by James Roy
‘Oh, I’m pretty sure I know who you are.’
He went, and then she saw that Sam was out in the hallway, watching the scene with baleful eyes.
‘A lot of friggin’ good you were,’ she spat, slamming the door in his face.
Down in the garage, John’s Impala burst into life. She heard him rev it hard, over and over, before it rumbled down the driveway and away. And only when it had turned the corner and she heard the dog from the white house barking after it did she allow the tears to return.
Her mother came home shortly after that, dropped off with a farewell honk. She came in the front door, saw Anonymity waiting in a dark living room, and closed the door with a gentle but reverberant click. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sit down, Mum.’
‘Where’s Sam?’ Corinne asked, shrugging off her coat.
‘He’s out the back. I think he’s started digging again.’
‘He has? He must be stressed about something, poor thing.’
‘Yeah, I wonder what. Sit down, Mum,’ Anonymity repeated.
‘OK.’ Corinne put down her bag and keys and sat in one of the armchairs. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I have to talk to you.’
‘About?’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘You can tell me anything. You know that.’
‘It’s John.’
‘What about him? Is he–’
‘No.’ Anonymity dismissed the very idea with a flick of her hand. ‘He’s fine, Mum. Except he’s not who you think he is.’
‘Tell me, who do I think he is?’ Corinne asked, half-smiling.
‘You think he’s loving and gentle.’
‘That’s true. I do. And he is.’
‘You think he’d never do anything to hurt you.’
Corinne shifted in her seat. ‘Look, if this is about those photos at the airport, we’ve been over–’
‘He touched me.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He tried to kiss me, and he tried to touch me.’
‘He tried to touch you, or he did touch you?’
‘Does it matter? He tried, all right? And if I hadn’t stopped him, he would have–’
‘No, that’s not true.’ Corinne said it as blankly as if she were refusing a second helping of cake.
‘What do you mean, it’s not true?’
‘It was a misunderstanding.’
‘Were you here?’
Still Corinne’s face remained impassive. ‘I didn’t have to be. I know him. He wouldn’t do that. You got the wrong idea. It was a mistake.’
‘Of course it was a bloody mistake, Mum! He made the mistake of trying to grope me!’
‘Tell me what happened.’ Her mother’s calmness was infuriating. This wasn’t how she was supposed to react. She was meant to be borderline homicidal at this news, and yet she hadn’t so much as raised her voice. She was just sitting there, as cool as anything, like a church organist hearing old stories of nails and spears and crowns of thorns all over again, while dust motes hovered in the shaft of afternoon sun behind her.
‘What happened is that I was talking to Raven–’
Now, suddenly, finally, Corinne was animated. Her eyebrows flickered, and she sat forward. ‘Your sister called?’
‘Yes, and she’s fine, Mum. She’s having a ball. Apparently they have pet ravens at the Tower of London and one of them is called Baldrick. She’s very excited.’
‘Is she going to call back later?’
‘Mum. Mum! I’m trying to tell you how your boyfriend tried to have sex with me!’
Corinne scratched the back of her head, and around her the motes eddied and stirred. ‘You really don’t have to be so dramatic.’
‘I’m not being dramatic! I was upset from talking to Raven, and John came into my room and we started talking. He told me about his own kids, and how much he missed them, and I apologised for being rude to him. Then we hugged.’
Corinne sat back. ‘There you go, then. It was a hug. Honestly, I don’t know where you get these–’
‘Then he grabbed me here, and here.’
‘Now look–’
‘And he tried to kiss me–’
‘Stop!’ Finally a reaction Anonymity might have seen coming. Something she might have predicted. Better late than never, she thought.
‘Why the hell are you saying this?’ Corinne demanded.
‘Because it’s true!’
‘As if he’d try to fool around with you! You’re about to turn seventeen.’
‘Yeah, I know – that’s kind of the point! It happens, Mum. It happens to people all the time.’
Corinne shook her head, waved away the very suggestion. Then, as if by afterthought, she stood up. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, or what you’re trying to prove, but this conversation is over.’
A car was rumbling into the driveway. ‘Here he is now – let’s ask him,’ Anonymity said.
Corinne turned, hands on hips, her face-palette smeared with confusion, fury and fear. Or was that simple, primary-colour suspicion?
The door opened, and John was there, huge in the doorway. ‘Hello, love,’ he said, as he spotted Corinne standing in the living room. ‘What’s going on...? Oh.’ He’d seen Anonymity in the corner, still sitting. ‘So, I suppose she told you, then.’
‘She told me something, but I’m not sure how much of it I believe.’
‘It was a misunderstanding.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘She was upset, I tried to comfort her, and the next thing I know she’s going crazy. Screaming, calling me all manner of things. It was horrible, and very hurtful. You should learn to control that temper of yours,’ he said to Anonymity.
‘And you should learn to control those urges of yours,’ she shot back. ‘You like ’em young, don’t you, John?’
‘You’re nuts,’ he snarled.
‘Show her, John. Show Mum the pictures of Raven, from the day we took her to the airport. The pictures of Raven, and of me.’
‘She’s seen them.’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘And that didn’t worry you, all those shots of the two of us shopping, sitting and talking, drinking coffee?’
‘Shopping?’ John asked, incredulous. ‘Seriously, this is about photos of you shopping?’
Anonymity pressed on. ‘All those shots, Mum, one after another. Hundreds of them, and not one of you. Not one!’ It was designed to hurt her, but it was impossible to tell if it had.
Corinne seemed suddenly sad, confused. ‘I honestly don’t know what’s got into you.’
‘Did you see the ones on the computer, or the ones on the camera?’ Anonymity asked her mother.
‘The computer. On Netbook.’
John shrugged. ‘Look, I’ve got nothing to hide. Nothing.’ He glanced back and forth between them, trying to read the silence. Finally he said, ‘All right, I’ll get the sodding camera, if we can put this stupidity to bed. Don’t go anywhere.’ He left them avoiding one another’s eyes and climbed the stairs. His footsteps were heavy above them, heading along the corridor to the spare room, returning, coming back down past the creaky banister.
‘There,’ he said, placing his camera firmly on the coffee table. ‘Let’s see all these oggly pics I took of you and your sister while I ignored your mother. Come on, let’s see ’em.’
‘You’ll have deleted them all,’ Anonymity said.
‘Maybe. But if you’re going to make accusations, you need evidence. Otherwise it looks as though you’ve just fabricated all this to make me look like some dirty old man.’
‘I didn’t fabricate anything.’
‘All I know is that if this is what I get for trying to be supportive when your own father isn’t here–’
‘Oh no, you don’t get to bring my dad into this,’ Anonymity interrupted, her voice gelid. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘All right, fine. But like I said, if this is what I get
for being nice to you, and trying to be a friend, you can forget it. If you ever feel like you need a shoulder to cry on again, just look somewhere else, all right? Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re not worth the grief.’ He picked up the camera and held it out, but Anonymity simply stared at him.
‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he growled. ‘Excuse me.’
As he returned upstairs, Anonymity heard the banister complain. If only today was the day it gave way, she wished, momentarily cheered by the mental image of the big guy falling backwards, arms flailing, until his skull collided with the piano.
‘Hey!’
Her mother was glaring at her from where she stood. Anonymity had never seen raw, incendiary anger quite like it, and it made her swallow, hard. She had no words.
Corinne shook her head, just a little, and her voice was stretched tight. ‘Unbelievable. John’s a good man – a solid, supportive, dependable man – and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve this.’ She exhaled. ‘Christ, I need a shower.’ And picking up her bag and keys, she turned on her heel and headed upstairs.
Anonymity sighed, then chuckled, despite being alone. It was a desperate, helpless laugh. ‘That went well,’ she said aloud.
A few minutes later, as she passed the bedroom that Corinne and John now shared, Anonymity saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, putting his camera away in its case. She stopped at the door, and could hear the shower running in the ensuite.
‘We both know what happened.’
John looked up, his eyes stony. ‘You’re completely goddamn delusional.’
‘We both know what happened, John. This isn’t over. And you can have your friggin’ computer back.’
He shook his head wearily. ‘It’s yours. It was a gift. For your birthday.’
‘I want nothing from you.’
‘So give it to someone who wants it. I don’t care any more.’
She went to her room, closed the door, rang Tina, and ended up listening to a voicemail message. Neither Viera nor Andi answered their phones, and hanging up crossly Anonymity tossed her phone on the bed.
The photo Chris Moffat had given her was lying on top of a pile of books on the floor, still in its white envelope. She picked it up, flicking the business card on the corner with her finger. Flip flip, flip flip. Chris Moffat, photographer and graphic artist. And a phone number.
It was cold outside, and overcast. Autumn had arrived, weighted down at the corners by a low, heavy sky. Chris was where she’d suggested he wait, parked at the corner of her street, in front of the tall white house. Through the closed windows of his car, she could hear music playing. A dull, thuddy beat of something much younger than she might have expected. Something electronic, or a hybrid of electronica and rock. Not the kind of music someone of twenty-nine might be playing.
He looked up, saw her, and raised one finger at the top of the steering wheel, before leaning over and swinging open the passenger-side door.
It was warm in there, but still she hugged herself and rubbed her arms. Turning down the music, Chris smiled at her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Can we get out of here?’
‘Sure.’ He started the car. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere not here.’
‘I know a place. It’s not far.’
They drove in silence, except for the music thrumming low, almost sub-audibly. Anonymity watched the suburbs slip away, saw the bush gather around and the road begin to snake downwards. They passed a tiny toll-booth at the gates to the National Park, and Chris barely slowed. He had a sticker. He liked to take photos down here, he told her, and it was the first thing he’d said since they’d left her street. But it hadn’t been uncomfortable, this silence. They were like actors, sitting quietly in the wings, gathering their thoughts, muttering their lines in their heads.
They came to a marina deep in the National Park, in exactly the kind of place Anonymity might have imagined her father mooring his fantastical boat. Chris nosed the car close to the heavy wooden sleepers that lay between the car park and the green water of the river, and turned off the engine.
‘So. Tell me again.’
‘You said I could call you Chris, didn’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘Chris. My life is stuffed.’ She glanced at him. No reaction. She could continue. ‘There’s only one good thing in my life, did you know that?’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘You gave me a photo.’
‘It’s just a print.’
‘No. Your class, I mean – it’s the only one I look forward to. Art. That’s it.’
‘I’m ... flattered, I guess.’
‘And it’s not because of the subject, even though it’s an OK subject. It’s because of you.’
‘I see.’
The car park was deserted, the bush damp and burrowed with approaching winter, the river empty apart from a handful of moored yachts and cruisers. At the bow of a small timber yacht, a man crouched and applied varnish with a brush. Bellbirds sounded in the bush, and from across the water drifted the pale clink of halyards against masts.
‘Why did you bring me down here?’
Chris reached over to the back seat and retrieved a small day-pack, from which he took a flask and two cups. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He poured the coffee, handed her a cup, and returned the bag to the back seat. Then he took a careful sip. Anonymity tested hers too. It was still very hot, and unsweetened, but she didn’t know if she should ask him for sugar. Did he even have sugar?
He glanced at her. ‘Is it all right?’
‘Yeah, it’s good. Thanks.’
‘I don’t have any sugar. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. So...’
‘So why did I bring you down here? You called me, remember?’
‘But why here in particular? We could have gone somewhere else, like a café.’
‘No, we couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if someone from school had seen us?’
‘We’d just be having a coffee.’
‘No, we wouldn’t. Don’t be naïve.’
He was right. She was being naïve, and with this realisation came a sudden compulsion to study her nail polish.
‘Anyway, you wanted to talk. About what?’
‘Nothing, really. I just wanted to be out of there. Away from them.’
‘You said something on the phone about your mum’s boyfriend?’
‘He tried to grab me, that’s all. You know, here. And here.’ Even with vague gestures, she felt naked. ‘And I guess if I hadn’t stopped him, who knows where he might have grabbed. Or maybe it was nothing. I don’t know any more.’
‘You should tell someone.’
‘I did. I told my mother, who basically said I was making the whole thing up.’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘Of course not,’ she replied, unsure if this was a question.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest of his seat. ‘I love it down here, especially in the middle of the week, and once it starts to get cooler. There’s no one around.’
‘There’s that guy,’ Anonymity said, nodding towards the man working on the yacht. ‘I’m sure he’s not no one.’
Chris smiled. ‘In summer and on weekends there’s a lot more action down here. Families having picnics, people hiring boats, kids on bikes all over the place.’
‘I don’t suppose you have kids.’
‘Not really my thing,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘But you’re a teacher.’
‘Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘How about your girlfriend? Does she want kids?’
‘I didn’t tell you I had a girlfriend.’
‘Well, do you?’
‘I do. And I’m pretty sure she wants a career. Which she’s got. She teaches physiotherapy students at uni.’ He
turned his face towards her. ‘You know, this is now kind of out of the realm of any of your business,’ he said, but gently.
‘So it’s private?’
He chuckled. ‘Kind of, yeah.’
‘I told you about my mother’s sleazy boyfriend. I think that deserves some kind of payback honesty, don’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ He paused, chewing at the corner of a thumbnail. ‘Look, this is a bit uncomfortable, you know?’
‘What is?’
‘This. Us being here.’
‘You drove your car down here. With me in it. And like I said, we could have gone to a coffee shop.’
‘I know, and ... Look, I’ll tell you what – why don’t we get out? We can sit over there.’ Reaching over, he opened the glovebox and took out a lighter. ‘I could even make a fire if you want.’
‘All right,’ she agreed, wondering what difference there was between sitting in a car beside a teacher and sitting on a log beside a teacher.
But once she was out there, hugging her knees and watching him bring over handfuls of wood from the low woodshed nearby, piling it beside the fireplace, assembling the little teepee of sticks and barks, making provision for her, she saw the difference. Out here they were friends, but in the warm front seat of his car they were like operatives exchanging names.
He fetched the flask from the car and poured out the remainder of the coffee for them. Then he squatted beside the fire and poked at it with a long twig. The damp sticks of kindling fizzed and hissed and spat, their bark peeling away in the heat and catching alight and turning to ash before her eyes, while the smoke rose straight up into the cold air, like a stroke of a waxy crayon.
‘Are you going to tell anyone?’ he asked. ‘Apart from your mother, I mean.’
‘Probably not. I mean, I told her and she basically called me a liar. And if your own mother doesn’t believe you, who will?’
‘I believe you.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘Deal with it however you like, but you have to promise me something. If he ever tries anything like that again, you have to let me know, so we can talk to the appropriate people. Promise?’
‘Sure, whatever. Is this because you’re a teacher, and you have rules about reporting that kind of thing, or is it because–’