the one I'm going to miss most.

I take out the bass, put the strap over my shoulder, and give it a quick tune-up. New strings go out of tune fast. I more or less stumble across the room to the bed and flop down. I start trying to figure out the chords to “Blackbird,” but I still feel tired. I let myself fall backward onto the quilt, and stare up at the cracked ceiling. I rest my fingertips on the strings, but I don't seem to have the strength to pluck them.

17

Saturday

I don't go to sleep, but instead drift somewhere between being awake and dreaming, and in this state one of my last memories of Shawn comes flooding back to me.

There's a loud rap on my bedroom door. It's dark. The middle of the night.

“Who's there?” I say, forcing my voice to go deep, although even like this I don't think I sound particularly intimidating.

The door kicks open and framed against a pale light is Shawn. “What'cha, Tobias,” he hisses, pronouncing the last syllable of my name as arse. “Don't you have school tomorrow?” There's another loud clunk, which is followed by a rustling sound.

I push myself up onto my elbows to see better. He has a large object under his arm. “What you got there?”

Shawn puffs out his cheeks, and backs into my room. Whatever it is he's holding, it's too wide to go through the door. “Flick your light on,” he says in a half-whisper, “and I'll permit you to have a gander.”

I reach over to my bedside table, feel for the switch, and flood the room with light. I shield my eyes, but I can still see that he is carrying a long object wrapped in two or more black bin liners.

“Shift your plates of meat,” says Shawn. I pull my feet up under the covers to make space and he plants himself at the foot of my bed with the object across his knees. “You are not going to believe what I've got.” He gives off a low growl that turns into a deep rollicking laugh.
Wooar-haw-haw-haw!

I push myself up into a full sitting position. “You going to show me or just leave me to guess?”

Shawn tilts his head toward me. “Sometimes, Tobias, talking to you is like talking to Mom.” He burps, then sways for a moment. “Get a load of this.” He draws off the first bag, revealing the neck of an electric bass.

My pulse quickens so fast I'm almost knocked over by the G-force. “Bloody hell, Shawn! That's a Fender.”

He pauses with the second bag half off. “Yeah. I know what it is.”

“It's just about the best electric bass that money can buy,” I say. Even though I don't want to, I lean forward and reach out to touch it. The yellow-colored wood of the headstock is as smooth as a kitten's stomach. “These are worth a fortune.”

“Keep your hair on,” says Shawn. “It's old, for starters, plus the electrics need a bit of attention.” He finally peels off the second bag, exposing the whole instrument.

I can't contain a gasp.

“It is a bit like seeing a bird in her birthday suit, innit?” Shawn leers at me.

“I don't know if I'd go that far,” I say, although the instrument really is sexy, for want of a better word. The deep oranges and reds glint, and the yellowing chrome reflects shafts like laser beams across the ceiling.

“Not that you would know, of course.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Not yet, of course.” He does his growling laugh again,
Wooar-haw-haw-haw!
“Depends on the bird in question, I suppose.”

“I've seen a few,” I say.

“I meant a real one,” he says. “Not a photo.” He tilts the bass into a playing position across his knees and plucks a note, although it's more of a flat clunk than a note. “Or am I mis-underestimating you?”

I fold my forearms across my knees as if the question is beneath me.

“Here. Have a listen.” Shawn plays. What follows is not so much a stream of booming bass notes, but more of a series of clacks and squeaks. “Recognize it?”

I have to be diplomatic here. “The Stones, right?” I tilt my head as if I'm concentrating. “I think it's one I don't know.”

“Close,” he says. “Beatles.”

“Oh. Right,” I say. “Umm … ”

“‘Nowhere Man,'” says Shawn.

“I was just about to say that.”

“Here,” he says. “Show us how it's done.” He balances it across his palms and places it in my lap.

“What do you want me to play?” I say.

Shawn pushes his hands together into a prayer position. “Play something you learned in your guitar lessons.”

“I'm working on a Bach piece. He didn't write a lot of material for electric bass.”

I could explain to him that this instrument is not really a guitar, but Shawn would just view this as a feeble excuse. I shift the bass. It's a lot heavier than I expected, about as heavy as a three-and-a-half-foot-long piece of lumber. I lay my fingers on the strings and push down. The fat strings are much harder to push down than the strings on my classical guitar. I play a scale, and then go into a movement from Bach's Canticle in E minor. It actually sounds pretty good on the bass.

“There you go,” says Shawn. “‘Nowhere Man.' Sounds like you've been playing it for years.”

“‘Nowhere Man'?” I say. “It's Bach.”

“Hah,” says Shawn. “Sounds exactly like Paul McCartney's bass line to me. That Bach bloke ought to sue him.”

“Well…” I go back to the start and play the figure again. “He's been pushing up the daisies for about four hundred years.” Not only am I getting used to the thick strings, I'm actually beginning to like this instrument.

“You know, if I was going to give up playing classical and make the switch to pop music,” I say, “which I'm not,” I slide my fingers up the neck, which makes a sort of whooping sound, “this is what I'd play.”

Shawn is still bobbing his head to the rhythm of the tune I stopped playing a couple of minutes ago. “You're a natural.”

I noodle some random notes. “So where did you get it?”

Shawn lets out a long sigh. “I paid for it, if that's what your asking,” he says. “It's mine.”

He nods as if I've said something to cast doubt, which I haven't.

“Did you buy it from a shop?” I say.

Shawn does his rollicking laugh,
Wooar-haw-haw-haw!
and shakes his head. “I bought it off some plonker in Brunswick.” He reaches over and retrieves the bass.

I don't really want to give it back, but then, as he says, it is his.

“I've got to tell you,” he says. He starts noodling random notes up and down the strings. “The moment I handed over the cash I had second thoughts.” Noodle, noodle. “But the bloke I bought it off? He was a scary-looking bastard. Not a big bloke. But still scary, if you know what I mean. Once I'd given him the money, that was it. A done deal. No going back.”

I nod as if I know exactly what he means, but I don't really. Shawn is big and handy. It's the first time I've ever heard him say he was scared of someone. “How much did you pay for it?” I say.

Shawn stops playing and props the bass on the floor. “Five hundred,” he says.

“Five hundred pounds?” I say.

“No, five hundred Tiddly Winks,” he says. “Keep your voice down. I don't want to wake Mom.”

“Where did you get five hundred pounds?” I whisper.

“I've been doing a lot of overtime at the chip shop,” he says.

“That's a heck of a lot of overtime,” I say. “I thought you only got ten pounds an hour.”

“You get double after six,” he says. “Triple after ten.” He nods. “It adds up fast.”

“Can I work there?” I say. “I wouldn't mind making thirty quid an hour.”

Shawn squeezes my knee again. “I'll ask,” he says. “I'll put a word in for you.” He gathers up the bags and wraps them around the bass.

“Can I borrow it?” I say.

Shawn does his laugh. “Use it all you want,” he says. “But I have one stipulation.”

“I'll take really good care of it,” I say.

“I'm not worried about that,” he says. “My stipulation is that you don't take it to school, and you don't brag about it.”

“Is that all?” I say.

“I'm serious, Toby,” he says. He only calls me Toby when he's serious. “I don't really want you shooting your mouth off about it.”

“Why?” I say.

Shawn looks down at the floor. “It's valuable. I don't want to risk someone coming in and stealing it.”

“We can insure it, right?” I say.

Shawn looks over at the door. “I have to find out,” he says. “I think there might be a problem with the serial number.”

With that he rolls back up to his feet and moves toward the door. “Hit the light,” he says. “Go to sleep. You can play with it in the morning.”