‘But I have. I’ve read many books.’
He looked unconvinced. Joanne sighed. ‘Well, let’s talk about something else. Can you suggest a topic? Something you’d like to talk about?’
‘Atavisms.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Throwbacks. Some people are less human than others. They see a world in red. Like hungry animals, plain and simple. And that’s how they live, too, and everyone else is scared to death of him, of that throwback. He’s a monster, because he’s what we all were, once upon a time. Sometimes he’s just a big black shadow, right on our heels no matter how fast we run. Sometimes he’s all covered in fur, and he goes around killing people, but sometimes he doesn’t do that, he doesn’t do anything at all. He just lies there, and you try and go around him but you can’t because he’s too big. Even when he disappears, his shadow stays behind, and it like whispers in your head. That’s what Gary thinks he is, but he isn’t. Lynk’s afraid. That’s why he lied, plain and simple.’
‘Where on earth did you get all this?’
Owen leaned back, gloating. ‘Jack London’s Before Adam.’
V
The huge geared wheel painted on the candle factory’s yellow wall seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, in minute increments like a giant clock. I stared up at it as I approached the building, my conversation with Miss Rhide running through my mind.
She’d run out of things to say to me, questions to ask, not long after I’d talked about the throwback. While Before Adam had shown me the bestial character named Red-Eyes, and had taught me the word atavism, I realised, even as I spoke, that Red-Eyes was no different from Grendel, the monster in Beowulf. And that, like the body that had come down the river, they were all part of something else, all imperfect reflections of something primal and yet still alive.
Already – after my very first day – I saw Rhide walking among them. I didn’t know why she belonged in that company, but she did. And for me, there was no escaping her. I felt that she would haunt me all my life, the same way the body haunted me, the same way Red-Eyes sometimes stalked my dreams.
The factory’s door was padlocked, the front windows barred. Around the side facing the school, the high grasses and thistles hid a basement window. We’d worked the latch loose once, early in the summer, and it was the factory’s cavernous basement that Roland had suggested as the place to meet.
I pushed through the grasses, paused to look around, then quickly crawled through the opening.
I heard Roland’s voice. ‘He’s here.’
The drop from the window was about seven feet, down along a gritty, damp wall of large cut stone. An inner wall had been bolted to it once, but only the rust-smeared fittings remained. The floor felt gritty under me as I turned to face the others.
Lynk had lit candles, dozens of them, all over the floor, throwing out knee-high yellow light that revealed an ordered forest of wood postings, rising up to a tin ceiling stamped with ornamental patterns. At the far end of the room – which reached across the entire building – rose a steel staircase, powdered with rust where the black paint had flaked off.
Lynk paced, not meeting my eye as I entered the shadow-webbed light. Carl sat with his back against one of the posts, holding a lit candle and letting the wax drip on to his other hand.
I felt myself getting tense. ‘Okay,’ I said, eyeing Roland who stood opposite me. ‘Not so bad. Not even an hour. Rhide talked and talked. Big deal.’
‘What is this?’ Lynk demanded. ‘We’ve got nothing to meet about. For fuck sake.’
‘That’s not true,’ Roland said. ‘We’ve got to decide.’
‘Decide what?’ I asked.
‘What to do. About the body. I think we should tell the cops.’
Lynk walked up to Roland. ‘What body?’ He pushed Roland back a step with a straight arm to his chest. ‘It’s fucking gone,’ he said, pushing again.
‘We don’t know that,’ I said, watching Roland. ‘We haven’t been back. We haven’t checked.’ Roland had been needed on the farm that day we’d agreed to go, and I think we were both relieved. At any rate, we didn’t talk about it again.
Lynk pushed Roland again. ‘No fucking body. Probably wasn’t real in the first place.’
‘Oh, come off it, Lynk. Me and Roland took a good long look. He’s real, and he’s still there.’
‘How the fuck do you know?’
‘Where else would it be? The water level stayed down. That beaver lodge is high and dry. It’s still there.’
‘Have you looked, Owen?’ Roland asked.
‘No. Don’t have to.’
Lynk shoved Roland hard with both hands. Roland staggered, his foot rolling on a candle. He fell heavily.
I waited for him to get up, to beat the shit out of Lynk. Instead, he slowly climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his pants.
Lynk approached Carl. ‘What about you, Carlie?’
Carl dropped his gaze. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled.
Lynk pushed his palm against Carl’s forehead. The back of the boy’s head thumped loudly on the wood post. Carl rolled away.
Lynk laughed. ‘Hear that sound? Hah, fucking great – Carlie’s got a hollow head.’
I sighed, leaned against a post. ‘Well, you’ve had a fun day, Lynk. Lying to Thompson, kissing Rhide’s ass, trying to get me and Jennifer into shit. So what’s got you so scared?’
‘I ain’t. I ain’t fucking scared, not of you. Gonna kick me in the balls? Come and try it.’
‘I was thinking about it,’ I said.
He went still, facing me for the first time. His thin face twisted into a sneer. ‘Me and Gary and Dennis – we’re gonna beat the fuck out of you.’
‘Three against one?’ I laughed, though my heart was hammering. ‘Real tough, you guys.’
‘You fight dirty. That’s what we do to pricks like you.’
I wondered if my expression showed my fear. I gave him a grin. ‘I’ll take you on. Any time. Gary and Dennis can pound away – I’ll go for you, Lynk. Just you. You’ll find out how dirty I am. Guaranteed. You know how easy it is to dig an eye out with a finger? It just pops out, just like that.’
‘Fuck you.’
Roland’s punch caught Lynk – and me – completely off guard. The knuckles cracked hard against Lynk’s cheek. He reeled back, hands thrown up to his face, then bent over and leaned on the wall.
Roland sounded apologetic as he said, ‘I don’t like being pushed.’
I smiled when he turned to me, but there was no response, the eyes flat. ‘I think we should go back and look. To make sure. Then call the cops. What do you want to do?’
‘Don’t know,’ I said, watching Lynk slowly straightening, tears running down his face, probing the split cheek under his right eye. He was going to have a shiner, a nice dark one. ‘We can go look, sure. But I don’t know about the cops.’
‘How come?’
I shrugged. ‘Not sure. They’ll probably tear up the beaver lodge. The beavers never did anything. And muskrats live there, too.’
Roland studied me. I knew my reason sounded lame, but it was the truth. It was autumn already. The beavers needed a place before winter arrived. Same for the muskrats.
‘Didn’t think of that,’ Roland said. ‘It’s like the bear, isn’t it? Like when my dad wouldn’t shoot it. It’s like that, I think.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t know. But it feels the same.’
‘You’re all fucking shits,’ Lynk rasped. ‘Fighting dirty, like a buncha fags. You’re all fags. The body’s gone, you won’t find nothing. I took it. All the bones. I hid them, so fuck you.’
Carl jumped to his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.
I felt something cold seep through me. ‘Where the fuck is it?’ I asked, my voice sounding brittle. ‘Come on, you piece of turd, Lynk.’ I stepped closer. ‘Where the fuck is it?’
Carl moved back, his eyes flicking from me to Lynk and back again, someth
ing eager in his face.
‘He’s lying,’ Roland said. ‘We’ll go look. He just doesn’t want us to go look. Lynk’s a liar.’
‘Go ahead!’ he shouted, one hand to his cheek. ‘You won’t find it! It’s mine, now.’
I took another step in his direction. Lynk flinched back, then went to the window. He pulled up the wood crate we used as a step. ‘You’re all fucking losers.’
I moved to stop him. I wanted to pull him down, fling him to the floor. I wanted to beat on him until the truth came out. My thoughts all seemed natural, cool and logical. Lynk was lying. I’d beat the truth out, so he’d learn what lying meant. No more uncertainty, about anything.
‘Let him go,’ Roland said.
I wheeled around. ‘Why?’
‘He’s lying.’
‘I know!’ I shouted.
‘Well,’ Roland drew the word out, ‘it won’t work. All we have to do to prove it is go there, to the body. Let him go.’
Lynk pulled himself up through the opening, his feet kicking as he squirmed through. A moment later he was gone.
Carl reached down for a candle. ‘He’s lying,’ he said.
‘Let’s go look,’ I said.
‘Tomorrow,’ Roland said. ‘It’s supper-time.’
‘All right. I’ll try not to get detention.’
‘Good luck,’ Roland said. ‘Rhide’s picked you out. You and Jennifer. Jennifer always gets picked. She grew up too fast.’
It was an odd thing to say, but as soon as he said it, I knew it was true. ‘I’m meeting her after supper,’ I said. ‘We should get going. Fuck, what a day.’
* * *
He’d been reassembling it. Piece by piece, it grew each evening, gleaming and perfect. The machine looked bigger than ever, there in front of the garage. There was still enough light from the dying day to make its ancient lines and shapes visible, a machine that belonged to this hour, to the gloom and the quiet evening air, as if it were made to manufacture twilight.
I circled it, my footfalls as quiet as I could make them on the oil-soaked asphalt. My breaths came slow and deep, inhaling its steel scent, pulling it far into me.
My old Sunday school teacher once told me how I was supposed to feel when going into a church. What she’d described had just been words – for me, churches had always felt emptied out, like a husk of something long dead. But those words, of awe and quiet wonder, returned to me now, as if they were what I was feeling, here in front of the machine in our yard’s treed cathedral.
Father emerged from the garage. ‘Long day, eh?’ he said, studying me a moment before continuing, ‘Got a call from your teacher.’
I rested a hand on the machine. ‘Miss Rhide.’
‘Yeah. Your mother took the call. We were expecting you a half-hour ago.’
‘Sorry.’
He hesitated, his hands on his hips, his face looking chalky and gaunt in the failing light. ‘Seems there’s a pattern here, Owen.’
I nodded, running my hand along the cowling. ‘Patterns, lots of them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s always a new school, isn’t it? Every year. What am I supposed to do, get beaten up?’
He sighed. ‘I figured it was some kind of warning to the other kids. Do you bully them around for the rest of the year?’
‘No. I leave them alone, so long as they leave me alone. I don’t keep fighting all year. You know that.’
‘Where’d you learn to kick between the legs?’
‘I don’t know.’ I frowned. ‘No, wait. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Butch does it to this big guy with a knife. Anyway, the only important thing is winning. Winning the fight.’
He leaned against the engine, crossing his arms. ‘How do you do it, exactly?’
I fidgeted. ‘Well, uh, I keep my hands down until he’s close enough. Then I lift them and that’s what he looks at, so that’s when I kick him. My leg’s longer than my arms, so he’s not expecting it.’
He studied me a while longer. ‘Got that from the movie?’
‘No.’
‘Figured it out for yourself.’
‘I’ve had to think about it a lot.’
‘Because it’s a new school every year.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Makes life hard for a kid, eh?’
‘Well,’ I said, shrugging, ‘it’s just a pattern, like you said.’
Father turned around, leaned on the machine’s engine, his arms resting on its top, his chin on his hands. He stared out at the dark yard. ‘Sorry about that, son.’
‘What? It’s not your fault! Don’t say that – I don’t want you to, ’cause it’s not right.’
‘I know you know,’ he said. ‘That we’re doing our best. You have to believe you can get out of a rut, that you’re not doomed to spend all your life in it. It’s a hard climb, sometimes, and, well, sometimes you wish someone could just give you a push. That’s all it’d take. Up and out, eh?’ He fell silent again, while the darkness seeped in around us, then he sighed. ‘Your mother’s better at this than I am. If words were tools…’
‘You’d fix the world,’ I finished, grinning. ‘I’m, uh, sorry about the fight.’
‘No. You do what you have to do. No apologies, you said. Let’s make that go both ways.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Let me go in and talk to your mom first, though.’
‘I guess she’s pretty mad, huh?’
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s not as bad as you think. Oh, she’s mad, but not at you.’
I didn’t want him to leave just yet. ‘So, when are you going to start this up?’
He paused on the steps. ‘Tried. Wouldn’t go. Needs some fine-tuning, I guess.’
I let out a long breath. He couldn’t know, but what he’d just told me, so casual and unmindful, had left me feeling crushed. I didn’t know why – it was just some old machine, after all. He’d get it started soon, I was sure. But I felt myself trembling.
Father climbed the steps, then stopped at the door. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, ‘your mother’s entertaining tonight, so be on your best behaviour.’
I stared at his dim form, realising that my mouth was open. ‘Entertaining? Who?’
‘Jennifer. She came by earlier, told us her version of what happened. Told us about this Gary boy. Her and your mom have been having a long talk, about lots of things.’
‘Oh my God,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Throw a tarp over that thing then come inside.’
* * *
They sat in the living room like old friends. William had planted himself on Jennifer’s lap and looked like a king on his throne, his face flushed with glory.
I don’t blame him.
‘Hungry, Owen?’ Mother asked from her chair. Her eyes glittered, as if she were seeing me for the first time. In a new way, a terrible, enlightened and bold new way. ‘There’s banana bread in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘You can eat in here, if you like.’
God, I don’t have any choice, do I? Look at them, the cups of coffee on the table, the full ashtray, the crumpled napkins and the plates with crumbs on them, the stockinged feet. Jennifer had gone home to change. She was wearing a dress, looking beautiful and … appalling. ‘Um, sure,’ I managed. ‘I’ll be right back.’
In the kitchen I stood by the sink, staring at the oven and wishing I could crawl inside it. Instead, I cut a slice of banana bread, mixed up a glass of chocolate milk, found a napkin in a drawer, and returned to the living room. Father had disappeared, of course. Probably in the oven.
‘Where’s Debbie and Tanya?’ I asked, not really interested in knowing, but needing something harmless to say.
‘Debbie’s giving her a bath,’ Mother said. ‘Come and sit down, Owen. No, on the sofa, beside your girlfriend. Not on the other end, beside her. There, now. So tell us what happened during your detention. Did you pass the maths test?’
‘No test,’ I said. ‘Miss Rhide just asked
me lots of questions.’
Mother raised an eyebrow. She reached for her cigarettes. ‘About … Goldfinger?’
I glared at Jennifer. ‘Yeah, sorta.’
‘No, no, Owen. I want to get an idea of who Miss Rhide is. You’re saying she criticised your choice of reading material?’
‘Well, I haven’t really read Goldfinger—’
Mother laughed. ‘Heaven forbid! In fact, you’re reading a translation of some Greek historian right now, aren’t you?’
She’d been in my room, obviously. I knew I was scowling. ‘Plutarch,’ I said. ‘I finished that one.’
Jennifer turned to me. ‘Why didn’t you tell that to Rhide? Her hair would’ve fallen out! Owen!’
Chastised by my girlfriend, teased by my mother. I was in hell.
‘I know why,’ Mother said, smiling at Jennifer. ‘One thing it’s important to understand about Owen here. He likes not to be noticed. He’s not shy. He just doesn’t like being the centre of attention.’
‘Pussy Galore?’ Jennifer laughed.
‘Oh my,’ Mother said, sighing.
‘But I know what you mean,’ Jennifer continued. ‘He can’t take pictures if he’s the centre of attention, can he?’
‘Exactly. You’re very sharp, Jennifer.’
‘Common interest, I guess.’
They both looked at me. ‘Cut it out,’ I snapped, my face burning. ‘Look, you’re making Willie squirm – he doesn’t like being ignored.’
Mother’s expression changed sharply, now serious. ‘Read whatever you want, Owen.’
‘I will. She’s just a teacher.’
‘Exactly.’
‘More coffee, Jennifer?’
I settled in for a long night.
* * *
‘Where’s Lynk?’ I asked.
Roland shrugged.
I hesitated, feeling the hot sun on my shoulders through the t-shirt. Insects buzzed in the dry air, low over the tar- and oil-spattered ground. Behind us rose the boat-shed wall, its fresh tar glistening and dotted with dead and dying butterflies.
‘So,’ Roland said, shrugging again, ‘are we going?’
‘Lynk should be here. He’ll just say we’re lying.’
‘But we’ll know,’ Roland said, his eyes strangely flat.
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