I Am Out With Lanterns

by Emily Gale

  ‘True. I can’t do that.’

  ‘I know. But do you sometimes wish you could?’

  ‘Sometimes. A lot. And then not at all – because this is me.’

  We’re quiet again, but the energy of what we’re talking about feels like humidity. I wipe the sweat off my brow, take a swig of water and pass the bottle back to Juliet.

  ‘WITKIN!’ a voice booms.

  My bowels churn. I look back, over Juliet’s head, and see Ben running towards us. My legs start to move while my brain is processing the look on his face. Something about this is different to all the other times with Ben. He’s going to kill me.

  ‘What’s happening? Why are we running?’ says Juliet.

  ‘Just run!’

  He’s going to get me. He’s so much faster than I am. What will he do to me? It’s difficult to run fast along this narrow ledge. The ground is uneven and the drop on the right could be fatal at this pace. I can hear him getting closer.

  ‘Got you!’ he yells.

  I’m still moving when I realise there’s no one running at my heels any more. I slow down to look over my shoulder. Ben is holding Juliet from behind, his arm slung across her chest and gripping her shoulder. Her fingers grasp at his arm, trying to pull him off. He’s breathing into her ear and she tries to turn her head away.

  ‘Get off me!’ she shouts.

  He’s got a short, fat stick in his hands and he places it on her cheek, close to her eye.

  Panting hard, I come a little closer to them. ‘Please. Ben.’

  ‘Please, Ben,’ he mimics.

  ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Oh, please let her go, Ben. I beg you,’ he says in a high-pitched voice, and I yell out in frustration.

  I don’t know how to fight him! And that stick is so close to her eye. Think, Milo. Focus.

  This river is my World and I know it well. I’m in Survival Mode now. Ben’s a creeper. He hates me for who I am. All the ways to kill a creeper rapidly cycle through my brain: pit trap, TNT, three hits with a bow, lead it to a skeleton, scare it off with a creature it’s afraid of.

  To my left there’s a steep bank, long grasses, fallen sticks just visible, a sudden rustle as a tiny bird or lizard upsets the undergrowth. I remember something. Literally the only thing in the world he’s scared of.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I say, staring to the left of where their feet are planted. ‘Don’t move, you two.’ I edge closer, eyes fixed on the ground. ‘Ben, look at me and listen.’ This has to work. ‘There’s a tiger snake about a metre from your foot.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  I stare hard at the spot where the grass is hardy and tangled. ‘I can see it from here. Stay still.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says. ‘I’ll kill you for this, Milo.’

  ‘Let me go!’ yells Juliet.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he snarls at her.

  ‘I think I can get the snake, Ben, but you have to stay totally still or it’ll strike.’ I’m within reach of Juliet now.

  ‘I can’t see it!’ he shouts.

  ‘Sshh. They can sense a fraction of movement, so just freeze and let me handle it. You know I’ve done this before.’ Ben’s eyes are searching the ground. He’s never acted like this in front of me. Come on. Come on. My eyes meet Juliet’s. I hold out my hand.

  As soon as I’ve got hold of her, I pull her out of his arms and, in a split second of Ben’s realisation, I swing my arm and land a hard punch on his back. Ben tumbles over the side, but I don’t want to see how far.

  ‘Run, Juliet!’ My feet hit the ground in time with hers. My blood pumps so fast it feels like I’m drowning.

  We run.

  We run.

  We run.

  As the path widens up ahead, I sprint past Juliet to lead the way. We keep going, turning to leave the river, travelling along the footpath, at least ten minutes away from my house. I look behind me, but Ben’s not there. We keep going.

  ‘I can’t, Milo! Stop. I can’t run any more.’

  So I slow down, but my mind is spinning. I’m dizzy. I can’t stop checking behind us. A car that I recognise pulls up and the driver’s window is open.

  ‘Milo? What’s wrong?’

  It’s Doug, Wren’s dad. He turns off the engine and gets out. His question circles my head. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I can’t make the words come; the sky is racing above me and the ground won’t stop moving. In the distance, I hear Juliet’s voice explain that we’re running from a boy.

  Now we’re in the back seat of Doug’s car, but part of me is still on that river path. I’m reaching out for Juliet’s hand. I’m pushing Ben down the bank with all my strength, over and over and over.

  When I walk out of the school gates that afternoon, I know I’ll never go back. Who would make me? Not Dad. All he cares about is this stupid story about the portraits. He’s sold four more paintings – this rumour is actually working for him. But what’s the price for me? I’m a freak now. Today at lunch Christian and his stupid mates kept coming over to me and flicking on their lighters right in my face.

  On the high street, I look for Juliet. I ask a few students if they know where she lives, but no one really seems to know her at all. She’s the anonymous girl who knows everything.

  I go to a cafe with wi-fi, because we don’t have it at the house, and use the school system to send Juliet a message.

  Dear Juliet,

  There are nine years and all of my dad’s stories standing between me and the past. I feel like he blindfolded me, spun me around three times and let me go.

  I’m sorry. I do remember you.

  Adie x

  I sit on a bike rack across the road from Aslan’s shop, watching people come and go. My chest tightens every time the sliding doors open in case I find myself looking directly at my mother. What if she knows that Dad and I came back? What if the last thing she wants is to be found? Because the truth is, I think I can be all right without her – but if I take one more step forward and find her, then I might feel what losing her is like and this time I might never forget it.

  I give up and head for Angus Road.

  The feeling of anticipation that I had on the first night comes back to me as I reach number twenty-nine. It’s all gone wrong. I can’t stay and I don’t want to go. A heartsick sob flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. Quickly, I reach down to unlatch the gate. But then next door opens and Tav comes out with a rubbish bag. I wipe my face and hurry up the path.

  ‘Adie, wait. Can we talk for a second?’

  I sniff and it sounds disgusting. But then Tav already thinks I’m scum. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just … to know you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m fine, Tav. Can I go now?’

  ‘We’ve read the stories. There’ve been a couple of journalists sniffing around your house today.’

  ‘How do they know where I live?’

  ‘No idea. We didn’t tell them anything. Obviously.’

  What could Tav and Elise or even Piper tell a journalist about me? Maybe that they hear Dad and Dara shouting, or that they know I’m often on my own all night. And that I broke into their house.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Can you tell me how this happens? Why people actually believe it? And why I can’t do anything.’ I shake my head, tears coming again because he’s being nice to me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me.

  ‘I know …’ He comes close to the fence, but his hands, reaching for me, change course and go into his pockets. ‘Journalists forget it’s real people they’re writing about. They have a rule that, if they’ve taken a certain angle on a story, they stick with it. It’s amazing how fast they can create a mythology. Well, not amazing – devastating – if it’s about you. But it’ll be over soon. I know that doesn’t help you right now. Adie, no one with any sense believes it.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m cursed then.’

  Gently, he says, ‘Of course not. But in the interest of transp
arency, you do have a streak of dirt across your cheek.’ He brushes his face, and I mirror him. It feels like oil, maybe from the bike rack I was leaning on.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anyway, we’re here –’ Tav gestures to their front door. ‘If you need. You know. Anything.’

  Piper is singing inside. I’m close enough to see the glow of the late afternoon sun pour through their hallway. I’m flooded with the realisation that theirs is the house I always felt safer in when I was little.

  ‘I’m sorry about what I did …’ My voice breaks again. ‘It was a mistake. I didn’t want you to hate me.’

  ‘Shit. I don’t, Adie.’ He looks like he might be about to put his arms around me.

  I get scared and back away. ‘I’d better go in.’

  I push the key into the lock, and for once it works the first time I turn it.

  Someone’s home. I go to the kitchen. On the half-moon table there’s an old envelope with Dad’s handwriting on it held underneath his Zippo lighter; a note to me. He’s had to go away for a while – To sort out my head. It ends: Don’t worry about me.

  Don’t worry.

  He’s left me on my own with all this going on, but don’t worry.

  There’s nothing in the fridge and there’s a gaping hole where the back door used to be. But don’t worry.

  Nobody sees me unless I’m in a portrait. But don’t worry, Adie. Don’t you worry.

  The door to the bathroom opens and Dara walks out in a towel. She looks even younger with wet hair and a scrubbed face.

  ‘Did you get a note too?’ I say.

  ‘No. You’re the lucky one.’

  The bar is pretty low, I’d like to reply, but I don’t want to be on Dara’s side. She flicks on the kettle and lights a cigarette.

  Before Dara, there was Kim. Before Kim, there was Ingrid. Annabelle, Denise – names I never thought of after they left – but here I am, remembering them. This is good. Memory is a muscle. Before Denise, I’m not sure – but there was a woman who lived with us who scared me. I must have been confused because I remember my dad saying, ‘This isn’t your mum’ and being angry with me.

  I’ve never been close to the not-mothers. Is that something in me or in them?

  Dara opens the fridge and slams it. ‘Out of milk. Run to the shop, Adie.’

  ‘Piss off.’ I head for my bedroom, but she follows me in.

  ‘Go to the damn shop, Adie, and get some milk like I told you.’

  ‘You have to be joking. You’re not my mother.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Shut up. Nobody wants you here.’

  ‘Stupid girl. Pig for a father, drunk for a mother.’

  The information hangs between us. I never imagined that Dara would know a single thing about my mother, but if she does, this could be useful. Dara loves a fight – if I push the right buttons, I could get more.

  ‘You’re a user, Dara. You only got with my dad because he told you he was going to be rich and famous. My mother was a thousand times better than you.’

  Dara’s hard marble head looks set to explode – that incendiary device, ticking to zero. ‘My God, you know nothing about her.’

  ‘I know plenty.’

  ‘Name me one thing, huh?’

  Her name is all I know.

  ‘Just as I thought. Why do you think you never see her? Why don’t you know one single thing about her? Because your daddy protected you. She was a mad, nasty drunk. So out of her mind that Frank had a – what do you call it? – protection order against her. Scum.’ Dara spits on the carpet. Breathless, she looks at the blob as if she knows she’s gone too far. Then storms down the hallway, barefoot in her towel.

  I slump into the chair, buzzing.

  Some time later, the front door slams, but I haven’t moved. The woman I’ve always thought of as the first and worst not-mother was really my mum.

  2 am. I unfold my body from the chair and listen for Dara sounds. I do a tour of the house, but it’s as empty as it was when I fell asleep. For the first time in two years I feel sorry for Dara. But I hope she’s gone forever. A faint rush of traffic from the main road nearby. A distant subwoofer. Bats, squeaking.

  There’s a new smell in my room – faint but sweet and rotten. I reach for Dad’s Zippo on the windowsill and light up the space around me. The window’s open. Strangely, the smell fades as I move away from the fresh air, but now all I can smell is the fuel from the lighter. I snap it shut and put my head out through the window. On the ground directly underneath me is a limp wattlebird. Dead still; a little, sad heap. The moonlight shows me a patch of yellow feathers on its tummy and a pink stain on its neck, where some maggots are eating its flesh.

  I heave and reel back inside. The sight of something that used to be; that isn’t itself any more. Maybe Malachite killed it. People say that a cat will bring you gifts, but the gifts don’t mean ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’. It’s the cat’s way of saying they don’t think you can survive by yourself.

  8 am. I find the money I’d stashed from Dad and head to a cafe for breakfast and to see if Juliet has replied.

  Dear Adie,

  If you are at school today, meet me under the tree – the one where we sat the other day.

  Juliet

  Dear Juliet,

  I can’t come to school. I’m a freak. Can we pretend to be under the tree right now?

  Adie

  Dear A,

  Sorry you’ve been under the cyber-tree by yourself all morning. Just had double English. Mr W asked where ‘Andrea’ was – I think he meant you!

  It’s nice having someone to talk to at recess.

  J

  Dear J,

  You don’t like school much, do you?

  A

  A, I can’t find my place in it. I liked it better when I had you to look after. J

  J, what do you mean? A X

  I used to do a lot of your talking. You hardly said a word. Except when we were up in our Faraway Tree – then I couldn’t shut you up. X

  I remember that. It’s like having a piece of treasure. X

  I walk home from stocktake at the art shop soon after heavy rainfall, and the streets are heady with a rich earth smell.

  In the kitchen, Dad’s making dinner and Summer’s doing homework at the bench. Dad must be on another health kick because it looks like a greenhouse in here.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum went to the bakery,’ says Summer, reading my mind and gently patting a lumpen paper bag beside her.

  ‘Thank God. Um, why are there four saucepans on the sofa?’

  ‘Roof’s leaking,’ Dad says, as he chops spring onions. ‘Heard from Milo?’

  ‘Not since school. Why?’

  ‘He got chased. Seemed in a bad way when I saw him.’

  ‘Where? Was he hurt? He didn’t tell me.’ I check my phone. Nothing. ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘They were down by the river –’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Milo and his friend. I can’t remember her name. Sweet-looking girl, lots of curly hair. I gave her a lift home.’

  Who could that be? Juliet? ‘So who chased them?’

  ‘Milo wouldn’t say.’

  ‘I know who: Ben Bloody Brearley. He’s an arsehole. Did he hurt them?’

  ‘I think he tried but Milo outwitted him. All this was from the girl – I couldn’t get a word out of Milo. I don’t think he’ll be going back to the river any time soon.’

  ‘But he loves that place,’ says Summer.

  ‘I know,’ Dad says. He shakes his head as he opens a can of lentils. ‘It’s not fair.’

  I’m seething; I can’t believe I wasn’t with him.

  ‘So you know this Ben, then?’ says Dad.

  ‘His father’s Mike’s boss. Milo won’t tell because of that. I’m going over there now.’

  ‘Wren, don’t.’ Dad stops what he’s doing. ‘I got the impression Milo needed some space. Send him a message and give him a
call tomorrow.’

  Maybe he’s right.

  I’m angry, but it’s more than that. Milo was at the river with someone else. Our friendship has shifted.

  After dinner, I take the whole loaf of bread upstairs but find I can’t stomach it. The portrait, lying on my desk, has curled at either end like one of those fortune-teller fish we used to get in Christmas crackers – the transparent red ones that come with a list of fortunes. I remember that curling sides means ‘fickle’. But who’s fickle? Is it me? I’m supposed to be Milo’s best friend, but I wasn’t there for him today. And all I do is think about Adie.

  I look a mess when I reach my front door on Thursday night. Torn clothes and dirt suggest I’ve been in a fight, which is what I’ll say if Dad asks. Some fight. I won’t tell him I decided to go a different way home after school because I’m turning into a loner. Or who I saw by the river, and what a screw-up I am letting Milo get one over on me.

  I definitely won’t tell him that I sat on the riverbank afterwards bawling my eyes out.

  The music beat I could faintly hear before I opened the door is amplified. I follow the sound to the kitchen. The song is from an Australian Crawl album – Dad’s favourite. He doesn’t notice me in the doorway. He’s on a bar stool, singing that line about throwing down your guns into a green bottle held to his lips. Sullen. Unshaven. I wonder if he went to work. He’s in a polo shirt and shorts, his feet bare.

  ‘At last!’ he says, a smile on his face. ‘Thought I was drinking alone tonight.’

  ‘I’ve got training tomorrow. Guess I can have one.’ I chuck my bag, open the fridge to take out a cold one. As soon as I twist the cap and hear the fizz, I realise how hot and thirsty I am. I gulp the beer until the gas hurts.

  ‘That’s my boy.’

  The song fades and the next one begins, with a faster beat. Dad responds to it straight away, bobbing his head. He chinks his bottle against mine. We drink and listen to the music of Dad’s youth. Songs that mean so much to him and not a lot to me.