by James Roy
‘Sure.’
‘Then I want all of it except ten dollars.’
He swiped the card, and Anonymity watched his eyes read the screen impassively. ‘All of it?’
‘Except ten dollars.’
‘That’s quite a bit – are you sure you want it in cash?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll put it in a bag for you.’
Across the street, Anonymity went through an unassuming door between a Vietnamese bakery and a pathology collection centre, and climbed a flight of creaky carpeted stairs with worn edges. At the top of these stairs was a landing, with a yoga centre on the left and an accountancy practice on the right.
The receptionist was taking a call when Anonymity walked in, and she glanced up, nodded and continued to speak, while meandering Indian music drifted in from the yoga centre. To her left, a corridor led away into the part of the office where the real work got done, where the real numbers were crunched, where the clients with their pressing matters and the reps with their lava-lamp paperweights were allowed to go so long as they had an appointment.
A pile of scuffed financial journals and National Geographics lay on the small table between two couches, and on the back of the door a dog-eared poster politely enquired, Would you like more egg in your nest? Ask us how.
Anonymity tapped the little button on the top of the silver desk bell, and the tiny, pure sound cut through the sound of the humming air-conditioner and hung around her like a frown. The receptionist – she was petite and very pretty, with a short, dark bob – glanced up and smiled briefly, forcing herself to look gently amused and conciliatory. But she continued on her call, so Anonymity rang the bell again.
The receptionist raised one finger, and Anonymity waited, feeling the tension in her chest expanding and rising as if to choke her.
Finally the girl ended her call and turned to face Anonymity. ‘I knew you were there. You didn’t have to ring the bell again.’
Anonymity glanced down at the name plate on the counter. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m Richard Jones’s daughter. And you’re ... Felicity, is it?’
‘Yes. I’m quite new,’ she replied, before forcing a smile. ‘How can I help you today?’
‘I need to get into my father’s office.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I know. He’s at a conference in New Zealand. But I need to get into his office. He left something for me.’
Felicity reached for the phone. ‘I’ll just get Greg–’
‘I’m right here,’ said a slender man whom Anonymity vaguely recognised. He’d come into the reception area from the back, and he stood close behind Felicity. ‘What’s up?’
‘This is Richard’s daughter,’ Felicity said.
‘Ah, of course it is. I haven’t seen you for a long time. How are you?’
‘I’m all right. I need to get my passport out of Dad’s office.’
‘Sure,’ Greg said, almost with a shrug. Then he touched Felicity’s earring. It was green, like jade, like her eyes. ‘These look good,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Felicity replied, smiling.
‘You’re welcome. Hey, when you get a minute, I need that Cunningham file copied, please.’
‘Okey-dokes.’
‘You’re a star. Bye,’ he said to Anonymity. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘You too.’
Felicity picked up a bunch of keys from her desk and jingled them together. ‘It’s just down the hall.’
I know, Anonymity thought. I’ve been coming here for years.
Her father’s office had the distinctive feel of a workspace left dormant for a long, perhaps eternal hiatus, with its drawn blinds and the chair pushed all the way in. The pens and coloured post-its and paper clips were corralled into their respective containers, the document trays empty, the desk pad clear. A thin film of dust had already begun to gather on the hard, cold, cedar-coloured melamine surface of the desk, as well as on the photo of Anonymity, Raven and Sam that was mounted in a frame she had made from oven clay back in second grade.
‘I’d say it’d be in the filing cabinet,’ Felicity said. Stepping forward, she reached into one of the desk drawers and took out a small, rather insignificant key ring. Then she crossed to the cabinet and unlocked it, sliding the top drawer open and taking a step back before standing almost to attention, like a royal butler.
It took barely a moment for Anonymity to find the
Personal documents file, remove her passport, and check inside the front cover to make sure it was hers. Then, with a smile, she closed the drawer firmly and turned to face Felicity. She opened the passport to display the photo.
‘That looks like you,’ Felicity said.
‘Well, that’s all I came for. And this,’ she added, taking the photo in its hideous ochre-red frame and placing it, with her passport, in her school bag. ‘Receptionists are good at keeping secrets, aren’t they?’
‘Well ... yes, but we prefer to call it “confidentiality”, and in this firm we’re not called receptionists; we’re called administrative officers,’ Felicity said proudly.
Anonymity smiled. ‘But you still have to keep secrets, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes we do.’
‘Good. Don’t let anyone think I’m dead, because I won’t be, but they only need to know the bare minimum about why I came here, don’t you think? Are you comfortable with a bare minimum?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good. Thank you. Oh, and there’s one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘My dad’s had two marriages fall apart because he had affairs with women from work.’
Felicity frowned. ‘And what’s that got to do with me? I hardly even know your father. And to be honest, he’s not really my–’
‘I’m not talking about Dad. Greg’s got a family too, just like my father did. Maybe you should think about not being that woman.’
Something about the way Felicity’s hand went to one of her earrings gave Anonymity a breathless rush of satisfaction, like a cold drink of water on a hot day.
Out on the landing, Anonymity stood to one side as a young mother in a flowing skirt cajoled, threatened and begged her toddler to climb the stairs. She guessed the woman was heading to the yoga centre, while she was heading for a nearby arcade and a small store squeezed between a second-hand bookshop and a drycleaner. This store was adorned with travel brochures and glossy posters of places that Anonymity had never been to, and she stopped and took a deep breath before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
When Anonymity returned home, the place was in turmoil.
‘That’s such bullshit, John!’ Corinne was shouting. ‘You must know how it happened!’
‘I don’t, love. It’s a complete mystery. It must be something to do with ... I don’t know ... with the Netbook site. They’ve got a bug or something. Or their site has been sabotaged.’
‘Bullshit! That’s bull shit! Those are my daughters in some of those photos. They are, aren’t they? So how did they get on there?’
‘I don’t know. Honest to God.’
‘But you did take them, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I took those photos, and others.’
‘And then all the teen sluts, lying around flashing their bits all over the place. Where did they come from?’
‘The internet’s full of stuff like that, Corinne.’
‘I do know that, John – I’m not a complete moron! I’m not retarded! I haven’t been living in a sheltered bloody
workshop!’
‘Corinne, love, don’t,’ John pleaded. ‘What if Sam–’
‘Forget Sam! How did those photos get on your Netbook site? And why can’t you get rid of them? I’ve already had three friends ring me to ask me what’s going on!’
‘I tried to get into my site to delete them but it won’t let me. So I tried to get my password five or six times, but the email’s not coming through. So I’ve emailed the Netbook pe
ople.’
‘How long will that take? Christ, John, what the hell is going on here?’
And while Corinne was shouting and John was trying to grasp onto a plausible explanation, Sam refused to come into the house.
Anonymity went out the back and closed the door against the sounds of argument. ‘Sam, come here, buddy,’ she called to him. ‘It’s OK, Sam. Come here.’
He turned and saw her there, and he smiled before hurrying with a big-boned trot up the garden. He stood on the bottom step, and she on the top, and she cupped his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. ‘Sam, are you listening to me? I’m going away. Not forever, though. It’ll just be for a while.’
She felt sure that she saw a flicker of recognition in his brown eyes. ‘I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying, but I had to tell you, because no one else seems to tell you anything. And you deserve to know.’
Meanwhile, inside the house, the drama was escalating.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Corinne was shouting. ‘Oh my God, what kind of mother am I? How could I believe you – you! – over my own daughter?’
John said something then that Anonymity couldn’t hear clearly, but she heard her mother’s response clearly enough.
‘No, no, no! I swear to God, John, the moment you’re gone, I’m making calls, and you’d better have a damn good lawyer. She’s a girl! She’s still at school!’
Then came the screaming. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ Over and over Corinne screamed it. ‘Get out! Get out! Get! Out! ’
At this sound, Sam rested his head against Anonymity’s chest, even though he had to bend down to do so, and she patted his head and told him that it would be all right, even though she wasn’t certain that it would be.
Then, after she’d wiped her tears away, and wiped Sam’s eyes too, just in case he was crying, she went into the house, slipped upstairs, turned her computer on and went searching online for a particular phone number. And, after she’d been successful, she sent one email to her father and one to her sister, switched off her computer and began to pack. Not a lot. Just some essentials – she could get whatever else she needed later on – and her camera, which would have to do for a while longer. Besides, she was a Gemini and therefore unpredictable and impetuous, so travelling light made sense.
Four hours later, she made one last text message and one last call before she had to turn her phone off.
The text message was to her mother. It wasn’t long. Just the basics, to allay fear. And a promise to call when she got to where she was going.
And the call was to the number that she’d searched for before leaving home. She took a deep breath and waited as the dial tone sounded.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mrs Vella?’ Anonymity asked.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘I’m calling about your dog. It barks all the time, and I don’t think it’s very happy.’
‘No, Dyno doesn’t bark. He’s happy as Larry.’
‘Actually, Mrs Vella, he does bark, all day long. And he yelps. He’s not happy, and he’s trying to tell you that. I think your dog needs exercise.’
‘Sorry, who is this? And how did you get this–’
‘I’m no one important. I’m just someone who’s concerned about your dog. I swear I’m not being a smart-arse, but I really do think your dog is depressed.’
‘Depressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a dog yourself?’ the woman asked.
‘No, my brother’s scared of them.’
‘So how would you–’
‘Can I suggest something, Mrs Vella? Take Dyno for a daily walk. Do it every evening. After a while he’ll stop begging for your attention and just expect it. Then, when you give him what he expects, he’ll be happy.’
‘You really think so, do you?’ the woman asked tersely.
‘I really do.’
‘I’m sorry, but who the hell are you?’
Anonymity hung up and switched off her phone. Then, with a smile, she showed her passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant, hooked the strap of her camera bag over her shoulder, and took a deep breath.
Read on for a preview of
Hunting Elephants
by James Roy
Harry was dying. He knew it. He could feel it. His lungs were bursting, and soon he’d have to take a breath. But that breath wasn’t going to be cool, welcome air, but freezing, unforgiving water. And you can’t breathe water. You just can’t. Everyone knows that.
It didn’t seem fair. He was far too young to die. Since Joel went, Harry had thought a lot about the fact that he’d die as well, one day. He’d wondered whether his brother would be waiting for him with a smile and a hug, wearing a Holden jacket, in whatever place it is you go to once you pass away. And he’d thought that seeing his brother again would make the dying almost OK. But he’d never really thought about how it would happen, except he’d expected to be a bit older than this.
There was so much he’d never done. He’d never driven a car, never kissed a girl – not properly, anyway. He’d never been to Hawaii to see a real volcano, to Universal Studios to see a pretend shark, or to Uluru to see the world’s largest monolith. He’d never been with his dad to Mount Panorama to watch the V8 Supercars, even though they’d talked about going for years. Harry wasn’t ready to stop living yet. But it looked as if he wasn’t going to get a choice. Because as soon as he opened his mouth to fill his screaming lungs and that icy water rushed in, it’d be all over. He’d be dead.
He reminded himself not to panic, no matter what. Easy to say, hard to do. He attempted another wiggle, but the rock against his shoulders was holding him tightly. And when he tried to lift his head, the back of his helmet collided with the roof of the tunnel, all plastic and hollow-sounding. He dug the toes of his boots into the mud to push himself forward, but when they slipped, and he sensed his last gasp coming, he finally gave in and panicked. He wanted to scream and arch his back. Maybe he’d have enough strength in that last, desperate moment to do something superhuman, like lifting the mountain of rock the two or three centimetres required to let him slip through the gap to that beautiful, fresh air further into the cave.
Then hands were fumbling at his shoulders, feeling for him, gripping the heavy fabric of his overalls, before slipping off and returning for another grab. Hurry! he thought. Just hurry! Get on with it! Grab me and pull!
And finally the hands did grip and hold, and Harry felt himself being dragged forward, sliding through the water, pulled up the slight slope into the cavern by Mr Greene and a couple of the other boys. He collapsed face-down on the damp floor and sucked in a huge breath, felt the wonderful air burst into his lungs. It looked like he wasn’t going to be meeting Joel today after all...
Hunting Elephants is available now.