I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  “I thought we’d decided on the Sand Tigers as a name.” I point to the wall where I’d just seen the person who wasn’t Michelle. “There’s a map. Let’s find where Mariner Street is, then we’ll be somewhere.”

  “The Sand Tigers is okay,” says Zack, as we make our way through the crowd toward the map. “But if we call ourselves the Nowhere Men, then people will know we do Beatles stuff.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t like the Nowhere Men.” I immediately find the bus station on the map. There’s a spot right in the middle of the map that’s worn away from a thousand people prodding it and going We’re here, so I prod the map, and say, “We’re here.” Then I turn to Zack. “Why did you say you liked the Sand Tigers when we were on the bus if you didn’t like it?”

  “I didn’t say I liked it.” Zack runs his finger along the map from the worn-out spot. “Look. St. James Street, Eastern Road, Norfolk Square, Mariner Street. Looks pretty easy.” He turns to me. “I said I thought I could live with it for one gig.”

  Both of us make it across the six lanes of St. James Street, and we turn left. Eastern Road is lined with shops that are either out of business or just about to go out of business.

  An empty glass bottle is propped on the curb right next to a garbage can. “Anyway,” I say as I reach down and put the bottle in the garbage. “Why are things different now? What’s changed in—I don’t know—four minutes?”

  “You’re quite forceful,” says Shawn. “I don’t think you realize it.”

  “So, you mean you didn’t really like the name,” I say, as we turn in to Norfolk Square and begin walking around it in a clockwise direction. A wiry-looking woman passes us. She has dyed orange hair and a cigarette dangling from her thin lips.

  I can’t help staring at her for a moment.

  “She’s not Michelle,” says Zack.

  I shake my head. I can’t think of a better response.

  The shops on Norfolk Square look pretty dingy, but we must be moving toward a better neighborhood because at least some of the shops are still in business.

  “I’m not saying I don’t like the Nowhere Men,” I say.

  “I’m not saying I’m completely averse to the Sand Tigers,” says Zack.

  “So which is it going to be?” I say. “A compromise? The Sand Men? The Nowhere Tigers?”

  Finally we reach Mariner Street. I’ve already had one culture shock this morning traveling from the sleepy seaside town of Port Jackson to the metropolis of Brunswick. It’s almost as big a shock to turn off Norfolk Square onto a side street. There couldn’t be more of a contrast between the shabby and derelict Norfolk Square and the big, fancy houses of Mariner Street. I would guess that the people who live here don’t do their shopping on Norfolk Square.

  The only thing the two streets have in common is that they’re both deserted.

  “Do you know how many people live in Brunswick?” says Zack. “Almost half a million. Have you got that?”

  “Look, we’re on the right side.” I point to the numbers on the houses. “There’s two, and there’s four. We’re on the right track.” The houses aren’t a lot bigger than our house on Winter Street, except that each one has a big front and backyard. All of the houses look recently painted, but the big difference is in the cars. Winter Street is lined with battered and dented wrecks. The cars parked on Mariner Street are all shiny Mercedeses and BMWs.

  “Okay.” Zack turns to me. “If we make any progress on finding this Julie person, then I will let you choose the name.”

  “Deal,” I say. “If Julie McGuire lives here,” I point at the cars, “do you think she’s too rich to even care about the bass?”

  “The chances are that Julie McGuire is no longer Julie McGuire,” says Zack. “The note might have been written years ago, so now she’s probably got herself married and she’s Julie something else. Julie is a pretty common name. How many Julies do you think live in Brunswick? Hundreds, probably.”

  We reach number forty, and I can’t help slowing down as I realize the seriousness of what I’m about to do. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I’m about to ring the doorbell and not know what to expect. The last time wasn’t exactly a runaway success.

  “There you go,” says Zack. “48.”

  We come to a stop outside a house with a front garden so perfect it probably gets manicured with nail scissors.

  “Doesn’t look too much like the abode of an aging bass player,” I say.

  “That’s just what I’m trying to tell you,” says Zack. “Julie McGuire is no longer Julie McGuire. New name. Totally different life. Anyway, we need 48B.”

  The next house is number fifty. We walk back past forty-eight, and the next house in that direction is forty-six. We walk back to forty-eight.

  “Maybe 48B is behind 48,” says Zack. “You know sometimes people build a house in their back garden.”

  “We can’t just walk into 48’s garden,” I say.

  “I’ll do it,” says Zack. “There’s nobody about to see me.”

  Just as Zack stops speaking a door slams across the street. A few moments later a heavyset bloke emerges from a driveway about ten houses down, and crosses to our side. A tiny Pekingese kind of dog is running along beside him on the end of a leash.

  “Let this bloke go past,” I say. As he gets closer I can see that he’s just a very big kid, not much older than us.

  “Typical,” says Zack. “As soon as you don’t want anyone around, then someone appears.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Why don’t we just ask him?”

  The bloke stops about four houses down while his dog does its dog thing, but as soon as the dog is finished they do an about turn and head away from us.

  “Come on,” I say to Zack. “It’s our best chance.” I stumble into a jog. Zack falls in behind, and then passes me. As we get closer, something begins to feel a little familiar about this kid with the dog. The kid crosses the street and is just about to go back into his driveway when Zack sprints ahead.

  “Hang on a second,” I say to him.

  But Zack doesn’t hear me. He runs right up to the kid, who’s a good head taller than Zack. “Excuse me,” he says.

  The kid turns, and I choke.

  “Goodness me,” says the kid, looking from Zack to me and then back again. “It’s the two bra straps from Port Jackson.”

  “Hi Jasper,” I say.

  “You’re calling us bra straps?” Zack points to the dog. “That’s not exactly a Rottweiler you’ve got there, is it?”

  Please stop, I mutter under my breath. This is not the best way to approach Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair.

  22

  Sunday

  “Jasper, old pal.” I say this in my most diplomatic voice, while his pooch lunges and snarls at me. “Can you tell us where forty-eight B is?”

  Jasper blows out a raspberry. “What on earth are you doing here?” He reels in his dog like he’s reeling in a prize haddock. “Aside from which, what do you want to know for?”

  “Listen.” Zack bends down and holds out his fingers for the dog to sniff, but it just growls and snaps at him. “We’re trying to do something good and decent, and we’re just asking for your help.”

  “If you don’t want to help,” I move out of the dog’s range as it circles around Jasper, making exasperated grunts, “then we can go somewhere else,” I say.

  “But if that is the case,” says Zack, “we won’t be able to offer you any guarantees that news about the manly kind of dog you keep as a pet won’t spread around the school.”

  “She’s not my dog,” says Jasper. “She’s my mum’s.”

  “We understand that,” says Zack, “but not everyone else is going to see the subtleties of the situation.”

  The pooch squats down and does its
thing again, then kicks backward with its little legs.

  “Look. Why don’t you come in?” Jasper walks backward toward the house he originally came out of. “My dad will be back from the station soon and I’m supposed to set the table for lunch.”

  “In?” says Zack. “You mean to your house?”

  “Yes. I live in a house,” says Jasper. “This isn’t Port Jackson. We stopped living in caves a couple of years ago.”

  “Very witty,” says Zack.

  We follow Jasper across his trim lawn and in through the front door, where we’re surrounded by the smell of roast beef.

  I can’t help feeling a little hungry. “I think Zack’s upset,” I say to Jasper. I lower my voice. “He really does live in a cave.”

  “Sorry,” says Jasper in a fake whisper as he unhooks the dog from its lead. “I won’t mention it again.”

  “Are you talking about me?” says Zack as he closes the door behind us. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? You’re the Neanderthal,” he says to Jasper, “and I’m the one who lives in a cave.”

  “Do you want my help or not?” says Jasper.

  “Yeah. Sorry,” I say to him as he guides us through to the kitchen. I start to sketch out the details, leaving out as much as I can. “There’s this bass.”

  “We found it,” says Zack.

  “It seems like it was probably stolen,” I say. “It had a note inside saying it belonged to a Julie McGuire at 48B Mariner Street.”

  “Which is right opposite you,” says Zack.

  “Or should be,” I say, “but isn’t, and we want to give it back.”

  Jasper doesn’t seem to react to what I’ve told him. Instead he puts on oven gloves, squats down, and checks on whatever is cooking. The smell of roast meat is barely endurable.

  “So,” he says. “Julie McGuire at 48B.” He pulls out a drawer next to the sink, and gathers up a handful of knives and forks. “Interesting.” He hands me the bundle of eating tools. “Could you take those through to the dining room?” He indicates an archway next to the fridge.

  “Um. Sure,” I say.

  He opens a cupboard and pulls out a pile of plates and hands them to Zack.

  “Gee, thanks,” says Zack.

  Jasper gathers up some glasses and then we go into a long room with tall windows, in the middle of which is a dark wooden table. Jasper goes ahead of us and drops three place mats in front of three chairs at one end of the table, then puts the glasses in front of them.

  “I hope you’re making us do this because you have some information,” says Zack, holding the plates in front of his chest.

  Jasper points to Zack and then to the mats. “You can put one of those on each of these.” He slides rolled-up napkins next to them. “I actually think I might know the very person you’re talking about.”

  “So where’s 48B?” I say.

  “Just put the knives and forks next to the plates, Toby,” says Jasper. “48 used to have a flat on the top floor.”

  I place a knife and a fork next to the plate at the head of the table.

  “No, you nincompoop.” Jasper grabs the silverware out of my hand. “Knife on the right, fork on the left.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “What I can’t say for certain,” Jasper places three more mats, this time down the centre of the table, “is that it was called 48B.”

  “Is there another Mariner Street in Brunswick?” I say.

  “There are dozens of them, Toby,” says Jasper. “Makes it easy for the post office.” He takes a salt and pepper from a side table under a painting of someone dressed up as an admiral. “Let’s assume that the house across the street is the one in the note.” He makes a gap in between two of the mats to make room for the salt and pepper.

  “So does Julie McGuire still live there?” says Zack. “Is it that simple?”

  Jasper shakes his head. “At one point there was a girl living there.” He moves around the table, switching the knives and forks from left to right. “I suppose you’d call her a woman really, but she was very pretty. I never knew what her name was, but what makes me think it might be her is that she played the guitar.”

  “But did she play the bass?” I say.

  Jasper pulls out the chair at the head of table. “You can sit down for a moment if you like.”

  Both Zack and I pull out chairs and sit.

  “There was this one summer,” says Jasper, picking up the knife and fork in front of him. “I don’t know if you noticed it, but forty-eight has a balcony.” He holds the knife and fork like drumsticks, and begins tapping out a four-four beat on the place mat. “She used to sit out there and play. I used to see her every evening on the way home from school.” He does a drumroll with the knife and fork then goes back to the four-four. “I was just a kid. I didn’t know the difference between an electric guitar and an electric bass. But. Yeah. Could easily have been a bass.” He does a final roll, then pings the knife on the glass.

  “That was nice,” I say, pointing to the knife and fork.

  Jasper looks puzzled for a second then looks down at the knife and fork. “Oh. Thanks,” he says. He places the utensils back next to the mat. “I’ve got to tell you one thing. She was a lot older than me.”

  “It has to be her,” says Zack. “How much older was she?”

  “I used to have wet dreams about her,” says Jasper, adjusting the knife and fork so they line up perfectly.

  “This is much more information than we were expecting,” says Zack.

  Jasper glares at him with one eyebrow raised. “I used to have to walk past my mother’s bedroom every morning to go to the bathroom.” He folds his arms. “I had to keep my hands folded in front of my crotch.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to stop any unwanted images drifting into my mind. “Jasper,” I say, “do you know where she might have gone when she moved?”

  He shakes his head. “It was awful,” he says with a long sigh. “I spent every day at school trying to pluck up the courage to speak to her, and then one day I actually did it.” He looks from me to Zack. “It was crazy. She must have been twenty years older than me. But I was in love.” He folds his arms and looks down at his feet again. “I snuck out of the house while my parents were watching the news. I wanted to run, but I walked calmly over there and rang the doorbell.” He puts his head in hands and goes quiet for a moment.

  “I remember standing there,” he says, “straightening my clothes and brushing my hair with my fingers. Then the door opened. I was expecting a blonde beauty, but there was this bloke standing there. He was mean-looking. He had sunglasses on even though it was dark. I swallowed and asked him if the girl was there. I didn’t know what her name was. He laughed, and said You’re too late, Buster. We’re getting hitched next week. And then he slammed the door in my face. I stood there for five minutes, and then went home.”

  Jasper goes quiet again.

  “That was the last time you saw her?” says Zack.

  “Pretty much,” he says. “Sure enough, a week later she moved out. I suppose my parents would have known her name. I mean it’s possible they might still remember her. There aren’t a lot of people round here who are young and pretty … ”

  “Aside from you,” says Zack.

  We hear the sound of a car pulling up outside.

  “You should probably go,” says Jasper.

  “You embarrassed about us?” says Zack.

  “On the contrary,” says Jasper. “You can stay if you want, and you can ask them about the girl at forty-eight B yourself.” He pushes back the chair and stands up, and looks out the window.

  Zack stands up and follows his gaze. His face creases into a grimace, which means I have to look. Outside on the street is a police car. The door swings open, and out steps an even-larger
version of Jasper in a policeman’s uniform.

  It crosses my mind that he might just have come back from a fancy dress party, but I think the chances are slim on a Sunday morning.

  “You can go out by the side door,” says Jasper. “Look. I’ll ask my dad.” He ushers us back into the kitchen and down some steps that look like they lead to a double garage. “I bet he’ll know pretty much everything about the woman at forty-eight B.”

  Zack is right in front of me when he stops suddenly at the bottom of the steps. I slam into his back.

  I shake my head to get my bearings and peer over his shoulder.

  Parked at one end of the garage is a blue Volvo, but sitting right in front of it, in iridescent red and sparkling chrome, is a five-piece premier drum kit.

  Zack looks from the drums to Jasper, then back to the drums. “They your mum’s?” he says.

  “Yeah. Right,” says Jasper. “You want to hear them?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “If you’ve got time,” says Zack.

  Jasper leans past us and pokes his head back through the door to the kitchen. “Be back in a minute, Dad,” he yells.

  He marches over to the drums, pulls back the stool, clicks on the snare, and takes two sticks from a little bag. He places the sticks together on the snare drum, shuts his eyes, draws in a long breath, and erupts into activity. He’s a pulsing robot. Rolls, trills, cymbal crashes, the hi-hat, he moves around the kit like he’s been playing since he was four.

  “Tight,” I say when he stops.

  “Sweet,” says Zack.

  “Tight and sweet,” I say.

  “Thanks,” says Jasper. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead.

  “You know we play in a band,” says Zack.

  “And we don’t have a drummer,” I say. “We really need one.”

  Jasper gives me a broad grin. “If I had more time,” he says.