Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  ‘Don’t make fun of your mother,’ I say.

  His mum gives my shoulder a squeeze, and hands me a steamer with pork buns inside. ‘You keep him in line, Kirby. Tell him to stay out of people’s properties.’

  Clancy calls something after her in Cantonese as she leaves for the kitchen. He shakes his head. ‘She still thinks I’m behind the crop circles. It’s ridiculous.’

  I nod agreement. He has, however, set a precedent for strange behaviour. I’m not even sure I believe him.

  ‘You know that little stone she’s got on her keychain for good luck?’ he says. ‘She’s worn it right down. And she’s been going mad with the rosary beads. I think she might be genuinely anxious.’

  ‘Did your parents ever give you the sex talk?’ I ask, after I’ve downed the first pork bun in two mouthfuls.

  He has gone back to typing his assignment. ‘Hang on, I’ll finish this sentence…Yeah, Mum did, and she gave me this picture book from the seventies, Where Did I Come From? I was even more confused after I read it. I think Mum got given it when she was a kid. It’s like a family heirloom at this stage. Why?’

  I lean on the counter. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I ever got a sex talk. I think you told me everything, as far as I can remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a corrupting influence.’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s not that. It’s like, no one ever tells you how to negotiate relationships. Any kind. But romantic ones, you’ve got to work it out all on your own. Do you have to get rejected to know whether anyone likes you?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about rejection.’ He does an exaggerated wink.

  ‘That just sounds off. Do you get what I’m saying?’

  ‘Absolutely. If my mum had given me a book that taught me all about it, I would never have declared my love for Jennifer Logan when we were fourteen. It would have saved me a great deal of humiliation.’

  ‘Are you ever going to let Iris know you’re keen?’ I don’t want Clancy to ask Iris out and then watch at close range as the two of them enjoy a montage of romantic moments. What I want is a resolution: if Iris and Clancy become a couple, then I’ll know it’s time to stop hoping. I have yet to determine how I will deal with an alternative scenario.

  ‘Of course,’ says Clancy. ‘But the timing has to be perfect. If I ask too early, she might not yet appreciate my irresistible boyish charm.’

  ‘If you ask too late, she might get to the point where everything that appealed to her about you has become incredibly annoying.’

  ‘What’s your take on her then?’ he asks. ‘Does she like me?’

  ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

  Clancy sighs. It seems as if there will never be a good time to tell him I like Iris too.

  ‘You’re not afraid of her rejecting you, are you?’ I try not to sound surprised. Clancy is blindly confident about everything.

  ‘No! Of course not! I fear nothing! Other than spending my entire life in this town. And crocodiles. They’re quite stealthy.’

  ‘Iris isn’t a crocodile, Clancy.’

  ‘It’s not fear of rejection. I’m too busy at the moment. Maybe at your cousin’s engagement party, when the atmosphere is just right. Asking her out is significant. The wrong moment, and the whole storyline’s ruined. Plus, I need to work out the right way to do it. Should I incorporate a dance routine?’

  ‘No,’ I answer.

  ‘That was rhetorical. I’ll know when it’s the right time.’

  ‘That’s fine. Chuck us a fortune cookie, would you?’ I rip the Velcro and fish some change out of my wallet.

  He throws one over. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Ta.’ I crack it. It’s the most satisfying part. ‘You will meet a stranger.’

  ‘I think we need to change our supplier. That’s rubbish. You only ever meet strangers.’ He glances out the front of the restaurant. ‘You still avoiding Nick from the IGA?’

  ‘It’s not avoiding. I’ve just found myself only going there when Mr Gregson’s in. And buying the paper from the newsagent, which I should do, because the Downs need our support. Print media is dying and newsagents will probably die along with it.’

  Clancy isn’t listening. The bell above the door dings as Nick walks in. He smiles at us. Winnie brings out his plastic bag of takeaway.

  ‘How’s the play going?’ he asks.

  Clancy closes his laptop, and takes Nick’s cash. ‘Very well, thank you. My directorial debut will be a show to remember.’

  Nick nods. ‘Great. Looking forward to it. I’ve never been a lighting technician.’

  ‘We appreciate the help,’ I manage. Clancy gives him his change. Nick turns to go.

  Clancy lowers his voice to a stage whisper. ‘Do you need to have a word?’

  My whisper is normal. ‘What about? Didn’t we just have a word then?’

  ‘About your mum.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What are his intentions? Is he a good bloke? I mean, he’s never been married or had children.’

  ‘Everyone has to get married and have children, or else they’re strange, is that what you’re saying? Jesus, Clance, I didn’t think you’d be the type to try to impose antiquated social norms on people.’

  ‘Why are you avoiding him, then?’

  ‘It’s just…awkward. Look, he’s gone. ‘Missed the opportunity, haven’t we? Next time.’

  But Clancy is up and across the restaurant. Once he’s on the footpath, banging on the window for me to follow, I realise I have no choice. Clancy needs a dramatic confrontation. I must deliver.

  By the time we catch him, Nick is at his truck, the door ajar. Clancy stands at my shoulder and crosses his arms. I don’t look to see his expression but I trust it is reliably melodramatic.

  ‘Mr…Nick.’ I point, to indicate the seriousness of the situation. ‘Ah…if you treat my mother in an untoward manner at any time, I will…’

  Clancy nods, urging me on.

  I wouldn’t actually do anything violent or illegal. I’d probably just be very upset and maybe boycott the IGA. But that’s not much of a deterrent. I visualise scenes from films and novels.

  ‘Break your kneecap.’ I mime the action of swinging a hammer. I hope he doesn’t think I’d actually do that. But I’m not saying it with much conviction. ‘You’ll…sleep with the fishes.’

  ‘Concrete boots,’ says Clancy. ‘She knows a builder and everything.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say.

  ‘We can very easily procure concreting equipment and chuck you in the river,’ says Clancy. ‘It’s deep enough. And there are eels. Eels that will eat your face.’

  ‘Bit far, Clance,’ I mumble.

  Nick nods, as if this is not an absurd conversation. He looks at me. ‘I understand. I would never hurt your mum. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I’ve known you two since you were born. I assure you I’m a person of integrity, and if you for any reason feel otherwise, you can call me out on that.’

  ‘We should make him pinky-swear,’ whispers Clancy. I ignore him.

  ‘We can get everyone together for a meal, if that would help,’ Nick suggests. ‘My mum, and Cyril, and Clancy, if he wants to come along, too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But not yet.’

  ‘Too awkward,’ says Clancy. He is just making this conversation more awkward.

  ‘You can rest easy,’ says Nick. ‘I give you my word I will behave in a gentlemanly manner. Besides, your mum would let me know if I was out of line. Not that I would be. But you know her.’

  ‘Can you not tell my mum that I said this?’ Largely because it’s all very stupid. Also because she can look out for herself much better than I can look out for her. Or anyone.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Even if she did find out… She would be glad you’re so formidably in her corner.’ He holds up the takeaway in his hands. ‘Now, do you mind if I head home? Don’t want dinner for my mum getting cold. Let me know if you need m
ore help with your show, all right?’

  I nod. I fix a serious look on my face. Once Nick has driven away, I turn to Clancy. ‘Nick is pretty lame, isn’t he? And you’re a terrible influence.’

  ‘Not my fault you’re easily led.’ He grins. ‘I reckon he’s all right. He’s so your mum’s type. But why is he having dinner with his mum, instead of your mum, hmm?’

  ‘My mum doesn’t have a type,’ I say. ‘I think it’s better if you don’t talk about my mum at all.’

  ‘Hey, my mum’s gonna crack it if I don’t head back. Don’t forget about the dress rehearsal! Tomorrow! You’re a star!’

  I untie Stanley from his post and head towards home. When I reach the Worthingtons’ property—they grow some sort of wheat, or rye, I forget—I catch a glimpse of movement in the field behind their house. It’s dark, and I only get a sense of a figure in my peripheral vision. It’s like in a horror movie, when the character is not sure whether it’s an odd shape or a serial killer, and the next thing you know they’ve been hacked to pieces with an axe.

  If there is someone on their property—the person I saw is not stout enough to be either of the Worthingtons, but I don’t know their employees (or if those employees would be out in the fields at night)—that person is probably far enough away that they could not gruesomely murder me without my having enough warning to get away.

  So I head closer. Because clearly I have no sense of self-preservation. Stanley and I sneak along the property line. Sneak is perhaps not the right word. I stumble along in the darkness, until I draw level with where I think I saw a figure.

  When I stop, I can hear a crunching noise, metres away, and see the stalks of…whatever crop it is (I’m not good with crops) being pushed down.

  I head to where the sound is coming from, totally ignoring the dangerous creatures no doubt hiding in the crop.

  ‘Hi!’ says Iris. Mid-step, holding a length of rope attached to a board, she’s dressed all in black, like a burglar. Or Catwoman.

  I laugh. It’s the sort of laugh that makes my stomach hurt. Stanley looks at me as if he is concerned for my welfare. Every time I think I have stopped laughing, I start laughing again. The more I try to regain my composure, the funnier it becomes. I laugh so hard I start to cry.

  ‘Shh,’ says Iris. ‘I’ll get caught.’ But it’s halfhearted; she is laughing, too.

  I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie. ‘So, I guess you’re the alien,’ I say, finally.

  ‘Disappointingly terrestrial, aren’t I?’

  I nod, surveying the two and a half interlinked circles already pressed into the crop, all perfectly symmetrical. ‘I really should have guessed. The aliens arriving around the same time you did was a pretty incredible coincidence. I’m no Nancy Drew.’

  ‘You had no suspicions at all?’

  ‘No. Total surprise. Hence my five minutes of laughter.’ I yank at Stanley’s lead, to stop him chewing on the stalks. They can’t be appetising. ‘I saw you from the road. I was worried you were some sort of evil animated scarecrow that would kill the townsfolk.’

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ she says. ‘Wait, let me show you something.’ She drops the board and hands me a print-out. She takes a little torch out of her pocket and shines it so I can see. ‘Here’s what it’ll look like when it’s finished.’

  It’s an intricate pattern. She’s improved since she made the crop circle at the Jamesons’. ‘Wow.’ I want to laugh again, at the bizarreness of finding Iris making crop circles, but I manage to resist the urge.

  She grins, which I only see for a split-second before she switches off the torch. ‘I did it on the computer. It’s super-easy. The hard part is this. It takes so long and the night is short and I didn’t want anyone catching me, because it’s no fun once everyone finds out the truth.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone,’ I say. ‘Everyone knows it’s a hoax anyway.’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ve only been doing one every week or so but it’s messing up my sleep patterns, so maybe it is time for the aliens to move on. I’ll finish this one, though. Can’t have it half done. Can we talk while I…crop-circle?’

  I nod again, and she goes back to flattening the crop, ensuring that it’s all symmetrical. She has erected little posts with string between them to mark out distances. It’s very sophisticated for an activity with no obvious purpose. Even Stanley is impressed. He just sits and watches.

  ‘Why aliens?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s harder to fake a zombie visitation,’ she says.

  I laugh again.

  ‘Shh,’ she says, but I can tell she’s smiling, too. ‘When I was a kid I never felt like I fitted in. At all, like I didn’t belong on this planet. My parents are nice, but when I was young I felt like they couldn’t understand me. No one could. So I imagined I was like Superman, you know. Except my alien parents weren’t dead and their planet wasn’t destroyed. There was just some sort of technical difficulty. One day they’d work it out and come back for me and I’d go to the planet where I belonged, where I understood how the world worked, and where people accepted me. That’s weird, I know.’

  ‘I don’t think it is,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t believe that now, obviously. I still believe in aliens, a bit. Like, it seems improbable that we are the only life form in the universe that is intelligent. I’m using that word loosely. But I don’t think a spaceship is going to come down and rescue me from my life.’ She finishes the next circle, then looks up at me. ‘And I like the night and I like the unexplainable and I thought a hoax would be a bit of fun. I was hoping for more publicity, but I guess any kid with a bit of wood and a rope can create a crop circle, so no one was fooled.’

  ‘It livened the gossip up a bit, at least,’ I say.

  A light flicks on at the house, so I can just make out her smile.

  ‘Get. Off. The. Property,’ a voice booms.

  I can just Mrs Worthington on her back veranda. She appears to have a shotgun pointed towards us. Even though I know plenty of people with guns around here—for shooting foxes on their properties—no one has ever pointed one at me. I’m fairly sure she can’t tell it is me, but still.

  ‘I think we should go,’ whispers Iris, shuffling towards me, towards the property line. There is a loud noise and the sound of air moving. I think Mrs Worthington just shot at us. Already I want to tell everyone that she shot at me, but I can’t because then Mrs Worthington will know it was me in her field. This is horrible.

  ‘Run, run,’ whispers Iris. And then we are running, me dragging Stanley, who is always an inconvenience, but the idea of cutting him loose now so I can make a quick getaway seems a bit heartless. We stumble over fences, fortunately avoiding any that are electrified. Iris runs faster than I do but she slows for me to catch up. Eventually we run onto the road.

  Once we’re a safe distance along, we stop. Iris collapses on the verge. I have to bend over, hands on knees, to catch my breath. Stanley seems unaffected by our run.

  Iris laughs. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. I can’t believe she shot at us!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was the one talking to you. Can you retire the aliens, please?’ I gasp, sitting beside her.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I realise that I’m alone with Iris, in the dark, and no one knows we’re here. Even dressed like a burglar, mostly in shadow and with her hair a mess, she’s beautiful. I watch her chest rise and fall. I could easily reach over and touch her hand.

  Stanley nudges me in the shoulder with his head. I snap out of it and stand up, suddenly nervous. ‘I better get home.’

  Iris gets up, dusts the grass off, and hugs me before I get a chance to step away. She holds me for longer than is necessary and her hair smells like grass and vanilla and the night. ‘Just avoid old ladies with guns, okay?’ she whispers.

  When I get in, Hot August Night is on, that first part of ‘Crunchy Granola Suite’. The build-up. Grandad loves Neil
Diamond, and Mum loves Neil Diamond because Grandad loves Neil Diamond. It’s a Neil Diamond love-fest at our house. Personally, I have to be in the right mood to enjoy Neil Diamond. Out of all of Grandad’s old records, I like Simon and Garfunkel most.

  Mum is in the living room with a glass of red wine, something I haven’t seen in years, and she’s almost-but-not-quite dancing. I have never seen Mum actually dance. She is not a dancer. I haven’t brought Stanley inside but I could probably get away with it tonight. God, I’m a rebel.

  Maude is asleep on the couch next to Grandad, who gets up from his spot. It takes a while, swinging back and forth, because he can’t bend his bad knee. He hobbles off, without noticing me. I think he needs new glasses.

  Mum half-smiles when she sees me. ‘He doesn’t recognise it as his favourite album anymore, isn’t that strange? What makes us who we are, Kirby? You lose your mind, what have you got left?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She’s clearly drunk if she’s philosophising at me.

  ‘Do you want a wine?’ she asks.

  She has never offered me alcohol before. We’re not French or Italian, just boring old white Australian. ‘Um, no thanks, Mum.’ I don’t leave, though. Just hover.

  ‘How are things?’ She is glassy-eyed. She sinks into the couch, deflated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Confusing.’

  Grandad’s yelling. ‘Jess! Jess!’

  Mum gets up again. ‘He’s in the bathroom. I told him not to go yet. Of course, he’s forgotten.’

  ‘Why can’t he go in the bathroom?’ I ask.

  Mum seems embarrassed. ‘There was a small, uh, bath bomb incident. Mishap. Testing the new formulation. Too much froth. The bubbles haven’t gone down. Looked like a room full of snow, last I checked. I’ll get you to help me clear it out.’

  I laugh. ‘Can I make a snow angel first?’

  The next night, I’m sitting up reading—big surprise there, halfway through Watership Down and practically crying for those poor rabbits—when I start hearing odd noises, like a scuttling in the walls. We’ve had possums in the roof before, so I dismiss it. I’ll tell Mum in the morning.