I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  “Do not dawdle,” says Harry as he jumps back into the cab and slams the door behind him. “Go straight home, okay?”

  “Promise,” I say. I step back onto the curb, and watch while the van pulls away. As the tail lights fade, the night wraps itself around me. A breath of wind reminds me of the sweat that hasn’t dried on my back, and I unfold the note Michelle gave me. Her name, address in Brunswick, her phone number, and the words Please ring me between four and six.

  I take out the Julie McGuire message. I fold Michelle’s note up with them and put it all back in my pocket.

  I stare at the empty street trying to figure out what to do next. Finally, a car swishes past on the wet asphalt.

  28

  Monday

  Ocean Road is wide here. Six lanes. The truth of the matter is that I don’t really want to go home just yet. There’s nothing there for me apart from Mom trying to work out how we can survive another week. After the car passes, everything goes silent apart from the sound of waves breaking on the beach behind me, and I realize how sore my legs are.

  It’s nine-thirty. Apart from a brief sit-down in the van, between the rugby match, the roadie-ing, and the gig, I’ve been on my feet constantly for about seven hours. There are benches on the promenade. It’s not a cold night, and it might be good to take a break for half an hour before slogging home.

  Be nice to take a look at the briny, anyway, but the problem is how to get there. Between me and the promenade is a steep bushy slope that drops about twenty feet down to a little park. Alternatively, there’s a nice concrete walkway about a hundred yards ahead.

  The idea of scrambling down a slope makes my tired feet ache even more. I’m about to make my way to the path when I notice that the car that just passed me has stopped about a hundred yards up the street. My heart sinks. It’s an ancient, black Honda. It does a U-turn; with its tires squealing, it heads back toward where I’m standing.

  Before I can even think about running, the Civic stops directly opposite me on the other side of the road.

  The door opens and Rupert steps out. He looks up and down Marine Drive, then at me. “Hey, Mister Bass-man,” he says. “That was a very memorable musical event, if I may say so.” He slams the car door shut. “You look like a man who’s in need of a lift home.”

  I shake my head.

  “I insist. I think it’s time we took a little drive in my car.” He saunters slowly across the wide street with his hands still in his pockets, his shaggy hair whipping in the breeze. In spite of the cold he has his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the rope-like tendons in his forearms.

  “I’m okay actually,” I say. A shiver runs through me. “I’m pretty wound up after the gig, and I wanted to walk home to relax a little.”

  “Here. I get the feeling it’s been a long day for you, good sir.” He takes one hand out of his pocket and holds it out toward me. “Let me take that for you.” He points to the bass. “I can see that it’s been such a heavy burden. There’s really no need for you to carry it anymore.”

  “No.” I say. “Rupert.” I swallow to get rid of the dryness in my mouth. “It’s not yours.” I swing the case behind my back and, at least for a moment, out of his reach.

  “No, Rupert,” he says in a squeaky voice. “Please don’t steal my bass.” He reaches into his back pocket, and whips out a long metal object.

  Some kind of tool.

  He flicks a switch with his thumb, and the blade slides out.

  It’s a Stanley knife.

  He holds the knife up at eye level, presumably just in case I hadn’t noticed it already. “It’s not your bass either, my friend.” He steps forward and lunges at my face with the blade. “I know that, and you know that.”

  I glance one way along Marine Parade, and then the other. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe someone to rescue me. But there’s not a soul in sight.

  “No more games.” He tilts his head side to side, then slashes at me with the blade again. “Give me the bass.”

  Something snaps in my head. I hug the case to my chest, spin around, and leap into the dark undergrowth behind me. The ground drops away under my feet, and I stumble and slither into deeper and deeper darkness. Sharp branches snap and crack against the hard surface of the case. It’s desperate. It’s probably stupid, but it’s all I can do.

  “You don’t want to go down there, good sir.” The voice above me now. “Very nasty!”

  Finally, I come to a full stop on level ground. It’s pitch black. I could just stay here. He’ll get bored and leave.

  No.

  Sticks are breaking above me. One snap, and then another. He can’t see me, but he’s trailing me. I must have cut a path through the bushes that a blind man could follow. Then I see a slither of bright orange. Crap! He has a flashlight. No. It’s flickering orange. It’s a match or a cigarette lighter.

  The sounds of snapping branches get closer. Fear wins out. I know that I’ve always said that the only luck I have is bad luck, but right now I have to hope for good luck. I take the thin bass case and prop it against the shrub I’m next to. It’s black, and it won’t move, and there’s a chance that he won’t be able to find it with the cigarette lighter, and even if he does, maybe he’ll be happy to get the bass, and he’ll leave me alone.

  Hell! No way is he getting the bass. I lift it and wedge it high into the upper branches of the shrub. When it’s up as far as it’ll go, I force it farther. He’ll need more than a cigarette lighter to find it now.

  Wedging the bass into the shrub is a far-from-silent process, and he hears me right away.

  “I’m right here, my friend,” he chants. “Just reach out and I’ll be there.”

  In your dreams, Buster. I crash through the bushes sideways, pulling at branches as I go to make as much noise as possible. In a few seconds I’m twenty or thirty paces away from where I hid the bass.

  “There’s no business like show business.” Rupert’s voice drifts out of the pitch-darkness. “And there’s no show like a no-show.” The sound of snapping branches pauses for a moment, then it begins to move away from both me and where I put the bass. “Where are you, my good sir? We need to have a chat.”

  Fantastic. That part of the plan worked; now all I have to do is save my own skin.

  I turn at right angles, and head straight toward the sea. Three paces and I’m out in the open. After running through the bushes, my shirt is full of things that scratch and prickle. When I’m out in the open, the breeze chills right through me.

  “It’s the Port Jackson mini-marathon,” he cries.

  The ground rises a little, and running footsteps pound behind me. I plunge back into a second row of bushes only a couple feet wide. On the other side of the bushes is a row of beach huts. There’s just enough room for me to squeeze myself into the gap between two of them. Now I’m back out on the promenade by a closed-down cafeteria. A yellow street lamp buzzes and casts a pool of light ahead of me. I hear sounds of more branches breaking behind me.

  I take a deep breath and sprint across the pool of light.

  “It’s the triathlon!” cries Rupert.

  I vault over the waist-high handrail and crash down onto the pebbles. It’s actually a much deeper drop than I expected. I sprawl onto my back when I hit the ground, but I roll straight back up to my feet, and then I freeze.

  A voice above me. “Come, my good sir. Let’s stop this silliness!” Still close. Too close.

  The promenade above me casts a deep shadow. Still, I can’t stay here. He can’t see me for now, but if he comes down to the beach he’ll use his lighter again, and he won’t have much trouble finding me.

  He can probably see in the dark anyway.

  I can’t stay, but I can’t move either. I’m surrounded by pebbles. If I make even the slightest movement, the rocks wi
ll crunch, and he will know exactly where I am.

  I study the little waves sloshing up onto the rocks.

  A triathlon, he said.

  Is there any chance whatsoever that Rupert can’t swim?

  Probably not, but it’s the only hope I’ve got.

  The waves are only ten yards in front of me, but ten yards is still a long way, especially over rocks.

  Oh well. If I’m going to be stupid, I might as well be totally stupid.

  I reach down and grab a handful of small rocks. It’s a trick that’s worked in a thousand bad films. Probably no chance of working in real life.

  I hurl the rocks as far as I can over to the left.

  Without waiting to see if the falling rocks sound anything at all like footsteps on a different part of the beach, I sprint down to the water’s edge, tug my shoes off my feet, and run into the waves. For a moment, I don’t feel the cold, but then iciness crawls up my shin bones.

  Footsteps crunch on the pebbles right behind me. “Come on, good sir. It’s too late for the triathlon.”

  I take another step. My foot lands on a sharp rock and I stumble forward. The beach is steep. I’m up to my waist.

  “You’re a crazy fellow,” says a voice from behind. “Maybe even a lunatic! You’ll catch your death.”

  I turn to see his silhouette framed against the lights on the promenade. He’s at the water line.

  Yup. Crazy maybe. Stupid definitely. If I can see the lights then I’m all lit up, and even if Rupert can’t swim, he can still wade out and get me.

  I stretch my arms over my head and plunge into the salty blackness.

  I swim underwater as far as I can, then up to the surface. I keep going straight out with short, quick strokes, one, two, breathe, one, two, breathe. I roll onto my back and try to make out what’s happening on the beach behind me. The neon sign of the old West End Café gives everything a red glow, and I can make out something that looks like a silhouette, but it might just be a wooden post from the old breakwater.

  Am I safe?

  I roll onto my stomach again. Fifty strokes. This time I windmill my shoulders. I reach forward as far as I can go, then roll, and pull my hand back to my knee.

  Catch the bubbles, Toby. Catch the bubbles. Jeannette, my old swim teacher dances on the side of the pool. She once swam the ten miles across the Sound. If she could see me now, she would be so proud.

  Water rushes down my shirt as I propel myself forward. Not cold. Not warm. I lose count, and then I hit a patch of water so cold it freezes my arms instantly. I roll over and doggy paddle until I get back to the warmer water.

  There’s not much of a swell. I just hang there and tread water. The sound of the waves breaking seems a long way off now. No sounds of anyone splashing out to apprehend me. Just distant sounds.

  A car horn.

  A plane overhead.

  The putter of an outboard motor.

  I think about Michelle’s note. I hope that she wrote it in waterproof ink, then I think about how we met at the shark tank. Naturally this leads me to think about what was in the shark tank.

  Were those local sharks?

  What did Michelle tell me about Frosty?

  That he deliberately dived with sharks?

  Did he do it around here?

  Panic shoots up my spine, and the next moment I’m swimming as fast as I can toward the shore.

  If Rupert is still there, then God bless him. He can have the reward for his patience. If he wants the old note from Julie McGuire in my soggy pocket, then he’s more than welcome to it.

  I swim directly to the shore rather than back to my starting point. Mostly this is just practicality. It’s a shorter swim, but it’ll also give me more chance of escape in the unlikely event that he’s still hanging about. I picture him standing at the spot where I dove in.

  Finally, I reach my leg down and my feet touch the bottom. I swim a few more strokes then half-walk, half-stumble back onto the pebbles. My arms and legs ache with the exertion, and I just want to lie down.

  The breeze catches me and chills me to the bone. I turn right and walk back to where I went in. I have no hope of finding my shoes in the dark, but then I stop below the café and turn toward the shoreline and step straight onto the shoes. They’re now about twenty feet from the waves. The tide must be going out.

  I jog up to the promenade.

  I squeeze back between two of the huts. I scrape through the bushes. I cross the open space, which I can now see is a putting green. I reach the second row of bushes. I plunge again. I really have no explanation for this, but on the third tree I reach into, I put my hand straight on the bass case. I pull it out, unflick the latches. It’s still in there.

  Half an hour later I crawl into bed. Buried under extra covers, I don’t stop shivering before I fall asleep.

  29

  Tuesday

  Horoscope: April 20, Aquarius:

  You will find boundless opportunities for exercise today. Big ideas keep drfiting by,

  but you will have to wade in and catch one

  if you are going to make any use of them

  by the end of the day.

  The next morning I wait for Mom to go to work, then I bring the wheelbarrow up from the basement. I spend ten minutes running up and down the stairs and loading it up with Shawn’s bass, the amplifier, leads, mic stand, and cables. I even throw in my old classical guitar. Once I’m loaded up, I wheel down to Harry Haller’s and get there just after he opens.

  “It looks like you’ve got some really nice equipment there,” he says. He puts down the accordion he’s working on and comes around the counter to look into my

  wheelbarrow. “Some really good stuff. Are you sure you want to trade it in?”

  “I’m not trading it in,” I say. “I actually want to sell it.”

  “Okay. But if you want to upgrade to some better stuff,” he says, “I will give you a better deal if you’re trading than if you just want cash.”

  “No. I’m not going to upgrade,” I say. “I’m selling it all. I’m quitting.”

  Harry’s half smile twists into a look of dismay. “Wait a minute.” He holds up his hands as if he’s trying to block a punch. “What are you talking about?” he says. “I just offered you a really good deal. Between you and Zack, you can make at least seventy-five pounds a week each. That’s a fortune for somebody of your age.”

  “Yes. I know,” I say. “You made us a generous offer, but I have to sell this equipment.” I have to look down at the wheelbarrow. I can’t look him in the eye. “I know it sounds mad, but my mom and I have to go back to London and, basically we’re broke.”

  “I lived in London for a while,” he says. “It’s a harsh place.” He grins at me. “They used to call me Hairy Howler. It’s an expensive place too.” He does his almost-smile and says, “I can understand your need to get together as much money as you can.”

  He moves some music books and the accordion to one end of the counter and unloads the items one at a time. First he pulls out the coiled electrical leads. “I can’t really give you anything for these,” he says, as he piles them onto the counter. “I can’t sell secondhand leads.” He takes out the mic and the stand. “This is very nice.” He points to the mic. He slides out the bass and props it against the counter, then he hauls the amp out onto the floor, and stands back to examine everything.

  “I actually don’t want to sell the bass,” I say. “At least not just yet.” I tap the case. “You said you could tell me how much it’s worth.”

  “First things first.” He slides the heavy amp against the counter. “Let’s look at what you do want to sell.” He points at the pile he’s made in front of the counter. “The amp, the speakers, two mic stands, and two mics.” He picks up one of the mics. “This is the most valua
ble thing aside from the bass.”

  He produces a notebook and pencil from his pocket, and jots some things down. I try to see what he’s writing, but it seems to be in some kind of code. Or maybe it’s just his handwriting. He stops writing and holds the tip of the pencil an inch above the pad. “I can give you five hundred for everything without the bass,” he says.

  “Five hundred?” I wasn’t expecting to get a fortune, but I wasn’t expecting that little. “You can’t do more?”

  “I wish I could.” He shakes his head. “If I didn’t know you, it would probably be four hundred.” He walks back behind the counter, puts away his notebook, and produces a sheet of paper. “Tell you what.” He pulls a pen from his inside pocket. “Advertise it on the notice board. Write a list and put prices. I’ll take ten percent of whatever you sell.” He pushes the pen and paper toward me. “Even with my commission you’ll make twice as much. Maybe three times.”

  “It’ll take time though,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “A couple of weeks at the most.”

  “I don’t have a couple of weeks,” I say.

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “If you need the money fast, then you’re going to have to take less.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “If I can get a thousand for these myself, then why can’t you give me more than five hundred?”

  “If you advertise the equipment, then it’s a private sale,” he says. “If I buy it from you and sell it to someone else, then it’s a business deal. I have to pay purchase tax, and VAT.”

  I gaze at the stuff, as if a cable or a mic stand will suddenly come to life and offer me another option.

  “Okay,” I say, “give me five hundred.”

  In just a few swift moves, Harry sweeps everything out of sight behind the counter, then writes me out a check. I ask him to make it out to Mom. Emily Holland. “Put it in your pocket right now,” he says. “If you lose it we’ll be in a real mess.”

  Next, he kneels down, opens the bass case, and takes out the instrument. “You understand,” he says, “that I can give you a valuation for insurance purposes.” He turns it upside down on the counter. “The figure I’ll give you is theoretical. If I value it at a thousand pounds, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you a thousand pounds for it. It just means that you could sell it for a thousand pounds. If it got stolen and it was insured, then you could reasonably demand a thousand from insurance.”