‘Bloody hell, Michael,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t exactly help yourself, do you? I mean, falling asleep at lunchtime!’
‘Yeah, well . . .’
‘I didn’t find out about it until last lesson. I don’t want you to think that I’d have left you there if I’d known.’
‘I don’t think you’d have done that.’
‘What’s this I heard about a note pinned on you?’
‘Nothing. No big deal.’
‘Yeah, well, if I find out who did it . . .’
We didn’t finish. The SOSE teacher suddenly slammed his fist down on the desk.
‘There seems to be an unnecessary amount of noise in this classroom today. School has not finished yet, so I suggest you get your textbooks out and turn to page 35. The ecology of the Murray River system. Right . . .’
When the bell rang I stayed behind to ask about our homework, but only because I didn’t want to leave with the rest of the students. The teacher answered patiently, even though he had already clearly explained the assignment. When I thought most students would have left the building, I thanked him and gathered up my books. Leah was waiting for me in the corridor.
‘Getting the bus, Michael?’
Normally I would have been pleased to walk with her. I was touched she had waited for me. But I had business to attend to.
‘Thanks, Leah, but I’ve got something to do. I’ll get the bus later.’
After she’d gone, I waited in the corridor for a minute and then left the school grounds by a side entrance. A few kids were hanging around, but they didn’t bother me. Down the road I found a bench to sit on, and waited. I had a clear view of the school. I needed to check something. It was crazy. It was impossible. But my heart wouldn’t stop hammering.
After twenty minutes the stooped figure of Mr Atkins appeared at the main entrance. He walked straight past the staff car park and left the grounds by a side gate. This was a bonus. I had expected him to get in a car. A rego was all I had hoped for. I waited until he was some way down the road and then followed. If he turned around, he’d spot me. Someone of my size is difficult to miss. Mr Atkins, though, seemed deep in thought. I stayed as close as I could.
It was madness. What happens in the Dream is the product of my brainwaves. It has nothing to do with the outside world, the real world. But the visit to Mrs Atkins had been strange. It wasn’t just the way the dog seemed to sense me. It wasn’t even that I couldn’t fully control Mrs Atkins’s reactions. I patted my pocket, and I almost hoped I would find that Mrs Atkins wouldn’t bear any resemblance to my creation. Mr Atkins probably wouldn’t even have a dog. But I couldn’t still the rush of excitement in my blood.
Mr Atkins took a totally different route to the one I had followed at lunchtime. I suppose he might have been heading somewhere other than home, but it didn’t seem likely to me. After twenty minutes, he turned into the drive of an elevated house in a quiet street. This took me by surprise, but I quickened my steps and was across the street and watching as he went in the front door. I sat down on the grass for a few moments. I was sweating from the walk and my legs felt rubbery. I waited until my heart stopped hammering. Then I started a slow walk back to the bus stop. I needed to think.
Mr Atkins did have a dog. It jumped up at him as he searched for his house keys. It wasn’t the dog in the Dream. The real dog was brown, rather than black, but it was about the same size and roughly the same breed. But the main thing that bothered me was Mrs Atkins. She opened the door while Mr Atkins was fumbling with his keys and trying to stop the dog from jumping.
I saw her for only a few moments. But she was the twin of the person in the Dream. Her hair was the same, her tired, shuffling walk the same. Only the clothes were different. Maybe the dog and Mrs Atkins could have been dismissed as coincidence. Even the glimpse I caught of her eyes as she leaned to kiss her husband on the cheek could have been argued away. Even though I’m good with eyes and would have sworn they were the same.
The clinching thing was the bulge in the pocket of my shirt. A lump of sugar. How did it get there? I popped it into my mouth and felt the sweetness crumble on my tongue. It tasted like proof.
When I got home, Dad was still at work. Mary opened the door and gave me a big hug.
‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Guess what? You’ve had a visitor. Someone from school.’
My mind was still swimming with the possibilities of sugar. Even so, my heart skipped a beat.
‘Leah?’ I said. ‘Short girl, with hair that curls under her chin?’
Mary laughed.
‘In your dreams, mate,’ she said. ‘No, this was a boy. Said his name was Martin. You’ve only missed him by ten minutes.’
4 .
‘He was charming, that Martin. Said he was a friend of yours.’
She put the slightest stress on the word ‘friend’. I almost couldn’t bear it. Mary had waited so long for this. It was there in her eyes. Planning my social life. Sleepovers with Martin, going to watch footy with Martin, long phone calls with Martin, playing computer games with Martin. I felt weak before her naked hope.
‘Said he’d met you at school and wanted to check if you were settling in. Isn’t that kind of him? Said he was worried you might find some of the kids unfriendly. He was so disappointed you weren’t here. Oh, and he left a message. He’ll probably see you on the bus tomorrow and he wanted to know what costume you’d be wearing to the Social on Friday – and if the two of you could go to the Social together.’
I knew I was in trouble.
‘What’s the Social, Michael?’ she said over the rim of her teacup.
‘Oh, it’s like a school party,’ I said, trying to sound casual. It wouldn’t work. I knew Mary too well.
‘Brilliant!’ she said. ‘For the whole school?’
‘Just the Year 10s.’
‘And what did Martin mean about a costume? Is it fancy dress?’
‘Sort of. It’s got a theme.’
Mary was getting more excited by the minute.
‘I used to love fancy dress parties,’ she said. ‘What’s the theme?’
‘Horror.’
‘Well, we are going to have to get busy. It’s what, Tuesday now. If I’m going to make something we’ll have to decide tonight what you are going as. I could pick up material tomorrow.’
‘Listen, Mary. I’m not sure I want to go.’
She put her cup down and the saucer rattled. This could get unpleasant.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure about it, that’s all.’
She just frowned at me until I turned my head away. I felt her hand on my wrist, but kept my head down.
‘Michael,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I know what you are going to say, Mary.’
She snorted. ‘Good. It won’t come as any surprise to you then. Listen, Michael. If you’re determined not to go, I can’t force you, and neither can your dad. You’re too old for that now. But you owe me a hearing at least. Is that too much to ask?’
How could I say ‘Yes’? It was impossible. Mary plucked nervously at her bottom lip, flipped open a packet of cigarettes and went to light one.
‘Dad’ll go mad,’ I said. ‘You know he hates the smell.’
And Dad would smell it, even hours later. He blamed me, never Mary, so I didn’t like it when she smoked in the house.
‘Oh, just the one,’ she said. ‘I’ll open the backdoor and let some air in. He won’t smell it.’
I didn’t say anything. She sat for a moment blowing out a determined stream of smoke.
‘Michael,’ she said finally. ‘You’ve been to seven schools in four years. It’s no wonder you don’t make friends. Now, I know it’s not your fault. I know that every school you’ve been to has been a nightmare, that you’ve been bullied, emotionally and physically, at all of them. I can only begin to imagine what that must be like. And I worry about you, Michael. I worry about you so much.’
Her eyes brimmed with tears. It wrenched something inside me. I covered her hand with mine. I could feel it trembling. Mary took another drag on the cigarette. Ash fell to the floor.
‘This is a chance, Michael. That’s all. A chance for a little happiness. You’ve been invited to the Social by a boy from school. The first time I can remember anyone inviting you anywhere. Don’t blow it, Michael. Take a chance. Please. If not for your sake, then for mine.’
And that’s how it was decided. A series of images flashed into my mind. The first time I saw Mary, standing on the doorstep, about two years after Mum died. She carried a nervous smile and a canvas bag. Mary sitting on the side of my bed, murmuring nonsense and wiping my tears away. Mary plucking at her bottom lip and smoking, always smoking. Her laugh, the way her mouth turned down when she disapproved; her ability to put up with pain and loneliness. I knew all about that. Mary loved me. She held nothing back. And I loved her. Sometimes it’s that simple.
‘All right, Mary,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. It might be fun.’ I could always find a quiet spot somewhere and sit out a couple of hours. It wasn’t like I was really giving anything up.
‘Oh, Michael!’ She clapped her hands together, like a little kid. It made me laugh. ‘That’s brilliant. It really is. You’ll have such a good time.’
She leapt to her feet and starting opening drawers in the kitchen cabinet.
‘Pen. Paper. We need to brainstorm ideas for your costume. Damn it, I know there’s a pen here somewhere.’
I watched as she rushed around. She reminded me of Mum sometimes, particularly around the eyes. Not that I could remember much of Mum but I’ve got photographs. Mary’s hair was getting greyer and lines were deepening on her face. But her eyes were clear and sparkling. It was difficult not to get caught up in her enthusiasm. I found myself rummaging around in my school bag for my pencil case while she gabbled on.
‘What about a zombie? Too obvious? Perhaps it should be something no one else will wear. Like . . . oh, I don’t know. A creature from outer space? I could do you all green. Hey, what about the Incredible Hulk?’
‘I’m the size for it. I could go as the Incredible Bulk.’
Normally, she would give me a serve if I made jokes about myself, but now she just laughed, took my pen and an exercise book and started scribbling.
Dad rang. He told me he was working overtime and he’d drop in at the pub afterwards. I’d have to cook for myself and I shouldn’t wait up. He didn’t mention Mary, but I passed the message on. She smiled.
‘Not the first time we’ll have taken care of ourselves, Michael. Anyway, we’ve plenty of planning to do. And I can afford to have another ciggie. Or two.’
She triumphantly produced another smoke from her pack and lit up. I didn’t have the heart to complain.
I went to bed early. We hadn’t made much progress on a costume, but we’d kicked ideas about. Anyway, I knew Mary. She’d rush around, but I’d still have to get something at the last minute. I left her roughing out designs. They seemed very complicated to me, but she was happy. She gave me a big hug and dropped ash on my shoulder.
‘Sleep well, Michael,’ she said. ‘You know, I’ve a feeling things are starting to change for you. New place, new school, new friends. It’s all coming together.’
I didn’t want to tell her that from where I was standing it all seemed on the point of unravelling.
I thought about it when I got to bed.Why had Martin Leechy come to my house? What was in it for him? Maybe it was just excitement, the risk of entering enemy territory. Perhaps he wanted me to understand that nowhere was safe, not even my own home. I couldn’t tell. All I could really be sure of was that he was dangerous, even more so than Jamie. Because Martin was unpredictable.
Sooner or later one of them would get me. That was certain.
I put it out of my mind. There was no point worrying about the inevitable. And anyway, I wanted to focus on sugar lumps, a tired, sick woman, and the nature of the Dream. I tried to think it through carefully, but an image kept getting in the way. From a Maths lesson, in some school I had now forgotten. The teacher, I remember, had made us cut a strip of paper, half a metre long. Then we had to staple the ends together, forming a band. The thing was, we had to twist one end over before we stapled. The band had a kink in it. And it was so cool. He’d made us draw a line along the surface and it joined both planes. It just kept going round and round. I even remember what it was called. A Möbius strip. I kept the picture in my head while I explored my logic.
I had visited a woman in the Dream. In the real world I had seen a woman who was identical. Coincidence? The logical explanation was that I might have seen her before, in the real world, and attached her to my Dream vision. The imagination needs something to build on.
In the Dream, she and the dog had behaved in ways I couldn’t fully control. Circumstantial evidence? That happened sometimes. It used to happen all the time before my control got better. Why should I think I’d got it exactly right?
A lump of sugar I had put into my pocket in the Dream. A lump that was still there when I woke on the oval. A dream sweetness that melted on my real tongue. Proof? I couldn’t think past that.
What if the real world was one side of a Möbius strip and the Dream the other? What if a twist made two separate places one connected plane I could travel along? Wouldn’t that mean I could remove a tumour in the Dream and it would be removed in the real world? The first tingling sense of possibility ran through me as I drifted towards sleep. My head was full of sugar, knots of cancer and curved strips of paper.
Dad came in late. I jerked upright in bed at the sound of his stamping. I knew he was drunk. I could read the signs. The way the fridge door slammed, the way cups and plates rattled. After a few minutes I heard his feet along the corridor. My door crashed open and a wedge of light fell across my face.
Dad stood there, swaying slightly.
‘You’ve been smoking again,’ he said. There was darkness in his eyes. ‘The whole place stinks of it.’
‘I haven’t Dad. Honest.’
He looked at me a little longer.
‘You’re a lying bastard,’ he said. ‘The kitchen reeks of smoke. I can smell it on you from here. Get up and get changed.’
‘Dad. No. Please.’
He slammed the door. I lay for a few moments longer, but I had no choice. I swung my legs out of bed and found the shorts, bright red and shiny, at the bottom of my chest of drawers. I pulled them up and the waistband dug into my gut. Even so, the fabric flapped below my knees. In the wardrobe mirror, flabby breasts flopped, pale and hairless. My stomach fell in folds over the white waistband. Only my legs were thin. I swallowed against an upsurge of bile.
The backdoor in the kitchen was open and I went outside. Dad was waiting. He wore blue satin shorts and jigged on his toes. A fluorescent light on the outside wall destroyed the night. He handed me the gloves and I put them on.
‘Left foot towards me, pointing at the target,’ he said. ‘Knees bent. Not that much. Find your balance, so you can go forwards or backwards. Left hand up, just below the eye. Forearm’s your best defence, remember. Elbow down to protect the gut. Side on. Make yourself small. Right arm higher, Son. Where does the power come from, Michael?’
‘The shoulder, Dad.’
‘That’s right. The shoulder. Get weight behind it. And what’s the golden rule?’
‘Movement, Dad.’
‘Movement. Jab and dance away. Keep moving. It’s difficult to hit a moving target, Son. Remember the legs and the eyes. Watch your opponent at all times. Keep moving at all times.’
He snaked out a jab. It caught me just above the temple.
‘You’re not watching and you’re not moving. You should have seen that coming. Improve your reflexes.’
He moved closer, ducked his left shoulder and brought his right fist through into my stomach. I felt the rush of air leave me.
&
nbsp; ‘The sucker punch,’ he said. ‘You fall for it every time. Watch my eyes, Son. It’s all in the eyes. Come on. Free hit time. Give it your best shot.’
He dropped his gloves slightly, dancing lightly on his toes. I moved towards him and he skipped away. Sweat was stinging my eyes and my stomach hurt. I tried to move quicker and he circled around me, dropping his arms to his side. I brought my right arm over and he swayed out of the way. I stumbled and he cuffed me on the back of the head.
‘Balance, Son. Keep up on your toes and never lose the balance.’
Afterwards, he slung an arm around my neck. His mood had improved. He smelt of sweat and beer.
Mary came into my bedroom later. I was staring at the ceiling. She sat on the edge of my bed, brushed my hair back from my face and kissed me on the forehead. We didn’t say anything. But I thought about how the real world might be different. Maybe, with a twist, two worlds would join. If I could do that it would change everything.
And then . . . well, people had better watch out.
1 .
I dream of Mum.
We are on a beach. I’m building sandcastles and the sun is reflecting off the waves. Little shards of light, like splinters, hurt my eyes. Mum is lying on her back on an orange towel. Dad is wading out of the surf. I squint against the sun. He is a dark cutout, impossibly thin, diamond flashes of light on his silhouette. Mum gets up, pushes hair away from my eyes and smiles at me. My sunhat is tight at my temples, loose and floppy across my shoulders. My hands are small and podgy. They fuss with the wall of a castle, patting crumbling sand into place. Mum rubs cold, oily sunscreen into my back, but my attention is fixed on the castle. It’s falling apart.
I know I’m dreaming but do nothing to alter it. Not when I dream of Mum. I feel her hands across my skin and I feel the texture of the sand. The sun is a tingle on my bare legs, the sound of the surf a heartbeat. Dad throws himself down next to us. Another castle slips and slides and he cups it in his hands, smoothing it. He grins at me, but I frown back. He’s not doing it right.
Dreamrider Page 6