The Golding

by Sonya Deanna Terry

  Encouraged by the kindness in the author’s eyes, Matthew stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ‘Matthew Weissler. I enjoyed your book.’ Conan Dalesford shook the hand Matthew offered. ‘I was sorry to miss the launch. I'd hoped to ask what inspired you to write Thoughts on Tomorrow’s Tycoon War.’

  ‘There’s a short answer to that,’ Dalesford said, ‘and a long one. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Take your time. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘And I need a Sydneysider to direct me to a good place to eat, so if you’re in no rush to get home, Matthew, we can discuss the book over dinner.’

  Matthew hadn’t been relishing the evening ahead with Bernadette. She hadn’t spoken to him now for three days. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but having a pub meal with someone affable whose work he’d grown to admire sure beat the prospect of those icy stares.

  Once at the George Street brasserie that adjoined the bar with the fancy lampshades and boasted an eclectic bill of fare, Dalesford said, ‘So tell me. How did you happen upon the book I wrote?’

  ‘By accident,’ Matthew said. ‘I hate to have to tell you this, but I found it in the rubbish.’

  ‘The rubbish!’ Dalesford shook his head. Grinned slightly. ‘Interesting way to find it.’ His blue eyes glimmered a little. ‘Do you know who threw it out?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact. It was a colleague of mine.’ Matthew thought back to the day of the incident. He’d been heading to his underground car park via the Martin Place Station arcade. A conversation with Adam Harrow about the Greenknowe takeover had bled into the domain of after-hours, but only because they’d caught the same Mezzanine Level lift.

  Matthew had unwittingly followed the guy on a detour into an eccentric little shop, the same place Conan Dalesford exited earlier, a mystic’s paradise that sold cards and wrapping and reeked of burning myrrh. An autumn-toned poster at the far end had caught Matthew’s eye. Harrow had hung around to make a purchase, and Matthew had continued on to the news stand, noting in his BlackBerry to get Mothers’ Day gift wrap there the following day. Laura’s request was for ‘something pink and dotty’.

  Harrow had caught up with him, the package he’d bought now shoved under one arm. ‘Don’t waste your breath on the Greenknowe bastards,’ he’d said. ‘If we’re lucky, they’ll hang in their own noose.’ He’d then powered towards the escalators and flipped his unopened purchase into a bin.

  Matthew had glared at the back of his colleague’s blond head. A sense of injustice at the wasting of something new had compelled him to cross to the bin and peer inside. Before long, he’d found himself reaching into the chaotic assortment of sticky drink cans and polystyrene burger boxes.

  ...‘Literally bought and binned,’ Matthew told Dalesford. ‘I was right behind the guy, so I nabbed it. Opened it when I got home and from then on out I was hooked.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Dalesford. ‘What sort of fellow would throw away an unread book?’

  Contemplating Harrow and the slippery dishonesty that defined him, Matthew tried not to grit his teeth. ‘A very unlikeable fellow.’

  He left the table to get drinks. On the way to the bar, he collided with a hefty geezer carrying a full tray of steins. The tray crashed down. One of the steins smacked painfully against his left knee. His knee locked, a flare-up from a previous sprain. Intent on delaying lurching into the embarrassing half-limp these flare-ups generally caused, Matthew spent more time than necessary collecting each of the spilled glasses from the floor, alongside the apologetic tray carrier, then walked as steadily as he could to the bar.

  When he returned to the table, Dalesford said, ‘Running injury?’

  Matthew handed Dalesford his schooner. ‘I used to compete in marathons.’

  Dalesford dug out a small black box from his trolley bag, took something from it and held his fist out to Matthew. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Hold this for a sec. It might just settle the pain.’

  Something jagged and cold fell into Matthew’s palm. A crystal. Clear quartz probably. He closed his fingers around it.

  A shot of heat ran up his arm. He jumped. He opened his hand again. Could the stone have changed colour? He musn’t have observed it closely enough at the start. Its white flecked facets had lively veins of electric blue running through them.

  He blinked, and a flash of silver engulfed the room. ‘Whoa!’ he said. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘That storm must be close!’ Matthew turned to one of the bar windows, perplexed by the absence of accompanying thunder.

  ‘You sure about that? The sky looked pretty clear on our walk here. We Territorians keep attuned to impending storms.’

  ‘The lightning. It lit up the room.’

  ‘I think,’ Dalesford leaned forward, ‘that it came from the crystal. It was only you who saw that, Matthew.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Matthew held the gem up to the light. Examined it in disbelief. He didn’t have much knowledge of crystals. Hippies and the like tended to attribute mysterious powers to them, a claim that was, in Matthew’s opinion, the product of misguided idealism. Perhaps he’d been too sceptical. Perhaps the New Age fruit-loops had something on him. Always prudent, he supposed, to keep an open mind. ‘Where do you get one of these?’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I ran that one up in my workshop back in Alice Springs.’ A smudge of a smile played on Dalesford’s lips. ‘It’s a poor imitation though.’

  Matthew tried to dilute his surprise. ‘A poor imitation?’

  A poor imitation of what?

  * * * *

  Friday night, a non-book-group-meeting night, and two more sleeps until her day off for the week. Rosetta would have stayed longer at the launch she’d organised, but Izzie needed to be driven to Charlotte’s birthday bash.

  Once she’d stumbled inside with full bags of groceries, Izzie flew into the hallway and told her a lift had already been arranged.

  Rosetta groaned. ‘If only you’d texted me about that, Izzie. I could have stayed and talked more with Conan Dalesford!’

  ‘Sorry. My phone’s been charging.’

  ‘Ah well. It’s done now.’ In truth, she was pleased to be home. When she’d leapt onto the Burwood-bound train and flopped into a seat, her legs had protested heavily against all the overtime.

  She went to work preparing an old Greek favourite, rosemary and lentil soup. When the kitchen all but pulsated with the sharply comforting aromas of homegrown herbs and butter-fried onion, she left the medley to simmer and updated her Lillibridge site.

  Izzie scooted into the study and asked for suggestions on what to pair with her slimline jeans. They settled on the sweet little top with medieval sleeves that Izzie had bought with her bowling alley earnings. Although simple and blue-grey, the top was an uncanny match for Izzie’s eyes and complemented the trimness of her sportsy figure.

  Once a car rolled into the driveway, Rosetta gave Izzie a quick hug and handed her the little rose quartz pendant from Crystal Consciousness, which she’d managed to wrap before introducing Conan Dalesford to a gathering of launch attendees.

  ‘Charlotte will love this,’ Izzie said, waving the package above her head. ‘Just about everything she owns is pink!’ Then she was off for an evening of girlish babble, punctuated probably, with the drumbeats of Boyd Levanzi songs. And boys? Rosetta knew boys were in­vited. When she’d asked if any ‘hotties’ were going, Izzie had become un­typically evasive.

  Later that evening after drying the dishes, Rosetta staved off dieter’s guilt and indulged in another slice of jam-on-toast. Wishing the breadbox had originally come with a dieter-proof lock, she turned away from it and fixed herself a cup of cocoa. Keen to breathe in the cool night air, she scanned Ashbury Avenue through the sitting room window. No-one lurking near the front garden. She relaxed her shoulders and wandered out to the verandah.

  I’m getting paranoid, she told herself. We’re safe at th
is new address. Completely safe. The lizard eater can’t creep up on us here.

  Inside, the antique clock relayed the half-hour in a single dramatic chime. Izzie would be home soon. The Wallaces had promised to drop everyone back by eleven. Sleepy chirrups of baby birds filtered through the stillness. Amid a clump of lacy ferns by the letterbox, the Japanese maple stood sentry over the footpath, deep maroon against a darkened sky. In the daytime breeze its leaves were a vivid conglomeration of shivering scarlet stars. Izzie was planning on immortalising these with her pastels.

  The pastels, a Christmas gift two years earlier, were now little more than a spectrum of squashy stubs. Laughing slightly at the recollection of her daughter’s dogged perseverance with them, Rosetta made a mental note to keep an eye out for discounted art supplies. At this stage, affording Izzie’s birthday presents was still looming large. Caroline had mentioned there might be an extra shift at the shop. She’d snap that up on Monday if it became available. While one more shift would mean working fifteen days straight without a break, lately she didn’t mind how often she worked there. Now that the Green Eyed Guy had potentially become a regular customer, the notion of serving at the Crystal Consciousness counter had taken on a peppy new radiance.

  Deep in thought, Rosetta sat down on the verandah steps, recalling last Sunday’s bizarre events. Oddly, the unnamed tarot requester on the phone and Molly Carr, the woman in the dream, seemed as though they were one and the same. Both had lilting inflexions and bell-like laughter. And in true Alice in Wonderland style, Rosetta’s subconscious had conjured a white rabbit. She could still feel its soft fur on her hands. It had been a startlingly affectionate creature, more puppy than bunny.

  She reached for her mug of cocoa. With a clunk, the mug skittled over the side of the step. ‘Saves a few calories,’ she reasoned, reaching for the cup at the foot of a chrysanthemum.

  A flash of white fur leapt from the garden bed. She jolted forward.

  A rabbit with a grey splodge on its back.

  Molly’s rabbit?

  ‘But that was a dream,’ Rosetta reminded herself.

  Curry was only a dream.

  * * * *

  The curving line of ruby taillights had drawn to a stop.

  Matthew settled his foot on the accelerator, eager to get home and online to check next Friday’s flights to the Northern Territory. When he’d mentioned remaining in contact, Dalesford’s suggestion of visiting him and his wife at their Alice Springs property appeared to be little more than a nicety, but Dalesford had repeated the invitation by adding, ‘We’ll only be there for another fortnight, then we’re off to explore Denmark, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. Why don’t you fly up and stay with us next weekend?’

  Time seemed to have passed quickly in the bar. Dalesford’s stance on the global monetary system mostly opposed Matthew’s own views. They’d discussed where they believed the world was heading, and Matthew had seized upon the challenge of defending an imperfect but workable survival framework. ‘The world will always run on money,’ he’d told Dalesford.

  The author had countered this with, ‘Don’t be so sure. Time is a cycle. Returning to the values of aeons ago, before money or bartering came into being, might well become a necessity.’

  The traffic lurched forward. Matthew jiggled his foot in time to the ’50s swing rhythms on the car radio. His knee had recovered remarkably well, considering the force of the tray’s jolt. He’d been expecting to ice-pack it, but the usual damage control of numbing the pain and arranging a physio appointment didn’t appear to apply. He’d been surprised at the ease in his step when he’d descended a concrete stairwell to the parking station, probably one of the reasons he hadn’t succumbed to impatience at tonight’s dawdling traffic. A sense of collectedness was kerbing his usual white-knuckled reactions. He felt focused and unhassled, and surprisingly upbeat.

  He was pressing ahead now, aware of a tune, an overriding whistling sound that conflicted sharply with Sedaka’s carefree take on relationship bust-ups. He tinkered with the radio. The melodious whirr had invaded every other channel! It was even backdropping news bulletins and accompanying the late-night rants of a shock-jock, a semi-lullaby softening every livid exclamation. He leaned forward to switch it off just as a P-plater swung out in front of him.

  ‘What the...!’ Matthew’s reflexes snapped into action.

  His car tyres screeched. The steering wheel escaped from his grip as though controlled by invisible hands and spun him into a side street.

  A collision with the median strip. A diagonal skid towards the kerb.

  He steadied the Jag and pulled up to regain his cool. The median strip prevented any immediate chance of returning to the highway.

  He breathed out forcefully. The shock, seeming to have settled in shards at the base of his lungs, had begun to ease. He leaned forward to read a badly lit street sign. A couple of right-hand turns would lead him back.

  After a few seconds’ reflection on the catastrophe that might have transpired, Matthew became aware once more of the faint melody. Low and haunting. The soft, sweet whistle of a pipe made from reed. Again he attempted to deaden the radio, only to realise he’d succeeded the first time. The radio’s lights were off, and yet the tune was still playing.

  Perhaps the sound was coming from within. Perhaps there was something amiss with his ears. Whistling from Tinnitus? A possibility, but he’d never heard Tinnutis described as tuneful.

  Trying to ignore the mellow tones that were disconcertingly similar to music Peter Piper had played, Matthew started up the motor and continued along a street peppered with double-gabled homes: interwar cottages exuding mustard-gold light from their square and circular windows.

  He made a swift turn into Ashbury Avenue.

  The tune quavered and rippled, then dissolved into silence.

  * * * *

  Rosetta watched in fascination. The rabbit, possibly one of the neighbours’ pets, was now bouncing across the moonlit lawn. At the letterbox it paused to smooth a paw across its whiskers, dandelion tail twitching feverishly.

  Grooming complete, it zipped between the rockery and driveway, then lolloped right onto the road.

  A glimmer of car lights flickered at the end of Ashbury Avenue. The hum of a motor drew near. The rabbit turned to stare.

  Rosetta rocketed to the kerb. In a frantic attempt to wave down the motorist, she flung her arms above her head. Her vision had blurred. Both the rabbit and approaching car were almost entirely blotted out with a random burst of those lilac and lemon silver-edged splodges. She shook her head and blinked twice. The car slowed and eased to a halt.

  She flew to the centre of the road and stooped to gather up the bundle of fur. The bundle of fur sprang sideways. Rosetta sprang after it. It hesitated, then hopped forward. Rosetta hopped forward. Missed.

  ‘Everything okay?’ a self-assured voice called from the car.

  The voice seemed to have a clearing effect on the stars in Rosetta’s eyes. They twirled upwards, then disappeared in a mysterious puff of light. Still doubled over, she raised her hand in silent response. Calling out at this stage might cause the rabbit to shelter under the vehicle in fright.

  Becoming aware of a rumbling whirr that sounded frustratingly like the approach of another car from the opposite direction, Rosetta tiptoed towards her target.

  The rabbit bounded up to her. Rosetta dived on it. ‘Gotcha!’ Her hands encompassed the trembling fluff-ball, but when she curled her fingers into a clasp, her knuckles smacked against the asphalt. The rabbit had somehow slipped across to the other side of the car; was now blinking at her with dewy eyes. ‘Who do you think you are?’ she grumbled. ‘The Energizer Bunny?’

  Her hands had gone right through the rabbit! She grasped at it again. The animal eyed her and then seemed to fade. Melted gradually into the darkness.

  How could this be? She knew she wasn’t dreaming this time.

  And then it vanished altogether.

  Utterly confuse
d now, Rosetta rose unsteadily, palms thrust out. Her mouth had dropped open. She could barely manage to speak. Finally addressing the open window of a car she’d stopped unnecessarily, a Jaguar the colour of cherries, she called faintly, ‘Wasn’t a rabbit...’

  She’d been pursuing a hallucination! Imagining how this must have looked, her confusion turned to embarrassment. She rose to her full height, tossed her head and marched smartly back to the house.

  A hallucination! What could have caused her to hallucinate? People were known to start seeing things when they’d missed out on a severe amount of sleep, and yet she’d never suffered from fatigue. And those weirdly disrupting purple and yellow silver-lined stars...were they a hallucination too? She still hadn’t sourced the reason for their randomness.

  Once at the verandah steps, she heard, ‘Mum! What were you doing?’

  She turned to see Dominic Wallace, his daughter Charlotte, and Izzie, standing next to Dominic’s four-wheel-drive. Staring at her. Again. This must have been the true meaning of déjà vu!

  Adopting her best in-control manner, she said, ‘You must have crept up on me. I didn’t realise you were here.’

  ‘You did look fairly busy,’ said Dominic, smirking.

  ‘Had you lost something on the road?’ said a polite Charlotte.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Rosetta said. ‘I had. But I’ve found it now.’ Changing the subject, she added, ‘And you enjoyed your birthday, sweetie?’

  While Charlotte answered in the affirmative and voiced her appreciation for the rose quartz pendant, Rosetta became aware of Izzie glaring at her.

  ‘Thanks so much, Dominic, for bringing Izzie home.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Rosetta,’ he drawled, analysing her cleavage. ‘Always welcome.’

  Izzie stomped up the steps ahead of Rosetta.

  Once inside, Izzie turned to her, face red with what looked to be a mixture of anger and humiliation. ‘Mum, can I ask what you told the person in the car after you stopped leaping about?’