by Scot Gardner
The following weekend, when Larry’s cold had receded to a sniffle and the bright air was heavy with the perfumes of springtime, Larry decided to stay home again while his father fished.
‘I still feel a bit sick,’ he said.
Mal shrugged. ‘That’s okay, Larry. Maybe next week.’
But the next week saw Larry and his mother walking hand in hand to the eleven o’clock service.
Larry didn’t know what to expect. Mostly, church was like his memory of drowning – calm and peaceful and loving – and the sun turned the stained-glass windows into rainbows. Jemma was there with her family. She and Larry hugged and jiggled until Jemma’s dad grabbed her by the shoulder and sat her into a pew, finger to his lips. He was a big man with a full beard the same colour as his head hair. His shoulders were rounded and his belly was trying to escape from his shirt. From Larry’s viewpoint, the big man’s hairy navel seemed to be peeking at him through the buttons of his neatly ironed white shirt. An eyeless socket. Jemma still smiled but she rubbed her shoulder where her father had held her. Denise led Larry to a seat three rows from the front.
The priest spoke in a language Larry could barely understand. Sometimes his words reminded Larry of the news. The congregation prayed and filled the building with song, and afterwards they had cups of tea and cordial and stuffed their faces with lamingtons and little squares of chocolate cake. The kids snuck outside and played chasey through the church gardens until Jemma’s father grabbed her and Tim by their shirts and shoved them towards their old twin-cab Toyota ute.
Denise and Larry smelled flowers on the way home: freesias and hyacinths, daffodils and tiny purple violets.
‘What did you think of church?’ Denise asked as they turned the corner into Condon Street.
‘Good.’
‘Really? What did you like most about it?’
Larry pondered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘The cake.’
Denise laughed and squeezed Larry’s hand. ‘Do you think you’ll come again?’
‘Can we go tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s a school day.’
‘The next day?’
‘No. I only go to church on Sundays.’
Larry stopped. Church was on fishing day. It was a realisation as sharp as a pencil and it made him think hard.
Denise just stood there, staring at his furrowed brow. ‘You don’t have to come. You can go with Dad.’
Denise felt his grip tighten. He’d spotted Clinton power-walking towards them. Clinton had something tucked under his shirt, his arms crossed awkwardly over the bulge.
‘Can Larry come to play?’ the boy asked.
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’
‘Please, Mum?’ Larry said.
It was Denise’s turn to look confused, but for Larry, going with Clinton right then was a way out of making a decision about what to do on Sundays.
‘What do you have under your shirt?’ Denise asked.
‘Nothing.’ The boy unlocked his arms and pulled a can of deodorant from beneath his top. ‘It’s underarm spray. It’s empty. Mum said I could have it.’
‘I see,’ Denise said.
Clinton fumbled with the nozzle. He pressed the lid with two fingers but there was no gas. He made a hissing sound with his mouth and pretended to spray the concrete at their feet.
‘All right, I’ll come and get you in a little while for lunch. Stay in the park.’
The boys raced to the slide and Clinton dropped the spray can on the mulch to free up his hands for the climb. They slid down in quick succession and dashed for the ladder again.
Denise went inside to make sandwiches.
From the corner of his eye, Clinton watched her go.
‘Hey, Larry,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want to see some magic?’
‘Magic? Yeah.’
‘Shh. Come over here.’
Clinton collected the can and huddled under the slide. Larry squeezed in beside him and noticed that he didn’t smell strange for once. He smelled like flowers.
Clinton shook the can and the contents sloshed. He extended his pointer finger, took aim and covered it with a burst of spray.
‘Whoah,’ Larry said, recoiling. ‘I thought it was empty.’
Clinton’s eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. ‘Watch this.’
He took a white plastic cigarette lighter from his pocket, expertly rasped the wheel with his thumb and set his sprayed finger alight.
Larry gasped. The gold-and-blue flame seemed to be coming from Clinton’s skin. Candle-finger magic.
After several seconds, Clinton shook his hand and the flame went out.
‘Whoah! Doesn’t it hurt? Do it again,’ Larry whispered hoarsely.
Clinton obliged with a longer spray and a longer burn that took two shakes to extinguish. ‘Do you want to try?’
Larry held out his hand.
Clinton shook the can briefly then made Larry’s entire hand wet with the cold spray.
‘Isn’t that too much?’
Clinton shrugged and lit Larry’s hand.
Larry panicked. Although he felt no pain, the flames were too close and he shook his hand wildly and wiped it on the ground. Clinton laughed. The fire coughed and spluttered but wouldn’t go out.
Larry could feel it burning. He squealed and shook even harder. Squealed and shook and ran.
Denise met him at the front door.
The fire was out but Larry was still screaming and shaking his hand.
‘What is it? What happened?’ She got down on one knee and grabbed his arm. ‘Where does it hurt?’
The skin was red and the fine golden hair was gone from the back of his hand. ‘What happened?’
The pain and the flames had vanished. Larry looked at his fingers both sides, blinked, then looked again.
It was magic.
‘I . . . I hurt my hand. On the slide. I hurt my hand.’
‘How? Where does it hurt?’
‘Everywhere. It’s better now, though.’
Denise frowned.
‘I slipped off the slide and banged my hand. It’s okay now.’
He perched himself on a chair and ate his sandwich.
Denise knew Larry was lying. He was covering up for Clinton’s mischief. She could feel herself getting steamed up. The grotty child from across the road was a constant source of grief and anguish for her and her boy, and whenever Larry cried or got in the way of the television, she knew it was Clinton’s behaviour rubbing off by association. She wished she could find a way to stop Larry from playing with the boy and being at his every beck and call. She wished Larry could say no to him and mean it.
Presently, Mal arrived with two good-sized flathead in a plastic shopping bag. Larry burst from the table to check them out and poke them with his reddened finger.
‘Have a look at his hand,’ Denise whispered to her husband.
Mal held the boy’s fingers aloft. He noticed the hairless glow. ‘What happened?’
Larry yanked his hand free. ‘I hurt myself on the slide.’
He sock-skated into the lounge.
Mal looked at his wife.
She shrugged. ‘Clinton and a deodorant can.’
‘It looks sunburned.’
She nodded. ‘I don’t feel I can leave them together unsupervised.’
‘So don’t,’ Mal said, flatly.
Denise crossed her arms, slowly. Deliberately.
‘Sorry,’ Mal said. ‘I wasn’t saying it was your fault. I was . . .’
‘Oh? What were you saying?’
‘I was saying that Clinton can’t be trusted. There’s something not right about him.’
Denise’s arms fell to her sides. ‘I know what you mean. I prayed for him the other day.’
‘For Clinton?’
She nodded. ‘Prayed he’d move house.’
Mal shook his head, smiling. ‘That would be nice, but there are plenty of Clintons in the world. Larry has to learn how to stand up to them. I hope we�
�re there when he does.’
‘To do what?’
Mal shrugged. ‘Just be there. Moral support.’
‘To pick up the pieces?’
Mal thought for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Feel like going for a ride? You and me and Larry? Get out of the house for a while? It’s beautiful out there.’
‘A ride on what?’
‘Stan’s got a bike he said you could use.’
‘A pushbike?’
‘Yes. A mountain bike. It’s got gears and everything.’
‘I haven’t ridden a bike since I was a kid.’
‘You don’t forget stuff like that.’
Maybe, she thought, a ride would help her forget the little devil from across the road.
A TOOTH IN
THE HAND
IT HAD BEEN Anita Ward’s bike. It was built for a man, but it had a huge padded saddle. Sitting on that saddle, with an oversized helmet on her head, Denise felt her heart racing. Larry told her she looked like a clown. Mal grabbed the seat and she squealed.
He smiled. ‘Just trying to help. Here, I’ll start you off. Are you ready?’
Denise moaned, but got her feet on the pedals as Mal steadied her. Next thing, she was pedalling and Mal had let go. Mal cheered.
Her body remembered.
The three of them – with Gilligan on a lead – rode on the footpaths to the edge of town. Mal led them over the old railway and onto a gravel bike path that followed the Cradle River, tree-lined and fragrant, into the hills. Gilligan was let off his chain and he scampered ahead, nose to the ground. The track was mostly smooth, with the occasional pothole still holding muddy water from the rain a week before. Near Villea, there were signs of human occupation – chip packets, a plastic milk carton, an upturned shopping trolley – but the closer they got to the weir wall, the more wild the vista became. Larry’s front wheel seemed to be magnetically attracted to the puddles, and before long his back and legs were freckled with mud.
‘Be careful,’ Denise called, again and again.
Mal wanted her to shut up and let the boy enjoy himself, but he could see they had roles to play. His job was to open the door to adventure; her job was to worry. Larry sloshed through the puddles anyway. Mal rode slowly. He fought with his postman’s urgency and hung behind his wife and son. He noticed the birds, the smells, and felt a creeping sense of contentment. He felt his lungs truly fill for the first time in months, and then he thought about Larry drowning and those thoughts turned to cold hard rain.
‘Be careful,’ he said to the boy.
The dog propped to drink from a puddle. Mal had to brake hard and swerve to miss it.
‘Get out of the way, Gilligan, you crazy animal.’
Denise chuckled. Larry pedalled.
They rode and rode, without great effort or dialogue. The track became narrower and steeper. Mal could hear the roar of the overflow in the distance and knew they were approaching the weir wall. Eventually, the track dissolved into a short set of stairs and they dismounted, puffing quietly and removing their helmets.
The stairs led to a picnic area with five wooden tables among tall ferns.
‘This place is beautiful,’ Denise said. ‘Have you been here before?’
Mal shook his head.
They followed the signs to the weir and could feel it before they could see it. The river, fed by the recent rain, escaped from the grey concrete spillway with considerable force and generated a breeze that carried the cool mist halfway to the picnic area. A large moss-flecked sign warned of sudden changes in the water level and advised against swimming beneath the overflow. Another sign urged visitors to keep to the tracks and carried a picture of a cartoon man teetering on the edge of a mine shaft.
Gilligan ploughed into the roiling waterway and licked at the surface. Mal stopped and removed his boots and socks, his feet pale and wrinkled on the river sand. Denise and Larry followed suit and soon the three of them were hand in hand, ankle deep and gulping at the cold. Mal led them downstream over slippery-smooth rocks to a beach littered with river-smoothed pebbles and warmed by the afternoon sun. Denise sat on the shore and the boys threw stones – big stones and small stones, rough stones and smooth. Gilligan yapped and splashed and chased every rock. He bit at the water, and once plunged his head beneath the surface trying to pick a stone from the riverbed. He coughed and snorted and then galloped through the shallows after another. Mal found a perfect palm-sized disc of rock and sent it bouncing across the water’s surface all the way to the opposite shore amid sounds of astonishment from his wife and son. Larry wanted to know how to do it and together they hunted for the perfect stone, worked on the boy’s grip and throwing technique, and groaned with disappointment as the stone arced through the air and disappeared with a single plop less that ten metres from where they stood. Mal trudged out to retrieve the stone, but froze a metre short of where it had broken the surface and stared at something in the water.
‘What?’ Larry asked.
Mal put a finger to his lips and edged forward.
‘What is it?’ Larry whispered.
Mal slowly reached into the water and, at the last minute, lunged.
A brief rippling–splashing commotion ensued and Denise sprang to her feet, then Mal was striding through the water with a freshwater crayfishpinched at arm’s length.
‘Whoah!’ Larry sang. ‘It’s a crab. Dad caught a big crab!’
Denise brought a hand to her mouth.
‘Crayfish, Larry,’ Mal said, and lowered the animal to seven-year-old height. ‘Good one, though. I haven’t seen one this big before.’
Larry’s eyes were huge. The crustacean hissed and flapped indignantly, its finger-sized pincers snapping at the air. Its tail was spiked like a medieval mace and every joint and surface of its body was knobbed with hard warts, and glistening.
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ Larry asked.
Mal flipped it over to inspect the underside and the crayfish convulsed, spiking him in the wrist and breaking his grip. It fell against his shirt and one of its pincers closed like a pair of pliers around Mal’s left nipple. Mal yelped, jumped and spun around. He staggered out into the river with the crayfish dangling from his chest, trying unsuccessfully to grab it and pull it free.
‘Ow . . . ow . . . ow . . . get off . . . get off me!’
Larry was shrieking with laughter when his father finally lost balance and fell onto his hands and knees. As soon as the crayfish hit the water, its grip broke and it powered into the deep.
‘Are you okay, Mal?’ Denise said.
‘Fine,’ Mal said, peeved. He stood up and rubbed his chest but there was a smile on his lips.
Larry was bent over and slapping his thigh. His eyes were wet and he struggled for breath. ‘Do it again, Dad. Do it again.’
Mal shook the water from his hands and waded to the beach. ‘ “Do it again,” he tells me.’
He strolled close and scooped his boy triumphantly into the air. Larry squealed and giggled and pleaded. Mal threatened to drop him into the river, and then held him cradled and panting in his arms. He strafed his son’s chin, his forehead, his cheeks, and his lips with bristly kisses.
‘Where’s Gilligan?’ Denise asked.
Mal propped Larry on his feet on the stones.
They looked along the river and called for a full minute but there was no sign of the dog. Mal and Denise traded looks crinkled with worry. It was getting late. There were mine shafts.
‘What was that?’ Denise said.
They stopped breathing and listened. Over the thunderous surge of the outflow came the muffled yapping of their mongrel – a frenzied bark of distress or excitement.
‘Wait there,’ Mal called as he waded across the river.
‘Be careful,’ Denise said, and took Larry’s hand.
At its deepest, the river swiped at Mal’s navel and threatened to shove him off balance. He held the hem of his shirt high and spread his elbows like wings, concentrating on every step a
nd cursing the dog. He clambered up the bank and into the undergrowth.
Denise and Larry stood on the beach and watched the bush intently. Denise’s mind kept throwing up disaster scenarios full of broken limbs and death at the bottom of deep holes. Larry grew bored and started throwing stones at the water again.
The strain of waiting reached fever pitch for Denise. The dog had stopped barking and she drew breath to shout for her husband when his head appeared above the ferns. He was carrying Gilligan.
‘Is he all right?’ she shouted.
‘Fine,’ Mal said. ‘You’ve got to check this out. It’s amazing.’
‘What?’
‘Come across.’
‘I’m not going through that.’
Mal dropped the dog into the river.
‘I’ll carry you both across.’
Denise tutted but smiled as Mal bore Larry aloft to the opposite shore.
She finally agreed to cross herself but screamed right in Mal’s ear when he stumbled partway over and her bottom got wet through her shorts.
Hand in hand they pushed barefoot and gingerly through the undergrowth and up a short rise. Gilligan barged at their legs and ran on ahead. Mal tugged a soft-leaved shrub aside to reveal a cave of sorts. Hand-hewn and a few inches taller than Mal, the old mine shaft had been dug straight into the rocky wall of the valley. It extended beyond the reach of the light and swallowed Mal’s voice when he shouted. The pebbly floor had been flattened by considerable traffic in the past but now moss and soft grasses grew, some freshly bent and squashed by the passage of a man and a dog.
Mal stepped inside.
Denise moaned nervously.
‘Come in. It’s completely safe. I want to show you what Gilligan was barking about.’
Denise and Larry took two steps into the mine shaft.
In the middle of the floor of the tunnel sat a black-brown lump the size of a deflated soccer ball, and as their eyes adjusted Denise thought she saw it move. She squatted and pointed, whispering to her son.
‘Do you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think it is?’
The boy shrugged.
They stepped closer and the creature sensed their movement and curled itself into a tighter ball.