The Erasure Initiative

by Lili Wilkinson

  I look over to see how Edwin feels about this. ‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘If you volunteer, then that’s not placing the decision in my hands. I don’t have to do the random thing.’

  Sandra nods. ‘Positive. I’ll be fine.’

  She marches over to the bus door. ‘I’m ready.’

  I try to press NO, but the display is unresponsive. I look around at the others. Everyone is jabbing their fingers at their seatbacks.

  An extra line of text appears, glowing bright blue.

  The woman has recently given birth.

  She is still breastfeeding.

  Her baby is hungry.

  Suddenly the speakers in the bus blare out a noise, loud and high. A baby’s cry.

  I clap my hands over my ears. I know that sound. I’ve been hearing it this whole time, in half-remembered snatches.

  Sandra’s mouth falls open in horror, and she puts her hands to her breasts. The baby’s wailing intensifies, howling and gasping for breath.

  A baby is crying, and I wander down the endless corridor.

  A baby is crying, its face red and blotchy.

  A baby is crying, and I’m trapped in the wardrobe.

  I’m on a bus.

  I’m on a bus.

  ‘What’s going on?’ someone asks.

  My name is Cecily Cartwright.

  I’m on a bus.

  A woman is standing in the aisle, her hands over her breasts. She lets her arms fall to her sides, revealing two wet circles soaked into her blue T-shirt.

  Her name is Sandra.

  I’m wrenched back into myself, or at least the sliver of myself that I know. I want to sob at how little there is to remember.

  ‘Letdown,’ Catherine is saying conversationally. ‘Some mothers look at a picture of their baby to get it going, but the sound of their cry works just as well.’

  Sandra is … breastfeeding? I remember her magic inflatable boobs. I glance over at Paxton, who is frozen in shock. If Sandra really is his mother, then Paxton has a baby sister or brother.

  ‘This kind of changes things, doesn’t it?’ Riley asks. ‘I mean … she’s … you know.’

  ‘Breastfeeding,’ Nia says. ‘You can say it out loud, Riley. And it does change things. That baby needs her mother. Sorry, Edwin.’

  ‘It’s – it’s okay,’ says Sandra, her voice shaking. ‘The bus will stop. I’ll be fine. Stick to the plan.’

  Edwin is frowning. ‘What if it doesn’t?’ he asks. ‘I mean, it’s stopped twice, but that’s not enough data to prove anything. This time it might not stop.’

  Sandra tries to argue, but we are all decided.

  We go through the whole ridiculous dance again. Sandra and Edwin disembark, and take their places. The bus reverses around a bend, and then we sail forward up the side road, stopping just millimetres from Edwin’s face. Those of us on board are better at it now. We brace ourselves against the backs of the seats when the bus stops, so the inertia doesn’t batter us around.

  Edwin cries after it’s over. He goes back to his seat and hides his face, but we all know.

  I can’t blame him. He’s only a kid, and near-death experiences really suck. Although they’re starting to feel commonplace around here. I’m sure that if I’m picked again, I won’t freak out this time. We’ve done it three times now, and the bus has always stopped. Someone is messing with us, but they don’t want us dead.

  Not yet, anyway.

  …

  Another compartment in the front of the bus opens, revealing another round of mystery-meat sandwiches and bottled water for dinner, as well as more sanitary pads. Sandra hands out the sandwiches.

  ‘Cecily, can you please take Riley his meal?’ She passes me two sandwiches and two bottles of water.

  Riley is sitting in the very back seat of the bus, staring out the window with a miserable expression on his face. I don’t want to talk to him. Riley scares me.

  Excuses pile up in my mind, but before I can unleash any of them, Sandra cuts me off.

  ‘He’s looking a little down,’ she says. ‘Maybe you could share some words of encouragement.’

  She seems to have mistaken me for someone who cares. Riley is from a different world than me. There’s nothing I can share with him that he’d understand. But Sandra is looking at me with that serious, responsible face. She lowers her voice.

  ‘I need—’ She swallows and flutters a hand in front of her breasts. ‘They’re like rocks. I need to go to the bathroom and … express.’

  Yikes. I nod, and follow her up the aisle. She disappears into the bathroom, and I slide in next to Riley. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

  ‘Weird meat-paste sandwich?’ I ask, offering him the plastic-wrapped triangle.

  He takes it and removes the plastic, letting it fall on the floor at his feet. He eats methodically.

  ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ I say.

  Riley shrugs. ‘It’s okay.’

  I guess the food in prison where I suspect he has spent a lot of time isn’t great either.

  I unwrap my own sandwich and eat it. It’s hardly a meal. I wait for Riley to say something, but he keeps staring out the window.

  Well, I tried.

  I stand up, but before I can leave, Riley turns to me.

  ‘Do you believe in second chances?’

  'I don’t know. I guess so.’

  Riley holds out his tattooed arms. ‘I’m a bad guy. I don’t know what half of these mean, but they’re not good-guy tattoos. I’m a criminal. I’ve done bad things.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ I say. ‘Lots of people get tattoos. You could be a hipster.’

  There’s no conviction in my voice, and he knows it.

  I sit back down again. ‘Okay, so you maybe did some bad stuff. But maybe you did it for good reasons.’

  Riley nods, slowly. ‘Look.’ He pulls up his T-shirt to reveal a pale stomach and chest scattered with sparse ginger hair. His body is wiry and lean. There are more tattoos. Two scrolls surrounded by Celtic knotwork sit over his heart. One scroll says AYDAN KAOS, the other BRILEE JADE.

  ‘Do you think they’re … kids? Your kids?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, they must be, right?’ He shakes his head. ‘Over my heart. I must care about them. I must love them. Doesn’t that mean something? If I’m capable of that love, then isn’t there a chance for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But if I love them, and I did bad stuff anyway …’ He sighs. ‘What kind of father does that?’

  Below Riley’s navel, I see the word CUTHACH spelled out in Gaelic-looking letters.

  ‘Do you know what that means?’

  He nods and gulps. ‘Rage.’

  I shiver despite myself.

  Riley pulls his T-shirt down again. ‘It’s a warning,’ he says. ‘A reminder. Of who I really am.’

  ‘You don’t know—’

  ‘I don’t want to be a monster.’ Riley’s voice sounds like a scared little kid’s. ‘I’m not stupid. I know what’s right and what’s wrong. I know it in my bones.’ He holds out a wrist wrapped in a black snake with diamond eyes. ‘When I woke up on this bus, before I opened my eyes, I felt like a good guy. In my heart, I knew that I was on the right side. Then I saw my arms. When I look at this, I don’t think, cool tattoo. Everything gets swallowed up in a red mist, and all I can feel is rage.’

  I realise he hasn’t even seen the tattoo on his neck, the grinning skull with the nine-pointed crown. Now probably isn’t the best time to tell him about it.

  ‘You want a second chance,’ I say. ‘Well, this is it. Maybe if you’re not weighed down by your life, and your memories, then maybe you can start again. Be the good guy you want to be.’

  ‘But what about them?’ He puts his hand over his heart.

  Why do people have kids? They seem to bring nothing but trouble and unwanted bodily fluids.

  A baby is crying.

  Uneasiness creeps over me again, and I want to get out. Out of this
conversation, out of this bus, out of everything.

  ‘You do it for them,’ I say, spouting whatever motivational nonsense I think will placate Riley and allow me to leave. ‘You build a better world for them.’

  Riley nods, and I can see the muscles in his jaw are clenched. He’s trying not to cry. ‘And the rage?’ he asks. ‘How do I stop it from swallowing everything up?’

  Honestly, I’d welcome a red mist right now. It’d make a change from the blank fog, and maybe I’d stop hearing that damn baby crying.

  I reach out and put my hand over his heart. ‘You think of them.’

  I’m a little taken aback by my own action, but it seems to do the job. Riley sits back, and he doesn’t look miserable anymore. He nods a few times, like he’s making a decision.

  ‘Can you excuse me?’ he says. ‘There’s something I have to do.’ He shuffles past me and goes to sit next to Edwin. Edwin shrinks into his seat, his red-rimmed eyes wide, but then Riley says something, and a tentative smile appears. Riley’s head is bent down towards Edwin’s, his hands moving animatedly as he explains something. I hear Edwin laugh and it’s startling. Riley made Edwin laugh. Riley is cheering Edwin up. He can’t be there for his own kids, so he’s doing the next best thing.

  I extract myself from my chair and go sit up the back of the bus, next to Paxton. I snuggle in next to him, and we watch the sun set over the ocean. There’s something so comforting about him. The familiarity of his scent, the strength of his broad shoulders. His uncomplicated nature.

  ‘Do you wonder about what you were like?’ I ask him. ‘Before this?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess I was the same,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine being anything other than who I am now. I mean, I wonder about my family, and where I lived. Who my friends were. But I can’t let it get to me, you know?’

  I don’t know. I would give anything for his assurance, his confidence. He knows he is a good guy. He knows he’ll always get what he wants.

  I don’t feel as if I know anything.

  ‘I just wish I could remember one thing about myself,’ I say. ‘Even if it’s only what ice-cream flavour is my favourite, or what Harry Potter house I’m in.’

  ‘Gryffindor, obviously,’ says Paxton. ‘And you’d like some decadent ice-cream flavour. Like salted caramel macadamia fudge ripple.’

  I smile, but I’m not convinced by either answer.

  Paxton rests his head on mine for a moment. ‘You love old movies. And playing with kids. You want to be a journalist. You’re obsessed with finding the perfect doughnut.’

  I know he’s writing my history to fit his perfect fantasy girl, but I don’t mind. I’d love to be Paxton’s manic pixie dream girl – anything would be better than this blank fog and the knowing glint in a virtual criminal’s eye.

  I close my eyes and smile.

  ‘You broke your arm when you were six,’ I tell Paxton. ‘You were trying to catch the stars in a fishing net. You climbed up onto the roof and jumped as high as you could, but you couldn’t catch any. Then you slipped and slid right off the side and landed on the driveway. The doctor said you were lucky you didn’t crack your head open like an egg. You had to wear a cast for six weeks, but you didn’t let anyone sign it, because you’d didn’t want to get it messy.’

  Paxton laughs, a warm rumble that reverberates through my ear pressed against his chest.

  ‘Your dad brought you a puppy when you were ten,’ he tells me. ‘An apricot-coloured cavoodle with a white star on her chest. Your dad came in late from work, wearing a big overcoat with the puppy zipped up inside, so you couldn’t see her. He unzipped it to show you, and you were so shocked that you cried and told him you didn’t want her.’

  ‘But I did,’ I say, picturing the scene in my head. ‘I did want her.’

  ‘Of course you did. You called her Sadie. You walked her every day, and she slept on the end of your bed.’

  I want it to be true. I reach inside myself again, looking for Sadie the apricot cavoodle. But all I find is fog and terror.

  Night has fallen, and the only sound is the rumbling of tyres on the road below us. The others are all quiet down the front of the bus. They’re probably asleep. It feels like it’s only me and Pax, his fingers caressing my arm in light but deliberate strokes as we talk.

  I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to surrender to the blankness inside me. It feels like drowning.

  I turn and kiss Paxton. It’s a slower kiss this time, without the urgency of before. We explore each other, silent and gentle. He’s respectful of my body, but he knows how to set it alight.

  We should probably stop. It’s not like there’s much privacy on a bus.

  But I don’t want to stop.

  I slide my fingers under his shirt and feel his smooth skin, his washboard stomach, the strong lines of his back. We squirm into each other as the energy between us grows in intensity.

  Is this the kind of person I was, before? The kind of person who gets hot and heavy in the back of a bus, surrounded by strangers?

  Or is it because of the fear? The need for connection – a spark against the blank fog of memory.

  There is something so familiar about this dance, it’s almost like remembering.

  Almost.

  Paxton slides his hand under the waistband of my jeans.

  Everyone is asleep. We can be quiet.

  The button on my jeans pops open, and I graze my teeth along Paxton’s lower lip. He groans under his breath, and I feel power and pleasure swirling together, combining to make something irresistible. I let it overtake me, and something trembles inside the blank fog.

  A baby is crying.

  It’s not real. It’s not even on the speakers this time. It’s in my head. I push the sound away and focus on what Paxton’s fingers are doing to me.

  A baby is crying, and I’m in the wardrobe.

  A hand over my mouth.

  Footsteps on the other side of the door. Raised voices.

  The words don’t make sense.

  The baby’s voice cries out from inside the swirling fog, and suddenly I’m afraid to find out what’s locked away inside my mind. What if knowing is worse than not-knowing? What if I don’t like what I find? Paxton’s lips trace a line of kisses along my neck. I arch my hips and let out a little gasp.

  A baby is crying.

  I’m in the wardrobe, and someone is in there with me.

  The smell of cedar and nutmeg.

  ‘Don’t make a sound.’ The voice breathes hotly on my neck. ‘She can’t know you’re here.’

  It’s Sandra’s baby. I can almost glimpse it now, through the fog that’s there instead of my memory. Sandra’s baby. Sandra’s house.

  Paxton’s house.

  His fingers have found a rhythm, and it’s matched by the rhythm inside me, desire and power and fear all roiling in a rising wave of energy.

  A baby is crying.

  I stare at the blue fairy, static and unmoving on a screen, secrets buried in her pixels.

  Squeal of brakes.

  Wet thud.

  Gunshot.

  A baby is crying.

  There’s so much blood.

  The wave crashes down around me, shattering the chaos in my head, and for a moment the fog clears and I can see a room with thick plush carpet and heavy drapes. A king-sized bed made up with an embroidered quilt and throw-cushions. A white wicker crib. The red-faced baby. An ornate antique wardrobe. Cedar and nutmeg and wool. The hand over my mouth.

  Paxton kisses me, and I’m quivering and vulnerable, in body and mind. Because I know it was his hand over my mouth, in the wardrobe. Paxton’s hot breath on my neck. His other hand holding my wrist so hard that I could feel the pressure in my bones.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’

  I hear footsteps, approaching.

  ‘Don’t make a sound. She can’t know you’re here.’

  Voices. A woman. Rustling fabric and creaking bedsprings, then the baby stops crying.
Someone – a man – clears his throat.

  ‘They’re just boobs, Colin,’ the woman says, her voice crisp and businesslike. ‘Don’t make it weird. Now where were we?’

  My wrist hurts. The hand over my mouth is pressed so tightly that I can’t breathe.

  There are more words, but they don’t make sense.

  The fog rolls back over the scene, and there’s nothing.

  I open my eyes.

  I am on a bus.

  A guy is pressed against me, his hand in my jeans. I push him away, horrified.

  ‘Are you okay?’ The guy’s voice is low and thick with desire.

  ‘I—’

  I am on a bus.

  Paxton. The guy is Paxton, and I wanted this. But I don’t want it anymore. Paxton’s hands on me feel wrong – grasping, squeezing, stifling, like they were in the wardrobe. ‘I need a minute.’

  I scramble to my feet and up the aisle into the bathroom, where I sink onto the toilet and close my eyes.

  Sandra has a baby. Sandra is Paxton’s mother. I was there – at their house. The baby was crying, and I went to find it. Paxton was angry when he found me there, and shoved me into the wardrobe, putting his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t speak. Sandra came into the room to feed the baby, along with another man, and they talked about … what?

  I wish Cecily Cartwright was dead.

  It’s all connected, but I don’t understand how.

  I stand up and flush, yanking up my jeans and fumbling the button closed. I splash water on my face, and wish once more that there was a mirror so I could tell myself to keep it together.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I creep back down the aisle, careful not to disturb anyone.

  ‘Are you coming back?’ hisses Paxton, and there’s an edge to his voice.

  I don’t respond, and as I walk to the front of the bus I hear a frustrated sigh.

  I lean my head against the front windscreen and let the vibrations of the bus fill my ears with meaningless noise, muffling the questions that keep coming.

  The moon hangs low and heavy over the ocean, casting silvery ripples on the water. White headlights illuminate the road in front of us, but on the other side, the jungle side, there is only blackness.