I Am (Not) the Walrus (13 page)

20

Saturday

I spin around and come face-to-face with a tall, heavyset man. He's about three or four paces behind me, lurking in the shadows of the front garden. I have no idea how long he's been standing there. He must have come around from the back of the house in complete silence, because I heard nothing.

This must be a trick he learned from defending himself against charging bulls.

He must have also been doing some late gardening, because clutched in one hand is a large fork.

Or perhaps he's about to use the fork on me.

Maybe he thinks I'm a burglar.

“Is Michelle home?” I say. I'm actually impressed by how steady my voice is.

I'm not sure that speaking to him helps, because he shifts the fork into his opposite hand, and now the prongs are pointed directly at my throat.

“I'm Toby,” I say in my most un-burglarish voice.

He gives a short laugh, says, “I know perfectly well who you are,” and steps forward into the yellowish glow of the street lamp.

I'm so shocked I actually have the urge to scream. Luckily, my throat goes so dry that the scream comes out as a kind of choke.

I have to reach back and steady myself against the front door.

Michelle Frost! Of course. How daft could I be.

I've often been accused of being slow on the uptake, but I don't think I've ever been this slow before.

That's why she was at the Aquarium.

That's why she was at the rugby game.

She wasn't there to see Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair.

She was there to see her dad: Frosty.

The same Frosty who is now looking at me as if I've come here with the sole purpose of stealing everything in his house.

“Good evening, Mr. Frost, sir,” I say in a voice that gets less steady with each word. “I'm actually friends with Michelle. Is she home?”

At the mention of Michelle's name his expression transforms completely. He goes from looking at me like I'm a burglar to looking at me like I'm a rapist.

“What is it you want?” he bellows, as if I'm a quarter of a mile away from him, instead of a couple of feet. “Holland!”

This is probably the same tone that he uses to scare off charging bulls.

“I'm sorry to bother you, sir,” I say, not quite as confidently as I would like. “She lent me this.” I hold up the umbrella. He keeps his eyes fixed on me, and doesn't look at what's in my hand. Maybe he doesn't realize I'm talking about the umbrella.

“It was raining this afternoon,” I say by way of further explanation—although, off the top of my head, I can't think of any other reason why someone would lend out an umbrella.

I glance from his face to the umbrella, then back to his face.

My fear level begins to escalate. Maybe he's not slow on the uptake. Maybe there's some other reason why he's not responding. Maybe he's considering different methods of slaughtering me.

The umbrella's getting heavy in my hand. Just as I lower my arm, he reaches out and grabs it from me. I'm not quite sure how this happens, as I don't remember moving, but the next thing I know, he's standing between me and the door, clutching both the fork and the umbrella in the same large fist.

“Thank you,” he says, in the same tone that he might have said “if I see you here again I will kill you.”

Now I have the urge to say goodbye, turn, and run back down the path to Gray Street, but I stand my ground. I take a deep breath. “Is she home?” I say.

His expression shifts slightly. “No,” he says. “She's gone out.”

I'm about to tell him it's been a pleasure and leave when I actually begin to feel a little angry. Even though I'm terrified of this person, I actually take a step toward him. “Will she be back soon?” I say.

“She will not,” he says. “Holland.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say. “Maybe I'll come back tomorrow.”

“She won't be here tomorrow,” he says. “Holland.”

I'm just about to suggest next week, when he says, “I hate to be the one to break the news, Holland.” He shakes his head. “She doesn't want to see you again.”

I say, “But I was just with her a couple of hours ago—”

“Holland,” he says.

I look up at his face, and all of the hostility has gone. His eyes are crinkled into a smile, but it's not a friendly smile. More of a triumphant smirk.

“Good evening, Holland,” he says. “I will see you tomorrow at school.”

What would Shawn do? Shawn would let out a big laugh, slap Mister Frost on the back, and within a minute the two of them would be best buddies. Frosty would say where Michelle had gone. If it was Shawn, Frosty would probably even give Shawn a ride to meet her.

No. Who am I kidding? Shawn would put one hand around Frosty's shoulder and lift his wallet with the other.

What do I do? I say ,“Yes, sir,” and let out a long, ragged breath and head back down the path to Gray Street.

21

Sunday

Horoscope: April 18, Aquarius:

Act on the spur of the moment to create
new pizzazz in your life. Why not try a new hairstyle?
Throw caution to the wind and do the unexpected.

“I suppose I could live with being called the Sand Tigers for one gig,” says Zack, as we climb off the bus.

“I know it's not the perfect name.” This is so strange to me that all I can do is stand on the asphalt and stare. There's about a thousand people milling around. “It's just better than all of the other names we've come up with.” It feels like there are more people in the Brunswick bus station than in all of Port Jackson. “I wish Michelle was here,” I say. “If she was it would be a breeze.”

A group of Hare Krishnas make their way along the pavement a few yards away from us, chanting and playing drums as they go.

“Hah. Michelle Frost,” says Zack. “Who would have thought that Frosty would have such a pretty daughter? Come to think of it, who would have thought he would have kids at all? Can you imagine having him as a dad?”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“What are you doing?” says Zack.

“I'm imagining having Frosty as a dad,” I say. “It's actually not as bad as you might think.”

“Is there some level at which you can take this business seriously,” says Zack. “I'm here because of you. Given the choice I'd rather be at home in bed. If it was my bass, I'd keep it.”

“It's Sunday morning,” I say, opening my eyes. “If you were a half-decent human being you'd be in church.” Over Zack's shoulder I see a girl with long, dark hair, looking at the bus timetables. “Look. Over there!” I point at the girl.

“It's my humanity that keeps me away from church.” Zack twists around to look in the direction I'm pointing. “If I suddenly showed up, the pew people would get confused and think it was Christmas. You know, midnight mass being the only time I ever set foot in a church.” He glances back at me. “What am I looking at?”

“It's Michelle.” I keep my eyes on her. “I know it's a weird coincidence, but it's her. I'm sure of it.”

Zack looks back and shakes his head. “Not unless she's aged twenty-five years. She looks about forty.” He punches me on the shoulder. “I still don't understand why you couldn't persuade Frosty to give you Michelle's address in Brunswick.”

“He was about to shove a garden fork up my arse,” I say. “It kind of slipped my mind to ask him.”

The girl turns to face us, revealing the thin and lined face of a woman.

“I see what you mean,” I say.

“So, do you actually have some kind of a plan?” says Zack.

The Hare Krishnas move away, and as they do they reveal another dark-haired female. Her hair is swinging side to side as she approaches.

I know she's not Michelle, but I can't stop staring at her until I'm absolutely certain.

“I mean, how are we going to find Julie McGuire?” says Zack. “Toby?” He leans sideways, placing himself between me and the girl. He turns to look, then he turns back to me. “Toby,” he says again.

“It's okay,” I say. “I know it's not her.”

“Please stop,” says Zack. “She's not here. Anyway,” he continues, “a plan? You're taking us on a trip to nowhere. I realize that we're called the Nowhere Men, but it's just a name. We don't always have to be going nowhere.”

“I thought we'd decided on the Sand Tigers as a name.” I point to the wall where I'd just seen the person who wasn't Michelle. “There's a map. Let's find where Mariner Street is, then we'll be somewhere.”

“The Sand Tigers is okay,” says Zack, as we make our way through the crowd toward the map. “But if we call ourselves the Nowhere Men, then people will know we do Beatles stuff.”

“I'm not saying I don't like the Nowhere Men.” I immediately find the bus station on the map. There's a spot right in the middle of the map that's worn away from a thousand people prodding it and going
We're here,
so I prod the map, and say, “We're here.” Then I turn to Zack. “Why did you say you liked the Sand Tigers when we were on the bus if you didn't like it?”

“I didn't say I liked it.” Zack runs his finger along the map from the worn-out spot. “Look. St. James Street, Eastern Road, Norfolk Square, Mariner Street. Looks pretty easy.” He turns to me. “I said I thought I could live with it for one gig.”

Both of us make it across the six lanes of St. James Street, and we turn left. Eastern Road is lined with shops that are either out of business or just about to go out of business.

An empty glass bottle is propped on the curb right next to a garbage can. “Anyway,” I say as I reach down and put the bottle in the garbage. “Why are things different now? What's changed in—I don't know—four minutes?”

“You're quite forceful,” says Shawn. “I don't think you realize it.”

“So, you mean you didn't really like the name,” I say, as we turn in to Norfolk Square and begin walking around it in a clockwise direction. A wiry-looking woman passes us. She has dyed orange hair and a cigarette dangling from her thin lips.

I can't help staring at her for a moment.

“She's not Michelle,” says Zack.

I shake my head. I can't think of a better response.

The shops on Norfolk Square look pretty dingy, but we must be moving toward a better neighborhood because at least some of the shops are still in business.

“I'm not saying I don't like the Nowhere Men,” I say.

“I'm not saying I'm completely averse to the Sand Tigers,” says Zack.

“So which is it going to be?” I say. “A compromise? The Sand Men? The Nowhere Tigers?”

Finally we reach Mariner Street. I've already had one culture shock this morning traveling from the sleepy seaside town of Port Jackson to the metropolis of Brunswick. It's almost as big a shock to turn off Norfolk Square onto a side street. There couldn't be more of a contrast between the shabby and derelict Norfolk Square and the big, fancy houses of Mariner Street. I would guess that the people who live here don't do their shopping on Norfolk Square.

The only thing the two streets have in common is that they're both deserted.

“Do you know how many people live in Brunswick?” says Zack. “Almost half a million. Have you got that?”

“Look, we're on the right side.” I point to the numbers on the houses. “There's two, and there's four. We're on the right track.” The houses aren't a lot bigger than our house on Winter Street, except that each one has a big front and backyard. All of the houses look recently painted, but the big difference is in the cars. Winter Street is lined with battered and dented wrecks. The cars parked on Mariner Street are all shiny Mercedeses and BMWs.

“Okay.” Zack turns to me. “If we make any progress on finding this Julie person, then I will let you choose the name.”

“Deal,” I say. “If Julie McGuire lives here,” I point at the cars, “do you think she's too rich to even care about the bass?”

“The chances are that Julie McGuire is no longer Julie McGuire,” says Zack. “The note might have been written years ago, so now she's probably got herself married and she's Julie something else. Julie is a pretty common name. How many Julies do you think live in Brunswick? Hundreds, probably.”

We reach number forty, and I can't help slowing down as I realize the seriousness of what I'm about to do. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I'm about to ring the doorbell and not know what to expect. The last time wasn't exactly a runaway success.

“There you go,” says Zack. “48.”

We come to a stop outside a house with a front garden so perfect it probably gets manicured with nail scissors.

“Doesn't look too much like the abode of an aging bass player,” I say.

“That's just what I'm trying to tell you,” says Zack. “Julie McGuire is no longer Julie McGuire. New name. Totally different life. Anyway, we need 48B.”

The next house is number fifty. We walk back past forty-eight, and the next house in that direction is forty-six. We walk back to forty-eight.

“Maybe 48B is behind 48,” says Zack. “You know sometimes people build a house in their back garden.”

“We can't just walk into 48's garden,” I say.

“I'll do it,” says Zack. “There's nobody about to see me.”

Just as Zack stops speaking a door slams across the street. A few moments later a heavyset bloke emerges from a driveway about ten houses down, and crosses to our side. A tiny Pekingese kind of dog is running along beside him on the end of a leash.

“Let this bloke go past,” I say. As he gets closer I can see that he's just a very big kid, not much older than us.

“Typical,” says Zack. “As soon as you don't want anyone around, then someone appears.”

“Wait,” I say. “Why don't we just ask him?”

The bloke stops about four houses down while his dog does its dog thing, but as soon as the dog is finished they do an about turn and head away from us.

“Come on,” I say to Zack. “It's our best chance.” I stumble into a jog. Zack falls in behind, and then passes me. As we get closer, something begins to feel a little familiar about this kid with the dog. The kid crosses the street and is just about to go back into his driveway when Zack sprints ahead.

“Hang on a second,” I say to him.

But Zack doesn't hear me. He runs right up to the kid, who's a good head taller than Zack. “Excuse me,” he says.

The kid turns, and I choke.

“Goodness me,” says the kid, looking from Zack to me and then back again. “It's the two bra straps from Port Jackson.”

“Hi Jasper,” I say.

“You're calling us bra straps?” Zack points to the dog. “That's not exactly a Rottweiler you've got there, is it?”

Please stop, I mutter under my breath. This is not the best way to approach Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair.