by John Larkin
I don’t know. Do I have to have a label? I wasn’t anything. I was just trying to understand things. I had more questions than answers. Still do. It’s hard to look up at the night sky, to see the glow from the white hot gasses at the centre of the Milky Way, to stare at infinity and come to the conclusion that it’s all random. That there’s no point. I could see all this beauty and I kept coming back to ‘why?’.
Maybe there is no why. There just is. And people need to find a why because we require order, without which there’s just chaos.
You know why I turned against religion? Organised religion anyway?
I’ve no idea.
God’s beard.
His beard? You’re going to have to explain that one.
Think about it. Every time you see an image of God he’s got this long, flowing beard. Why? Isn’t he just made of light? Why would something that’s only made of light have a big bushman’s beard?
I . . .
I’ll tell you why. Because the guys who made him up didn’t have very good razors. They didn’t even have those el-cheapo yellow plastic ones. So these ancient dudes think that the symbol of authority is a beard, because they’ve all got one. So they naturally give God one. The biggest one they can think of because he’s like the authority figure so he has to have the biggest beard. God didn’t create us in his image, we created him in ours.
So you think the beard’s the ultimate symbol of masculinity?
Well, no, obviously it’s not. But we’re talking religion here so it’s not as if they can give him the biggest d–
Yes, thanks for that. Could you keep your voice down a bit, there are ladies present.
Okay, then. What about angels?
What about them?
You’ve seen paintings, sculptures, images of them. What do they always have in common?
They always turn up with a sheep.
I never thought of that. You’re right, they do. Okay, so what else do they have in common? Apart from the sheep.
Wings?
Exactly. They always have wings? Why? Why would something made of light, an ethereal presence, need wings?
To look good.
Exactly! They gave them wings because they weren’t thinking it through. Of course, now we could just give them a jetpack, a boarding pass, or a set of rocket pants, but we’re stuck with tradition.
Rocket pants? Maybe we should get back to that night. You said before that it was peaceful until you heard ghosts.
Have you ever slept in sand dunes at night?
Camping. When I was about ten, I suppose.
If you heard the wind whipping across the dunes you’d swear it was ghosts. Despite that, it was peaceful because I knew that Creepo wasn’t about to slide up beside me.
But it must have been unsettling in other ways?
It was surprisingly noisy. There’s the waves breaking. The wind. The ghosts. And there was all this scurrying and scamp- ering in the bush.
Rats?
That’s what I thought. All through the night I imagined these rats twitching their little whiskers and staring down at me from the edge of the hollow and wondering if one of them would venture down to see if I was still alive and whether it was worth taking a chunk out of me.
In the morning I knew that I had to go back. Back to the biggest rat of them all.
WHEN I WAKE UP THERE ARE ALL THESE BEADY LITTLE EYES STARING down at me in my hollow. I could hear them scurrying and scampering around in the dark last night, but now there’s a bit of light I can see them for what they are. Rats. About five of them, twitching their filthy noses and whiskers at me. I gasp and quickly draw my sleeping bag up over my face with my good hand so that only my eyes are visible.
I scoop up a handful of sand and hurl it at them. ‘Piss off!’ I scream through nylon at the filthy things.
And then, as my eyes adjust to the early morning light, I notice that these rats are much bigger than ordinary ones. They also have long floppy ears and are nibbling on vegetation.
I lower my protective sleeping bag. Unless Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail have turned carnivorous overnight, my fear has been misplaced.
I ease myself out of my sleeping bag, walk down to the water’s edge and dip my good hand in the foamy surf, scooping some up to wash my face. It’s wonderfully refreshing. There’s nobody about this far up the beach, apart from me and the oversized rodents. I can see a couple of specks of life down where the fisherman were last night (surfers, swimmers, demented joggers) but it’s pretty isolated all the way up here. I think I’ll make this my weekender. Maybe I could get hold of some driftwood and palm fronds and cobble together a sort of shelter, like that movie about that castaway bloke. My teeth feel all slimy and in desperate need of cleaning but I forgot to pack my toothbrush. It’s funny, when you’re little you think that when you’re grown up you won’t bother cleaning your teeth any more, because that’s just dumb grownup stuff. After two days on the run on a largely fish and chip diet and I’m desperate for a fang polisher. I dip my finger back into the surf and brush them as best as I can with the salt water, running my tongue over each tooth to try to get rid of the slimy texture. My fractured arm is starting to itch beneath the cast, but Dr Chen forgot to give me a chopstick to scratch it with so I’ll just have to try and scratch it mentally.
After I’ve combed the knots out of my rats’ nest hair, I pack up my sleeping bag and begin the long, slow slog back to Death Valley.
I need food. I need sleep (proper sleep). I need money. None of which are available to me in Death Valley. So I head back to the station. It’s still early so it’s just joggers, surfers, the elderly and the homeless who are up and about. You’ve got to admire them – the old people, I mean. Here they are, their lives nearly over, but they’re up and embracing the day rather than curled up in a corner somewhere screaming at the nothingness that awaits them beyond the grave.
I shake my head and slump down onto one of the platform benches at the station. I’ve got to stop having these negative thoughts. Suicide lives down that road. I’m alive. I’m safe. And life’s a gift. Okay the gift sucks a bit at the moment, sort of like getting a pair of oversized pyjamas for Christmas when what you really wanted was an iPod, but I need to make every moment count. The train slides languidly into the station like a python down a rabbit hole. I haul myself on board and collapse onto one of the long seats. I didn’t know that being homeless would be this tiring. At home, even at Creepo and Serena’s, when I was tired or just wanted to be by myself to laze about or read, I would disappear into my room. Now I don’t have a room.
I pull out Matilda to see if she’s got any advice but she’s too busy trying to suck up to Miss Honey. I need a Miss Honey in my life. More than Matilda did, anyway. Matilda’s dad might have been a bit mean to her, but he didn’t try to shoot her in the back of her head. At least I don’t think he did.
When Matilda comes up short of advice I ask God, but he’s obviously still pissed at me for the whole beard thing.
The train slips past an abandoned country church whose parishioners are now termites and bush rats. It’s sad to see it all rotted and falling down. It’s as if the church is slowly leeching back into the wilderness, taking along the hopes and prayers of those who gathered there with dreams of a better life – if not in this one then at least the one hereafter.
Oh my God! That’s it. Creepo and Serena go to mass on Sunday morning. At least, they do if they can drag their lazy arses out of bed in time. There’s a spare key buried under the garden gnome out the back. I could steal in and grab my piggybank while they’re out. Two hundred dollars buys a serious amount of scallops.
I settle back in the seat and close my eyes, content in the knowledge that I have a plan for the day, dangerous as it is.
God knows why Creepo bothers going to church. In
his psycho little world he probably thinks that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with murdering his sister-in-law, going paedo on his niece, breaking her arm, trying to shoot her in the head, and then sticking his tongue out for holy commun- ion on Sunday morning. Probably thinks he’s wiping the slate clean. Squaring the ledger. I reckon he just goes so that he can watch all the other men drooling over Serena. And yet wasn’t one of the commandments something about not coveting thy neighbour’s donkey? Or was it his ass? Or maybe it was his wife. Maybe it was his wife’s ass. Whatever it was, whenever I went to mass with them there seemed to be a whole lot of coveting going on: cars, 4WDs, houses, wives, bling.
By the time we’re crossing the river my head is feeling fuzzy. As I’m lying there nodding off, I try to think like Creepo. He knows that I haven’t gone to the police yet because if I had they’d have come around and arrested him or else returned me to him as a runaway. He doesn’t know that I know that he’s been to the police, but there’s nothing that I can really do with that knowledge except use it to not go to the police myself. He doesn’t know any of my friends from school, so he wouldn’t go around to their houses to look for me.
I actually slump when I weigh it all up. Creepo knows that I’ve got no one to turn to and nowhere to go. I wonder if he knows about the two hundred dollars stuffed in my piggybank. If he does then he can only come to one conclusion. Eventually I’ll have to come back.
After a fitful nap I’m woken by the train slowing as it reaches the outer suburbs. A squadron of butterflies descend to my stomach and get in a fight with the ones that are already there. I gather up my stuff and slap myself across the face several times. I can’t venture into the lion’s den half-asleep. I have to be alert. Focused. Or else I’ll be chewed up and spat out, with my dismembered bits buried in the forest.
It’s past nine by the time I stop at the end of the alley leading into their street. Mass will have started. Luckily I can see the house from the entrance to the alley. If they haven’t gone to nine o’clock mass and Creepo comes out I will be able to escape back down the alley and he won’t be able to chase after me because of his short (or long) leg. If any neighbours see me, they’ll probably think I look a bit suspicious lurking about with my backpack and sleeping bag like this, but I’ll just have to deal with it.
I summon up some courage and cautiously approach the house. My backpack and sleeping bag are weighing me down but I can’t leave them in the alley because they’ll probably have been nicked by the time I get back.
Fortunately for me the garage has been built slightly forward of the house, so even if Creepo and Serena are sitting in the lounge room, which they hardly ever do anyway, they wouldn’t be able to see me cutting across their neighbours’ front lawn.
I peer through the frosted side windows of the garage. There’s only one car in there as far as I can tell. Serena’s paddock basher – her ten-year-old Magna. The one Creepo used to dump my parents out in the forest. He wouldn’t dream of using his you-beaut ute for that. Oh, no. Not the beast. It’s his bloke bling. The roll bar and the chunky chrome exhaust pipes, not to mention the super-fat imported Yokohamas, are for show purposes only. It only goes off-road when he lets Serena take it to the shopping centre. That’s the only time he lets her drive it. He wouldn’t want anyone seeing her piling groceries into the Magna. Oh the shame.
I press my face hard up against the garage window and block out the glare with my hands. The fluorescent glow of the beast’s metallic blue paint is definitely absent.
They’ve gone to church.
I toss my backpack and sleeping bag over the side gate. It’s padlocked, so I clamber over it awkwardly, trying not to bang my arm in its cast. I ease myself down on the other side by stepping onto the wheelie bins.
I leave my stuff behind the bins, figuring that it will be safe there as it’s out of sight from the road. Then I creep around to the back verandah.
I move the garden gnome aside and scratch at the dirt until I dig up the most unconvincing looking stone you could ever imagine. It’s made of shiny brown plastic and has ‘Made in Taiwan’ stamped on the bottom. Presumably, like Serena, the Taiwanese are constantly locking themselves out, so much so that it’s become an export industry.
With my tongue poking unattractively out of the side of my mouth, I dig my fingernail into the groove and flip open the stone’s false bottom. I shake the key out, slide it quietly into the lock and I’m in.
Before I go in, I put the key back in its proper place. I don’t want Creepo discovering that I’ve been in. I don’t want him knowing how desperate I am.
I tiptoe through the kitchen and open the door to the garage, just to confirm that the beast isn’t there. I’m relieved to see that it’s not.
I’m tempted to raid the fridge on the way back through the kitchen but, again, I don’t want to give anything away. I’ll buy myself some buns at the bakery when I get hold of my two hundred dollars.
By sheer force of habit I step over the creaky eighth step (it was number six in my parents’ house) as I’m making my way up the stairs and then cautiously push open the door to my bedroom. I thought that Creepo might have trashed my room in a rage by now but it’s exactly how I left it. On my bookshelves is the piggybank that my grandparents gave me when I made my first reconciliation. I didn’t really have anything to confess so I made up a bunch of stuff (about swearing, about having bad thoughts) just to keep Father Kelliher happy and to give him something to feel superior about.
I turn over Noah’s ark and remove the rubber stopper. Although it’s noisy, I shake out all the coins and dig my fingers in for the cash. I don’t know if it’s exactly two hundred dollars but it was close enough the last time I counted it, which was a couple of weeks ago.
I twist the rubber stopper until its back in place and position Noah and his illogical ark back on my bookshelf.
I look at my books, which I miss so much – even the ones from the library which technically don’t belong to me. I miss being with them; escaping, hiding out in them. On a whim I decide to take Bleak House. Although it will add some extra weight to my backpack, hopefully reading it again will add some extra weight to my brain.
I pull down Bleak House, stuff the money into my pockets and brush down the covers on my bed to remove all evidence that I’ve been here.
Just as I’ve finished patting down my doona, the toilet flushes. A double flush.
I stare at the closed bathroom door and literally have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming. A double flush means either Serena has dropped a large one or it’s Creepo.
If it’s Serena, she’ll wash her hands, check herself out, probably squeeze a few blackheads, brush her hair, weigh herself and clip her moustache, all of which will give me enough time to slip back down the stairs and out.
If it’s Creepo, I’m dead.
It has to be Serena. Creepo’s beast has gone. And I’ve never known Serena to do the grocery shopping on Sunday morning.
I drop down just as I hear the bathroom doorknob turning. If I stay here and it is Creepo in the bathroom, he’ll see me when he walks into his bedroom. If he walks into his bedroom. If he goes downstairs and then decides to come back up, he’ll be staring straight at me from the stairwell.
I lift up the edge of the doona and wedge myself under the bed. I have to contort myself at an awkward angle to manoeuvre myself past the middle leg, but in the end I just about manage it. If I was any bigger I wouldn’t fit. As it is there’s just enough room under the bed for a mop like me. And even then it’s still a tight squeeze. The bed is pressing against my chest. My face forced to the side. Luckily I’ve only got a couple of fried eggs for boobs. If Serena ever tried this, the bed would end up floating about a metre off the ground like something out of a paranormal movie.
The bathroom door swings open. It’s painful but I’m able to
crane my neck so that I can see past my feet who it is. I can only see the bottom part of their legs but, unless Serena has given up waxing, it’s definitely not her.
Creepo slides past my door and into their bedroom. The way he’s flopping around the house as if he’s Lord Muck, he’s probably in the nude. Hopefully, hopefully, he’s in there getting dressed.
Maybe I can time my run for the exact moment he’s putting his trousers on. By the time he realises what’s happening, pulls up his pants and hobbles on his uneven legs down the stairs, he won’t be able to catch me. I don’t know where he keeps his gun though. The obvious place is his bedside drawer and that’s just too horrifying to think about.
I’m not going anywhere.
Oh my God! A chill runs through me, turning my blood to ice. When I was stuffing the money into my pockets, I left Bleak House on the bed.
I edge towards the side of the bed and run my arm up, feeling around on top for my book. I freeze when Creepo comes back out of his room and stands on the landing. I can see his feet. If he turns his head to the left and looks into my room he’ll see the book sitting there on my bed. He’ll also see my arm. And then I’ll be forest food.
Please, God. Make him go downstairs. It won’t prove you exist. It’ll just seem as though you suck a little less.
I don’t know why he’s standing there like that. Maybe he’s thinking. Maybe if I listen intently enough I’ll hear the mouse running around inside his brain.
And then he turns. I can see his legs and then eventually his greasy head as he disappears down the stairs. Thank you, God. Or thank you, Randomness.
I now have another problem. When Creepo or Serena walk back up the stairs, from the middle step they’ll be staring directly underneath my bed. Directly at my feet. Directly at me.
Slowly, painfully, I heave myself out from under the bed. I’m positive that one of the floorboards is going to creak and give me away. I grab Bleak House and slide it beneath the bed and then creep around to the front and pull my doona down so that it’s touching the floor. Then I crawl back under the bed to my sanctuary. It’s darker than before and I can no longer see the landing outside their bedroom that leads to the bathroom and the stairwell. Oh to be at my weekender right now, being sizzled by the sun. That’d be heaven.