I Am (Not) the Walrus (19 page)

32

Tuesday

We squeeze past Julie into the hall.

I look down at the bass, then I grin at Michelle and laugh. I can't believe that everything worked out so well. I turn to the doorway to say thank you, but I'm distracted by footsteps thundering up the stairs behind me. I turn around to see the last person I wanted to see.

“Hey, my brother!” he says. “It is a pleasure to see you.” He looks from me to Michelle, and down at the case. “What unexpected delights rain down on us.”

“Hi Rupert,” I say. Each time I see him he's wearing one less item of clothing. This time he's not wearing a shirt. He's so lean that he looks like an anatomical diagram with every muscle sharply defined. I hope this is the last time I see him.

“Toby and Michelle were just leaving, Rupert,” says Julie.

“And you came bearing gifts.” Rupert's arm ripples as he points at the case. “Would I be right in assuming that you have in your hand a precision bass?”

“Yup,” I say, a little sheepishly. “It's the same one.”

“You have returned that which was lost to its rightful home.” His face crumples into a smile, which somehow looks wrong with the sunglasses and the pork pie hat. “You are a man of honor. All the muses in heaven thank you.”

“Actually I'm taking it away,” I say.

His smile fades a little. “Taking it away. Bringing it back.” He shrugs. “It's all the same in the end. It's the music that remains.” He jabs a finger at me. “Hey, do you think I could see it one last time? Just for posterity?”

“I suppose.” I look from Rupert, to Michelle, to Julie.

I'm just about to kneel down, open the case, and let Rupert have one last look when Julie says, “They have to catch a bus, Rupert.”

“Women! Can you believe it?” Rupert glares at me and knits his eyebrows. “Always in a panic about something.” He looks at me as if he expects me to agree with him. “There's always another bus. Am I right, Toby? Or am I right?” His eyes light up. “Hey, why don't you come back inside. I have some Emerson Lake & Palmer CDs. Awesome bass playing. Greg Lake. You've never heard of him; you're way too young. I consider it my solemn duty to educate you in the knowledge of great bass players.”

“Actually I do need to get to the bus station,” I say. I make a silent prayer that Rupert's car has broken down or something. I do not want him to offer me a lift.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” says Rupert. “May the wings of the angels bring you a safe journey and a safe return.” He shuffles over to the banisters, leaving room for us to get past. “All I ask is that you leave a little of the joy you brought with you.”

I stand to one side to let Michelle go first. She jogs down the steps, past Rupert, then stops to wait for me. I begin to follow. Just as I pass Rupert, I reach out to shake his hand. I can't say I'll ever think of him as a friend, but at least things have ended up okay with him.

Rupert doesn't take my hand, though. Instead he slides back across the stairs, blocking my exit and cutting me off from Michelle.

A dark shape scuttles past my feet and dives down the stairs. It stops, crouches down on a step between Rupert and Michelle, and begins to lick one of its paws.

“Lex!” cries Julie. “Rupert, can you grab Lexington?”

Rupert looks Michelle up and down, then studies the cat for a moment but makes no move to pick it up.

“Please, Rupert,” says Julie. “He'll be stuck out there yowling all night.”

“Okay, let's quit the pantomime,” says Rupert. With what is now a familiar move, he swings his arm behind him, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out his Stanley knife.

“I think you should give the bass to me.” He holds the knife down and away from his leg, then slides out the shiny blade.

Michelle picks up the cat and holds it out toward Julie, but with Rupert blocking her, she can't reach.

I offer yet another silent prayer that she doesn't try to take the knife away from Rupert. Any more prayers and I'm going to end up being religious.

“Rupert,” says Julie, “just let him leave.”

“It's Toby's bass,” says Michelle.

Rupert swivels around to look at her, keeping the knife by his leg.

“It's not yours,” Michelle continues. The cat wriggles, jumps out of her grip, and flops onto the stairs. “Toby came to give it back, but Julie told him he could keep it.”

“Is it Toby's bass?” says Rupert. “Or is it Julie's bass? You don't seem too sure of yourself, my friend.”

“Rupert, shut the hell up!” says Julie.

“Oh, so it's shut-up-Rupert time.” Rupert tosses the knife in the air with the blade still out. It spins a couple of times and he catches it by the handle. “I was just having a pleasant conversation with this young woman here, and all of a sudden it's shut-up-Rupert time.”

“It is Toby's bass,” says Julie.

I listen to a motorcycle passing out on the street below.

Rupert takes a step toward me, presses his free hand against my chest, and points to the bass with the knife. “I'm afraid that this item is not leaving with you. It belongs to my wife.”

“Ex-wife,” says Julie. “He's just a kid, Rupert. Let him go.”

“Soon-to-be ex-wife.” Rupert brings his face close to mine. He still has the cheesy smell of cigarettes. He brings the knife up next to my cheek. The shiny blade reflects a beam of light that flickers across his face.

I want to be afraid, but I'm not. This just doesn't seem real.

“I gave him the bass.” Julie's voice seems to come from a long way off. “It belongs to him now. Just let him go.”

“Nope,” says Rupert. “Love, honor, and obey. Giving something away. Giving something valuable away. Giving something valuable to a complete stranger should be a joint decision for a married couple.”

He brings the blade closer to my face. I can feel the sharp metal against the side of my nose.

“Fair is fair, Toby.” Rupert's mouth opens and closes, showing his yellow teeth. “You're a man; you're probably going to get married at some point. Do you want your wife to make important financial decisions without consulting you first?”

“No. I don't,” I say.

“Rupert, just let him go,” says Julie.

Rupert looks up at her, as if he's actually considering doing what Julie says. Then steps off to one side.

“Run back to Port Jackson, Toby,” he says.

I take one step, then another. The third step brings me level with him. With the fourth step, I'm past him. I'm just about to break into a run when a steel claw fastens onto my wrist. I wince, expecting to feel the knife slash at my face, but instead my hand is twisted backward. I have no choice but to let go of the case, and it falls onto the stairs.

The next moment I'm gripped around my upper arm and shoved down the stairs. For a second I think I'm going to go headlong down three floors, but Michelle catches me.

“A Fender Precision Bass.” I turn to see Rupert triumphant at the top of the stairs. He picks up the heavy case as if it weighs nothing. “How much do you think it's worth?” With his other hand he slides the blade back into the knife and returns it to his back pocket.

I know that Rupert is going to sell the bass, but I'll be hanged if he's going to get several thousand for it. “It's not a very good one,” I say. “It's worth maybe two or three hundred pounds.”

“A Fender? Two or three hundred?” says Rupert. “How about five or six hundred? Let's call it seven hundred for you thinking I'm dumb enough to believe it was only worth two hundred.”

“Rupert,” says Julie. “You're going straight down to the pub, and somebody's going to give you a hundred quid for it.”

Rupert grins at Julie. “That's the fun part,” he says. “Some punter will give me a hundred, but he'll sell it for a grand.” Rupert looks back at me. “I'm just cutting out the middle man, Toby. You can have the bass back if you give me seven hundred pounds, or you can give some punter a thousand. Can you see what I'm doing? I'm giving you a bass and putting three hundred quid in your pocket. You will never get another opportunity like this.”

“Where's he going to get
seven hundred
pounds?” says Julie.

“He's a Londoner,” says Rupert. “He's got a bundle stashed away some place.” Rupert looks at me. “That's right, isn't it?”

“I don't have
seven hundred
pounds,” I say. “I don't even have seven.” I turn and walk down the stairs. Julie is right. The bass is cursed. Maybe you have to give it away to get rid of the curse. Maybe this is for the best.

33

Tuesday

“I don't understand why you don't go to the police,” says Michelle from her seat on the opposite edge of the lifeguard platform to me.

In the darkness, I can just make out the white top of a wave before it thuds into the sand a few yards in front of us.

“What would we tell them?” I turn and study her silhouette as the breeze makes her hair flutter. “Doesn't there have to be a crime to report?”

The night is fractured by a silent sheet of lightning that snakes across the horizon, igniting the edges of humungous clouds and turning the distant sky into something that looks like a vision of heaven in an old painting.

Michelle is only sitting a few inches away from me, but the gap is empty space, and she might as well be as far away as wherever the thunderstorm is taking place. She's probably completely ashamed of me for letting Rupert walk off with my most-treasured possession.

“It's your bass.” Her silhouette shifts as she turns toward me. “Rupert threatened you, and then he stole it.”

Something buzzes past my face. I swat it away.

“Threatening and stealing are against the law,” she says.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe the police might say that the bass was his.” A wall of surf thumps on the sand a few yards away. “You know, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Anyway, I think it's difficult to get the police to respond to a threat, especially when the threat is over.”

“But you can prove that the bass is yours.” Michelle's silhouette is lit up by another sheet of lightning. “Just show them the receipt.”

Two human figures walk along the shoreline in front of us. I can barely see them in the gloom. “It's not quite that simple,” I say.

“Do you think they're going for a night-time dip?” Michelle points to the shadowy figures.

“No,” I say. “I think they're just out for a stroll.”

“If it's your brother's bass,” she says. “He must have a receipt somewhere, from when he bought it.”

“I'm pretty certain that he bought it from Rupert.” I study the string of small lights that stretch across the bay. I suppose they're fishing boats. I wonder if they're afraid of the storm. Or maybe it's heading away from us. Can I actually bring myself to say this? If I reveal that there's a thief in my family then she'll never be interested in me again. Not that it matters now. Nothing is going to happen this evening, and this was my last chance. “Either that or he stole it from Rupert.”

There I've said it. I turn and study Michelle's profile as the surf booms onto the sand, expecting her to make some excuse, jump down from the platform, and go home. But she doesn't. Maybe I should qualify my last statement.

“Knowing Rupert, I doubt he'd let anyone steal from him.” I take a long breath. “Shawn paid for it, but he bought it knowing full well that it was stolen. I remember the night he came home with it. The description of the bloke more or less matches Rupert.”

Michelle gives a hollow laugh. “Yeah. Let's go back and ask Rupert for a receipt.”

A stream of lights appear off to our left, sprinkling blue and yellow reflections over the water.

“That's the London train on the Bay Bridge,” she says.

“Pretty,” I say. “I was thinking of going back and seeing Rupert, actually.”

“You'll probably be on that tomorrow,” she says. “That is, if you're still alive.” She shifts around in the seat so she's facing me. “I'll kill you if you go back to Rupert's.”

“Really. Why?” I say. “Don't you think I should have tried harder to wrestle the bass back from him?”

Michelle stares at me for a moment. “No. Not at all,” she says. “He's a psycho. Please don't go back. He's the kind of bloke you read about in the papers.”

Something tickles the underside of my arm. I flinch, thinking it's an insect, then I relax when I realize it's a set of fingertips. Then I tense up when I realize who's fingertips are on my arm. A moment ago I was half asleep. Now my heart is pounding. Her fingertips slide across the inside of my wrist and interlace between my own fingers. There's a rustle of fabric on wood as Michelle slides across the six inches toward me. The lightning flickers again, then it's blotted out by Michelle's silhouette. I breathe in her chai tea scent, then warm, soft lips are pressed against my mouth, and fingers find their way under my arms and around my ribcage.

After some time Michelle pulls away, slides under my arm, and pulls me close to her, making one side of me very warm, and the other side chilly in the night air.

“Will you come and see me off tomorrow?” I reach behind her head and smooth her hair against the back of her scalp.

She shifts her head around, kisses me again, and says, “You know, I've lived here all my life, and I've never been night swimming.”

“That's probably true of most Brunswickers,” I say. “I mean here we are on a warm night and nobody's swimming.”

“Have you ever done it?” she says. “Don't tell me. Every night the sea at Port Jackson is full of Port Jacksonites splashing around.”

“I have been swimming at night,” I say. “And it was in Port Jackson, and I was on my own.” I don't tell her when I swam at night, or anything about why I did it, or that it wasn't really a choice.

“Weren't you afraid of sharks?” she says.

“I didn't really think about it,” I say. “Not at first anyway. To be honest I don't think there are any sharks around here. There are rip tides though.”

“No.” She snuggles closer to me. “No sharks at night. They're all tucked up in the sea bed.” Suddenly she pulls away from me and sits up. “Come on. Let's go for a swim. It's warm. It's calm. It's a perfect night.”

A hollow feeling floods through me. “There's a storm coming.” I manage to lift my arm and point past her to the horizon just as the lightning flickers again.

“No thunder though,” she says. “Probably one hundred miles away.”

“And we don't have swimsuits,” I say.

“My underwear is pretty presentable,” she says, and without waiting for any more of my excuses, she jumps down onto the sand. She staggers for a moment to get her balance, then says, “You are wearing underwear, aren't you?” She leans on the side of the platform and levers a sneaker off one foot with the toe of the other foot. “You're not the commando type, are you?”

I am now completely empty. The only thing inside me is my heart hammering. I slide off the seat and drop down onto the sand just as Michelle crosses her arms in front of her and pulls her T-shirt over her head. I try not to stare at her light-colored bra as I unfasten my jeans. I turn away, but out of the corner of my eye I can't help seeing the darker circles in the middle of each bra cup.

I also try not to look as she bends forward to slide off her jeans. I have just enough time to pull off my shirt before she is beside me. I can feel warmth radiating off her as she interlocks her fingers with mine. With legs that are almost completely numb, I lead her across the twenty or so yards of beach to the wet sand.

“Are you a strong swimmer?” she says.

I risk one glance at Michelle, and at that very moment the storm flickers, and for half a second one side of her glows blue. I have no idea what she meant when she told me her underwear was presentable. She certainly didn't mean modest or chaste.

“I'm okay,” I say. I wait for one wave to break, then gently guide her forward onto the cool, soft sand. The next wave is waist high. It knocks us both off balance. I flounder back and forth, pulling Michelle with me. I really think we're going to make it, but then the third wave hits and sweeps us onto our backs. I spring to my feet. Michelle lets go of my hand, puts her arm around my back, and we run back up the beach.

Once we're on dry sand, I slide my arm around her back. She holds onto my shoulder blades and pulls me toward her.

“Isn't there any way you can stay here?” she says. “I'm going to miss you.”

“I don't know,” I say. “Not really. I'm going to miss you too.” I slide my fingers up her spine, but there's no strap. Not only is her bra not presentable, it isn't even a bra.

It's a bikini mark.