The wooden door frame is carved with notches to record our height. The boys’ notches stop at about six feet, but they kept on growing.
I stand with my back against the door frame and flatten my hand on top of my head. I’ve only grown about half an inch since I was last here a few years ago. About five-six. Nothing distinctive about five-six. I’m still short, aimless and ordinary.
The boys’ names have a good story. They’re named for an actor Mum was in love with, back in the eighties. My name is a tribute to some old woman who took Mum in when she had nowhere to live. She was pregnant with me and the boys were only about four and six when my Dad left. She knew he’d never stay, but she didn’t think he’d leave her with nothing. Nothing but an empty purse and a full belly.
I see the lipsticked heart, above the window. Mim loves Jordan. It’s years old, written in rounded, childish loops. Heat and time have made it crack and bleed.
I do cry now, when there’s nobody to see. Thick, sluggish tears that dry before they hit my chin. It seems silly to waste them on something that never really started.
When I’m done, I open the upstairs door and sit out on the bridge, swinging my legs over the tracks. They go for miles, east to west, tapering away to nothing. There are two ways out of here, but here I am. Still stuck.
‘Benny!’ I call through cupped hands.
‘Hey, bloke.’
I peer beneath the bridge. Benny calls everyone bloke, unless he can remember their name. He squats in the shade of the tower, his bare brown knees up around his ears, elbows folded between them like the fourth wise monkey.
I run down and lock the lower door, then back up to the control room, puffing. I press the key into place. At the top of the rope, I hesitate for a moment to psych myself for the drop. Benny uncurls himself, cracks open the longneck and lines up my thongs. I slide down the rope and drop into them.
‘Long way up, bloke,’ he says.
‘Yeah. I’m out of practice. It’s been a while.’
‘You get that dog out of your shed yet?’
I don’t ask Benny how he knows things. He just does.
He says things, then they happen.
‘You got anything to fix him?’ I ask.
He doesn’t answer, just heads off back to the street. Then he turns and points at the tower. ‘Long way up, innit? Not far down though.’ Keeps walking.
‘Can you take a look at him, Benny?’
‘Yup,’ he nods.
We wander home together in silence and Benny leads the way down our driveway and through the side gate with the ease of familiarity. The blinds are all closed. Mum must still be out.
Gargoyle lifts his massive mastiff head when we go into the shed. It’s a good sign. Benny squats next to him but the dog snaps and frets.
Benny’s fingers are like knotty roots, twisted with arthritis, and they shake all the time. He doesn’t touch Gargoyle, just floats his old hands in the air around him. When he’s finished, he laces his fingers together over a bare knee and gives his diagnosis.
‘Nuthin’ wrong with him. He just don’t want to go home.’
Benny leaves. I hear the suck of the outside fridge door seal as he helps himself to another beer, a tinny clink as the gate swings shut.
The beast looks at me, panting. I change his water and pick up the bacon, scrape up some of his muck into an old metal dustpan. Slowly, so I don’t spook him. He tolerates it all and when I finish he thumps his tail, once.
‘You like me.’
Another thump.
‘You have to go home.’
Thump.
‘You can’t stay here. I’m in enough trouble. I don’t want her coming in here.’
Gargoyle just stares and blinks. It’s as if he understands what I’m saying. I wish he could talk, I wish he could tell me how to get the stuff back before Mum finds out I lost it.
‘If Mum knew you were here she’d probably put you out of your misery. Smack you on the head with the shovel like she does with brown snakes. She would, you know, and she’d be doing everyone a favour.’
Whine. He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.
I need a plan.
I should confess. Just tell Mum what happened to the package. A couple of calls, a few favours traded; Jordan Mullen will regret messing with me. If there’s one thing my family’s good at, it’s retribution. It’s not that I’m scared of Mum, or Matt, or Dill—it’s like being protected by the mafia. But there’s always a price.
If they call in the debt, I’m back to being a Dodd. Reduced.
FIVE
When I go inside, the house is dark, the air heavy and humid. I make myself an instant coffee and rummage around for something to eat that was once alive, like fruit or muesli or something. There are only packets of chips—which don’t really count—and frozen carcasses coated in so much ice I can’t identify anything.
In nine days I’ll be seventeen. Seventeen seems like it should be a turning point, but in reality, it’s just another number. In fourteen days I’ll be back at school to have a crack at Year Twelve. The teachers will be surprised that I’m there and they’ll look around the class with that pinched expression and note that at least half have dropped out. But I can’t leave, even if I want to. I need to stick to the rules.
It’s obscene that summer continues, even after school goes back. Tahnee’s leaving to start her hairdressing apprenticeship. She’s great with hair. She can even make mine look good with enough time and product. A bit of heat, a handful of goo and voilà—it’s dead straight and I look like a girl.
‘What were you doing in the shed?’
I jump. The telly’s not on, which is weird, and the blinds are still down. I didn’t expect Mum to be home. She’s just sitting there in the semi-dark, like a flat tyre— all the air gone out of her.
‘I didn’t know you were here. What’s wrong?’ I try to sound casual but my voice comes away ragged.
Her stillness is freaking me out. She knows, she must know. I can reach out and touch her disappointment. It’s a solid thing with bones and skin.
You’re bloody useless, Mim. You can’t do anything without screwing it up. I asked you to do one simple thing—pick up the package and bring it home. Bloody useless.
‘Put the kettle on, Mim.’ She pulls out a packet of smokes, lights one and sucks on it like it’s an oxygen mask and her plane’s going down. Ash falls into her lap. I want to brush it away but I can’t remember the last time I touched her.
‘I’m just worried, that’s all. I think the boys have run out of luck this time. I reckon they’ll spend longer inside.
Somebody’s dogged them and the police have a statement. It’s only a matter of time before we’re raided.’ Her speech is delivered through tight lips on a trail of smoke.
I know it’s her worst fear, the boys going inside. Me leaving home runs a close second. I want to say there’s nothing in the shed except an old telephone book and an ugly dog. Our little family is unravelling and I get angry and sad and scared, all at the same time. So I do what I do when I feel like that—I open my big mouth and say things I shouldn’t.
‘They knew the risks, Mum.’
‘They’re still my boys.’
‘Well, they always wanted to be drug dealers when they grew up. Now they’re hardcore. Gotta do time if you want respect…’ I stop babbling and wait for the slap. I want it, because I’m relieved that this conversation isn’t about me at all.
It doesn’t come. Her voice, low and deadly, stings more.
‘Spare me your sanctimonious crap, Jemima. What do you reckon pays for your food and mobile phone and your clothes and your gadgets. Huh? How do you think we can afford to live?’
‘Live? How do we live, Mum? In a crappy half-house with witches, drunks and wife-bashers next door. We sell drugs. And you look after grandkids you never see again. You fall in love with them. Then they’re gone. Then you lie on the couch and eat. And you buy useless shit we don’t need.
I hate it. I hate this place.’ I know I’m behaving like a brat, but I can’t stop.
‘We do what we do to survive, Mim. Sometimes, there’s no getting out.’
I can deal with Mum’s anger. Mum’s tantrums are public and legendary. They’re familiar, sometimes spectacular, like a fireworks display. Bright and loud and memorable and messy. I used to think everyone in the street had a couch on their porch just so they could enjoy the show.
I can’t deal with this quiet defeat. For the first time ever, I feel unsafe.
‘I’m getting out,’ I tell her. I still half-believe it. Surely there’s a recipe for it. Follow a few simple steps and you can cook up your own shiny destiny.
‘Mim, you’re nearly seventeen. I got you this far, but now I don’t know what to do. Give me a kid who smokes and drinks. One who can’t keep her legs closed. Give me a kid who swears and steals. One who sneaks out and stays up all night. I know what to do with that kid. You, I don’t know.’ She shakes her head and the ash keeps rolling down like tiny tumbleweeds.
She’s right. She doesn’t know me.
I don’t think I know me.
SIX
Mondays are nothing days—unless you decide to take your future and twist it into a shape you can live with. I can’t just wait for something to happen.
Jordan Mullen lives in a rambling Spanish-style house in a new estate. The driveway winds up between white rosebushes that bloom on cue all the way to the front door. He has two parents with real jobs and a dog that can fit on your lap. His street’s barely a twenty-minute walk away, but it’s different here: greener, cleaner, safer. I know where he lives because every Valentine’s Day for the last five years I’ve dropped a pathetically anonymous card into his polite little letterbox. Last year, I stopped, because it was futile and tragic. Until he stole the package, he’d never spoken to me.
Here, the whole street smells fragrant. Not just a patch of it, like ours, where the smell of flowers is so out of place. There, it’s spooky, like you’ve walked through a stranded soul.
I stand on the opposite side of the road from the Mullen house, heat beating my scalp. The driveway is empty, the windows shuttered against the brutal heat. A brown and white terrier peers hopefully between the iron bars of a side gate.
I’ve straightened my hair so it hangs dark and shiny down to my bra-strap, except I can feel the kinks in the back where I’ve missed a section. For once I’m wearing a plain white T-shirt, not one with The Ramones or The Cure or The Clash on it. I’ve got denim shorts and thongs on because it’s so hot. I’m supposed to be here with vengeance in mind, but all I can feel is the same need I’ve always felt when I think about him. I’m worrying about how I look. Courage isn’t something you can conjure; it’s either in you or it’s not. I’m a coward.
In a situation like this, it helps to make deals with myself. If a plane flies overhead, I’ll knock on the door. Or, If it rains right now, I’ll break into the house and steal the package back. I might as well bet on Mum winning a marathon. It’s okay to load the deal in your favour, but you can’t back out once it’s made. I wait for a sign, looking up until I get dizzy. The sky remains blank and blue.
I stand there for a few moments longer, but I need to pee, so I put my iPod back on and adjust the headphones. Behind me, footsteps, and a car passes. I turn and start walking away, as if I know exactly where I’m going. My eyes are down and I notice little things, like I don’t remember painting my toenails purple; there are no cracks in the pavement; there are flying ants swarming and that usually means rain.
‘Hi, Jemima.’
I look up. Jordan’s younger sister, Kate, in a blue cotton dress that makes her look about ten, a clarinet case slung over one shoulder. We’re the same age and in Year Eleven we shared classes, but we’ve never really connected. She has this ethereal, ice-princess quality that makes me feel loud and cheap. We’re both front-of-class students, but for different reasons—she belongs there, I’ve just been faking it.
When Jordan and Kate first came to our school five years ago, it seemed as if they were from a different species. Kids like them didn’t belong. They were glossy with the sheen of parental love, they had home-made lunches and leather shoes and covered books with matching labels. They were either destined to rule or to be invisible—there was no in-between. Jordan, in the year above, ascended to the throne flanked by adoring girls with their knickers around their ankles; Kate faded into nerd-dom and practised her music at lunchtime. For years I’ve watched them both, and wanted. I wanted to be like Kate, so secure in her skin. And I wanted Jordan, because if he wanted me back it would mean I wasn’t ordinary. A guy like him wouldn’t settle for that.
Oh, beautiful fate.
‘Hi, Kate,’ I say. ‘You live around here?’
‘Yep, just there.’
She points and I raise my eyebrows. Who knew?
‘Hey, do you think I could use your bathroom?’ I blurt. ‘A friend was supposed to pick me up, but she’s late.’ I jiggle a bit.
‘Sure, come on.’
We cross the road and walk up the driveway. It’s as long as our entire house block.
I grab Kate’s clarinet case as she struggles with the lock. ‘I’ve got it. Sorry to be a pain.’
‘No problem, there’s nobody home anyway,’ she answers the question that’s burning my lips.
A skylight floods the hall with bright white. We have a skylight. There’s a sheet of Perspex in the bathroom where the whirly fan used to be. If the water’s too hot when you shower, the steam condenses on the plastic and plops back down, like cold rain.
‘In there.’ Kate points to a bathroom and wanders off down the hallway.
I go, then wash my hands in a basin that’s white and shallow as a dinner plate. I keep thinking the water will spill over the edge but it magically disappears. The hand-towel smells of apples and everything matches. I can see all of myself in the mirror, not just my face. Already, my hair is starting to spring back. My skin has gone so brown over the summer that I look like I’ve been dipped in Gravox and my eyes are too big for my face. I look scared.
I open the bathroom cabinet. Guilt makes my hands shake and my face burn, but I check inside. Toothpaste, floral deodorant, soap. Packets of paracetamol and a bottle of eucalyptus oil. I pick up a razor and inspect the bristles caught between the blades. Jordan’s? Maybe voodoo is the way to go. The hairs look silvery grey—definitely not his. I unscrew the cap on a bottle of aftershave but decide it’s not Jordan’s either. It smells spicy and kind of…old. I lift spare towels in the linen cabinet and slide my hand between the spaces. Nothing but apple-scented softness. Of course the package wouldn’t be here. Idiot.
I find Kate in the kitchen pouring icy water into glasses. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘It’s boiling out there. Do you need to call your friend?’
‘She’s going to be very late,’ I lie. ‘You have a beautiful home.’ God, I sound like a dork.
‘Thanks. Dad didn’t want us growing up in the city any more. Said he wanted us to have a normal childhood, in the suburbs, like he did. You know, somewhere safe.’
‘So you came here? Safe? Not exactly a move up, was it?’
‘I like it here,’ she says, eyes wide. ‘My dad was the planner for this estate.’
Oops. I nod at her clarinet case. ‘You still play?’
She smiles, a tight little twitch at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s not the kind of thing you can just give up when your parents have paid for a thousand lessons.’
‘Oh.’
She seems to consider something, then shakes her head, dismissing it.
‘What?’ I push.
‘Can I show you some stuff?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’re into music, right? I mean, you’re always wearing those punk band T-shirts and you’ve always got your iPod on.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. I don’t tell her that the T-shirts were a part payment for a drug debt. Or that I listen to bizarre world
music and uncool audio books like A Year in Provence or Travels with Herodotus. Would she even have heard of an instrument like a tsabouna or a hurdy-gurdy?
Kate heads down another hallway. The walls are covered with those studio portraits, the kind where you get made up like a model for free, then they charge you a fortune for the photos. Because they know that you know you’ll never look that good again. The Mullen family portrait hangs in the centre, askew, but that’s the only imperfect thing about it. They’re all blue-eyed, Viking-blond and smiling. They touch each other, each linked to the next by an arm around a waist, a hand on a shoulder, a knee, like the symbol for infinity.
We pass a closed door on the right and I feel a pull in my gut. Assuming it’s Jordan’s room, I could be just metres away from the package. I could ask Kate for another drink, grab it and run, but she’s going into her room and she’s smiling shyly and I can’t break her trust, not like her brother broke mine.
I figure Kate’s room hasn’t been redecorated since she was six. There’s rocking-horse wallpaper and a princess bed under a billowy canopy. There are innocent things: a Cabbage Patch doll, rows of stuffed toys, a poster of two kittens and a puppy, a plastic butterfly chime. Lots of pink. I feel like I’m being sucked into a time warp and it’s kind of nice. Like the first time I had fairy floss. It looked inedible but then it exploded on my tongue with all that sweetness. I’ve never had a room like this.
Kate’s looking at me, waiting for a reaction. ‘I know, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?’
She opens another door that I expect is a walk-in wardrobe but it’s another room. Decked out in black. Black walls, black desk, and in the middle of it a huge computer with a screen the size of the pub telly. Speakers and amps and things with lights and buttons.
All I Ever Wanted Page 3