by Michael Sala
‘Better than all this.’ He rose to his feet, held out his hand. ‘Come on.’
Freya took it and let him pull her up. They left the bluff, wandering further away from home, along the cliffs, following the narrow ridge that went on past the lookout at Strzelecki Point.
He stopped suddenly, held up his hand to her, and then leaned a little towards the edge, towards the sea. ‘Do you know how many people jump off these cliffs?’
‘How many?’
‘Heaps. They just don’t tell anyone.’
‘Why?’
‘They reckon once you know someone who’s done it, it’s like you can’t stop thinking about it.’ He picked up a rock, dropped it over the edge, peered down after it. ‘Like it’s a disease you can catch.’
‘How’d you know that, about the people jumping?’
He didn’t say anything. The crunch of the waves against rock and sand below them seemed to grow louder.
‘A few of my dad’s patients are cops,’ he said finally. ‘Whenever they get a call to come up here, they know what to expect. And they get lots of calls. Not just for people who kill themselves, though. They’re always out our way too, the cops. They tell my dad all the time that we should move, that he should set up his practice somewhere else. They say the east end of Newcastle is one of the most dangerous places in Australia, at night. There’s an abandoned house up the road from yours, like about five minutes from your place. A few years back they found a woman in there impaled on a stake. Someone put a stake straight through her, from the top to the bottom. Must have been more than one person that did it—they never found out who, though.’
‘Fuck.’
He looked at her. She couldn’t quite see his eyes.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before,’ he said.
‘I do, though. All the time. Do you think your dad will ever leave?’
‘Nah.’
‘Why not?’
‘He just won’t.’ Josh cleared his throat. ‘He’ll be here forever.’
They stood there a while longer, staring out at the darkness.
‘What about your parents?’ he said.
‘The only thing I know for sure is that I’m leaving. As soon as I can.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘It was my birthday,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘Last week. I’m fifteen now.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t like to make a big deal of things like that. It’s not like I did anything, just something stupid with my family.’
‘Well, now I’m going to have to get you a present.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Do you feel any different?’
‘More tired, maybe. Not now, though. Only when I’m supposed to be awake.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘who wants to be awake when you’re actually supposed to be?’
She laughed.
‘You want to go for a swim?’ he said. ‘We can go home past the Bogey Hole. You game?’
‘Not after that story you just told me.’
‘It’s like any place, Freya—you just have to know where to go and not to go.’
They followed a path through the saltbush to the sea below and then walked along the road that climbed up the coast until they reached a place where the cliffs rose over their heads. A concrete staircase led down from the road to the dark swimming spot that the locals called the Bogey Hole. As they descended the narrow concrete steps to the water, with the slap of the waves echoing around them, Josh told her how, back when the whole of Newcastle had been a prison outpost, convicts had gouged away the rock to make a pool for the governor. The place felt as if it had been abandoned to the elements ever since. An iron chain, dark with rust and algae, was draped from a few heavy spikes driven at intervals into the stone shelf that separated the pool from the ocean. She’d seen boys clinging to that chain in big seas, screaming with reckless laughter and holding on while the foamy breakers crashed and swirled around them.
‘Turn around,’ she told Josh. ‘Don’t look until I’m in the water.’
It was cold, and only waist deep, the uneven bottom all slick, rocky crevices, covered with sand and shells and sea anemones, and there was a constant noise of water trickling into the sea from channels in the rocks. They swam in nothing but their underwear, and she was shivering, but she felt good, wonderfully awake—loved the idea that most of the city was sleeping, but here she was, with Josh, beneath the sheer, glistening face of the cliff, his shoulders gleaming white in the moonlight.
Afterwards, they climbed back up the stairs, and walked together in their damp clothes up along the coast, following the road as it rose and fell, past the police station and finally the hospital. They’d just reached the esplanade overlooking the beach and were nearly home when the clock tower rang out from the distance—two in the morning. The floodlights on the promenade carved a swathe of sand out of the darkness below.
‘I’m so sick of waiting,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘For something to happen.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll know it when I see it.’
She could have said that sometimes that sense of waiting made her feel good, like the world was awash with potential, with possibilities, and sometimes it filled her with an anxious dread that was unbearable, but she kept silent.
An ambulance came past on its way to the hospital. There were a few lights on in the three towering spokes of the Nickson Wing. As they turned up the street away from the beach, they heard a car horn blaring somewhere near the mall and, a little closer, someone shouting fuck over and over again, his voice, raw with anger, muffled by the wind.
They turned into the alley that ran behind her house.
‘I think I can make it from here on my own,’ she said.
Josh shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be walking around here alone. Not at this hour.’
‘Right, the woman impaled in the abandoned house.’
‘It’s not funny. You know, druggies used to shoot up in your house. They’d break in and hang out there. I think they were the ones who set it on fire, with candles or something. Fuck knows what else happened in there.’
They’d reached the back of the house. She turned to face him. He was right beside her, so close it surprised her.
‘Watch out,’ she said with a laugh.
He tried to move closer, or maybe he was off balance, reaching out for her hip, and she put her hands on his chest, not sure if she was pushing him away or drawing him in, and then his mouth was on hers and their tongues met and his lips were softer than she’d imagined, despite the braces, and warm, and she liked it—then she pushed him away.
‘See you tomorrow at school,’ she said.
He looked a little dazed, but then grinned at her. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, you dork. But you can come over to my place if you want.’
She climbed up on the back wall and looked down into the courtyard, swaying there against a breeze that had suddenly come up. There was a light on inside the house, not in the kitchen but beyond it, probably in the hallway. She could smell cigarette smoke.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Dad’s still awake.’
‘Will he be mad?’
‘Don’t know. Are you staring up my skirt?’
‘Of course not.’
Freya laughed. ‘Yes you were. See you.’
She dropped into the courtyard and listened to Josh’s footsteps recede. She thought of his mouth again, the carefulness of him, how he tasted, something she couldn’t describe, just different. His hand on her hip, not pushy and not searching, just there. A low cough drifted through the house towards her. With her shoes in her hands, she went inside. Dad was sitting out on the front doorstep in his singlet, his back to her, looking out at the street. She might have tried going up the stairs, but they always creaked, so there wasn’t really any
point.
‘Hey,’ she said.
He looked at her for a moment without seeming to recognise her. ‘It’s late,’ he finally said. ‘Didn’t your mum say eleven?’
‘You going to tell her?’
He turned back to the street, took a drag of his cigarette. ‘What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Come here.’
He patted the steps and shifted to give her room. She dropped her shoes in the hall and went to sit beside him.
‘I couldn’t sleep myself,’ he said, rasping one hand across his stubbled chin. ‘When your mother’s at work, when she’s not in the bed, I struggle. Always do.’
She didn’t know what to say to that.
He cleared his throat. ‘So, were you out with some boyfriend?’
‘Just a party.’
‘You drink these days?’
‘No.’
He grinned. ‘Really?’
‘A bit,’ she admitted.
‘Of course you do. You’re fifteen now. I was out of home by then.’ He drew back on his cigarette. ‘Is that all it is, drinking?’
It took her a moment to figure out what he was saying.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘No. I mean, yes, that’s all it is.’
He looked at her directly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I was your age once. I know what teenage boys are like. You can’t trust them. There’s only one way they look at girls. One thing they’re after. Whatever they pretend. Doesn’t matter if they’re smart or dumb or weak or strong or what they say. You’re the one that has to be careful. You understand?’
‘Yeah, Dad.’ She thought of him as a teenage boy, and in spite of herself, maybe because she was still drunk, she laughed.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Just trying to imagine you at fifteen.’
‘Is it that hard?’
‘You just seem so old now.’
He raised his eyebrows, looked down at the slight bulge of his belly and then back at her. ‘Come on. I’m thirty-nine. That’s not old, is it?’
She laughed again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Your mother wasn’t that much older than you when I met her.’
‘What was she like, when you met her?’
He exhaled smoke from the corners of his mouth. ‘Soft. Couldn’t imagine her pissed off or anything like that. Now look at us.’ He leaned forward over his knees. The muscles in his arms rippled across one another as he held his hands in front of him and flexed. He shook his head. ‘I’m sure you can handle yourself. Better than your mother could. Better than me.’
She didn’t say anything and got up.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’
Freya kissed him on the cheek and put her arms around his neck. He smelled of all the familiar smells she’d known forever. But the comfort that came with those smells did not come by itself.
19
‘So, your son…’ Mrs Morrison said and smiled, as if Maryanne wouldn’t need to hear anything else, as if she’d be able to fill in the rest.
The woman was one of those weathered veteran-teacher types, with the close-cropped curly hair, reddish spots in her upper cheeks, a wrinkled triangle of skin between her shawl and blouse. There was a knowing quality in her eyes, a kindness that made Maryanne wary.
‘Daniel is no problem at all. He just needs to focus more. We all need a little help sometimes, though, don’t we?’
Maryanne nodded. She had no reason to be wary, not really. Maybe she was just having a bad day, misreading the woman’s tone, her air of concern—looking for trouble where there was none, expecting to feel judged and found wanting. Maybe that’s what some part of her wanted from other people. Her mouth felt dry. There was something going around and around in her head, some loose thought she couldn’t quite grasp. Her dress was damp with sweat, the empty classroom yawning behind her, the teacher on the other side of a neat desk on which everything was in order, everything perfectly arranged.
Mrs Morrison waited a beat and then went on. ‘He doesn’t cause trouble, but he keeps to himself perhaps too much. He doesn’t really seem to be there. I’m just not sure why.’ She smiled at Maryanne. ‘Are things at home okay?’
Maryanne gave a quick nod.
‘Are you okay?’
Maryanne suppressed a flash of irritation, made herself smile. ‘Yes. Of course.’
She felt the weight of her hands folded in her lap, beneath the table, as if she were in trouble.
‘The thing is,’ Mrs Morrison went on, ‘he can be very focused. He’ll notice the most extraordinary details in something I read to the children when they’re doing comprehension, for example, but then he can’t answer the questions afterwards. It’s like he switches off. He probably just needs to learn the strategies.’
Strategies? He was eight. What did an eight-year-old need to know about strategies, for God’s sake? Maryanne didn’t say anything—she just nodded, to get out of there as quickly as possible. She had enough to worry about.
Then the interview was finished, and she left the school grounds clutching her handbag as if it were the only thing stopping her from being swallowed by the footpath.
‘His problem,’ Roy said to her that night in their room, as they rested together against the bedhead, shoulders touching, ‘is partly you. You have to see that, now it’s not just me noticing.’
‘Noticing what, Roy?’
‘You go too easy on him. He thinks that’s how the whole world works.’
‘You really think that’s what Daniel’s learned over these last few years?’ Maryanne nearly burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry I said anything.’
It was quiet outside. The street lamp filled the curtains hanging limp over their window with a dull yellow glow.
‘A bit of discipline, Maryanne.’ He looked at her. ‘Boys need that. Maybe if you were a bit firmer with him, it would be easier for everyone.’
A cold thrill rippled through her chest. ‘Do you remember where that attitude took you last time?’
‘Last time?’ He stared straight ahead. ‘That’s a long while ago now. I don’t know why we’re still talking about it, why you keep feeling the need to bring it up. And it wasn’t all my fault.’
‘You didn’t say that at the time.’
‘What did I say at the time? That I was sorry.’ His eyes met hers. He tapped his temple with one finger. ‘You need to listen, Maryanne.’ He looked straight ahead again, away from her. ‘I’m sorry. Of course I’m sorry. My point is that maybe you should have been sorry too.’
‘For what?’
‘You indulge him. He doesn’t learn. Does the same things over and over again. That’s not safe. That time, he pushed me to the point where I couldn’t—’
‘Couldn’t what?’ She was eager for him to say it.
‘I don’t know,’ he said in a more subdued tone. ‘Think straight.’
‘And that’s it? That’s why you put your son in hospital?’
‘I didn’t put him in hospital. You make it sound like that’s what I set out to do. He ended up in hospital. One thing led to another. Accidents happen, Maryanne.’
‘You told me you’d never forgive yourself.’
‘People say that with accidents. It was no one’s fault.’
‘No one’s fault? Do you think I would have come back to you if you’d said that?’
He laughed harshly. ‘Would you really have come back to me if I’d done something to him on purpose? What sort of mother would come back if that’s what she really thought?’
‘You bastard.’
Neither of them spoke then. The curtains slid and billowed against one another in the breeze. Freya was walking around in her room above them. Neither of them spoke until it was quiet again upstairs.
‘Maybe I am a bastard,’ Roy said then. ‘The fact is, you’re a good enough mother—I’m not saying you’re not—but I’m good for him too. He needs some survival skills.’
‘Survival skills? You’re fucking kidding me, ar
en’t you?’ Her voice came out louder than she’d expected it to. Before she could go on, the door to Daniel’s bedroom creaked open.
‘Mum?’ he called out.
Roy sighed beside her. ‘Speak of the devil.’
She swung her legs out of the bed. ‘Yes, darling?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, darling. Are you?’
‘I woke up.’
‘This again,’ Roy muttered. ‘You really think he needs to do this?’
‘What do you know?’
His eyes narrowed at her. ‘You’re not as clever as you think you are, Maryanne. He’s controlling you.’
She ignored him.
‘Survival skills,’ he said. ‘That’s what you can’t give him. What’s he going to do when you’re not around?’
He had his hand on her wrist, heavy, hot, unmoving. It reminded her of being in the hospital with him while the doctors had been draining Daniel’s skull, everything in the balance, Roy sobbing, needing reassurance. An accident, he’d called it at first, there at the hospital, then a mistake, and now it was no one’s fault.
She leaned back into bed, put her other hand on top of his. ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘Forget everything else, change your story however you want to, but don’t forget this. I don’t care about survival skills. If you touch him again, I’ll—’
‘What?’ he said through his teeth. ‘What will you do?’
‘Whatever I have to.’
‘Like what? Call the police, is that what you’re saying?’
‘If I have to, Roy, yes, I will. They’re my children.’
His grip slackened, and before it could tighten again, she was out of bed and out the door.
Daniel’s sheets were sodden.
‘You wet the bed?’
‘I was having a dream.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said.
There was a spare set of sheets for him in his room. She changed them—it was a relief to do something—and put him in new pyjamas. His body felt warm, full of childish heat. As she was putting him back to bed, she stopped and straightened. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted around her. It was coming from nearby, from inside the house.