I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  I unlock Julie’s door, find the phone, and call for the emergency services. I give them the address, tell them the front door is open, then go back to the landing.

  “Help is on its way,” I tell him, then look over the banisters again.

  Far below, shattered on the tiled floor, with its neck splintered, its body smashed, and the whole thing held together only by its strings, is the p-bass.

  I stare at it.

  Even like this it’s beautiful.

  Like a sculpture.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Rupert’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “I just wanted the bass back.”

  “That’s nice to know,” I say. I tear myself away from the sight of the p-bass and sit down on the top step. I still don’t believe him.

  “I just wanted the bass back,” he says. He shifts and draws in a sharp breath. “That’s all I wanted to do. I just wanted to play bass in a band.”

  “You have an unusual way of going about it,” I say. “Why couldn’t you just buy a cheap bass and learn to play it like everyone else does?”

  “Once you’ve played a bass that was owned by George Harrison, you can’t go back to any old bass,” he says. “Can you imagine how sad that would be?”

  I can imagine it, but I try not to. “You believe that?” I say. “Was it really George Harrison’s?”

  “I think it was,” he says. “Who the hell knows for sure?” He tries to shift his position again. “In the end, who cares?”

  I’m not sure what to say to this, but I don’t have to say anything as a siren sounds outside on the street.

  The siren becomes almost deafening, and then stops. There’s a flurry of voices and radios, then someone hammers on the downstairs door.

  I hit the light again, then I make my way down the stairs. I vault over Rupert without touching him, and jog the rest of the way down. As I pass his door, the Hell’s Angel pokes his head out.

  Down in the lobby, I step over what’s left of the bass and open the door. Three ambulance men barge in, almost pushing me over. I point up the stairs. “He’s on the third floor,” I say. The ambulance men thunder up the stairs with their radios chattering. More people have come out to look. Heads peer over the banisters.

  I look down at what’s left of the bass.

  Not even Harry Haller could fix this.

  I stack the pieces together, being careful not to get any splinters. The head has come away from the neck, but the strings are still attached. I wind them around everything to keep it all together, then stuff the whole thing under my arm.

  A moment later I’m outside. I don’t have much time to get to the bus stop, but I have one last call to make. I jog back past where I saw the karate guys, past where I saw the kid on the mini-bike, and finally get back to the boardwalk.

  The tide has come in and the waves are lapping at the foot of the lifeguard stand. Ignoring my wet feet, I wade across to the stand and clamber up onto the platform. I watch the sky flicker for a moment. I wait for a fair-sized wave to roll in, then I swing my arm back and hurl the bass out as far as it’ll go.

  I take a long breath, and then I hear the splash. Sounds like it was one of my better throws.

  I jump back down to the beach and head for the bus station. I wonder what’ll happen to the bass. I don’t even know if it’ll sink or float. If it floats, maybe it’ll wash out to sea and end up in France. Maybe it could even float back to America where it came from.

  Five minutes later I’m on the bus, heading back to Port Jackson.

  36

  Wednesday

  The next morning I’m woken by a soft tap on the door. Mom pokes her head around the corner.

  “I thought I’d find you in here,” she says as she comes in, carrying two cups of tea.

  For a second I’m a little confused. Shawn’s room looks entirely different without all the musical equipment strewn across it.

  Then I get my bearings.

  “I think this is yours.” She plonks one of the teacups on my bedside table, then sits down on the end of the bed. “I have some good news and some bad news.” She slurps her tea, then pulls a face. “Yuck. I think this is yours.” She leans over to the bedside table and switches the cups, then returns to her seat at the end of the bed. “Which would you like first, the good or the bad?”

  “The bad, I suppose.” I scoot myself up into a semi-upright position. “It’s probably not worth breaking the steady flow of badness, midstream.” I turn the cup around so that I don’t drink from the same side, then take a sip. It’s pretty decent.

  Mom yawns and covers her mouth. “You’re going to have to go to school today, young fellow-me-lad.”

  A number of questions filter through my sleep-addled brain, but I let them flit away. “Okay,” I say. “I can just about live with that. What’s the good news?”

  Mom scratches her cheek just under her eye. “I’ve been offered a job,” she says. “A real job. With real pay.”

  I sit fully upright in about a second. “Wow,” I say, and blow out a long breath. “That’s pretty amazing.”

  “It is, rather,” says Mom. She takes a sip of tea. “Disgusting. I must have put sugar in both of them.”

  “You don’t look too happy,” I say. “If it was me I’d be jumping up and down with delight.”

  Mom nods. “This is my version of jumping for joy,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Your jumping for joy looks deceptively like you sitting down in a thoughtful mood.”

  “I’d still have to do the job.” She sips her tea and pulls a face again. “It’s not an easy job, or a fun job, but it’s well paid.”

  “What are you going to do?” I say. “Mud wrestling with alligators or something?”

  “Ooh. That is uncanny.” Mom sips her tea again. “How did you know?” She takes the cup away and pulls a face. “Actually, it’s not quite mud wrestling. I’d be a bookkeeper for a big firm of architects.”

  “So, you haven’t accepted it yet?” I say.

  “I thought I’d run it by you first,” she says.

  “Who? Me?” I say.

  “No, the table,” she says. “It means we wouldn’t go back to London. We’d stay here. You could stay in the band. Keep your friends.”

  “What about Shawn?” I say.

  “Sod him.” Mom sips her tea. “No. I’m kidding.” Sip. “I’d get the car fixed.” Sip. “We could go up and see him a couple of times a month. He does actually have two parents. I forget that sometimes.”

  “If that works for you, then it works for me,” I say. “I’m finished with the band, though.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” she says. “Oh. Thanks for the check. But I don’t really need it now. That was bad timing. My fault. If I’d known about the job earlier, then I would have stopped you selling Shawn’s stuff. Can you go and get it back? Tell the bloke it was a mistake.”

  “Maybe.” I think about the p-bass. I wonder if it’s still in the water in Brunswick, or if someone’s found it. Harry might give me my stuff back, but the p-bass is gone. I don’t want to spoil Mom’s moment so I just say, “Yeah. He’s a nice bloke.”

  “So, I’ll call the architects and tell them yes,” says Mom.

  “If there aren’t any jobs working with alligators,” I say.

  “You, my friend,” says Mom as she stands up, “had better get your skates on.”

  I pull my feet out from under the covers, and sit cross-legged.

  “Let’s throw a little light on the subject.” Mom goes over to the window, takes hold of the curtain, and pulls it back.

  I jump several inches off the mattress. There, on the other side of the glass, silhouetted against the rising sun, is the falcon. It glares at me with its amber eyes, spreads its wings, then dives down tow
ard the ocean.

  “That was a very grumpy-looking pigeon,” says Mom. “I hope it’s not a bad sign.”

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people for all their help, support, and inspiration while writing this book:

  Lisa Jahn Clough, Joanna, Stefan, and Danny Marcus, Mike Bishop, John and Jackie Batten, and Brian Farrey-Latz.

  Especial thanks to Rachel Briant of the New York Aquarium for her advice on sharks.

  The book is affectionately dedicated to my friend and guitarist, Martin May (1957–2009).

  About the Author

  Ed Briant grew up in England, but now lives just outside Philadelphia, where he writes, illustrates, and creates the popular comic strip “Tales from the Slushpile.” He has two daughters, teaches creative writing, and occasionally plays keyboards with a punk rock band.

  Check out his artwork and blog at www.edbriant.com.