Walking Shadows

by Narrelle M. Harris

  The grinding of my teeth may not have been audible. Kate flashed me a hard look anyway. I considered rebelling, but letting Gary stay gave her licence to extend my vow of compliance without complaint.

  "Yeah," I said, unconvincing even to myself, "That would be nice."

  Dad's pleasure at this announcement was palpable, though it didn't stop him fiddling with his sugar sachet, folding the empty tube end over end. "Is Friday night good for everyone, then?"

  "Mm-hmm," I assented reluctantly.

  Kate closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them on Dad. "That's good for me, Dad. But you'll have to be sober."

  A defensive scowl came and went on Dad's face, then he nodded resignedly. "I know."

  "I don't want Anthony meeting you when you're drunk."

  "He might like me better that way," said Dad with a slight grin.

  "I don't care," Kate insisted, "If you're not sober we won't stay."

  Contrition, then. "I understand." Dad nodded resignedly at this tough love.

  Kate's expression had softened. "I want Anthony to have a chance to know you properly," she said, "like we do."

  Dad looked like he didn't know whether to be touched or appalled by that idea. "I'll be there, honey. Fit for public consumption."

  A little more small talk and Kate rose with: "See you on Friday, then. We can meet here and go on to the restaurant."

  Cheek-kisses all round, even from me. It felt weird. Kate and I stood a moment and watched Dad amble down the promenade towards the walk-bridge to Flinders Street Station.

  Something in Kate's planning struck me. "You didn't tell Dad where we live, did you?"

  "No," she said, "I want to know how serious he is first."

  "And avoid those wee-hours incidents when he comes around drunk and yelling and wakes up the neighbours."

  "That too." Typically, Kate was being the peacemaker, yet being practical about it too. She wasn't impulsive like me, and she was kinder. "You don't think I was too hard on him?" she asked abruptly.

  "No. I think you were just right."

  Kate squeezed my arm. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

  "No. Not too bad." And all because my sister doesn't give up on people. "Kate, I wanted to tell you. I met this guy yesterday in St Kilda. His name's Evan."

  Her eyes had an excited-for-you look. She knows me too well. "And?"

  "I don't know if there's an 'and' yet. I'm seeing him tomorrow after work."

  "Maybe we should go on a double date sometime," she suggested with the kind of enthusiasm that made it more of a command. Honestly, what is it with people in love that they think four of you going out will be so much more romantic and fun than just the two? "What's he like?"

  I tried to describe him without mentioning his age, the fact that we'd jumped into bed after a few hours acquaintance and the whole 'we share secret knowledge' subtext. I didn't want her to get all fusspot about it; or all gleefully encouraging, either, come to that. She pressed for detail though, and I found myself describing his eyes and his hands and then his back, and that was a bit of a giveaway about the sex part. She twinkled at me. Instead of blushing, I giggled.

  Kate pulled away as we turned for the homeward walk. "I just need the loo," she whispered furtively, the way Nanna Easton used to, as though bodily functions were a shameful secret. She darted back to the restaurant and I sauntered along the foreshore, watching boats and seagulls on the murky Yarra to pass the time.

  One of the booths selling tickets to mini cruises cast a dark shadow on the path, and I didn't register the figure leaning against the metal wall until I was almost upon him. Light as a cat, the figure moved away from the booth to block my path.

  "I have use for you," Mundy said.

  Instinctively, I flinched from him with a startled cry of protest, which petered out at the cold-fish look he gave me.

  "Well I've got no use for you at all," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. I had never seen Mundy without Gary nearby as a nominal body guard.

  "You do, if you want your mother to remain unharmed."

  "How the hell did you even know where to find me?" Mundy did not have my address, I was certain.

  "You are often in the city. All I need to do is wait."

  "You mean you've been hanging around the Esplanade on the off-chance I came by?"

  "I perceived you from the dome of the train station," Mundy said. I could see the verdigris-stained dome of Flinders Street station across the river. That made more sense. The bastard had probably spotted us having awkward coffee with my Dad.

  Having a stalker is supposed to make you scared, and it did, but fear was jostling with being intensely pissed off. I had trouble getting Mundy's patent danger and his patent pathos to coexist.

  "What's this about my mother?" I demanded, deciding that attack was better than defence.

  "I am in a position to reveal the particulars of her abode to those who would harm her," said Mundy slyly. "Unless you offer your co-operation."

  "You made it very clear earlier that I wasn't needed."

  "Magdalene believes this. She is deceived if she puts her faith in Mr Smith."

  "And I care, why?"

  "You will make your own enquiries, with Hooper to aid you. And you will keep me informed of your progress."

  Mundy had set Gary on the detective path last year, when a vampire was killing indiscriminately around Melbourne. The sound of things clicking into place was nearly audible. Magdalene, responsible for most of that awful fiasco, was shutting Mundy out, again. Whatever rivalry had existed between them back then had intensified, and Mundy's prestige had diminished since he had been attacked. I noticed that he kept the damaged arm pressed to his side, hiding his new disability.

  "I don't really care to be your mole, Mundy," I said with only a tiny quiver in my voice.

  "Prepare, then, for the hunters to learn of your mother's home."

  "She's not my mother any more. My mother died. And you can go to hell."

  Mundy's left hand whipped out, faster than I could react, and seized me by the wrist. His blunt, dirty nails pressed into my skin, drawing blood. Teeth clenched on a gasp of pain, I wrapped my free hand around his wrist too, and returned the grip. My nails hardly dented his pale, tough skin.

  "You will show me respect," growled Mundy.

  "Let me go!" The look on his face indicated he had no intention of releasing me - and perhaps every intention of taking another bite of me, right here in public.

  Kate couldn't come back and see this. Writhing vigorously away from his grip had absolutely no effect.

  Terrified and furious - and for want of any weapons or better ideas - I lunged and sank my teeth into Mundy's lower arm, hard.

  He was a tough old monster. If I ever try to eat a gumboot, I imagine that is what it will be like. Mundy flinched, surprised, and I followed his movement, aiming to throw him off balance. The manoeuvre succeeded sufficiently to push him a step or two out of the shadows and into the light. Knowing it was no time to be delicate, I clamped my jaws hard together. The adrenalin rush must have helped: I actually managed to break skin.

  And it was obscene.

  Mundy tasted weird for a start, though that was nothing compared to the crawling sensation of his blood sliding across my teeth and mouth. Not flowing: exploring. I wanted to spit him out, but Mundy still had hold of me. It took a huge effort of will, to ignore the fluid that was making a tentative investigation of the tip of my tongue. Instead, I bit harder into tepid, rubbery flesh.

  I gagged, but it made Mundy let go. I spat out flesh and creepy blood with an inelegant "Aaaagggh" of disgust. He rubbed his forearm and glared at me. I glared back, panting.

  "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded with an air of genuine perplexity.

  "Biting holes in you, you son of a bitch. See if it refuses to grow back, just like your hand."

  "You are an unholy nuisance," Mundy said, inspecting the ragged tear in his skin, which healed as we watch
ed.

  "That," I said around the evil taste, "is pretty much a pot and kettle situation."

  "You will report to me."

  "Like hell I will. And unless you piss off right now, it's going to be interesting to see Magdalene's reaction when I tell her you want me to be your spy."

  He started towards me again. Before he could act on the impulse to kill me in broad daylight, he stopped, motionless.

  Kate was saying: "Are you all right Lissa?" and I risked a glance at her worried expression as she first trotted, then ran towards me. When I looked back, Mundy had gone.

  "Who was that?" Kate demanded as she drew near.

  "Just some junkie," I said, trying to sound calm and in control. My heart was still pounding. My mouth felt crawly and disgusting. Scraping my teeth against my tongue, trying to rid myself of the taste of him, was not proving useful.

  "Let's get home," I said. I have to gargle with disinfectant.

  "Shouldn't we report him?"

  "He was being a dick. I ticked him off and he went away. It's fine. Let's forget it and go home."

  "You're definitely okay? That guy was creepy."

  "Everything's fine, sis." I assured her, startled by her unexpected fragility. I rubbed my hand against her back.

  "Good," she said with a tentative smile. Arms linked, we resumed the walk home.

  "I was thinking about Mum before," she said suddenly, as we passed under the shadow of the Arts Centre.

  "Why?"

  "Dad being here. It made me remember. That's all. She doesn't know where we live, does she?"

  "Definitely not."

  "And even if she did," Kate continued, "she couldn't come in without an invitation, could she?"

  "No." The rider that 'she could if she wanted to' was neither comforting nor entirely accurate. If Mum was capable of wanting to rejoin humanity sufficiently to cross the threshold, the way Gary could, she wouldn't really be a threat anymore.

  "Good," said Kate.

  Later, after I'd spent thirty minutes brushing my tongue with half a tube of toothpaste, we had dinner. Then I brushed my whole mouth again, unable to get rid of the taste of Undead Bastard. Kate took the phone into her bedroom and called Anthony. I heard her laughing at one point, which I took as a sign she had stopped worrying.

  I logged into my laptop to find absolute silence from Gary. I sent him another email, telling him to reply to the first one, then packed up. I was exhausted mentally and physically, but sleep felt like something that only happened to other people.

  I pushed a particularly whimsical musical into the DVD player and watched variations of tap-dancing, singing about secrets and improbable happy endings until the wee hours, the whole time imagining it was me and Evan whirling across the screen in perfect sync.

  CHAPTER 15

  "You've got to stop living the dissolute life of a rock star, Lissa, or it's gonna kill you."

  My eyes flew open and I managed to focus on Beatrice. She pushed a cup of coffee at me across the table.

  "Slept badly," I mumbled before slurping down the plunger-made brew. No-one at the library can abide instant - it's against Melbourne's cultural manifesto.

  "I didn't actually think you'd spent the night snorting crack cocaine off naked groupies." Her piercing grey eyes under her short-cropped hair made Beatrice look forbidding, but I recognised her sense of humour at work.

  "I'll be right in two ticks," I assured her, "after the caffeine boost."

  She plonked the still half-full plunger in front of me. "Here, go crazy. You look like you need it." She pushed the sugar bowl at me as well, probably thinking that any energy boost would be a plus. "Anything I should know?"

  That's one of the many things I like about my boss. She's practical and she doesn't make a commotion.

  "Nightmares, is all," I told her, which was sort of true, except that in my life only some of my nightmares happened while I was sleeping. "It'll pass. They always do."

  "Jean swears by valerian root sleeping tablets," Beatrice offered, not quite disguising her scepticism. I declined the offer politely. Beatrice nodded. She knows I go through periods like this since last year's debacle. She's pretty flexible as long as I'm direct with her.

  The coffee succeeded in making me buzzy if not actually awake and I got through the morning routine efficiently enough. My brain had thankfully diverted most of the weekend's festival of horror into a 'done with, don't need it now' cul de sac, leaving me with only two real top-of-mind concerns. On the yippee end of the scale, after an early call to agree on a time and place in the city, I was going to see Evan this evening. Balancing that on the anxious dread side, I still hadn't heard from Gary.

  At lunchtime, another email was on its way to him from the communal computer. By closing there had been no reply. Obviously I was going to have to get him a mobile phone. I'd read there were massively simplified ones available for the elderly, minus all the games and texting options with great big buttons for the visually impaired. Gary could probably get the hang of that with a little training and some written instructions.

  At closing time, I turned my phone back on and it beeped stridently with messages. Beatrice gave me a mildly disapproving look - she's the one who makes us turn off our phones while we're at work and views texting as Satan's pastime - but I was in too much of a rush to listen to them to care. Maybe Gary had found a payphone.

  He hadn't. Instead, Evan had called twice since lunch and finally left a regretful message saying something had come up and could he meet me at nine instead of straight after work? Double disappointment, then. I texted to confirm the change. I tried not to think of it as Evan finding a way to gently edge out and that he'd message me closer to nine to beg off altogether.

  Accentuating the positive, the postponement at least gave me time to allay my fears in other directions.

  It took forever to get to Gary's place, first tramming it to town and switching to a train. By the time I got to Glen Waverley station I was so fidgety I took a taxi. I couldn't bear to wait for a bus.

  Once there, I paused on the footpath, peering at the house for any sign of activity. Gary lived in the 1950s brick house he had inherited from his parents. The front yard was a neat, ugly expanse of green-painted concrete. Its stark appearance was not softened by the presence of a sickly gum tree drooping to one side. No clues there. I hitched my bag up on my shoulder, walked to the front door and faltered when I saw that it was a few centimetres ajar. I pushed it gingerly and it swung open. Nothing moved inside.

  "Gary?"

  No reply. I stepped into the hallway and poised, listening. Nothing.

  The interior was gloomy. The décor hadn't been updated since the brown-and-orange phase of the seventies and most of the windows were hidden behind dark curtains and bookshelves. To my right was the living room, with its old cathode ray television and ancient sofa. The TV was off.

  On the left was a spare room full of boxes containing his late parents' belongings. I opened the door to find that unchanged and moved onto the next door on the left. I called his name again. The silence was making me feel ill.

  At the entrance of Gary's own room, I hesitated. No-one was there, dead, alive or in between.

  Gary's room fascinated me. Of all the rooms in his house, this revealed the most about him. He kept all kinds of private things in it. Old toys. School reports. Family photographs. I had succumbed to the lure of his past once, to my shame. Now, I surveyed it from the doorway.

  The rest of the room was exactly as it normally was. He didn't own a bed, but he had a large, cosy armchair stationed near the only uncovered window in the house. It looked onto his back yard, as bare as the front. The view through the gauzy curtains took in a jacaranda tree, well past its last blooming this late in summer. The table beside it bore his latest library selection, the usual eclectic mix of science fiction, science fact, horror and classic fiction. I was surprised to see Jane Eyre there. I was still more surprised to catch a glimpse of a book about the hi
story of MGM musicals at the bottom of the pile.

  On the wall opposite the window were several posters. Two predated his 1967 transformation - an M.C. Escher print and a movie poster of Raquel Welch in a fur bikini. A third was from two years after he turned - a newspaper spread of the 1969 moon landing. He'd abandoned his hopes of becoming an engineer by then.

  None of this was helping. I walked further down the hall, past the empty bathroom to his equally untouched office, where he housed his vast collection of vampirana, then right through to the bookshelf-lined kitchen. The back door was closed, as usual. The kitchen table was in its customary state of disarray, covered with science manuals, notepads and sketches Gary had made, the floor strewn with scrunched up paper discards of whatever wasn't working for him.

  Through the archway, I could see the dining room table had been swept clear of the aeroplane and spaceship models he often worked on. Instead, the surface was occupied by a pile of photo albums, some open.

  Mouth dry, I crossed the kitchen to stand in front of the albums. They were stacked haphazardly, like he'd been interrupted in the middle of going through them. It felt like a suburban Marie Celeste.

  A final glance around provided no further clues. He was just…gone.

  He's gone to the shops for stuff. Not milk. The paper. Or. Stuff. He just forgot to lock up. He'll be back soon.

  I looked at the albums, focusing on them rather than the dread.

  Another world lived in those photographs. A world in which parents, Christmas, family holidays and birthday parties existed for Gary. The early history of a shy, dorky kid and his uncool, doting folks. The stiff family portrait I had found in his room once had failed to capture the three of them as they were here. I thought his mother had looked boring and suburban. In these photos she was someone else, laughing with her small son in a backyard paddle pool; dressed up in a close-fitting cheongsam dress, that little boy clinging to her hand.

  Pushing the albums around tentatively, I looked for his father.

  There. The two of them, sitting at a kitchen table that was even then covered in books, studiously bent over the construction of an old radio set. The young Gary was leaning across a big book of instructions, glancing solemnly at the camera while his father peered at a valve he held between his fingers.