The Golding

by Sonya Deanna Terry

  He rose, turned away from her and said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  Jolted from drowsy-eyed elation to stunned panic, Izzie tried to speak but couldn’t. What could she say? Had she hurt him? Unnerved him? Repulsed him?

  She’d always suspected aluminium-free deodorants weren’t effective. Angry with her mother and with Lena’s health food shop and with her own ignorance to the fact that Nature-Woman Minus Metal Roll-On—manufactured by Organic Manic—might turn boys off in droves, Izzie covered her eyes with her hand and groaned.

  * * * *

  Submerged in a sea of despair, Izzie clung to the arm of Glorion’s sofa, contemplating the lacklustre days ahead. On Monday she would ask Sara to email a complaint to Organic Manic. Sara’s mum, Dette, someone Izzie had never met, was apparently good at making formal complaints, the reason for Sara’s refund savvy.

  What help was a refund, though, when the painful truth about a dud purchase had chosen to show itself now, through Glorion’s startling response?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all Glorion had to say. He turned to her with sad eyes, or at least, with what someone’s interpretation of sad might be. Izzie couldn’t be sure of anything about Glorion now that her trust in him had shattered. Snuggling up to someone who attracted you was one of those unstoppable things that normally led to slow caressing and fervent kisses. If Nature-Woman Minus Metal Roll-On hadn’t been the reason, then Glorion must only have thought he was interested in her and then decided he’d been mistaken.

  How humiliating! How would she ever live it down? Her very first attempt at giving in to the desires she’d felt had made a boy dash away from her. Her way of loving was wrong. Unacceptable. Punishable by the sight of a tense-shouldered Glorion staring unsmilingly at the walls.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ said Izzie, and a sob escaped from her in a sputtering gasp. How she would manage this, she didn’t know. Her legs felt as though they’d been turned into over-boiled fettuccini and her heart was beating so hard it stung. Now she’d have to trudge to the bus stop, alone, through the darkness.

  Glorion repeated his apology. ‘I’m sorry, Izzie.’

  ‘...Don’t...need your pity, Glorion.’ Her throat rasped. Where was her voice?

  Glorion contemplated. ‘I really wanted to get closer, I really did.’

  Glorion was still fifteen. Maybe he thought most sixteen-year-olds were scarily experienced and that Izzie would insist they go for it on the sofa there and then. ‘If you thought I wanted to have sex, you were wrong,’ Izzie hissed. Like she’d do something as risky—and unfamiliar to her—as that! She’d just wanted to be beside him. They’d kiss and talk, and then he’d walk her back to the esplanade. But this was not to be. Ever.

  ‘I didn’t think that at all, Izzie. Neither of us was planning on having shagging.’

  Izzie didn’t even bother to correct his English.

  Glorion continued. ‘I love being with you Izzie, and I loved that.’

  Izzie sighed. Her hands, crunched into fists in her lap, slackened a little. The distasteful image of a girl outside a windmill appeared in Izzie’s mind. ‘There’s someone else you like,’ she said glumly. ‘You never liked me. You like her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone in Holland. Or someone at school with shiny hair.’ It didn’t matter to her that she’d said something stupid. Nothing mattered now.

  Glorion grinned at Izzie, then shoved his hands in his pockets and said, ‘Not true. It’s only you, Izzie. I only like you.’

  Izzie gulped. ‘Did I scare you then, Glorion?’

  ‘No. It took me plenty of willpowers to detach from you.’

  Izzie’s spirits rose. Not daring to say anything, she waited for further explanation.

  ‘But we can’t get together yet. Things are complicated.’

  ‘Yet?’

  ‘Later, in the future, if you’re still liking someone such as me, then...’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘What do you mean? Glorion, what’s complicated for you? Forget the whole getting together stuff, I don’t care anymore about that.’ This wasn’t strictly true. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong. Is it being an exchange student? Do you have to go soon, is that it?’

  Glorion shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are the authorities after you now that you’ve ditched your host family?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do your mum and dad know where you are?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Izzie groaned. Finding out Glorion’s reasons for putting romance on hold had become a game of Charades. Should she wiggle one ear and demand a ‘sounds like’ to prompt a more informative clue?

  The tea trees rustled. Glorion leapt forward.

  ‘Possums,’ said Izzie vaguely. She went to peer out one of the windows, only to remember that the building was devoid of these.

  A bang shook the walls.

  Izzie shrieked. ‘What’s that?’

  Glorion was poised like a lion about to pounce, the muscles of his jaw taut with apprehension. He stared across at Izzie with widened eyes, then held a finger to his lips to quieten her.

  A thump. Another bang. It rattled the far wall, causing the indoor tropical plants to shudder eerily.

  Glorion stepped forward. He raised his hand in the air, palm facing upwards, and said something in another language, just one word. At the instant he said it the boatshed’s light went out and they were left in darkness.

  Assuming he was swearing in Dutch, Izzie whispered, ‘Someone’s out there tinkering with your electricity.’

  ‘What electricity?’ Glorion whispered back. He had a point. ‘That was me, Izzie. I switched off the lights so my inhabiting of this place wouldn’t be detected through the gap under the door.’

  Izzie was tempted to say, Isn’t it a bit late for that now? It was obvious whoever was out there—more than likely the foreshore authorities who she’d feared would land on them during dinner—had been focused on the building well before Glorion zilched his lights. Perhaps it was someone more sinister. She remained silent, anxious to hear Glorion’s next words.

  She could hear Glorion taking in a breath. ‘Izzie, I have to ask you now to co-operate with me. We’re gonna have to run for it, okay? We’re gonna have to get away from the people who came here before.’

  The people before. Could they have been the people in Glorion’s ‘little room’ story that he’d mentioned getting rid of earlier in the night? She hadn’t entirely believed it at the time, but now it made sense.

  Nodding shakily, then realising Glorion couldn’t see her, Izzie squeaked, ‘Okay,’ and allowed him to take hold of her trembling hand, his touch a reminder of rejection that en­gulfed her like a wave. She wanted to pull away, but the need to follow Glorion’s guidance took precedence over injured feelings.

  Glorion squeezed her hand before letting go of it, then crept to the back of the boatshed.

  Izzie froze at the sound of scrabbling on wood. ‘They’re getting in,’ she wailed.

  ‘That’s just me,’ Glorion said. ‘Again.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You’ll find out in a moment.’

  Glorion took hold of her hand once more and guided her to where he’d been scuffling about. A light flicked on. Glorion was holding a torch. But it wasn’t a torch. It was the asthma-healing crystal! From the crystal beamed a powerful golden glow. ‘You have to go through the tunnel,’ Glorion said, looking ominous when he pulled the crystal close to his chest. The glow illuminated his chin, and shadows blanked out the sockets of his eyes. ‘Follow the light.’ During the next shivery moments, Glorion crouched to aim the healing crystal/torch at a trapdoor between his foot and a rug. Izzie was surprised to hear him laugh. He said, ‘And that doesn’t mean I’m telling you you’ve gotta die.’

  Thinking of it now, it did sound like the accounts people gave of near-death experiences. The tunnel. The light. Not a pleasant thought at that moment. Being pur
sued by someone who might be of murderous intent had her frightened enough without Glorion joking about the passing over process.

  Glorion lifted the door in the floor to reveal a spiralling staircase. ‘I don’t believe it,’ Izzie breathed.

  ‘It’s okay if you don’t believe it.’ Glorion lowered the floor-door outward onto the rolled-up mat. ‘Izzie, I have to ask you to go in there first. Don’t be scared. I gotta lock up this place.’

  Izzie stepped into the beam of Glorion’s crystal that guided her down to a platform beneath the floor. With caution, she edged onto one of the steps, which, bizarrely, appeared to be sculpted from marble: glimmering and purple. She gripped the iron railing, narrow and chillingly cold beneath her grasp, and wound her way down each echoing step. The light from the crystal flicked off. She was at the bottom of the stairs now, again in darkness.

  Glorion was still up in the boatshed. From what Izzie could hear, he was dashing from corner to corner, presumably snatching up his most valued belongings. She shuddered at the idea of Glorion’s pursuers forcing their way in, robbing him of his chance to exit. Was this some kind of dungeon beneath the boatshed? How long would she and Glorion be trapped within its walls? She gripped the end of the bannister to steady her shakes.

  And then the bannister rattled beneath her fingers.

  At the shuffle of steps on the platform, Izzie darted away.

  Resounding through the subterranean hideaway was a shuddering, thumping clang as someone—who Izzie feverishly hoped was Glorion—clambered down the staircase.

  ****

  Rosetta hastened to the sitting room as the clock struck seven, and stared out of the window. No sign of Izzie still. Her state of concern turned into panic when an array of greyed-out golds flooded the empty streets. That was well over an hour ago. Darkness dimmed Ashbury Avenue now…and the images, those gruesome images of the intruder, were on continuous play, triggered earlier by Dominic’s appearance in the backyard.

  She dialled Diondra who expressed concern at the hoarseness in her voice. ‘Um...er...That’s a worry. Charlotte’s been home for ages. We picked her up along with her friend Sara. But I’ll get her to speak to you because Izzie might have told one of them where she was going next. And...maybe Dominic could go and look for her. He’s out at the moment, then he’s due at the airport, but...anyway, I’ll put Charlotte on.’

  Once her mother handed her the phone, Charlotte said in a worried little voice, ‘We all said goodbye at around four-thirty. Izzie said she’d catch a bus.’

  Rosetta then made the perturbing discovery that Izzie’s phone was still at home, dead as a doornail under the desk in her room. Rosetta plugged it in, but the battery was still far from charged. She checked the bus timetables, went outside to pace the verandah where curtains of darkness had closed out the twilight’s charcoal muted purples, then gave Royston another call.

  He greeted her with a nervous, ‘Still not home?’

  Rosetta did her best to ward off tears. ‘If my car hadn’t packed it in on the freeway the other day—’

  ‘Now don’t you worry yourself, lovey. I’ll be there ASAP.’

  As soon as Royston arrived, he drove her to Brighton-Le-Sands. They checked the bus depot, then got out to scan the shore in search of a wandering sixteen-year-old. Rosetta surveyed the ocean, trying desperately to calm the fear tensing her shoulder blades, telling herself this was silly. Why would she expect to see Izzie struggling against the stormy waves? But then, why would Izzie be roaming the beach at this hour?

  ‘The police station’s across the road,’ Royston said gently. ‘We’d better report her missing.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Rosetta love, the sooner you can report this, the greater the chance there is of locating her.’

  Rosetta gulped. Royston was right. And yet going to the police felt like conceding defeat. ‘I...I have to get home.’ She hurried back to Royston’s car. ‘Izzie’s phone will be charged by now.’ She would grab some of the numbers in it and start ringing around. She opened the door and wilted into the passenger seat, saying as Royston climbed in to sit behind the wheel, ‘I can’t believe she left her phone at home. I guess she probably thought it was no use to her with the battery at zero.’

  Royston started up the motor. ‘We’ll go back,’ he soothed, ‘we’ll access those numbers of friends she keeps in her phone, and we’ll give them a call.’ His methodical slowness eased the race of her mind. ‘Who knows? She could have bumped into a group from school she’s friendly with. They might have decided to throw her a party of their own.’

  Uncertain now, Rosetta shook her head. ‘If that were the case, I’m sure she would have borrowed a phone to let me know where she was.’

  Royston’s car lurched out onto the esplanade. Blurs of light emanating from street lamps were half smudged out by layers of misty gloom. The faint echo of a lone singer rose up from somewhere, yodelling a teary ballad.

  ‘I have a feeling a boy might be involved here, Rosetta,’ Royston said. ‘Someone Izzie fancies who has her losing all sense of time.’

  Rosetta eyed Royston’s profile. At that moment his hairless scalp shone, illuminated by the lights of a passing car. It was like the Dalai Lama had spoken. Her heart flickered with hope. ‘Do you think so?’

  Normally a statement like that would concern her. Considering the circumstances, the idea of Izzie being with a boy she felt safe with was far preferable to the idea of Izzie being in danger. A teenaged daughter letting passion override sense was every mother’s fear, but it wasn’t the worst fear a mother could have.

  Royston attempted a cheery voice. ‘I’m sure that’s all it is. A party or a romance. Teenagers are chronic at forgetting to arrive home on time when there’s fun to be had. You have to remember how you would have been at that age.’

  ‘Let’s not go there.’

  ‘But Izzie’s no wild child like you apparently were. She might even be home by now.’ Glancing away from the road, he flashed a comforting smile.‘Scampering up the verandah steps as we speak.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Roystie. I certainly hope you’re right.’

  Beyond the Norfolk Island pines lining the road, the foamy blackened sea curled upwards and crashed as though angry with the moon that played on its edges, a wind-billowed cloak enveloping a collar of silver-flecked lace.

  It had been a difficult day. The house, the car, the cat, the job, and now Izzie, had all given her grief. Nothing else mattered, though, if Izzie came home. She would cease to obsess about their plummeting circumstances if Izzie returned safely that evening.

  Rosetta noticed then, on the other side of the road, the outline of a figure. He was wrapped in a cloak, the same kind of cloak she’d moments ago thought the roiling waves resembled. They neared him. Not a cloak at all. He stepped onto the road, fixed his gaze on Rosetta and regarded her with a sneer. The hatred in that disconcerting glare threatened to bore holes through the windscreen. Rosetta twisted round in her seat to observe him. Another car passed. Its headlights threw up a glimpse of goatish pale eyes and pinprick pupils.

  Black trailing coat over stonewash denim jeans. Boots. Long black hair that skimmed his waist. Rosetta’s skin turned to ice. ‘Stop the car!’

  ‘What’s the matter? Did you see her?’ Royston checked the rear-vision mirror. Swerved the car to the kerb.

  ‘It’s not Izzie, it’s him,’ Rosetta said in a gasp. ‘The laundry man...the man with the long fingernails. Him.’

  ‘Who’s the laundry man?’ Royston was shaking his head in confusion. ‘Oh! That creepy guy at your old place?’

  Rosetta clasped the handle of the car door. She levered the handle and scrambled out of the car. There he was. Further back alongside the footpath, wending his way around the pines. She marched forward.

  ‘Rosetta! What in Christ’s name are you going to do?’

  ‘Demand to know what he’s doing out here.’

  Royston jumped out of the car. ‘You can’
t do that!’

  She flung herself around to face him. ‘Royston, my daughter’s gone missing. That man...’ She tried to keep her voice from screeching. ‘That man is a stalker. I’ve got to confront him.’

  What was he doing in Brighton-Le-Sands of all places? He’d been in Punchbowl the last time she’d seen him. Punchbowl was miles away. Why here? Why was this twisted individual lurking around the site of Izzie’s birthday picnic?

  ‘Then I’m coming with you.’

  Rosetta rushed towards the stranger, her eyes on his outline: menacing jagged angles against the night sky.

  ‘It might just be that he’s developmentally delayed, Rosetta. Not harmful. Like you said, he was crouched over the dryer watching the clothes go round.’

  They were now within a few steps of him. He hadn’t moved much, having now stooped over the base of a pine tree to stab at the ground with a twig. To conserve her breath, Rosetta slowed to a brisk walk. ‘He was caught looking in bedroom windows,’ she said. ‘He eats reptiles.’

  ‘It’s possible of course that he might be dangerous.’ Royston’s words had quickened. ‘Why don’t you stay here? I’ll go and have the chat with him. It’s better doing it like that because he doesn’t know me, whereas he knows you from the flats.’

  ‘Like that matters to me.’

  ‘But he might get nasty. I don’t think we should take that risk.’

  Before she could protest, Royston told her he’d be better able to get information out of the stranger because of his less agitated state. ‘Mind these,’ he commanded, passing her his wallet and keys. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She noticed his fingers were trembling. He turned and ventured towards the pine trees.

  In the little amount of light available, Royston contracted into a faint and ghostly figure as he made his approach. The man was now crouching, just as he’d crouched in front of the laundry dryer. Rosetta shuddered. Slowed her breathing. How could anyone sane lower a lizard onto their tongue?

  The man held up a small rounded container with a handle.