‘You don’t have a key?’
‘Not anymore.’ I’d left them on my dresser the day I moved in with Trudy—not because I’d been asked to but because somehow I knew it was expected.
‘Your mum has been coming to see mine at the hospital,’ he said. ‘It’s nice of her. She brings magazines and they chat. Well, your mum does most of the talking.’
‘What do they talk about?’ I asked bitterly.
‘I don’t know. It’s like a shift change—she comes in and I clock off. Look, do you want to wait inside?’ He gestured towards his place. ‘It’s starting to rain.’
I hadn’t been inside that house for a long time either. Not since I was about ten. Ma made me go along to a Tupperware party with her—Jeremiah stayed in his room all night, and I ate so much kabana and cheese I went home with a stomach-ache.
‘Don’t be shocked,’ Jeremiah warned. He unlocked the front door and held it open.
All along the entrance walls—and in the lounge room, the kitchen, the dining room as well—there were shelves, many of them crooked. I had the unnerving sensation of being in a funhouse. And on those shelves were eggs, hundreds of eggs, all carved and decorated.
‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘Is it her hobby?’
Meredith Jolley had lived down the street and worked in the butcher shop for as long as I could remember. She rarely smiled. I always noticed her fingernails, raw, pink and witchy, packed with meat, like she’d gouged somebody’s face. But the butcher had closed, and now I knew what she’d been doing for the last couple of years.
‘This…’ Jeremiah jabbed his finger at one of the eggs, ‘…is what probably landed her in the psych ward.’
‘What do you mean? They’re just eggs.’ I picked one up. It was large, grey-blue and gilded with gold leaf, a miniature royal family inside. ‘They’re pretty.’
‘I don’t know. This is all she does. Since she lost her job it’s easier for her to focus on intricacies than it is to face the big, ugly world, I guess.’ He took the egg from me and placed it back on its stand. ‘It’s how she handles disappointment. You know—single mother with an only child and unhealthy expectations.’
‘Not really.’ I thumbed my chest. ‘Two parents, psycho sister, zero expectations.’
I touched another one I liked—it was smaller, a duck egg, perhaps. It didn’t seem fragile with its thick coat of lacquer, but, as Jeremiah picked it up, there was a crack, like a can opening. His index finger punctured the bedroom ceiling of the Princess and the Pea, just above a stack of miniature mattresses that appeared to be made from sanitary pads.
He looked to me for a reaction and I looked at him, waiting to decide whether he thought this was comic or tragic. It was the funniest thing that had happened to me all day. I didn’t mean to laugh, but all I could think was that I’d done the same thing, twelve times, not an hour before.
Jeremiah made a noise, a cross between a choke and a sigh: he was laughing, too. The shattered shell was beyond repair. What he did next proved to me that I was probably evil and beyond hope myself: he sabotaged another three eggs by pressing his thumbnail into them, one by one, and placing them back into their stands.
‘Woah,’ I said. ‘Have you done that before?’
He shook his head but I wasn’t sure it was a denial. ‘I take my acts of petty rebellion where I can,’ he said. ‘Maybe that makes me mean, but otherwise I think my head would explode.’
‘How is she doing?’
‘She’ll be right to come home soon,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ll be heading off once she’s settled back in. The doctor says I should try not to upset her. I don’t even know what use I am here, apart from paying the bills and feeding her damned cats.’
‘If it makes you feel better, that’s all I do, too,’ I said. ‘I’ve been eating Astrid’s lunch for days. And I’ve just lost my job.’
‘You’ve said that before: if it helps, if it makes you feel better.’ He tilted his head. ‘Are you in the business of making people feel better?’
Was he making fun of me? As far as I could tell, he was serious.
‘I want to learn how to drive.’ It was out of my mouth before I knew it.
‘I’ll teach you,’ he said.
‘For real?’
‘I’m stuck in Mobius with a miniature car, housesitting four hundred eggs. What else am I going to do?’
‘Thanks. I think.’
Ma didn’t come home. Eventually the desire to see her wore off. Sitting in Meredith Jolley’s dustless lounge room, I thought of the last real conversation I’d had with Ma—one where I’d whined about the width of my backside, knowing full well hers was almost the same size and shape, hoping for some connection, even if all we could do was lament the size of our arses together. Ma was having none of it. She said that I’d go from chubby to lean to lush to chubby and, inevitably, I’d end up solid like her and Trudy. It was our lot, she said grimly, so I’d better get used to it and enjoy the lush part while it lasted. And all the time she’d flicked and jabbed her feather duster like it was a weapon.
I left Jeremiah’s house after two cups of coffee. We didn’t make plans. In a small town like Mobius, we didn’t need to.
That night the telephone was in Trudy’s room again. The cord was carefully and, I believed, deliberately concealed between the carpet and the skirting board. I heard her talking, but I couldn’t work out what she was saying. I spread out on my island-bed and waited for her to finish, plucking at a stray thread on the quilt cover, winding it around my finger until it turned blue. I leaned across and slid the window up, but it was airless and hot outside, too.
Maybe I slept. I must have. I stirred to the sensation of weight on my chest and when I tried to move, I couldn’t—the heaviness was my own arms crossed over my heart. My straitjacket was the sheet; the sound of loud breathing was only me. I untangled myself and smoothed the sweaty sheet over my legs. It was pleasantly cool.
For more than an hour I flipped into different positions and counted the seconds on the clock. Nothing changed—I was still wide awake and there were still precisely sixty seconds in a minute.
I gave up trying to sleep and took up my position at the window, settling my elbows in the grooves worn into the frame. It was a black, empty night. Familiar silhouettes became dangerous and strange. I missed the moon when I couldn’t see it.
A dark shape pulled itself from the shadows. I drew back. I called to Gypsy in a low voice and snapped my fingers but she couldn’t hear and didn’t come. The shape took a leap and landed gracefully on the deck railing. It picked its way along the beam and stopped in front of my window. It took me a moment to give it a name and by then I’d already attached the thing to my nightmares: Ringworm, more flesh now and less bone, bigger and more solid than that starving cat in the tall grass, but I still believed that if I reached out to touch him my hand would pass right through.
Ringworm yowled and hissed. I backed away. He spun to face my window, balancing all four paws on the thin railing as if he might dive through the mesh. The hole was bigger now, too. If he wanted, he could easily claw his way inside. I leaned forward and pressed my whole weight onto the window to bring it down. It creaked and jammed.
A few weeks before, I would have shot into Trudy’s room and taken her shouts in exchange for company. Instead, I battled the window until it inched down and closed completely. Ringworm held his ground. His yowling sounded like questions.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the sheet over my face. It was my fault. Trudy was right. I would have to stop feeding the damned thing.
At half past three the following afternoon I went up the steps to Alby’s flat, stealing around the back like a thief, to avoid the front windows of Bent Bowl Spoon.
Alby opened the door. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I replied.
I threw my bag on the couch. There was a twenty-dollar note on the ta
ble, which would cover the rest of the money I owed Mrs Gates for my bad hair. Mr Broadbent was in his armchair, seemingly asleep, except his chest was rising and falling too quickly.
‘You’re a good girl, Jack,’ Alby said, then left.
I paced in anticipation of crazy hour, tracking the minute hand on my watch. I closed the blinds and double-checked the locks. I made a delicate cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich and cut off the crusts.
It started with a single, tapping foot. I tried to distract him with loud classical music and food. I built Jenga towers and destroyed them myself when he paid no attention.
At twenty past four his hands started to flap. He got out of his chair and wandered in circles. All the deadbolts and closed blinds and crustless sandwiches in the world wouldn’t keep him inside.
Alby’s spare set of keys were hanging on a row of hooks near the fridge. I slipped them into my pocket, and took the half-empty whisky bottle and the twenty-dollar note.
I unlocked the door. Instead of slipping out and cowering on the doorstep, like every other time, I held out my hand to Mr Broadbent. ‘Here,’ I called. ‘Come.’
He hesitated, not meeting my eyes, shuffling from one foot to the other, like a freed circus elephant that still feels the phantom weight of its hobble.
‘Come,’ I said again, touching his shoulder.
I led him to the door. At the last minute he leaned back on his heels, like he was readying for a trick; it was only when he caught sight of the sky that his whole body relaxed and his eyes crinkled as if I’d pulled on a loose thread. It was a smile, or as close to it as he could summon without regular practice. He took a deep breath like he’d been underwater forever. I half-expected him to sprout wings from the bumps of his spine—pop, pop—as he tensed for flight.
‘Go!’ I shouted.
I flung the door open and he brushed past like the barest breeze, all skin and bone and ridiculous potbelly.
I followed him down the stairs, far enough behind that he had a good head start. The lightness in my chest expanded. Whatever had been in there, tick-ticking away, defused (well, a small piece of it), and I suddenly understood what Jeremiah had meant about petty rebellion. Given the chance, I’d slip my collar and leave it dangling, too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At first I thought Mr Broadbent just needed to feel the warmth on his face but, by the time I let him out, the sun had almost disappeared. At the far end of Main Street, the lights were already on. Astrid was locking up the roadhouse, her back turned, oblivious.
Mr Broadbent dashed across the street and set out on his usual route, sticking to the footpath. I was glad he was dressed and thankful that Main Street was deserted, apart from a straggler in Mrs Gates’s salon and the usual punters holed up in the pub. Mr Broadbent had a fair chance of completing his great escape without being tackled.
I trailed behind him, occasionally waving my arms and calling out, for the sake of appearance. He was quick, but not so quick that he’d be able to outrun me if I put some legs into it. I counted his steps and made mine match; at one hundred and fourteen I felt the first twinge of panic. And a stitch. The further from Alby’s flat we got, the further I’d have to coax him home with nothing but a bottle of whisky. Past Nicholson’s Mowers at number fifty-six and four empty shops in a row from seventy-two. By the time we flew by the ice-cream shop, I was all out of breath and rational thought.
At some point I understood that Mr Broadbent knew exactly where he was going. He couldn’t tie his own shoelaces or find his own mouth, but somewhere in his addled mind a compass still pointed true east. He settled into an easy lope, turning sharply onto Third Street. About five hundred metres up, the tarmac and footpath ended at the last, unoccupied, house on the street. Here, the road turned to gravel and wound up the hillside. The footpath petered out.
Mr Broadbent kept running.
What if he made it all the way out of town? What if he wouldn’t quit running, like those foxhounds that never gave up until their hearts stopped? And my next sickening thought: did old people, like old cats, go away to die?
I made a real effort to catch up. He heard me coming, skidding on stones, and put in his final sprint.
The road narrowed. I looked back. Below us, Mobius was lighting up, which made it seem darker where we were. The trees were dense and bowed, the road a tunnel to nowhere.
I caught Mr Broadbent’s elbow and gave it a tug. He gasped and wheezed and lunged ahead with me dangling like an anchor, until he gave in. His lungs just couldn’t keep up with his ambition anymore. His expression broke my heart. Even with the death rattle coming from his chest and the cloudy blue film over his eyes, he looked focused and desperate.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gabbled and burst into tears. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t die on me.’
He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head between them, heaving. We stood together, battling to breathe, and I realised that by the time we got back to the flat Alby might already be there. Somebody, somewhere, would have seen us. I would have some explaining to do. At least it was all downhill on the way home.
‘Come on,’ I said. I tried to turn him around, expecting resistance. ‘We’ll take it slowly.’ I wondered if I could carry him if I had to. Piggyback, maybe. There wasn’t much of him.
Mr Broadbent leaned into the warm breeze blowing in from the east. Drool strung from his chin. His body stiffened and he sniffed the air like a dog.
I wiped his chin with his collar and tucked his flapping shirt into his pyjama pants. ‘We have to go.’
He slapped my fussing hands away. One quaky finger raised and uncurled. He pointed to the tunnel of trees.
‘It’s getting dark.’ I tried again, taking his other hand in mine. ‘There’s nothing up there.’
He shook me off. Curiosity got the better of me. By now it was officially dusk—no matter what, I was screwed. I let go of his hand and he continued, high-stepping, his fingers splayed in front as if he was blindfolded, up the dirt road and towards the blackness.
A reddish moon was rising, not unusual for Mobius in summer. Our shadows stretched long and thin ahead. The insects’ chorus grew, changed beat and merged to become so loud my ears throbbed with it.
Despite the humidity, I shivered.
Near an overgrown trail, Mr Broadbent took a ninety-degree turn and pushed his way through branches, letting them whip back into my face. I followed, until we reached a high fence with a padlocked gate about the width of the two of us standing side by side. The padlock seemed to confuse him. He stared at it and whimpered.
I gave it a rattle. It was solid brass, quite new. ‘Locked,’ I said, wiping grease on my leg.
Mr Broadbent was motionless, staring into the distance. His wind-up mechanism had run out. We’d have to go back the way we’d come. As the moon rose I could make out an object through the trees: a rectangle of light, and darker, silvery shapes in rows.
The old drive-in.
‘We can’t get in,’ I said. ‘It’s been closed for years.’
I pressed my face against the fence. This wasn’t the main entrance, but it was a shorter route if you were coming from our side of town. The drive-in hadn’t been used in my lifetime, except as an unofficial dump or somewhere to hang out and lay rubber. Through the diamond-shaped wire, it looked miserable and abandoned: a peeling grey screen on stilts and the speaker-stands, an army of robots frozen in time. A couple of burnt-out cars without wheels and a stack of sad mattresses. As in other untended corners of Mobius, the forest was on the march, sending shoots through cracks in the asphalt, curling it up like damp paper.
Mr Broadbent was still frozen, but his eyes shone.
His hands began to move. He replayed the exact movements I’d seen at four-thirty in the flat, only this time he looked up every few seconds to focus on the drive-in screen. With the moon on the rise it had begun to glow, no longer that flat, dirty grey. I saw it then as it might have
been: white, majestic, supported by a cast of cords snaking through car windows, the tinny sounds of music, the smell of burgers and hot chips. I imagined a ghostly beam of light cutting the dark—starting small from a gap between bricks and spilling onto the screen.
I had to dangle the bottle in front of his nose to get him started, but he came easily enough once he snapped out of his trance. It took three times as long to get home as it did to get there. Mr Broadbent smiled the whole way.
Alby was sitting on the top step in the greenish glow of the verandah light. He paid no mind to the moths and flying ants swooping around his head.
‘What’s happened? Where have you been?’ he yelled. He hauled his father up the steps and patted him down, feeling his thin arms. ‘He’s soaked through.’
I stammered and apologised, over and over. Mr Broadbent was floppy with exhaustion. We were both dripping sweat.
‘We went for a walk,’ I said. ‘We got a bit lost.’
‘Lost? You’ve lived here your whole life! He knows every crack in this place. You can’t get lost in Mobius.’
‘It was dark. We wandered too far.’
Alby led his father inside and settled him in his chair. He kept checking over Mr Broadbent as if we might have left some part of him behind.
‘You scared the pants off me, Jack. This isn’t like you at all.’
I sighed. ‘I’ve had a shit week.’
Alby had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Thank you, Astrid. You should head home now.’
I looked up; Astrid was leaning in the doorway to the kitchenette like she belonged there, holding a lipstick-smeared mug in one hand.
‘Astrid was worried. She wouldn’t go home until we found you.’
‘I’ll bet.’
Alby went into the hallway. I heard him rummaging in the linen cupboard.
‘I like your hair,’ Astrid said.
‘Then why’d you laugh?’
‘It was a shock. You look so different.’
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