The Nest

by Paul Jennings

  I fix my eyes on the steering wheel. ‘I do not have my mother’s hairbrush.’

  He nods his head and goes on.

  ‘If this is not true …’

  ‘If this is not true …’

  ‘May I die a horrible death.’

  My mouth is dry. ‘May I …’

  I can’t say it. I just can’t form the words. And I can’t believe that he is doing this. It’s like some childish schoolyard ritual but there’s a sinister reality behind his words.

  ‘So you’ve got the brush,’ he says.

  I nod and he gives a satisfied smirk as he turns the ignition key and starts the car. I reach over and twist the key, killing the engine.

  ‘Now it’s my turn.’

  He regards me like a poker player calling someone’s bluff.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Do you know where my mother is?’

  He freezes. Then he fixes his eyes on the steering wheel.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If this is not true …’

  ‘If this is not true,’ he repeats slowly.

  ‘May I die a horrible death.’

  He doesn’t hesitate but continues in the same measured tone.

  ‘May I die a horrible death.’

  I am left speechless. I should have asked him why he gave me the rest of the money when I mentioned the police. But there’s no second chance in this game. Something awful has happened. But I don’t know what it is.

  That night in bed I toss and turn and don’t really get to sleep until just before dawn. I have a crazy dream that a group of Somali children are falling out of a high window one after the other. I rush from one to the next trying unsuccessfully to catch them before they hit the ground. Finally only Charlie is left. She is desperately hanging onto the windowsill by one hand. She loses her grip and begins to fall. I rush forward to catch her but before I can, this senseless nightmare ends and I wake up in a terrified sweat.

  I know that I won’t rest until I’ve given Charlie the money. As soon as the old man goes out I pick up the phone and dial. Russell answers.

  ‘She’s not here at the moment, Robin,’ he says. ‘She’s been a bit down lately – must be still grieving over poor old Alf.’

  ‘I need to talk to her,’ I say, trying not to sound too desperate.

  ‘You might have to wait a bit. She’s gone walking to cheer herself up. I’ll get her to call you back.’

  ‘No, don’t, Russell. I might go and look for her. Do you know where she was headed?’

  ‘The forest, I expect, Robin. That’s where she usually goes. Good luck.’

  I say goodbye and hang up. If mobiles worked up here in the mountains I could ring her. I go and get my parka with the five hundred dollars safe inside the zip pocket but as usual the old man has other ideas.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he says as he observes me from the workshop door. ‘You know I’m flat out at the moment. Get in here, now.’ He starts tinkering around with a snowmobile that’s been brought in with a broken exhaust pipe.

  ‘Yeah, I will, Dad. I’ve just got to see Charlie first,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Work’s more important than girls,’ he says. ‘Go find the tape measure and don’t be sullen about it. Show me a bit of respect for once. There’s no point arguing. Chatting up Charlie will have to wait.’

  I look at the littered workshop bench. Somewhere in the mess is the tape measure and he can’t get on with cutting a new exhaust pipe without it. I start rummaging around amongst the junk.

  ‘Well, what are you doing? Haven’t you found it yet?’

  ‘I’m looking, I’m looking. It’s not here.’

  ‘You’re obviously not looking properly,’ he yells. ‘Concentrate. Stop dreaming about that girl.’

  By now I’ve tidied the whole bench up. I’ve put the metal shavings from the lathe in the bin, the spanners are all back in their box and I have sorted out the nuts and bolts and put them into their jars, but still no tape measure.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he says. ‘I told Integrity they could have their machine back this afternoon.’

  He’s wearing his old boilersuit as usual. It has pockets everywhere and they all bulge with the tools he’s stuffed into them.

  Dare I ask him THE question? Yes I will: I’ve had enough. ‘Could it be in your pocket?’

  ‘Don’t be an imbecile,’ he snarls. ‘I haven’t used it today.’

  ‘Maybe it’s still there from the last time. Just have a look.’

  He glares at me.

  ‘Please, Dad. I’ve looked everywhere.’

  He gives an annoyed sigh, pats one pocket and pulls out the lost tape measure. He measures the exhaust pipe and throws the tape back to me.

  ‘Put it back in its proper place,’ he says.

  I work till lunchtime, taking the motor out of a snowmobile which blew up after someone used it to drag a fallen gum tree. Four hours is the deal I have with the old man, so at last I can go.

  ‘I’m off to see Charlie now,’ I say.

  ‘Light the pot-belly stove first,’ he says. ‘It’s freezing.’

  I fetch some logs and split kindling and then fill the pot belly which stands against the workshop wall. I put a match to it and it bursts into crackling flames. Dad picks up the poker and shoves it into the fire, sending sparks flying. His body completely blocks the heat. As he jabs at the wood an image of the poker in my own hand flashes into my head.

  ‘You’re making it worse,’ I say. ‘It’s going out.’

  ‘Chop a few more logs for me, Robin.’

  ‘I can’t, Dad. I’ve got to go and find Charlie.’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ he says. ‘Do it tomorrow. I’ll just stay here and work in the freezing cold.’

  He wags the poker at me and takes a breath. I know what’s coming.

  ‘When I was your age my mother was dead and I was working in a factory helping to support my invalid father. You don’t know the meaning of work. You’re bone idle, Robin.’

  Oh, god. I can’t stand this. I just lose it. I can’t help myself and I give him a bit of his own medicine back.

  ‘If I knew where my mother was I’d go and live with her like a shot and I’d work my butt off to support her. She wouldn’t carry on like you do. She probably left because you’re a bully.’

  This hits him where it hurts. ‘She – left – be – cause – of – you,’ he spits out, beating down with the poker to emphasise every syllable.

  He has named my greatest fear. Why didn’t she take me with her? Wasn’t I good enough?

  Seeing that poker waving around is agony. I use every bit of mental energy I can to stop a violent image from forming inside my head, and I try to head it off by running out of the workshop. But I don’t escape. Like a bite from a snake, I’m hit with an image of myself whacking the poker into my father’s skull.

  Horrible, horrible, horrible.

  Charlie’s probably heading for home by now. I frantically put on my full snow outfit and grab my emergency pack in case the weather turns lethal. I ski uphill out of the village and head for the forest where the wilderness will calm my racing mind.

  Charlie often skis the forest trails so if she hasn’t gone home I might be able to find her and give her the money. And with a bit of luck she might forgive me for leaving her standing there kissing the moon. I make good progress and soon leave the tourists, the shouting and the yobbos far behind. At this time in the afternoon the forest is as quiet as a tomb. I relive a thousand times the feel of her lips on my cheek and the warm glow that flowed through my body. I imagine what a proper kiss would have been like.

  I’ve been going for about half an hour when I see something move just off the track. A movement like the fluttering of an eyelid, something small. It’s a little blue wren and it’s badly hurt. A hawk or something must have injured it. One wing looks broken. I think it might be dying. I take off my gloves and gently pick up the injured bird. I can feel its h
eart beating weakly. Its head is bent to one side, eyes staring rigidly ahead, resigned to its fate. There’s nothing I can do for this tiny creature except …

  Oh, help, not that. I can’t do it. I can’t do the unspeakable. But I can’t abandon the poor thing either. I try to talk myself out of what must be done. Animals die every day, thousands of them – millions. Hawks eat smaller birds. Small birds eat live worms. It’s the way of nature. But I’m not a dumb animal. I can’t just leave the wren to a slow death and walk off with a clear conscience. I have to kill it. I can’t bring myself to do it, though. I just can’t. But I must.

  Near by is a puddle. Its frozen skin has started to melt. I slide quickly to the icy water and lower the wren below the surface. Cold needles sting my fingers but through the pain I feel the heart of the little bird pump twice and then stop. I hold the fragile body in the freezing water until I can’t stand it any longer, then I gently place the wet and lifeless remains of the bird inside a nearby hollow log, put my gloves back on and continue on my numb journey, wishing that Charlie had been with me to share the decision.

  After a couple more hours skiing I still haven’t found her and I think she must have gone home. I reach the summit and head down towards the boarded-up shaft known as Jacob’s Mine. The slope is bare of all vegetation until the trail descends into the forest again and passes Deep Lake and the turn-off to Logan’s Refuge – an emergency storm shelter.

  When I reach the refuge I brush the snow off a boulder and sit down to eat the chocolates and bananas I’ve brought with me. I’ll need the energy to get back home. It’s incredibly peaceful here looking through the snow gums to the valleys below and the endless ridges of mountains. The stillness calms my mind but I can’t stay because the afternoon is beginning to fade. I ski back up to the summit and am soon on the narrow track through the forest.

  The bent trees submit to the weight of soft snow. What secrets do these white coats cover? My mind begins to wander and by now I’m totally absorbed in these thoughts as I ski back down the trail. That’s why I take a few seconds to recognise the figure in the red parka. Oh my god, it’s her. There she is, sitting on a log that’s vaguely familiar. She’s as calm as someone waiting for a bus. My heart starts to pound and I can hardly breathe. It’s as if my skis are frozen to the ground. I feel like, I don’t know … like if I move I’ll disturb the molecules that are holding her together.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. She isn’t smiling. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  I don’t know what to say. The words I find so easily when I write a story dry up the moment a girl comes near me.

  She looks at me for a while as if to say ‘So?’.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I croak.

  ‘I’ve been losing myself in the forest.’ She thinks about this and then corrects herself. ‘Finding myself, maybe. What are you doing?’

  I glance up at the sky. ‘Just cruising.’ I give a nervous laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’ she says.

  ‘My father always says that a liar glances up before he speaks. I wasn’t cruising. I came here looking for you.’

  She sweeps a sprinkling of snow from the log which I realise with a shock is the one where I’d put the body of the dead bird.

  ‘You can sit down if you want,’ she says.

  I ski over and awkwardly sit down down next to her. Our bodies are squashed together with our legs touching but neither of us wriggles apart. This is a good sign and suddenly I feel emboldened. I remove my gloves then take her hand. I’ve never felt anything as soft and lovely as her skin. It’s like being touched by a cloud. Shivers run up my arm and make the hairs prickle. I reach into my pocket, take out the five hundred dollars and place it in her palm.

  ‘For you,’ I say.

  She holds the notes and stares at them. What’s she thinking now?

  ‘For the Somali children,’ she finally says with just the hint of a smile.

  ‘For them as well,’ I say.

  She doesn’t speak. I feel like a person in a dream who is walking down the street naked. She seems to see right into me. Finally she says, ‘The children are coming on the fifteenth.’

  ‘My birthday,’ I say.

  ‘They’re the ones who are getting the present,’ she says. ‘It’s incredibly kind of you, Robin, and the kids will all have a wonderful holiday. If the money was just for me, I couldn’t accept it. Thank you so much.’

  ‘No worries,’ I say.

  But I do have worries. I’m elated that I’ve pleased her. I’m happy the Somali kids will get their trip. But if I examine my motives, I know that it wasn’t totally idealism that led me to donate so much money. Would I have put my hand up for any other girl? Of course not – I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else. So does this make the whole deed nothing but selfish?

  ‘I can’t believe that stingy mob at school,’ she says. ‘The teachers were good but hardly anyone else contributed.’

  I wonder if I can kiss her now. ‘I’m sorry for running off that night,’ I say. ‘I was an idiot.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You must have had your reasons.’

  ‘I did. The balaclava had my father’s spit on it.’

  ‘Oh, yuck! But why did that make you run? I thought you hated me when you disappeared like that.’

  ‘Hated you? No way. Just the opposite.’

  ‘So, why did you run off?’

  I don’t know if I can tell her. This is big. ‘I got an image.’

  ‘What do you mean you got an image? What sort of image?’

  ‘A picture in my head.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a flashing photo of something real happening. Or a cork popping. Horrible. The worst thing.’

  ‘I don’t get it. A popping cork’s fun.’

  ‘No, it’s awful. I see myself doing something terrible and then I freak out because it’s the opposite of what I would ever want to do. It’s nearly always something to do with my father.’

  ‘But isn’t that normal?’

  ‘No – it’s too terrible to …’ I hesitate. This is getting dangerous. I don’t want to tell her about this.

  I’m saved when something moves on the ground near Charlie’s feet. It flutters.

  The blood runs backwards in my veins. The world spins in reverse. It’s the blue wren. Its wings flap. The poor thing’s still suffering. It didn’t die when I put it in the icy water. It’s been in agony all this time. Oh no, I can’t believe it. I have to end its pain. Quick.

  I drop to the ground, take hold of the tiny creature and close my eyes. There’s a click as I twist the bird’s neck.

  Charlie gapes at me in shock and leaps up from the log. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouts. ‘Killing a poor little bird.’ Her face is contorted into a horrified stare.

  Black nightmares dance inside my head. I search for words to explain. ‘It’s not what you think,’ I gasp, looking up at her desperately.

  ‘Don’t talk to me,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to know what you think.’ She picks up her skis and runs down the darkening track like a wounded deer lifting its feet high as it struggles through the snow.

  ‘Come back,’ I call.

  She plunges on and disappears into the trees, not giving me a chance to explain. She hung the death of the bird around my neck, leaving me standing there hopelessly calling for her to come back.

  I’m left alone in the cold forest with my thoughts.

  After the weekend it’s back to school. I try to talk to Charlie on the bus but she’s listening to her ipod and ignores me. I notice Verushka watching me and realise that she’s seen it all. I’m expecting her to smirk but instead she smiles in a friendly way which is unusual for her. It washes away just a tiny bit of my gloom.

  I go searching for Charlie in the lunchbreak but she spends the whole time hanging around with a group of girls. She wears her friends like armour and there’s no way I can get near her for a private conversation. On the bus she sits right up the
front with Laura and Janie where she knows she’ll be safe. Halfway up the mountain I kick myself for not texting her while we were still in range. I don’t want to ring her landline because her parents might listen.

  All that week it’s the same and I come to the conclusion that I’ll be in trouble for harassment if I persist; they’re big on that sort of thing at Bright Dale School. She’s not even giving me a chance to explain so I make one last attempt and send her a short email saying: Can I talk to you?

  Her reply comes straight back: I’m not opening your emails. Please leave me alone. I’d give your rotten money back if I could but it’s already gone to the organisers.

  I feel angry but try to put myself in her situation. I’ll have to leave her alone after this but on Friday, after Dad’s gone to bed, I send a final email. In the subject bar I write: Please read this, Charlie.

  The email is the hardest thing I’ve ever written. I go over and over it deleting words and adding phrases, explaining how I’d tried to be merciful to the little bird and how hard it was for me to end its agony by breaking its neck. I read over the email one last time and then hesitate with the cursor hovering over the send button. Is my message good enough? No, it will never be good enough but it’s the best I can do. I click the mouse and the message is gone.

  I throw myself on the bed and stare out of the window. Five minutes later I jump at the ding of a message arriving in my Inbox. I dart over to the computer and read Charlie’s reply: Leave me alone. I’m deleting your messages without opening them.

  So that’s that. For the next month I avoid anywhere I know Charlie might be hanging out. She’s doing the same. I tell myself that she’s not worth worrying about but that’s a joke because I can’t stop thinking about her. Gradually I start to wonder why I’m being so stubborn.

  By the time my birthday arrives I’m feeling hopeful. The Somali children will be on the slopes and Charlie will be with them for sure. I’ll go and look for her; after all they wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my donation. Maybe something good will happen.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ says Dad at breakfast as he hands me his gift. I can see right away what it is because he hasn’t wrapped it. ‘Wrapping paper is a waste of money,’ he says. ‘In ten seconds it’s ripped and useless.’