by Brown, Honey
All that she remembered, not as clearly as she’d like: virginity really lost that night, feeling different, realising how deep Aden Claas gets inside her.
20
Not much of a babysitter, Aunt Belinda. Spinster. More like a grandmother than an aunty. No idea what do about his comings and goings, his locked door, his loud music, his refusal to move the sheep as requested, his attitude at the kitchen table.
‘You’re not my mother,’ he says, disgusted by the downy hair on her top lip, the way she shuffles when she walks.
Even going so far – he can hardly believe it himself – as to bring his rifle up to point in her direction, pretending to be checking the scope, lowering it as though unaware she’s been in his line of sight.
He ignores her stunned expression.
‘Zach?’
‘What?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you going out shooting?’
‘I’m not doing the sheep by myself. Get Cummings to come over and do them.’
‘Your father said not to.’
‘Did he?’
‘Would you please put the gun away?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to have to talk to him.’
‘What about?’
‘About your attitude.’
‘I don’t give a shit if you talk to him about my attitude. He’s my fucking father. What are you gunna say? Zach won’t do as he’s told?’
‘I’ll tell him I don’t think you’re coping.’
‘He knows I’d do something if someone was asking.’ He stares at her. ‘No-one’s asking.’
She shakes her head, all out of words, out there drowning and not a lifeline in sight, and he’s certainly not going to throw her one. It’s a buzz to have someone so elderly and easy to shock in the house.
‘Would you move?’ he says, standing in front of where she is blocking the doorway.
‘Are you going out shooting rabbits?’
‘No, I’m going out shooting people, so you should probably get out of my way.’
‘Please put the gun back. I don’t think —’
He pushes past her.
‘Zach,’ she calls after him, ‘your father’s going to ring and you’re not going to be here. He wants to talk to you. Your mother has been there – in Charlotte’s Pass. He’s going to find her. She’s all right.’
‘Yeah, well, tell him from me she’s better off fucking lost.’
Dole-bludging drug dealers have commitments, or so it seems. Zach lifts the rifle to see Aden standing out by his motorbike. He has the crosshairs levelled on him. The goodbyes are as expected – Aden’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, her fingers looped in his belt, the long pathetic tongue kiss. Does no amount of sex stop their need for this? For Zach, when it feels like one hour alone with her would be enough to settle him, it’s inconceivable that they still want to paw at one another. It’s disgusting, even, as though they’re on heat, gagging for it. He keeps Aden in his sights. He curves his finger around the trigger and mutters motherfucker and feels his head empty of any rational thought.
For two days Zach has watched them. He knows the first windy night they went in to the restaurant, took her car, Aden drove and Rebecca wore make-up. Zach was close then, near enough to hear her say she was nervous, she’d only ever eaten out at the pub, and close enough to see Aden’s impatience, hear his clipped answers – probably annoyed he had to feed her in between fucking her. He knew they returned at eleven, Aden in much better spirits, Rebecca clinging to his arm, swaying on her feet. Aden stayed that night. Her bedroom light burned for hours.
Next morning Zach returned to find the front and back doors open, the smells and sounds of a hot breakfast being cooked, Aden befriending the dogs on the back step, scratching them under their ears, slapping the sides of their dusty coats, reading Zach’s mind and saying loudly for Rebecca to hear, ‘These dogs are a disgrace – they need washing.’ Zach had also been able to hear the radio, turned up for the news – no report on the crazed Tri-Love Kiona woman though, that story already becoming old news. He’d heard the murmur of Aden talking in the kitchen, the sliding of plates, the hiss of a hot pan under water; a still, warm day to hear such things, only the crows and magpies a distraction, the smells from the kitchen cancelling out the dogs’ inquisitive behaviour – or were they getting used to him watching from beyond the fence line, a fellow animal they were willing to let skirt the boundaries? He’d got a glimpse of Rebecca passing by the back door in bare feet, shorts and a tank top, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and an afterglow (he maybe imagined it) of sex on her skin – warm, honey colours, new confidence in her step. The day ahead of them, one in which they went off together on the bike, heading for town, self-satisfied, smug in love, the way they took the first corner, leaning into it. The bitter taste of bile in the back of Zach’s throat.
The next day it had been all about Aden marking his territory – pissing on everything, so to speak. He’d put collars on the dogs. With a lot of noise and tangled leads he had taken them out the front gate with Rebecca. They held three dogs each and walked down the road towards the river. Aden had been dressed in a pair of football shorts and sneakers. In the band of his shorts he had stuffed a bar of soap. No shirt, no towel, no need for anything much. The sort of guy who travelled light, the sort of guy who walked in, and then walked out.
It was on this second day, while the dogs were gone, that Zach had opened the side gate and gone into the yard. Step two completed.
The place had felt empty without the animals in it. He’d walked up to Aden’s bike, and stood a moment looking at it, waiting for inspiration. He’d settled in the end with taking a piece of blue metal from the driveway and marking the bike’s paintwork, scratching a deep line down the front panel, a gouge that could not be missed.
The house had been open, so going inside had been made easier. Without her the rooms had smelt stale and the furniture seemed too soiled to touch. There’d been evidence of Aden everywhere – two cups on the table, two packs of cigarettes, the bike helmets, his gloves, his jacket on the back of the chair. Beside the fruit bowl had been his wallet and keys. Zach had walked into her bedroom and stood a moment looking down at the bed. It had been left unmade. A roll of toilet paper had been jammed between the wall and mattress. The chest of drawers had been pulled out to accommodate the downward angle of the mirror.
Back in the kitchen he’d opened Aden’s wallet: cash and a single condom, his licence – date of birth, 23 September 1964. The docket though – Charlotte’s Pass Denim and Leather, a $300 purchase, a handwritten docket, a message scrawled on the back, an exasperated tone – Yes, Aden, a return policy just for you. Swap only though, no cash. The date on the docket was the day before the Charlotte’s Pass story broke on the news.
Zach took the docket, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
Now, through the riflescope, Zach takes his time and watches them say goodbye. He lies down on his belly and moves the scope from window to window. He can focus his attention on what he wants to focus his attention on, and block out what he doesn’t want to see, he can put his own words and thoughts into action. He can – he won’t say exactly – close his eyes and put himself down in the house with Rebecca. He can have her apologising, in her dressing-gown on the edge of her bed, one leg exposed, the side of her breast, listening and agreeing there is a way they can do this … He can roll over and forget things for a bit.
At last Aden leaves and Zach feels much better. He takes off his backpack and puts the rifle beneath a fallen tree. He runs his tongue along his teeth and rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s a return to a good place. There’s the clamour in his heart at the thought of seeing her, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, a reminder that only a short time has passed. He is still Zach, she is still Rebecca, and they live next door to one another in Kiona …
She is around the back of the carport, squatting and g
rowling at a dog. Zach hangs back a moment. There are bits of rubbish and the remnants of a garbage bag spread all over the backyard. The dog being yelled at is cowering and the other dogs come around and stand over it. ‘Get out!’ she is saying. ‘Go on, all of you, out!’
And suddenly, with savagery far outstripping the moment, two of the larger dogs attack the dog being reprimanded.
‘Hey!’ she says, jumping up.
The set-upon dog squeals with fear. The dogs crowd in and bite it. Rebecca takes a plastic lid from the rubbish bin and throws it at them. This has no effect whatsoever. The singled-out dog continues to squeal. Rebecca’s voice lifts to a shrill scream. ‘Get out! Stop!’
Zach jumps the fence.
She sees him and their eyes lock, but the dogfight can’t be ignored. ‘Get the hose,’ he says to her.
The dogs are so engrossed they don’t see him. There are fl ashes of bloodied jaws, wet gurgling, and a terrible gnashing sound emanating from the centre. The prone dog grows quiet.
Rebecca rushes back, pale-faced, with the hose; Zach grabs the broom.
She sprays the dogs and he pushes them apart. The animals seem to have lost all sense. They snap at the head of the broom, at anything they run into. After a few more seconds, they begin to back away.
The worst offenders slink off growling, others go under the house to lick their wounds. Rebecca is shaken and wet; Zach is also trembling. It’s a spectacle you don’t see every day. The dog at the centre of it, the one at fault, doesn’t get up. It’s on its side in the mud and garbage. It’s the German short-haired pointer, the youngest and most immature member of the pack. It has puncture wounds on its face, an ear torn almost through, bristled glistening fur around its neck and down its body. It doesn’t try to rise as they kneel beside it. ‘My God,’ Rebecca murmurs, ‘what have they done?’
She tentatively touches the dog on the top of the head. A flicker of life comes into the animal’s eyes, but then the glazed look returns. It’s breathing with difficulty.
‘I have to take him in to the vet,’ Rebecca says.
She gets to her feet, turns to the house, and then turns back to him. ‘I’m going to ring someone. Would Cummings come over?’
‘What for?’
‘I’m not allowed to drive.’
‘He might come over and shoot it, but I don’t think he’s gunna take you into town.’
‘Who else could I ring?’
Zach shakes his head.
‘Help me put him in the car. I have to take him in. We have to hurry.’
‘I don’t think it’s worth it. He’ll have to be put down.’
‘Help me carry him.’
‘I don’t think there’s any point, Rebecca.’
She squats down over the dog, and holds her hands above its chest like a faith healer. ‘What can we do?’
‘He’s going to die. Look at his neck, his windpipe is crushed.’
‘We have to do something.’
‘It’s probably best to put him out of his misery. I can shoot him for you.’
She looks up.
‘You can take him to the vet if you want, but it’s not like you’re going to be able to afford the bill. I can do it for you right now.’
She goes back on her haunches.
‘I’ve got a rifle with me.’
She doesn’t seem to hear this and looks around the yard. Her hands are clasped together. ‘I might ring Aden.’
‘I’ve got a rifle with me,’ Zach repeats.
‘What?’
‘I was out shooting. I can run and get it.’
‘You’ve got a gun?’
‘Do you want me to get it?’
The dog’s breathing continues to rasp in and out.
‘I don’t know …’
‘It’s twenty minutes in, Rebecca. He’ll die in the car.’
‘Do you think?’
‘I’ll go and get the gun and you can decide.’
Zach runs. It’s the first purposeful thing he’s done in days. Life is better with Rebecca in it. It’s richer, more exciting. He reaches the tree and pulls out the rifle. He grabs his backpack and sprints back down through the gully.
She’s patting the dog when he returns. ‘He’s been fitting.’
‘Do you want to go inside while I do it?’
‘I …’ She gets up and backs away. ‘Are you going to do it right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll turn away.’
She does, and Zach shoots the dog once in the head and then watches to see if it’s dead.
Rebecca turns around and looks down at it.
‘Aren’t you upset?’ she asks.
There is a neat hole where the bullet went, a trickle of blood.
‘No.’
‘You should feel something – it’s not normal to feel nothing.’
‘I feel pleased it’s cleanly dead.’
‘God, Zach, your bedside manner could do with some work.’
Together they pick up the body and put it down on the path that runs along the back of the house. They go to the tap and wash their hands, and then walk together to check on the other dogs. She calls the last few out from under the porch. She hesitates before touching them, having seen now what they can do.
‘Murderers,’ she says, half joking.
The two German shepherds she can’t look in the eye, and no wonder, they’re the kingpins in the pack. Zach can’t look at them either for fear they might take it personally, or remember him from the last few days. Really, he thinks, it’s like living with a couple of grizzlies, the idea of domesticity absurd in that moment.
It’s hot. Rebecca’s wet from the hose. Her shoes squelch as she walks. She waves flies from her face. With hands on her hips, out the front of the house, she sighs and invites him in for a drink. ‘I guess I have to,’ she says.
‘Really, Rebecca – a drink – are you sure? Do you really think … ?’
‘Shut up, Zach,’ she says, ‘don’t even joke.’
He smiles, pierced with joy to be with her.
‘You shot my dog,’ she goes on. ‘That hardly sets you up for the Nobel Peace Prize.’
‘Ignoble Peace Prize maybe.’
‘Stop trying to impress me, Kincaid.’
The house has been tidied up, as though overnight she has spread her care for things beyond her bedroom; it’s still soiled though, hints of Aden everywhere. Zach eyes the Tally-Ho papers on the kitchen table, the packet of tobacco, the same brand as the one in his mother’s van. He sits on the very edge of the stool.
‘Do you want a cold drink?’ she asks.
Zach spots the bottle of bourbon on the sink.
‘I’ll have a bourbon and Coke thanks.’
‘Don’t be dumb. Do you want a Coke?’
‘Yes, with bourbon.’
She drops her head back. ‘Why are you here again?’
‘Well, you drink it, right? Isn’t it what he gets you drunk with? Doesn’t he top up your glass, roll you a joint and spike your drinks?’
‘Do you want a Coke or not?’
‘Does he make you drink and smoke and screw all at the same time?’
It’s too far, he knows it, but finds he can’t help it – he wants to touch her, even if it is only pokes and prods.
She looks away.
Zach rocks on his stool as a way to soften what he’s said.
‘When I’m old,’ she says, ‘will you still walk up to me and say stuff like that? Will you always think you’re better than me, no matter what happens? If I end up rich and you end up broke in the gutter, would you still say stuff like that if I passed?’
‘I might ask you for a drink, if I’m a bum in the gutter.’
‘You want a drink …’ she says, and unscrews the lid on the bourbon. She splashes the alcohol into a glass. She takes the Coke from the fridge and pours it in. ‘There,’ she says, putting the drink down in front of him, spilling some on the bench. ‘After it you can go. I’m not hav
ing you here drunk if I don’t know what you’re going to do or say sober.’ She shakes the spilt drink from her hand.
‘If I’ve got a bad bedside manner, then you’ve got bad bartending skills.’
‘That’d be right – you the doctor, me the barmaid.’
‘You said it.’
‘Get stuffed, Zach.’
‘I’m joking.’
‘How any of you ever think it’s funny I’ll never know.’
He takes a sip of his drink. It’s strong and he can’t help but grimace. ‘You’re right, after this I could say anything.’
He glances at her.