by Ed Briant
“No. It’s just that they’re all lusting after you, mate,” I say.
“They just have sophisticated taste,” says Zack.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what makes it so puzzling.”
“Are you going to play that thing?” Zack prods the bass with his toe. “Because if you’re not, then we might as well take it back right now.”
“I need to ask you one huge favor,” I say.
“How could I deny you anything?” Zack adjusts the strap on his shoulder, and plugs the lead into the amp. “Wait. Don’t tell me. We have to play ‘Michelle’ now.”
“Not quite,” I say. “‘Blackbird.’”
“‘Blackbird’?” Zack swivels his mouth around as if he’s trying to get something out from between his teeth. “Pick an easy one, why don’t you.”
“I just worked out the bass line,” I say. “It’s pretty easy.”
“Yeah. The bass line is easy,” says Zack. “My part is another story. The guitar chords from hell. What does it start with? G diminished minor suspended off Tower Bridge?”
19
Saturday
After we work out “Blackbird,” we just plow straight through the rest of the set: “Ticket to Ride,” “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “Tell Me Why,” “Get Back,” “I Should Have Known Better,” “Revolution,” “Eight Days a Week,” “Lady Madonna,” and “Day Tripper.”
One song just leads straight into the other.
The set sounds great as it is, but after a little discussion we decide to put “Blackbird” in third, instead of “Tell Me Why.”
Working any more on the songs is pointless. We don’t need any more rehearsal and call it a day, even though it’s earlier than usual.
Zack offers to stay, but I’d rather be left alone, and I know he really wants to go. Probably off to write some steamy letter to Bethany, and then wax down his surfboard. As soon as I hear the downstairs door bang shut, I put the bass away, crash back on Shawn’s bed, and try to hang on to the upbeat feeling I got from playing through the set.
I do this by trying to imagine what it’s going to be like when we play at Jubilee. It doesn’t really work though, and after a couple of minutes I roll off the bed and start fiddling around with the bass again.
“Blackbird” sounds fine, but I could use a little more practice, so I pull out the Fake Book, and flip through the pages until I come to it. I hum through the melody, and then work my way through the chord progression. It should make me think about Michelle, but it doesn’t. Instead it makes me think about Shawn.
He’s in prison, and I don’t feel anything. Does that make me a bad person?
Shawn was definitely no Robin Hood. Sure, he never took any tangible things from me. Not only that, he gave me things like the bass. But he stole something far more important.
When he did whatever it was he did, he robbed me of my last two months in Port Jackson.
Being robbed of time in Port Jackson might not normally seem like a bad thing, but he’s taken a couple of months with the band, just as we’ve started playing in public. Who knows where that would have led?
Worse than that, he’s robbed me of time with Michelle. Could that relationship survive me moving to London? Not a five-day relationship. Definitely not, but maybe a two-month one could survive as one of those long-distance things.
Nice work, Shawn. Good one. Three years I’ve been here, most of the time as a total hermit, and then the minute I get a life, you take it away from me.
Now I have to deal with the fallout.
I’ve told Zack we’re leaving, and that was hard enough. Now I have to tell Michelle.
I play out the scene in my head. She’ll come to Brunswick with me. She’ll be all happy to see me; she’ll probably give me a big kiss, and then I’ll have to tell her.
I wish I could tell her right now and get it over with. I don’t really want to wait till tomorrow to tell her what’s happened, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that I don’t actually have to. There’s no reason why I couldn’t go and see her, but if I’m going to go over there, I have to go right now.
I scoot down the stairs three at a time. According to the clock above the kitchen door, it’s 7:57. Mom will be home in three minutes. I have to leave before she comes in. If I wait till after she gets home then I’ll have to provide a long explanation of why and where I’m going. Even on a normal day she doesn’t really like me going out after it gets dark. By the time I’m through with the explanation and the negotiations, it really will be too late to go out. I’ll have to tell Mom where I’ve been when I get back, but by then I will have done what I need to do.
For the first time since I heard the news about Shawn, I actually feel a little better. I waste one valuable minute checking myself out in the bathroom mirror. There’s nothing that plastic surgery can’t fix, but now I only have two minutes left to get out of the house.
I grab my jacket, swing through the front door, and leap down all three steps of the stoop in one go.
I could either go north along Gray Street or south along Brackett Street. I spy a tall woman carrying a purple umbrella walking up Winter Street. My mother.
Then it hits me. The umbrella. Michelle’s umbrella. It’s the perfect excuse to go over and make a spur-of-the-moment visit. But now it’s too late. Mom is fifty yards from the end of the driveway. I take a step toward Michelle’s house, then a step home, and I think I might even scream aloud in frustration. Arrrggh! I hurtle back up the driveway, fishing the keys out of my pocket as I run. I shoot through the door, grab the umbrella, and bound back down the driveway to Winter Street. I know I’m too late. I’ve blown it. I know I will run straight into Mom on the driveway, but I get all the way to the pavement without seeing her. I glance in the direction I last saw her.
A van is pulling out of another driveway fifty yards down. Mom is nowhere to be seen. She must be on the other side of the van. Without a second thought I pound up Winter Street as I fast as I can, and I don’t rest until I’m halfway to Spring Street. I slow down to catch my breath next to the big chestnut tree at the corner of Gray and Spring Streets. Not so much of a rush now that I’m actually out of the house.
As I pass the chestnut tree I’m stopped in my tracks by a long, wailing hoot. It’s somewhere between the sound of train whistle and the sound it makes when you blow across the top of an empty bottle. It’s the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard, and it’s also a familiar sound.
At least it’s a sound I’ve heard hundreds of times before, and never thought twice about, but this evening is different. Naturally, there are no trains in the higher branches of the chestnut tree and by a quick process of elimination I figure out that it’s an owl.
I suppose that for an expert it would be more than just an owl. It would be a greater, spotted, or crested owl, but now I have yet another excuse to call on Michelle. I can tell her about the owl.
Now I’ve recovered from my running escape from Winter Street, I try to predict how it’s going to go.
I’ll ring the bell.
Her dad will answer.
I will explain about the owl.
He will be very interested and impressed that I spotted an owl. He will call Michelle. She’ll be a little surprised, and a little shocked.
I’m going to have to tell her my news that I’m leaving the moment she comes to the door. If I delay it even for a moment she’s going to be all smiling, and happy, and pleased to see me, and then I won’t be able to tell her.
My walk slows down to an amble, and from an amble, to a shuffle. Maybe I shouldn’t do this now. But I’m here. I’m at the corner of Spring Street. By now, Michelle might have seen me from a window if she just happened to be looking out. She’s going to be really confused if I’m wandering around outside. She’ll think I’m a stalker, whereas in r
eality I’m really the exact opposite.
I check the address on the umbrella tag, and make my way up the garden path. I pause for one moment to run my fingers through my hair, then I jog up the three steps to the front door. A light spills through a diamond-shaped window in the door.
Good, they’re home.
Below the window is a brass knocker.
I’m just about to use the knocker when I notice that there’s a bell on the doorpost. I get the urge to push the button and hold it for a while, but I just do a quick buzz. I don’t want to sound aggressive like my dad. I don’t want to be right in the face of whoever is going to come to the door, so I step back down to the pathway.
I’ve rolled the umbrella badly, so I unfurl it and roll it up again. I double-check the zipper on my trousers and force it right up to my belt. But nobody comes. Now I have the longing to ring the bell again. To fight the temptation, I wander back down to the pavement. This also gives me the chance to take in the whole front of the house. The only light is the one in the hall. Don’t they say that leaving the hall light on is a sure signal to burglars that there’s nobody home?
Rats! They’ve gone out. I’ve spent all this effort building myself up for this, and now I’m going to have to tell her tomorrow anyway. I suppose if they’re out then there’s no harm in ringing the bell a second time. I make my way back up to the door and up the steps. Just as I’m about to press the bell, a voice behind me says, “Can I help you?” in a tone that sounds somewhat unhelpful.
20
Saturday
I spin around and come face-to-face with a tall, heavyset man. He’s about three or four paces behind me, lurking in the shadows of the front garden. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. He must have come around from the back of the house in complete silence, because I heard nothing.
This must be a trick he learned from defending himself against charging bulls.
He must have also been doing some late gardening, because clutched in one hand is a large fork.
Or perhaps he’s about to use the fork on me.
Maybe he thinks I’m a burglar.
“Is Michelle home?” I say. I’m actually impressed by how steady my voice is.
I’m not sure that speaking to him helps, because he shifts the fork into his opposite hand, and now the prongs are pointed directly at my throat.
“I’m Toby,” I say in my most un-burglarish voice.
He gives a short laugh, says, “I know perfectly well who you are,” and steps forward into the yellowish glow of the street lamp.
I’m so shocked I actually have the urge to scream. Luckily, my throat goes so dry that the scream comes out as a kind of choke.
I have to reach back and steady myself against the front door.
Michelle Frost! Of course. How daft could I be.
I’ve often been accused of being slow on the uptake, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this slow before.
That’s why she was at the Aquarium.
That’s why she was at the rugby game.
She wasn’t there to see Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair.
She was there to see her dad: Frosty.
The same Frosty who is now looking at me as if I’ve come here with the sole purpose of stealing everything in his house.
“Good evening, Mr. Frost, sir,” I say in a voice that gets less steady with each word. “I’m actually friends with Michelle. Is she home?”
At the mention of Michelle’s name his expression transforms completely. He goes from looking at me like I’m a burglar to looking at me like I’m a rapist.
“What is it you want?” he bellows, as if I’m a quarter of a mile away from him, instead of a couple of feet. “Holland!”
This is probably the same tone that he uses to scare off charging bulls.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I say, not quite as confidently as I would like. “She lent me this.” I hold up the umbrella. He keeps his eyes fixed on me, and doesn’t look at what’s in my hand. Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m talking about the umbrella.
“It was raining this afternoon,” I say by way of further explanation—although, off the top of my head, I can’t think of any other reason why someone would lend out an umbrella.
I glance from his face to the umbrella, then back to his face.
My fear level begins to escalate. Maybe he’s not slow on the uptake. Maybe there’s some other reason why he’s not responding. Maybe he’s considering different methods of slaughtering me.
The umbrella’s getting heavy in my hand. Just as I lower my arm, he reaches out and grabs it from me. I’m not quite sure how this happens, as I don’t remember moving, but the next thing I know, he’s standing between me and the door, clutching both the fork and the umbrella in the same large fist.
“Thank you,” he says, in the same tone that he might have said “if I see you here again I will kill you.”
Now I have the urge to say goodbye, turn, and run back down the path to Gray Street, but I stand my ground. I take a deep breath. “Is she home?” I say.
His expression shifts slightly. “No,” he says. “She’s gone out.”
I’m about to tell him it’s been a pleasure and leave when I actually begin to feel a little angry. Even though I’m terrified of this person, I actually take a step toward him. “Will she be back soon?” I say.
“She will not,” he says. “Holland.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“She won’t be here tomorrow,” he says. “Holland.”
I’m just about to suggest next week, when he says, “I hate to be the one to break the news, Holland.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to see you again.”
I say, “But I was just with her a couple of hours ago—”
“Holland,” he says.
I look up at his face, and all of the hostility has gone. His eyes are crinkled into a smile, but it’s not a friendly smile. More of a triumphant smirk.
“Good evening, Holland,” he says. “I will see you tomorrow at school.”
What would Shawn do? Shawn would let out a big laugh, slap Mister Frost on the back, and within a minute the two of them would be best buddies. Frosty would say where Michelle had gone. If it was Shawn, Frosty would probably even give Shawn a ride to meet her.
No. Who am I kidding? Shawn would put one hand around Frosty’s shoulder and lift his wallet with the other.
What do I do? I say ,“Yes, sir,” and let out a long, ragged breath and head back down the path to Gray Street.
21
Sunday
Horoscope: April 18, Aquarius:
Act on the spur of the moment to create
new pizzazz in your life. Why not try a new hairstyle?
Throw caution to the wind and do the unexpected.
“I suppose I could live with being called the Sand Tigers for one gig,” says Zack, as we climb off the bus.
“I know it’s not the perfect name.” This is so strange to me that all I can do is stand on the asphalt and stare. There’s about a thousand people milling around. “It’s just better than all of the other names we’ve come up with.” It feels like there are more people in the Brunswick bus station than in all of Port Jackson. “I wish Michelle was here,” I say. “If she was it would be a breeze.”
A group of Hare Krishnas make their way along the pavement a few yards away from us, chanting and playing drums as they go.
“Hah. Michelle Frost,” says Zack. “Who would have thought that Frosty would have such a pretty daughter? Come to think of it, who would have thought he would have kids at all? Can you imagine having him as a dad?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“What are you doing?” says Zack.
“I�
��m imagining having Frosty as a dad,” I say. “It’s actually not as bad as you might think.”
“Is there some level at which you can take this business seriously,” says Zack. “I’m here because of you. Given the choice I’d rather be at home in bed. If it was my bass, I’d keep it.”
“It’s Sunday morning,” I say, opening my eyes. “If you were a half-decent human being you’d be in church.” Over Zack’s shoulder I see a girl with long, dark hair, looking at the bus timetables. “Look. Over there!” I point at the girl.
“It’s my humanity that keeps me away from church.” Zack twists around to look in the direction I’m pointing. “If I suddenly showed up, the pew people would get confused and think it was Christmas. You know, midnight mass being the only time I ever set foot in a church.” He glances back at me. “What am I looking at?”
“It’s Michelle.” I keep my eyes on her. “I know it’s a weird coincidence, but it’s her. I’m sure of it.”
Zack looks back and shakes his head. “Not unless she’s aged twenty-five years. She looks about forty.” He punches me on the shoulder. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t persuade Frosty to give you Michelle’s address in Brunswick.”
“He was about to shove a garden fork up my arse,” I say. “It kind of slipped my mind to ask him.”
The girl turns to face us, revealing the thin and lined face of a woman.
“I see what you mean,” I say.
“So, do you actually have some kind of a plan?” says Zack.
The Hare Krishnas move away, and as they do they reveal another dark-haired female. Her hair is swinging side to side as she approaches.
I know she’s not Michelle, but I can’t stop staring at her until I’m absolutely certain.
“I mean, how are we going to find Julie McGuire?” says Zack. “Toby?” He leans sideways, placing himself between me and the girl. He turns to look, then he turns back to me. “Toby,” he says again.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I know it’s not her.”
“Please stop,” says Zack. “She’s not here. Anyway,” he continues, “a plan? You’re taking us on a trip to nowhere. I realize that we’re called the Nowhere Men, but it’s just a name. We don’t always have to be going nowhere.”