Liar Bird

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Liar Bird Page 8

by Lisa Walker

His mouth twitched.

  Rodney and I waited; Rodney looking puzzled and me … I was aiming for innocent.

  Mac sighed. ‘Yeah, okay.’

  ‘Tonight?’ I asked.

  He inclined his head briefly.

  Rodney went back to his workstation, looking a little deflated.

  My eyes met Mac’s. ‘Well, must have been news to you that the frog’s come back. Guess you’re learning all the time, hey?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes they don’t come back.’

  I let it pass. I had other fish to fry while I had his attention. Pulling a jar of peanut butter out of my desk drawer, I placed a spoonful in the mouse trap while he was watching.

  He turned back to his keyboard quickly.

  Ha! He’d known that carrot wasn’t going to be any good, but did he tell me to try peanut butter? No. This I also had to get from Rodney. I’d cornered him in the lunch room yesterday and asked for a second opinion. I don’t know why Mac told you to use carrot, he’d said. Peanut butter’s what we normally use for trapping. Mac’s the expert, though, I’m just the admin officer …

  Placing the trap on the floor, I flicked through the newspaper, avoiding the feral pig morning coverage. Instead, I tagged an article, Local Boy Rushed to Hospital After Encounter with Bullrout. Goodness — another danger I’d never heard of. Apparently these spiky fish lurked among the weeds in creeks. One false step and you’re in agony so excruciating you want to cut your foot off. I guess that’s why cities were invented — to escape from the many menaces of nature.

  My mind was still on Mac as I cut the article out. I wasn’t used to meeting men who didn’t like me. It was making me cranky. The way to most men’s hearts was through their … well, it’s sort of obvious and I fully intended to try that angle. But maybe Mac wasn’t most men? He was a ranger and perhaps the way to his heart was through his wildlife …

  On the wall opposite was a big poster — Stop the Cane Toad. That had possibilities. ‘So, I hear cane toads are a big problem around here.’

  Mac nodded, not taking his eyes off the keyboard. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you want to take me out some time to get a few pics? I could do a story — drum up some awareness.’

  ‘You want to run a cane toad awareness morning?’ His voice was dry, but he looked up from his computer and I almost detected a trace of amusement in his bright blue eyes.

  He really was kind of cute. If only he weren’t such a grouch. ‘Just some pics at this stage. Maybe we could have a round-up or something later.’

  ‘It would need to be at night.’

  ‘The round-up?’

  ‘Yeah obviously, but the pictures too.’ His voice had a strained patience. ‘They come out at night.’ He articulated each word clearly, as if talking to someone with a poor grasp of English.

  I pretended not to notice. ‘Okay. So … can we make a date?’ I gave him the old eyebrow flash of innuendo. ‘To go toading?’ I almost giggled. Listen to yourself, Cassandra. A toading date — what have I been reduced to? What would Jessica say?

  But Mac’s expression was discouraging. ‘I’m pretty busy. I’ll let you know when I’m free.’ He turned back to his computer.

  Ouch. I was dismissed. Dismissed, but intrigued. What was he so busy doing every night? He wouldn’t be as grouchy if he was worn out from all-night shagathons. But he’d turned down a chance to be alone. In the dark. With me. That had never happened to me before. It pissed me right off. I glared at his back.

  Just you wait. One of these days you’ll come to me begging to go toading.

  Chapter Nine

  Disenchantment

  I knew Mac was coming over to sort out my frog issue, so after dinner — chicken cacciatore Lean Cuisine (thanks to my new friend, Maureen) — I tarted myself up a bit. I had a hunch he was an au naturale kind of guy, so I spent about half an hour making myself look like I had no makeup on at all. Then, in the spirit of ‘just another night at home’ I changed into my nightie.

  That done, I relaxed with the PR Weekly Maureen had ordered in for me. It probably wasn’t a good idea. Flicking through pictures of PR events just made me more and more despondent. There was Wazza on a yacht on Sydney Harbour, Jessica at the perfume launch I’d organised … I could practically taste the champagne bubbles in her slender glass, the Sydney rock oysters on the tray that hovered next to her.

  But I know these things mean nothing to you, René. Stop frowning. You’re such a downer sometimes. Live a little, why don’t you?

  I gazed at the picture of Jessica; her long blonde hair was ever so slightly dishevelled and smoky black eye shadow contoured her eyes. Yeah, she really had it going on. That ‘just been fucked’ look takes a long time to achieve. Even if I’d made it to the perfume launch I wouldn’t have come near her style.

  Jessica …

  I’d never really understood why Jessica was my friend when we were growing up in Blacktown. She was so pretty and popular and I … well, wasn’t. Jessica played netball and excelled at swimming squad and modern dancing. I dropped any ball that came my way — not that many did — and never mastered breaststroke. I loved to dance, secretly yearned to be a star, but couldn’t do the fancy gymnastic moves required by our teacher, Mrs Archer. I think maybe Jessica had needed a fall guy, someone to make her look good. I was good at that.

  A mosquito buzzed around my ankle. I slapped at it, leaving a smear of blood. The old house creaked in the breeze from the mountains. Would I ever get back where I belonged? Who would have thought I could go so quickly from worries about the correct number of chilled oysters per guest to an obsession with a frog in my toilet?

  I wiped at the blood. Patience, Cassandra, just a few more months …

  Mac took his time coming. I was out on my verandah with a whiskey and soda when he lurched out of the bushes. I’d been expecting a car, so it startled me. In silhouette he looked rather menacing — like a hunchback, or yowie. I think I might have screamed, before I realised it was him and the hunch was a backpack.

  ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’ I said, when I recovered. He had that look about him — like a long lost explorer. I smelt beer on his breath. Maybe he was an alcoholic, not a drug addict.

  He just sort of grunted in that charming caveman way he has. He was wearing a faded T-shirt with a rip under the armpit and baggy khaki shorts. For some reason he was covered in leaves, like he’d been rolling around in the forest. I didn’t want to inquire further — the mind boggles. He certainly hadn’t gone to a lot of trouble with presentation — unless, like me, he was after a minimalist look.

  If he was, it was working. Despite, or perhaps because of, the rips, leaves and beer odour, I found him very, very intriguing. He was quite a contrast to the Sydney pretty boys (sorry, Ant).

  ‘I was expecting you to drive,’ I said. ‘That’s why I screamed.’

  ‘Why would you drive when you can walk?’ he grunted.

  ‘Well, lots of reasons actually — mainly to do with footwear …’ I trailed off — he didn’t look sympathetic to my line of argument. ‘You’re a bit late,’ I added. ‘I was expecting you at seven o’clock.’

  ‘I don’t wear a watch,’ he said.

  ‘Neither do I, I use my mobile.’

  ‘Don’t have a mobile either.’ He scratched his head and a beetle with a shiny red back fell out of his curls and crawled away.

  Curiouser and curiouser. I followed it with my eyes. I didn’t know what to say to that. ‘You’re not one of those Amish or something are you?’

  His mouth twitched, like he was about to smile, but he nipped it in the bud. ‘I like the feeling of being cut off — telling the time by the rhythms of the day.’ That was a long sentence for him — he tightened his mouth like he’d said too much.

  I scanned his face. ‘Well, who doesn’t? But, you know, there are practical difficulties. Places to go, people to meet …’

  He shrugged. ‘I get to work on time, mostly. It’s not a problem.’


  I gave him a long look. I’d just figured something out. It was a hallelujah moment — why hadn’t I worked it out before? I’d known subconsciously there was something strange about him, but it had just clicked. His body language was all mixed up.

  I’m a bit of an amateur expert on body language; you need to be in PR. It’s so much more revealing than what people say. If a client’s saying yes, yes, yes, but they’re sitting back in their seat with their arms folded, then you know you have to work a bit harder.

  With Mac, it was the opposite. His words were all no, no, no … But if I looked at him and didn’t listen, I’d be thinking: mmm, I’m in with a chance here.

  Even while he sounded as grumpy as hell, he had his hands thrust into the pockets of his pants with his feet pointing towards me. It was the classic male I’m interested pose. To test him out, I scratched my neck. Sure enough, a moment later, he followed my lead. Interesting …

  Taking him down the lino corridor to the toilet, I opened the door. A huge cockroach ran out in front of me and I jumped backwards, almost crashing into him. As I switched on the light he burst into a coughing fit. When I turned around, he’d gone all red. I had a fair idea what was going on. Let’s just say I’d chosen my outfit carefully. The way to a man’s heart … Backlighting can be very flattering to a girl. ‘Frog in your throat?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be right.’ He studiously avoided looking at me.

  We stepped towards the toilet. Inside the bowl, there was René, circling his pool, back legs kicking strongly. Mac’s shoulder brushed mine as we looked down at him. He jumped away, like I’d burnt him.

  ‘Why do they like toilets so much?’ I said.

  ‘Combination of moisture and shelter.’ He wet his hands under the tap.

  ‘Shouldn’t you wash your hands afterwards, not before?’

  ‘Need wet hands or you’ll damage their skin. I’ll wash after as well, so I don’t transmit any diseases.’

  ‘Diseases?’

  ‘Nothing you need to worry about, only frogs. They’re getting pretty knocked around at the moment.’

  Then he just reached into the toilet, grabbed René with his bare hands, took him outside and let him go on the grass. ‘Go on, mate, find a pond,’ he said.

  René didn’t move, of course — just gave him the old shiny eye treatment. He looked undaunted. ‘Crawk.’

  It is not enough to have a good mind, huh? The main thing is to use it well?

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mac.

  ‘Nothing.’ Had I spoken out loud? How embarrassing.

  ‘Got to check the breather pipe now.’ He pulled a torch out of his backpack. ‘Have you got a ladder?’

  ‘A ladder?’

  ‘Yeah, to get on the roof.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘The breather pipe?’ He pointed up to the roof, where a curved, white pipe protruded from the corrugated iron.

  ‘Oh, that. Is that the breather pipe? I thought it was on the ground. How do the frogs get all the way up there?’

  ‘They’re tree frogs. They climb up the trees.’ He pointed at some overhanging branches.

  There was no ladder, but he climbed up a tree next to the house and got on the roof that way.

  Mmm, very sexy, very caveman … I watched him do his thing for a while.

  I could see how you got in now, René, the cap that should have fitted over the end of the pipe was missing — if there’d ever been one.

  It seemed to be a bit of a process to fix it. He kept on pulling things out of his bag, measuring up bits of netting, banging at the pipe with a hammer …

  The whole time he was trying — rather unsuccessfully — not to ogle me in my see-through nightie, which was cute. I had a fair idea what he’d be thinking about when he went to bed, though.

  When I figured he’d seen enough, I left him to it.

  I was pretty pleased with myself that night after he left. I reckoned he was hooked; now I just needed to reel him in. It was a case of keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, when it came to Mac.

  What about Ant, you say?

  Well, Ant and I didn’t have the kind of relationship that involved being faithful to each other, René.

  Or at least I didn’t think we did — we’d never explicitly discussed it. Anyway, a week is a long time — a girl’s fancy tends to wander.

  And right now, my fancy had wandered to Mac. I had to admit my interest in him was only partly motivated by a desire to keep my job. He was annoyingly hard to get — which only made him all the more desirable. And there was just something about him … I wanted to get my hands on his tattered T-shirt and rip it right off his back. My feelings were primitive, raw and totally cavewoman. Want man. Oog.

  It was with these thoughts on constant replay that I wandered to my newly de-frogged toilet before going to bed. Mac had left the lid down, so I flicked it up and was centimetres — centimetres! — from the seat when I saw this … thing.

  It registered in some primal part of my brain. I leapt up with a screech that came from deep in my stomach. A chimpanzee in the jungle would have done the same. The wail kept on coming. It was a cry of alarm and distress, like a warning to other monkeys … I’d never heard a noise like that come out of my mouth before.

  There was a fucking snake in my toilet.

  As I slammed the toilet door behind me all I could think of was going home — home to Ant — home to Sydney. I suddenly hated this place — snakes, frogs, uppity grumpy rangers … The fact that I’d fancied Mac a moment ago flew out the window as I ran down the corridor.

  Country life wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. There were many things I could tolerate: trains running late, traffic jams in Pitt Street, aggressive people in koala suits wanting money … However, snakes lurking beneath my bottom … Freud would have had a field day with that one.

  Forget raw and primitive; I needed to get back where I belonged — even if it meant public humiliation in front of my peers. Damn it — being seen in a tracksuit on a weekday would be preferable to this. Maybe I could have radical plastic surgery and start over under a new identity? Yes, that was definitely a viable option.

  Or maybe Wazza could slip me a bit of contract work on the sly while I waited for my name to be rehabilitated? Why not? I pulled out my iPhone and selected his number. It went straight to the message bank. ‘Wazza? It’s Cassandra. I’m coming back to Sydney. I was wondering if we could get together for coffee this weekend? Throw around a few options?’ There, that sounded suitably non-desperate and breezy.

  Sprinting around the bedroom, I shoved my clothes into bags. It didn’t take long, I only had two suitcases. I needed to get out of that horrible snakey house. I was pretty sure the snake wouldn’t be able to get out of the bathroom, but who knew? If the frog had superpowers maybe the snake did too. The diamond-shaped head poked out of the toilet bowl over and over in my mind. I shuddered. Frogs, maybe; snakes … never.

  Slamming the front door behind me, I placed the key beneath the mat. I’d email from Sydney and let them know where to find it. Flattening my foot, I accelerated out of the driveway, bounced over the ruts, bottomed out on the ridges and turned south. South. Home. Sydney. Caffè lattes. Thai restaurants. Yay.

  Autopilot took over. I was south of Coffs before I pulled over for petrol and realised I was still in my transparent nightie. What the hell — I didn’t care. I was on the road and going home; there was no stopping me now. The petrol station attendant — a teenage boy — blushed as I paid. I bet he copped an eyeful as I walked out.

  Dawn broke somewhere around Newcastle. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes as the sun caught the sides of the road cutting on the freeway. I ticked off the landmarks: the Hawkesbury River, the end of the freeway at Hornsby, the inevitable rude taxi driver … Beaming at him as he gave me the finger, I turned into the home strait humming along to ‘Miracle (in Marrickville)’.

  Pulling
into my driveway, it was hard to believe it had only been a week since I’d left. Already, it was a revelation to be on a driveway with no ruts, at a house with no wild animals, about to be greeted by a man who’d be thrilled to see me. God bless Sydney. I practically kissed the pebblecrete driveway I was so happy to be there.

  An early morning jogger pounded past as I let myself in through the front door. The familiar smell of furniture polish and carpet shampoo greeted me. Friday was our day for the cleaner so the surfaces still sparkled from her visit yesterday. Pulling off my nightie, I padded down the corridor. Ant was in for a treat.

  The curtains were drawn in the bedroom, the sheet buckled over the shadowy hump of Ant’s body. With a leap I pounced on top of him. ‘Surprise, Ant. I’m home.’

  It was a nasty moment — not at all what I’d imagined. There was no thrilled Ant, no cries of joy at my return, no vigorous reunion rumpy-pumpy.

  Not one, but two sets of eyes peered up at me from the pillow. And, no, the other set didn’t belong to a dog or a stuffed teddy bear.

  Has that ever happened to you, René? No, I suppose that kind of thing doesn’t go on much in the frog pond. Well, you’re lucky.

  Crawk.

  Yes, it was rather disenchanting.

  ‘Sorry, Cass, I didn’t know you were coming,’ Ant stuttered. Rather lamely I thought.

  Well, obviously. ‘Cassandra.’ My haughty retort probably mixed badly with the fact that I was only wearing a G-string, but I was beyond caring. ‘Are you going to introduce me?’

  ‘Sorry, this is Damien. Cassandra, Damien. Damien, Cassandra.’

  That’s right — Ant’s bed mate wasn’t a woman.

  Ant peered up at me from between my legs. ‘You might have met?’ He sounded like a good host. I almost expected him to add, you and Damien have lots in common.

  Which would have been true — I now realised I was straddling one of my former clients. ‘Hi, Damien. Fancy running into you here. How’s Rainforest Runaway going? Is Wazza still doing your PR for you?’

  Damien blushed as he attempted to pick up his Trent Nathan boxer shorts from the floor. I didn’t make it easy for him, pinning his torso to the bed with my knees. ‘Ah, y-yess,’ he stuttered.

 

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