by Paul Collins
The first house they approached was next door to an old fire station, now a furniture store. Milo said a silent thank you to Mrs Appleby; he was starting to get excited.
He knocked on the door while Fluke stood back. A lady in pink curlers poked her head out of an upstairs window. ‘What do you want?’ She didn’t sound happy to see them. ‘Out with it. I haven’t got all day!’
Milo suddenly became confused. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say.
‘I’m looking for my mother,’ he said, stammering.
‘Do I look like your mother?’ the woman snapped. Before he could reply, she slammed the window shut with a bang.
There was no answer at the next two houses. Milo was wishing he’d brought along a notebook to record them, when Fluke pulled one out of his pocket and scribbled down the numbers.
The next house had a row of motorbikes out front. That seemed a good sign. The postman had ridden one on his postal run. None of these bikes were red, though. They had a lot of chrome, and names painted on them like ‘Satan’s Mother’, ‘Vlad the Impaler’ and ‘I’m Innocent’.
While Milo was staring at the house Fluke said, ‘Better to leave no stone interned.’
Milo knew he was right. He went up the path to the front door and knocked. This close, he could hear loud music coming from inside. There was no answer to his knock so he tried again. When that didn’t work he kicked the door as hard as he could.
The music stopped suddenly. There was complete silence inside then somebody yelled something about flushing the toilet in a panicky voice.
A peephole opened above Milo’s head. He stood on tiptoes and smiled. A husky voice swore then said, ‘Whaddya want, kid?’
‘I’m looking for Mrs Chrysler,’ Milo said. At the man’s stony silence, he added hopefully, ‘Sharon Chrysler.’
‘There a Sharon Chrysler in the house?’ the man hollered.
Milo thought that was very odd. Imagine not knowing who was in your house.
A babble of voices replied to the query. A moment’s pause. Then: ‘Try across the street,’ the voice said. ‘She’s not here. Now get lost.’
‘What about the postman?’ he called out. ‘He rides a red bike!’
The door flew open.
Standing in a cloud of eddying smoke was the biggest, meanest looking bloke Milo had ever seen. He had a huge bushy beard and long dank hair. Tiny crucifix earrings – Yes! He’s a Christian! – hung from his ears and a chrome replica of a bent dog’s bone pierced his nose. His arms were dark with tattoos and hair poked above the neckline of a grubby blue singlet.
‘Whaddya want?’
Milo instantly knew that asking if his mum was there was the wrong question. He pulled the red sparkly shoe out of his backpack and held it up.
‘I need to find the one that matches this.’
The biker peered at the shoe then at Milo. ‘This trick or treat or something? You the prince from Cinderella?’ A woman behind him chuckled.
‘It belongs to – Shazza,’ Milo pushed on.
‘Listen, Einstein,’ the biker growled. ‘There’s no Shazza here. No one with red wheels. Or shoes. Now clear off before I kick your butt clean across the street.’
‘But I need to –’
Milo suddenly found himself dangling in mid-air, a shovel-sized fist gripping his shirt. The bushy beard – plus eyes, nose, and curled lips – were right in his face. The man’s breath smelled sharp and acrid and his pupils were gigantic.
‘He’s too little, Titch,’ the girl behind him said. ‘Throw him back.’
Milo said quickly, ‘I’m looking for a Suzuki GS500, red with chrome-plated –’ The biker shook him till his teeth rattled. ‘Only girls ride them,’ he said. ‘Do I look like a girl?’
‘Titch!’ the girl said. ‘You’re scaring the stuffing outta him.’
Milo shook his head, blinking. ‘I think you ride that Triumph Rocket III over there which has a fuel-injected, three-cylinder, twelve-valve 2,294cc powerplant giving 147 foot pounds of torque at 2,500 rpm. It also has a very good turning circle and a low centre of gravity which combine to make manoeuvring at low speed very easy, while the steering geometry and overall length give it a solidly planted and confident feel. Furthermore, twin butterfly valves for each throttle body are used to give precise control over the engine and the torque curve is therefore tailored specifically for each gear ratio.’
The biker’s grip on Milo loosened with every sentence.
Milo’s feet touched the ground. ‘And the result is extremely impressive – the engine’s enormous torque output gives the rider amazing levels of flexibility and makes the five-speed gearbox almost unnecessary. The Rocket III’s chassis is also quite special as it centres on a large tubular steel twin-spine frame, which houses the motor. The maintenance-free shaft drive sends power to the massive 240/50-section rear tyre, while 43 millimetre upside-down forks and spring preload adjustable twin rear shocks, built specifically for the Rocket III, add control, composure and supple compliance. The front brakes – twin four-piston callipers mated with 320 millimetre floating discs – are built to –’
Milo stopped. He realised he had an audience.
‘The kid’s a freakin’ genius,’ someone said in a slurred voice.
‘A freak, that’s for sure,’ Titch said. ‘All right, Einstein, now run along and play with your mate over there. Just don’t knock on this door again – or else.’
‘They liked your T-shirt,’ Fluke said as they headed down the street.
No one answered Milo’s knocking at the next four doors so he let Fluke try the next two, in case he had better luck. After all, ‘fluke’ didn’t just mean ‘accidental’.
Nobody in either of Fluke’s houses knew a Sharon Chrysler and although the next one had a blue motorbike out front it also had a very savage looking saliva-dripping Rottweiler, who seemed to eye Milo with a hungry expression. Milo went to bypass it altogether, but Fluke shook his head. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing sprained,’ he said, and for good measure added: ‘Real detectives search every crook and nanny!’
So to Milo’s alarm and amazement Fluke climbed over the gate, got down on all fours, and crawled towards the Rottweiler, ducking his head and making soft whimpering noises. Milo thought he was going to get his head bitten off, and at first his fears seemed about to come true when the Rottweiler erupted into a fit of manic barking. But Fluke did not back away. He shook himself, ducked his head again, and made more mewling sounds.
Suddenly the Rottweiler gave a little bark of pleasure. Fluke moved inside its leash radius, in reach of its jaws. And the Rottweiler started licking him. Fluke laughed and rubbed the Rotty behind the ears. The beast rolled over and arched its back.
Fluke rubbed its stomach, then waved Milo towards the door. Not quite as dog-proof as Fluke, Milo edged nervously past the two as they tussled on the lawn. He knocked on the door.
To Milo’s surprise, a girl of about his own age answered, one who – despite the heavy security door – Milo recognised. She was in a grade above him at school. He had a vague idea her mother was a teacher. ‘I’m looking for my mother,’ he said, still distracted by Fluke and the Rottweiler.
‘I’m looking for my father,’ said the girl. As if to emphasise this, she called out, ‘Daaaad!’
‘I hope he hasn’t run off,’ said Milo.
The girl’s face hardened. ‘That’s a stupid thing to say. He’s just doing overtime. He works a lot, okay?’ She seemed to realise she’d said too much and glared at Milo and Fluke, as if it was their fault.
Milo felt deflated. He wanted to call out ‘Muuum!’ too, but knew there was no point. And in less than a week he’d be locked up forever . . .
‘What’s that boy doing with my dog?’
‘Playing.’
‘Well, tell him to stop.’
Milo did so, then turned back. He was starting to feel desperate. He’d been so sure this would work, that with Mrs Appleby’s help he would find
his mother. Now . . .
He pulled out his mum’s shoe. ‘Do you know anyone who wears a shoe like this? Have you seen the other one?’
‘Who do I look like, Dorothy? Or do you –?’
The girl’s face suddenly changed. It went from ‘glaring’ to ‘suspicious’ – and landed on realisation . . .
Milo watched the face with despair. Sooner or later, it always happened. People were friendly at first, then abruptly cold, even hostile. His mum said they were scared, but Milo could never figure out why.
‘We’ll be going now,’ he said, dejectedly.
‘Hang on. You’re that weirdo kid from Sidham Drive, aren’t you?’ Something else dawned on her. ‘You killed that old woman in her home!’
Milo backed away.
‘I’ve got a Rottweiler,’ said the girl, ‘and I’ll set him on you if you don’t leave right now!’
‘I only wanted to –’
She slammed the door in his face.
Defeated beyond comprehension, Milo went home, parting from Fluke a couple of blocks from his house.
Once bitten, twice cry
That night, Mr Chrysler arrived home late – past ten o’clock – due to a meeting that had run late. This didn’t happen often and by way of apology, he produced two chicken and pineapple pizzas – Milo’s favourite.
As his dad dished out thick steaming slices of pizza, Milo saw him eying the kitchen. It was definitely a mess, and Milo mentally kicked himself. He’d been trying to follow Fluke’s advice and make sure he did all his chores, and more. Yet his father didn’t look angry. In fact, he looked as if the untidiness was making him realise how clean it had been all last week.
‘Guess I’m not coping too well, am I, Tobes? You hungry?’
‘I think so,’ said Milo.
Mr Chrysler sat down beside him. He slid a plate across to Milo, who suddenly decided he was hungry. ‘Is everything all right, mate?’
Milo paused with the pizza halfway to his mouth. ‘I think so. You?’
‘I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. You must be pretty nervous about this court case . . .’
Milo took a second to reply. ‘Some.’
His dad ruffled his hair. ‘You’re a tough nut sometimes, you know that?’
Milo felt a glow of pleasure.
‘I want you to know I’ve found you a great lawyer. Everything’s going to be okay.’
Milo knew his dad was just saying this to cheer him up, and himself, too.
‘When this is all over,’ said Mr Chrysler, ‘I’m going to make it up to you, all right? It’s not good for a boy to be without a mother.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe that’s why you keep getting into trouble – I mean, even when your mum was here, she was kind of – distracted, I guess . . .’
‘Things just happen to me, Dad. I don’t know why. And people blame me for it.’
‘I don’t blame you for anything, Tobes,’ said Mr Chrysler. ‘I blame myself for this mess we’re in.’
‘I’ll do the dishes.’ Milo got to his feet.
‘Leave them. It’s my turn. And I’ll – I’ll try to pitch in more. I’m off to bed now. It’s been a long day. And Toby, if there’s anything you ever want to talk about, you know I’m here.’
‘Yes, Dad. Goodnight.’
Milo had watched his father shuffle off to bed. He’d looked old and sad.
Milo woke to the sound of a neighbour’s motorbike followed by, moments later, the front door banging shut as his dad crunched his way down the driveway.
Milo shot a look at the calendar on the wall over his desk. He’d been crossing off the days till he was due to be locked away forever. There were only seven left.
Milo climbed out of bed and had a shower. Sometimes ideas came to him as the water pounded his skin. At school, he often dunked his whole head under the taps after a particularly bad class.
Milo scrubbed himself, staying under the torrent of water for a long time. Eventually, he turned off the taps and started to dry himself.
That’s when he got the shock of his life.
Someone was peering in the steamed-up window, the face squashed so hard against the glass it seemed deformed, not even human.
Milo quickly wrapped the towel around his waist. He was breathing heavily, the beginnings of an asthma attack coming on.
Then a girl’s voice: ‘Milo?’
He jumped, but his beating heart slowed a little. ‘Yes?’ he called out tentatively.
‘Come to the back door!’
‘Um . . . all right . . .’
He pulled on his clothes, even though he wasn’t very dry, and hurried through the house. He whipped open the back door so fast that the girl standing there peering through the keyhole leapt back in shock and almost fell over.
For a moment, Milo couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the girl who had slammed the door in his face.
Despite having been caught peering in while he was practically naked, the girl seemed to be angry at him.
She looked different too. She was wearing an over-sized Hello Kitty T-shirt, ripped denims and old runners. Short-cropped red hair framed a pretty face with a bob nose and a zillion freckles, and she was thin, though it was easy to miss on account of her thrusting out her lower jaw and waving her fist under his nose.
‘Where’s my dad?’ she demanded.
This was so ‘out there’ and so déjà vu-ish that for a moment Milo’s mind went completely blank.
‘Hello! Earth-to-Milo!’
Milo came back to himself. ‘You were spying on me,’ he said.
‘I was being discreet!’ said the girl. ‘Well? Don’t stand there looking like you’re actually thinking.’
Milo said, ‘Your father isn’t here. Neither is mine.’
The girl huffed and puffed for a minute or two, her narrow chest heaving beneath Hello Kitty, animating the whiskered face. Then she put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. Milo noticed that her arms were quite muscular. ‘Is your mother here?’
‘I told you the other day, Mum isn’t here.’
‘Well,’ the girl said, ‘it looks as though no one’s home, doesn’t it?’
‘I am,’ he said.
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ the girl said.
Ignoring her rudeness, Milo said, ‘Why do you think your dad’s here?’
The girl stamped her foot. ‘Because Mum said he ran off with ‘that woman’ from eighty-eight Sidham Drive. This is eighty-eight Sidham Drive, isn’t it?’
Milo blinked in surprise. ‘Is your dad the postman?’
The girl’s eyes flared. ‘So he has been here?’
‘Every weekday for the past five-and-a-half years,’ Milo admitted.
‘Oh, you’re a bag of laughs.’
Despite her bravado, Milo could tell she was upset. He felt sorry for her. Regardless of Fluke’s oft quoted ‘once bitten, twice cry’, he said, ‘You want to come in?’
Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholden
‘I’m Milo,’ said Milo. He stuck out his hand.
‘I know who you are,’ the girl said. She looked at his hand as if it were a leper’s, but reached out quickly and shook it. She let it go just as fast. ‘There, that’s done,’ she said.
‘You’re supposed to tell me your name now,’ Milo said.
‘Ginger,’ she said, then added: ‘Ginger – Baker.’
‘Ginger because of your hair?’ Milo asked, curious. ‘My name’s also a –’
‘Just Ginger,’ the girl cut in. ‘It’s not a nickname. Not like yours.’
Yours.
Milo noticed Ginger was clenching and unclenching her fists.
‘So. This is where your mother lives.’
Was that a question or a statement? What a pity you couldn’t see question and exclamation marks when people spoke.
Ginger looked as though she expected a reply. Milo obliged. ‘Not anymore.’
Ginger nodded. Suddenly, her eyes went to the fireplace. She snatched a fami
ly photo from the mantelpiece and took a long, hard look. She shook her head, angrily. ‘Don’t know what Dad saw in her.’
‘Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholden,’ Milo quoted Fluke.
Ginger shot him a look. ‘Yeah, right.’ She prowled around the place like a burglar, looking in cupboards, peering in drawers.
‘Did you lose something?’ Milo asked, puzzled.
‘Apart from my dad, no.’
She moved to the kitchen and rummaged around some more. No cupboard remained unopened, no drawer contents untouched. She examined the pantry, the laundry. Finally, she sighed. ‘I can’t figure it out. This place is no different from ours.’
‘We have a cellar,’ said Milo. ‘Dad had it put in because Mum loves expensive wine. Most houses don’t have cellars.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘We don’t use it anymore.’
Ginger closed her eyes and counted to five, mouthing the numbers silently. ‘I meant, why would my dad leave us and our house for your mum and your house?’
Milo shrugged. ‘For the same reason my mum left us and our house for your dad and your house?’
Ginger sagged a little. ‘It’s got me stumped,’ she said. ‘I just want my dad to come home.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Milo.
‘Why, are you deaf?’
Milo was about to say that no, he wasn’t, but Ginger interrupted him. ‘So why don’t you just ask her why she left?’ She rested her head on her hands, with her elbows on the table.
‘I don’t know where she is,’ Milo said.
‘So go to her workplace.’
‘She’s a writer,’ Milo said. ‘She works from home. Why don’t you go ask your dad why he doesn’t come home?’
‘Dad’s work shifted him. And they don’t tell anyone where people are. It’s confidential.’
‘You could hang out on different streets,’ Milo said. ‘He’s bound to deliver mail to one of them.’
Ginger counted to five again. ‘Milo, do you know how many streets there are in this state? Thousands. I’d be collecting my pension before I covered half of them. If I didn’t get hit by a car first, that is.’