by A. J. Betts
He turns off Hampton Road onto High Street, then Stirling Highway, headed for her house. He overtakes cars. Bicycles look stationary from where he sits. Now he waits for no-one, is bullied by no-one. He’s going to see her and tell her how incredible she is. He knows the way she swims alone at night, how she lives, what coffee she drinks, and how she looks when she’s close to sleep.
He’d like to get above 100kph but these roads are too busy. He has to keep braking for lights and traffic, but the speed within him can’t wait.
4
In Swanbourne, Jasmine is driving her Mini Minor away from Dustin’s house. Yesterday she’d wanted to hug him, kiss his eyelids and tell him he was a beautiful person. But instead she’d found his mother’s last letter — depressed and filled with surrender: Dustin is a burden. And there are no more reasons to get out of bed.
Jasmine drives south, crying, because he isn’t a burden, and she has to tell him that in case he believes it.
Dustin’s phone rings again, in a back pocket of his jeans. He feels it rather than hears it, and lets it go to message bank. There are three now, kept in the memory of the mobile phone. These jeans — still smelling of smoke from the Sail and Anchor pub; still with splinters of glass from the photo lab — hold their own secrets. Dustin rides north, pushing on.
Dustin, it’s me, Jaz, says the first message, Thursday 7:15pm. I’m sorry … I came on strong. It’s not your fault. You didn’t spook me. There was something else. Dustin, you’ve got to talk to your dad. It’s not your fault; you were just a baby. Don’t think it’s your fault.
He slows for a red light, indicating to turn left onto Tydeman Road. He’ll erase the messages soon anyway, without listening to them. He’ll never hear them.
Nugget’s amongst traffic and has lost sight of Dustin. He hopes he’s going north to his dad’s house like he’d told him to. The 250 motorbike beneath Nugget is too small for his weight and sits too low. It was meant for a child, he thinks, not a man.
It’s me again, says the second message. I hope you’re up. I couldn’t sleep last night. Dustin, don’t hate me. Don’t hate me. And don’t be sad … you’ll be okay. I’m coming round to your house this morning. It’s not your fault. It’s not hers either.. … Your mum loved you, she must have … lots of people love you. I’m coming round now, if you trust me … We’ll still be okay.
But Dustin is on Stirling Highway about to turn off for Mount Claremont. He’ll be at Terri Pavish’s house in two minutes. He’s waiting at the traffic lights, desperate for them to turn green. And Terri Pavish is on the other side, heading south, facing him. He recognises the yellow Ducati first, from the night before, then sees her in the saddle, wearing her red helmet. She too is impatient with the red light.
3
The light changes and she’s gone. He tries to U-turn but there’s oncoming traffic and he’s got to wait before he can turn back on himself to chase her. He can’t see her, but he follows her sound. He pushes his knees into the Honda’s tank beneath him and pushes down on the inside foot peg as he overtakes each car, criss-crossing lanes, to chase down the noise of her. Cars merge into his periphery — reds, blues, whites and greens. His senses are ablaze. All he knows is her.
He wants to catch her and he does. It’s at the lights near the Eric Street turn-off. He slows alongside her and their bikes idle. He’s too close to her; they both feel that. From under her helmet, she turns her face slightly to look at him, and Dustin gestures for her to pull over ahead.
‘What?’ She answers with her hands.
Dustin points again to the road’s shoulder.
She nods to him and Dustin’s chest soars. He’s thinking about what he’s going to say when they take off their helmets and meet properly, in the daylight, for the first time.
The light changes to green. Dustin gently turns the throttle and veers left into a side street. Terri Pavish follows and the two bikes are so close they’re almost touching. But then she’s gone!
The yellow Supersport 750 burns right across the lines of traffic and heads down Eric Street, riding the roller-coaster of bitumen. She knows these streets and she can shake off anyone. He follows, charged with adrenalin, convinced that she wants him to chase her, to catch her. He hits 110 on this street, and the noise and the wind are enough to overwhelm any lingering thoughts of this morning — of Nugget and Jasmine, of the way his father had cried against the fridge, and about what it all means.
He goes in slow for the left-hand turn onto Marine Parade, then comes out fast. Ahead, Terri Pavish sees his shape in her mirror, swears, and urges the 750 engine faster. They move like this, leant over their borrowed bikes, charging down the coast. She has so much to lose and he has nothing.
At the same time, Nugget pulls the 250 into Dustin’s driveway but Dustin isn’t there. In the unkempt backyard, Ken is sitting, heavy with new loss.
Jasmine drives alone in her car, heading south for school. Cottesloe Beach stretches out on her right beneath the drizzle of indifferent rain. The sea swells with secrets. Waves spread across the sand.
Shh.
Shhh.
Should.
Shouldn’t.
The ocean rocks with sadness.
At the last moment, Jasmine decides to pull in to the beach. She swings a quick U-turn at the roundabout.
The last message stored in Dustin’s starts with a pause, then a sigh. Ken’s voice is gravelly.
… Your mother left at night. She said she was thirsty. She was always thirsty. She went to the beach and she walked into the ocean, they say … just kept walking. She’d been sad. She’d been sad since she’d had you. Ken’s voice breaks. There is nothing left of the man. She didn’t know what it would be like …
2
The white Mini Minor doesn’t indicate and the Ducati doesn’t slow to give way. Terri Pavish just goes straight through, and Jasmine swerves hard, too late to brake. The little car spins.
From behind, Dustin watches as the world slows down. The car turns, Jasmine’s hair covering her face as it circles. He looks on with sickening recognition. He doesn’t need to keep watching to see what will happen. He already knows the ending. Her hair is like seaweed, covering her pretty face as the car turns.
Through the visor of his helmet, he watches the eyes of Terri Pavish instead. She straddles the Ducati on the pavement, her helmet already off her head and hanging from her fingertips. She, too, is in slow motion.
Her face registers the noises.
Glass.
Metal.
Plastic.
And the rain to soften it all.
Drivers get out of cars, shout down mobile phones. In the background, the sea beats itself against the land.
Shhh, it says.
Sorry, it says.
Terri Pavish says nothing. She looks toward the pine trees where parakeets screech. Dustin watches her, unable to turn his face back to the roundabout where people are gathering. If he can just focus on Terri Pavish, he won’t have to turn around and see Jasmine. Already there’s a far-off siren.
Terri Pavish puts the helmet over her head and buckles it. She wants to go, to leave this all behind. So she does. He watches her turn the throttle and ride away.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I gratefully acknowledge the following people for their counsel and encouragement: the Brisbane poetry crew (especially John Knight, Wendy Morgan and Ross Clark), Julienne Van Loon, Liz Byrski, Meg Main, Mum, Andrew, and past students who were never short of ideas. Thank you also to friends who were authorities on odd topics.
And for their commitment and wisdom, my heartfelt thanks to publisher Cate Sutherland, editor Wendy Jenkins, and the team at Fremantle Press — thank you for making Dustin real.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A. J. Betts grew up in far north Queensland, and has taught in Brisbane, Cairns, the UK, and Western Australia. After travelling, she settled in Perth in 2004. ShutterSpeed is her first novel for young adults.
First pu
blished 2008 by
FREMANTLE PRESS
25 Quarry Street, Fremantle
(PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159)
Western Australia
www.fremantlepress.com.au
Copyright © A J Betts, 2008.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Consultant editor Wendy Jenkins.
Cover designed by Tracey Gibbs.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data
Betts, A J.
Shutterspeed / author, A J Betts.
ISBN: 9781921361203 (pbk.)
A823.4
Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.
Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body