Queen of the Night (3 page)

I wake up curled around my

guitar like it’s a sleeping girl. I push it away from me and sit up, feeling pathetic. If I had any dreams I can’t remember them. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper sleep.

I find my watch next to the bed. It’s four, and it must be Friday, but I’ve got no idea if it’s day or night. Regardless, I should leave the house. Nothing good comes of moping around doing nothing.

Blake’s bedroom is empty and her bike has gone from the hallway. The insect book is still open on her bed. I rummage through her books, still thinking about the dead tarsier.

There are no Dewey decimal labels on any of the book
spines, so Blake can’t have been raiding the abandoned public library. I select a book at random—
Heliographs and Optical Communication
—and look inside. The inside front cover has been stamped with blood-red ink. A curly
W&S,
set inside a rectangle, twined with leaves. An old-fashioned logo, or monogram. I check a few more books—they’re all stamped identically—but there’s nothing on tarsier.

As I’m piling the books back into the crate, some letters catch my eye. The book is cream-coloured and pamphletslim. The title embossed in gold on the plain front cover:
SHYNESS: A young lady’s treatise.
By Delilah Gregory. I wonder if she’s a relative of the Doctor.

I flick through the book. It’s old, and odd, with journal entries and sepia-tinted photographs. Delilah is twenty, but seems much younger. Her journal is as melodramatic as Paul’s early poetry. She apparently detested every member of her household, including the housemaid. No one understood her. No one cared about what she wanted. I wish Paul was here to see it. Historical artifacts are more his kind of thing.

Paul’s bedroom, my parents’ old room, is as empty as Blake’s, but it has a staler, sourer smell about it, with a thin camping mat and a sleeping bag in the centre of the room. There are still round marks in the carpet where the old bed used to stand. I can’t see Paul’s satchel anywhere.

I leave the door open to let some air in and head out
into the night. The usual mist hangs near the ground along Oleander Crescent, but when I lift my face I can also smell traces of smoke on the breeze.

It’s amazing how the thought of Doctor Gregory can bring on a headache. Even before the night Nia and I came face to face with him in Orphanville, he would harass me with letters about my ‘condition’. I had to look up what ‘psychosomatic hypertrichosis’ meant. Doctor Gregory thinks I’m like this because I’m crazy. The howling, the hair, the appetite, the growth spurt, the muscles—all due to what’s going on in my mind.

After that night, after I beat up Doctor Gregory’s bodyguards, I expected payback for sure. But so far, nothing.

I take Hobson Street towards Ennio’s, the only decent place to get coffee in Shyness. There’s a long trickle of people walking in front of me, and, when I turn to check, quite a few behind. Twenty or so people walking in the same direction. Peak hour. This straight stretch of road is lined with two-storey terraces, mostly Dreamer houses. The only reason to be on Hobson is if you live here, or you’re going to Ennio’s.

I slow my steps, puzzled. Surely not everyone needs a caffeine fix at the same time? The people in front walk metres apart and don’t talk to each other, but, despite this, I can’t shake the feeling they know each other. They don’t look at each other at all, not even with casual curiosity or
out of caution. They walk separated by neat regulated distances. A handful are dressed almost identically, in blue cotton pants and shirts.

I turn around, under the guise of checking the rooftops for tarsier, to see that several of the people behind me are also dressed in the blue uniform. I’m caught in a silent street parade. Everyone walks with purpose, eyes straight ahead. Most are youngish, in their mid-twenties, but there is one middle-aged woman among them. They don’t seem to notice or care that I’m checking them out. I drop into a crouch, pretending to tie my shoelace. I hope no one realises my boots have zips.

‘My boy!’ A voice calls out, whispering and urgent. ‘Over here!’

Someone stands in the shadowy doorway of the closest house, beckoning furiously.

It’s Lupe.

The dark doorway can’t hide the unmistakable red puff of hair, or her tropical tent dress. I wait until the last person has passed me, then join her.

‘What are you doing here?’

I’ve never seen her anywhere other than in sight of her van, and here she is on the other side of Shyness, deep in Dreamer territory. She has a thick cardigan over her parrot dress as a concession to the cold, and a battered handbag thrown over her shoulder.

Her dark eyes crinkle. ‘I am being the spy.’

‘On who?’ I ask. ‘On me?’

‘Always you are thinking you are centre of the universe,’ Lupe smiles. ‘Not you, my boy—Paul.’

I poke my head out of our doorway to see the tail end of the parade turn the corner.

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘He passed already, before you came. I see him walk with blue people.’

‘Let’s go then. We can catch up.’

Lupe throws her hands up. ‘He has long passed and I’m an old woman. I won’t be running all over town.’

‘You’re not old,’ I say, even though she does look shorter and older outside her caravan, without her prize possessions gathered around her. ‘What are you doing on Dreamer’s Row anyway? How long have you been following him?’

Lupe flaps her hand vaguely. ‘I am a few streets away on errand when I see Paul. I think to myself I will talk to him. But then I see the blue people.’

‘You mean the way they’re dressed?’

While I’ve never seen people dressed like hospital orderlies before, Locals go through weird phases all the time.

Lupe pats my cheek. ‘Not just a pretty face, are you?’

I help her down the stairs. I can see the circle of white on the crown of her head where her hair needs touching up. ‘What errands do you have to do?’

‘Is all done, my boy.’ She pats her bulging handbag.

We start down the street. The middle-aged woman I saw earlier is standing in the yard next door, looking at us. A statue at the fence line. I take Lupe’s elbow.

‘Evening,’ I say, keeping us moving.

The woman comes to life, as if my greeting has activated her. Her face becomes animated and stern. She shakes her finger at us. ‘Marcus! How many times have I told you to take off your shoes before you come into the house? Tracking mud everywhere. I just did those floors.’

‘Sorry,’ I play along. I nudge Lupe. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘That’s right,’ says the woman. And then her face changes again. The life ebbs out of it and a confused expression takes over. She looks from me to Lupe.

‘You’re not him, are you?’

‘No, we’re not,’ says Lupe.

‘Slippage,’ says the woman. ‘It happened again.’

Lupe hesitates, and I make it clear we’re leaving. ‘Bye now.’

I walk fast towards Grey Street, still with my arm linked through Lupe’s. She takes three steps to my one. I catch myself frowning at the ground as I walk. Has Paul really found new friends? Is that why he hardly comes home anymore? I wasn’t surprised to be dumped by Thom for Maggie, but I always assumed Paul and I would be tight forever.

‘Lupe, did you actually see Paul talking to those people?’

Lupe shakes her head. Her face is bright with make-up, her eyes sharp. ‘There is no talking but he is one hundred per cent with them.’ She grips my arm tightly. ‘Our Paul is like lost puppy trying to find family.’

‘He’s not lost,’ I say, trying to sound scornful about the idea, even though I haven’t seen him in over a week and if his absences go on much longer he could qualify as lost.

‘Jethro, I do not know if your eyes are open but I see Paul and this pretty girl go together for months. And I think to myself, there is youth and there is happiness. But recently I see Paul, and I see no pretty girl.’

I blink. Lupe is in one of her cryptic moods. I know that Paul was seeing this girl a while back, but her name has slipped from my mind. ‘I still don’t get why you need to spy on him.’

‘Because I only see Paul by his self. Not with pretty girl, not with you. Come to see me, on his own. And when I see him, it does not need a doctor to know that he is lost. And now he is with these people and, Jethro, these people are not normal.’

On Friday I’m neck-deep in

seventies shirts when the door buzzer sounds. I crawl to the edge of the mezzanine and look over, pleased to have an excuse to take in some fresh air. Helen makes sure all our stock is dry-cleaned before it even comes into the store, but there are some things—the chemical reactions that occur when armpits come into contact with polyester, for example—that cannot be erased.

The customer shelters beneath a ruffled black umbrella; the megawatt sun outside is visible even from this position.

‘Hey, are you free up there?’ Ruth calls out from underneath my feet—she’s probably busy with shop regular, Difficult Steve.

I’m about to reply when the words die in my mouth. The customer lowers her brolly, exposing cheeks as pale and perfect as pearls.

I’ve only met her once but I’d recognise her anywhere. It’s Ortolan.

I fall back from the edge of the balcony, suddenly aware of my heart beating in my chest.

I met Ortolan in Shyness, on the night I met Wolfboy. She used to go out with Wolfboy’s brother, Gram, and she’s pretty much the most stylish, nicest person I’ve ever met.

‘Babe?’ Ruth calls out again. ‘I need you down here.’

I risk another peek over the edge of the mezzanine. Ortolan is waiting patiently by the counter. Even as I’m panicking, I’m admiring her black outfit, which she no doubt designed and made herself. Her pants taper in sharply at her ankles, and the sun zings off the shiny gold epaulettes on her shoulders.

Ortolan must be the customer that Helen told me about, the woman who likes gothy things. Helen will kill me if I don’t take special care of her. And I forgot to tell Ruth about the clothes set aside in the storeroom. When I finally trudge down to the ground level, I have a sheepish look on my face. Ruth is stuck over by the LPs, deep in conversation with Difficult Steve. For the first time ever, I understand the saying ‘lamb to the slaughter’. What is she even doing on this side of town?

Ortolan’s face brightens when she sees me. ‘Wildgirl!’

I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure she’d recognise me. We only had a short conversation that night, albeit about the heavy topic of Wolfboy’s dead brother.

‘I’m Ortolan,’ she says, when I don’t respond. ‘I don’t know if you remember—’

‘No, of course I do,’ I say. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

I try to brush down the front of my pants. I’ve been grubbing around in bags of new stock and I’m covered in dust. Even my face feels coated.

‘How long have you worked here? I had no idea. I’ve been coming to Helen for years.’ Ortolan’s hair is the same coppery colour but she’s had it cut shorter, into a smooth bowl cut.

‘Uh, a few months. School holidays.’ I come to my senses and move behind the counter. ‘Helen left some stock out for you.’

I drag the plastic tub out into the open, bending over awkwardly with my bum in the air. It’s hellishly heavy. ‘Where do you want to look at this?’

‘I don’t want to be in your way. How about over by the window?’

There’s a long pause when I straighten up. I scramble for something to say while my cheeks flame red. I’d like to run away before Ortolan mentions anything about that night, but I don’t want to be rude. Her skin is even more
translucent in this light. Faint sea-green veins cross her neck behind her feathered earrings.

‘How is Diana?’ I ask eventually. I think that was her daughter’s name.

Ortolan smiles. ‘She’s great—a real character. It’s frightening how fast she’s growing up. You should come over and meet her some…’

Ortolan’s voice trails off and she looks at her feet, as flustered as me. She knows, then, that Wolfboy never called me. I wonder how close to Ortolan Wolfboy’s become, and what he might have confided in her. For a brief, and stupid, moment I want to ask: How is he? Does he ever mention me? Not ever?

‘And business is good?’ I say instead; my voice sounds thin. I bend down and flip the lid off the tub.

‘It’s good. Better than good, actually. I’m so glad you’ve found a job with Helen, Wildgirl. She really knows her stuff. You’ll learn a lot from her.’ Ortolan holds a black glomesh top up to the light, appraising it critically.

I choose this moment to back away, while my dignity is still partially intact. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m just over here.’

I retreat to the front counter, where Ruth joins me.

‘Sorry I didn’t come downstairs straightaway.’ I drag my fingers through a bowl of buttons. I’m already going over things I could have said differently. What if Ortolan
reports back to Wolfboy that I’m an awkward freak?

‘I would have been fine, but Difficult Steve is in form today.’ Ruth is an excellent mimic. ‘And was this…uh, Herb Alpert recording…made before or, uh…after he disbanded the Tijuana Brass?’

There’s a wracking cough over by the men’s shoes. Difficult Steve stands on the other side of the cowboy boots, not ten metres away. His head is barely visible between the shelves, but there’s no mistaking that moustache.

‘Oh, crap.’ Ruth is stricken. ‘Oh, I feel awful. Do you think he heard?’

I pat her arm. ‘Not unless he has superhuman hearing.’

‘I shouldn’t make fun of him. He means well.’

‘He’s got a little crush on you,’ I say. ‘Duncan had better watch out.’

‘Did you hear Helen has talked him into modelling at Shopping Night on Monday night? Duncan that is, not Difficult Steve. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

‘It’s my first day back at school but Helen made me promise to come weeks ago.’

Ruth starts unpicking a loose hem. ‘You’ll love it. All the best customers will be there—no one misses it.’

I look across to where Ortolan is sorting the clothes into two piles. ‘So, Ortolan is likely to be there?’

‘I’d say so. You don’t like her?’

I could lie at this point, but this is Ruth I’m talking
to. Ruth of the homemade cupcakes and the lifts to the train station. Ruth who manages Helen’s tizziness and is the mother hen of the Emporium, even though she’s only twenty-five, half Helen’s age.

‘No, she’s lovely. But she knows this guy who…someone I used to know.’

Ruth puts down her sewing and fixes me with her clear green gaze. ‘This is to do with that howling boy, right?’

I nod, caught out. I’d totally forgotten how chatty I got on my first Friday night drinks with the Emporium crew. Ruth has powers. Together, she and Helen could extract classified information from the toughest spy. Ruth listens with completely genuine interest while Helen asks the cheeky questions. Much more effective than good cop, bad cop. The government really should get in touch with them.

Helen couldn’t believe I didn’t have a boyfriend, so I told them the bare bones of the story. There’s not much to tell, really, especially the ending, which is a real dud. Boy never calls girl. Girl gives up hope.

Now I can’t imagine anyone being special enough to get my attention. Helen said it will happen to me again, but I have to be patient. I’m sick of being patient, so here’s my new theory: boys can go to hell. I’m going to focus on my schoolwork and get the best grades possible. I don’t need anyone or anything to interfere with that.

Ruth is still looking at me, her needle poised in midair.
‘But this is your chance to find out why he didn’t call you.’

‘I can’t ask about that!’

In the corner Ortolan gathers together the glomesh top and a few other pieces.

‘I couldn’t ask that, could I? I’d look like an idiot.’

Ortolan walks towards us.

Ruth backs away. ‘I’m thinking there’s something I need to check out back…’

‘Ruth!’ I hiss, and grab her wrist, but she’s too fast. The staffroom door bangs behind her. I push aside the buttons, clearing a space on the countertop, and compose myself. Ortolan smiles as she places the clothes in front of me. My face is still on fire.

‘A few gems, as usual,’ she says.

‘Glad to hear it.’ I start ringing them up, thankful I’ve got something to do with my hands.

‘Wildgirl, ah…’ Ortolan doesn’t know where to look, and she’s not the only one. ‘Ah, I’m not foolish enough to ask Jethro about girl stuff, but—’

‘Oh, it’s okay,’ I jump in. ‘You don’t need to explain on his behalf. I got the message loud and clear. He wasn’t interested. It’s okay.’

My feet are telling me to run out the front door and down the street, but I have to stay here and fold clothes. I’m fast becoming a furnace.

‘Oh.’ Ortolan looks confused. ‘I thought…’ She stops
again. ‘I don’t mean to pry…I mean, I don’t know the details of what happened, other than seeing you two together.’ Ortolan blushes, except on her, it just tints her cheeks a delicate pink. ‘I’m really messing this up,’ she says. ‘What I wanted to say was: I’m so glad to see you, and thank you.’

‘Thank you?’

‘Jethro was different after that night. Whatever you said or did, afterwards he was so much more involved with Diana and me.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with me.’

I did tell him to become better friends with her. Even without knowing everything about the situation, it seemed wrong that Wolfboy wouldn’t get to know his niece.

She’s finally able to look at me properly. ‘Well, I happen to think it has everything to do with you. Whatever happened afterwards. Those two boys, Gram and Jethro …I don’t think talking about feelings was encouraged much in their family.’

‘Oh. Right.’ It’s not the right response, but my head is spinning. Ortolan has brought up a painful topic, something she’d rather not think about, purely to make me feel better.

‘You should visit me at my studio, I’d love to see you. Jethro doesn’t need to know about it.’

‘I’d like that.’

Ruth emerges from the staffroom cautiously, just as Ortolan scoops up her bag.

‘Thank you, girls,’ she says, smiling at me before she leaves.

Something weird happens when I leave work. I go to the station as usual, but when I take the escalators down to the subway platforms I find myself stopping a level early. I’m on a northbound train, in the Friday evening crush, before I’ll admit to myself what’s going on.

At Panwood I leave the train, swept along in a tide of commuters who soon flow past me and away. After a few minutes of pretending to look at a parched flower clock, I decide that I might as well continue on.

I walk slowly through concrete-bound narrow streets that trap the summer heat. The closer I get, the more the street traffic thins out. Soon I’m walking alone. The turrets of the Diabetic Hotel climb above the buildings and the sight makes me nervous. The Diabetic marks the border, the unofficial gateway to Shyness.

I can still turn back.

This is only the second time I’ve seen the transition to Darkness during the daytime. The first time I was heading away from the Darkness and Wolfboy, going home after that night. It was early morning and the daylight in Panwood was still dim. Now, though, the summer sun is
last-gasp bright at six-thirty, and the difference between Shyness and Panwood is much more obvious.

My heart has risen in my throat and I feel almost dizzy with what I’m doing. What am I doing?

I stand on the light side of Grey Street and look across into the filmy black night that curtains Shyness. Behind me the automatic door of a supermarket opens and closes, disgorging shoppers. I move across Grey Street, each step taking me closer to the night. A strong smell of smoke hangs in the air.

Once I get close, I stop and shut my eyes, breathless with the thought that Wolfboy is on the other side of this boundary. That I’m playing roulette. That he could be walking down the dark side of Grey Street. That he could turn towards the edge of Shyness, and see me.

What are the chances of that happening? Zilch?

I was so sure he was going to call that for the first five days I didn’t even worry that he hadn’t. Then, after that, every day was torture. I made up excuses for him. Maybe he lost my phone number, maybe Doctor Gregory had kidnapped him, maybe aliens came and took him back to their home planet.

Then, once I’d accepted the awful truth, I pushed him from my mind. I kissed someone else. I concentrated on school. I got over him. And then Ortolan walks into the Emporium, talking about how that night changed him.

I take a deep breath.

A hunched figure shuffles along the footpath on the Shyness side of Grey Street, coalescing out of the gloom. He bends over an overflowing bin, picking through the rubbish. There are no lights on in the shopfronts opposite me. I look up to the telephone lines to see if I can spot any tarsier running overhead, but even they’re somewhere else.

The man finds a squashed packet of cigarettes and crows audibly when he finds a lone cigarette left. He shuffles off without looking at me. When I stick my hand into the Darkness it’s like easing myself into a cold swimming pool. I take a step forward. The night sucks me across the halfway mark and folds me into its arms. Chills.

I jump back out.

The sun prickles my skin. In the warmth I feel ashamed of my weakness in coming here. I don’t care what Ortolan said: Wolfboy has forgotten me. I peel myself away from Shyness, and head towards the things I know.