Sign

by Colin Dray

  From out of his sleeve, two fingers appeared, curled together like a question mark.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Dettie muttered.

  ‘So when the couple heard the news, the girl got scared. She told her boyfriend she wanted to go home. Pleaded with him. But the boyfriend didn’t want to. It was a nice night, he said. There was no such thing as zombies, he said. Eventually, they had a big argument. They yelled at one another. She demanded that he take her home. And the boyfriend was so mad that when he started the car he sped off. Fast-like.’ Jon slapped his hands together. ‘He tore off down the road, and drove all the way home like that.

  ‘And all the way home, both heard a clinking sound. Coming from the car. A ting, ting, ting noise. On the outside of the door.

  ‘When they pulled into her driveway,’ he said, ‘when her boyfriend walked around to open the girlfriend’s door…’

  Jon paused.

  ‘He found—’

  He stretched towards them.

  ‘Hanging from the girlfriend’s doorhandle—’ Jon raised his arm, his fingers still curled, ‘was a bloodstained…metal…hook.’

  Katie gasped, holding on to her ankles. Sam was smiling.

  ‘The zombie had been just about to open their car door before they drove off, you see.’

  It was a silly story, but Jon told it so well that for a moment the old thrill of the undead surged through Sam’s belly again.

  ‘Is that true?’ Katie was rocking herself against Sam’s side. ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘Of course it’s not true,’ Dettie snorted. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s true.’ Jon’s eyes widened in the flickering light. ‘They still have the hook. Hanging over their fireplace. They showed it to me.’

  Katie squealed into her hands.

  ‘Congratulations. Now they’ll never get to sleep.’ Dettie flicked the ash from her cigarette.

  ‘Another one,’ Katie giggled. ‘Tell us another one.’

  ‘Okay, darling,’ he said. ‘You pick this time. What’s the story going to be about?’

  ‘Um…’ She twisted a finger through her hair. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How about a lost kitten that finds its way home?’ Dettie offered.

  ‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘Let her choose.’

  ‘We haven’t got forever, and she obviously can’t think of anything.’

  ‘A crazy old lady,’ Katie said hurriedly. She kept her eyes directed at the tips of her shoes.

  Dettie was staring over the flames at her. She closed her mouth. Her chin jutted out slightly. She flicked her cigarette again and fussed with the neck of her blouse.

  ‘Crazy ladies?’ Jon snapped a stick and fed it into the fire. ‘Crazy ladies…Not sure if I know any stories about—oh, wait,’ he said, dusting off his hands. ‘I do have one. But it’s a bit gross.’

  He looked over at Dettie for approval, but she had turned away to look at the stars, still fiddling absently with her collar. He began.

  There was once this young woman, he said. He’d read about it in the newspaper. Famous story from a few years ago, he said. She had a spoilt little poodle that needed lots of attention. It was fed treats all the time. It had expensive haircuts and toys. So whenever the woman had to go out anywhere, she would leave someone to watch it. Like a babysitter. But for a dog.

  ‘Anyway, one night,’ Jon said, ‘she was going out to a dinner party, but her regular dog-sitter was busy. So she asked the old lady next door if she could do it for her. Just for the night. But what the young lass didn’t know was that the old woman needed pills. Medicine, to stop her being crazy. And in all the excitement that day, she’d forgotten to take them.’

  Dettie’s lips were pursed tightly. She wasn’t facing them, but she was listening. She sat still. Exhaling into the dark. Unaware that the cigarette seized in her fingers had turned to a column of ash.

  ‘After a couple of hours of watching the dog, the old lady was feeling strange,’ Jon said. ‘But she was so happy—so grateful—to be out of the house, that she wanted to do something nice for the young woman when she got home. I’ll make a roast chicken, she thought, and got out all the pans and spices she needed, and set the oven. And so, she prepared the meal and popped it in the oven.’

  Jon’s voice got slow again, stretching the moment out. ‘Eventually,’ he said, ‘when the young woman got home that night, she could smell something burning. As she walked into the house she found the old woman in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, covering her face. Crying.

  ‘Slowly,’ Jon said, ‘the young woman opened the door of the stove—’ He mimed the action for them, leaning in, peering into the campfire. ‘And then she saw what the crazy old woman had done.’ He recoiled in horror. ‘She had plucked, and stuffed, and roasted, the woman’s pet poodle.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Dettie snapped, leaping up. ‘That is the most hideous thing I have ever heard in my life!’ She was clutching her arms, shaking.

  ‘Eww!’ Katie had her knees hugged to her chest.

  It was gross, but Sam was smiling.

  Jon hid a huge grin behind his wrist.

  ‘No more stories!’ Dettie spat. ‘No more! That is it!’ She flicked her dead cigarette into the dirt.

  ‘What did it look like?’ Katie whispered.

  ‘You are not answering that!’ Dettie pointed at Jon. She dusted off the back of her legs. ‘Disgusting, terrible story,’ she murmured. ‘That poor woman.’

  ‘Tell another one!’ Katie pleaded.

  Dettie spluttered and shook her head. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘That was ghastly.’

  ‘Maybe your aunt’s right, darling.’ Jon winked.

  Whining, Katie rolled back against Sam’s arm, clomping her heels. ‘Never get to have fun.’

  ‘I think somebody’s getting grouchy,’ Dettie sang, and began rolling up their blanket over her arm. ‘I think it must be time for bed.’

  Sam’s legs were sore from sitting on the table, but he didn’t want to leave the warmth of the fire. He liked watching the different colours of the coal, whiter the deeper they were, throbbing in the heat. Dettie had to prod the children back to the car to settle them down, and she sat with them until Katie could barely keep her eyes open and Sam pretended to be asleep. When she finally left, pushing the door closed softly behind her, he heard Jon call out, ‘See you in the morning, kids!’ and then Dettie hushing him quiet.

  55

  ‘They’re just stories, love,’ Jon was saying.

  Sam had inched the rear window down to listen, but their voices were muffled and he had to strain to make out the words. The sound of the fire was soothing as it popped and crackled and, even in the chill, Sam had to sit up to stop his eyes from sliding shut. Dettie was perched on the picnic table beside Jon, gazing into the flames.

  ‘What kind of person would find that amusing?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Who would even want to think such things?’

  He chuckled and picked at the hole in his jeans. ‘It’s not real, love,’ he said. ‘That’s the point. They’re fantasy. Zombies and crazy old women. Ghosts and murder. There’s no harm in them. Just scary yarns to tell at night. To give you a thrill. To make life a bit more exciting.’

  ‘To warp your mind.’ She shuddered.

  Jon stoked the fire with a sizzling branch. ‘Well, they’re not everyone’s cup of tea,’ he said, watching the leaves ignite. His face yellowed and, as he let go, the branch curled into the metal drum.

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, and Sam watched the smoke fleeing the illumination of the fire. Occasionally, Dettie would jerk around, wide-eyed, to check the surrounding bushes; whenever she did, Jon would steal quick glances at her, dipping his head. He drew a deep, long breath and blew it out.

  ‘It’s a pity we can’t find that handkerchief,’ he said.

  Dettie stiffened. She bent to lift a long stick from the ground. ‘Well, if the girl hadn’t been running riot the
whole trip…’ She stiffened, her neck straight, her chin dipped.

  He sat motionless. ‘Yes, it’s definitely strange,’ he said, slowly. ‘Just losing it like that. After treasuring it for so long.’

  Dettie pushed one end of the stick she was holding into the dirt. It was a broken tree limb, and it reminded Sam of a baseball bat as she rolled it in her hands. ‘Children are reckless,’ she said. ‘No sense of what’s important.’

  Jon didn’t say anything for a moment. He just watched her from the corner of his eyes. When he did speak it was too soft for Sam to make out anything except the word kids.

  ‘Me?’ Dettie’s voice squeaked. ‘No. No, Ted and I never did. No time for them really. What with us always on the move. Travelling. And Ted’s work. And my—’

  She broke off. She went back to grinding her stick into the earth. She hummed. ‘And then the way Ted’s death came up on us.’ She was smiling, but the flickering across her face darkened her eyes. ‘Quite a surprise.’

  Sam tried to read the expression in her voice. She was saying it again—that Ted was dead. He couldn’t tell if she believed it, or it was just something she’d gotten used to saying. He wondered, briefly, if the difference mattered.

  On the back seat, Katie was rustling under one of Jon’s flannel shirts.

  ‘But it was no big issue in the end. It just meant I was always there to help out Joanne—Donald and Joanne—with the kids,’ Dettie said. ‘Babysit for them. Drop the kids at school. Pick them up. Do some dinners and housework. Even helping Joanne through that sorry business with Sammy’s voice.’ She looked over at the car and Sam had to duck. ‘She and Donald were going through a rough patch at the time. As you would, of course. All that stress and worry. And afterwards. With work. But I was there. To help. Helping. As best I could, anyway.’ She let out a long, slow breath. ‘It almost feels like they’re mine,’ she said. ‘Sometimes.’

  She withdrew a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her sleeve and offered it to Jon. They each lit one and she crushed the empty packet and threw it in the fire. They both sat smoking silently, and as he waited, Sam felt himself start to drift off to sleep. A warm quiet slipped over his mind and he had to keep shaking himself awake.

  Jon was turning the cigarette in his fingers, watching it smoulder. He seemed to be thinking something over, nodding to himself. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  ‘Here, love—I want to ask,’ he began, slowly.

  Dettie straightened herself to face him.

  He took a long drag of smoke and let it drift casually from his mouth. ‘The little ones. Their mother—Joanne?’ He picked at the hole in his pants. ‘So she—? She does know they’re going to Perth?’ His head was shaking very slightly. His eyes remained locked on the fire. ‘She knows where they are, doesn’t she?’

  Dettie choked, clutching her neck, and coughed. She tried to swallow down her hacking. When she’d finished her face was drawn. ‘Why—what makes you say that?’ she wheezed.

  Jon eased forward with his elbows on his knees. He didn’t look at her as he inhaled. ‘The children’s clothes,’ he said, and gestured to the car. ‘They haven’t got much else to put on. Just a couple of shirts and things. Not even pyjamas. No luggage.’

  ‘Well, we were—it was a great shock. A hurry,’ she stammered. ‘Their father. Donald. Their father’s very sick.’ She coughed again. ‘In Perth. My brother. Which we’re—is why we’re going—and—’ She was lifting the stick and tapping it on the ground. She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘No. No. Course not. Just—just curious,’ Jon said. ‘Just curious.’ He ran a hand through his beard. ‘One of those funny little oddities, you know? Gets you thinking.’ He gave a quick smile that slid from his face as though it were melting. ‘Besides, I mean, it’s none of my business, right?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dettie snapped, brushing the ash from her lap. ‘I mean, not that there’s anything—’ Now she wasn’t blinking. ‘I mean, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘The children. Their mother. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Jon still hadn’t turned to face her. ‘Of course it is. Silly of me, really.’

  She was nodding, more to herself than to him. ‘Everybody’s fine.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Except their father,’ Jon said. And when Dettie didn’t respond, he added: ‘Because he’s sick.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ she said. ‘Except for him.’

  Gradually, Jon looked towards the car, and after a moment, Sam realised that Jon was nodding straight at him, through the window, a vacant expression on his face. Holding his stare, Jon drew a small, clockwise circle on his chest.

  Sorry.

  The window fogged beneath Sam’s chin where his stoma was breathing on the glass. His fingers remained hooked over the edge of the door, fingernails picking at the rubber seal. He wasn’t sure what to sign back. He wasn’t even sure how to. He returned the nod, feeling a strange mix of fear and reassurance. Jon knew. He was worried about Dettie too. Worried for them. But just as he was wondering why Jon would need to apologise, he saw Dettie.

  She had turned in place, watching Jon’s face, trying to read his expression. Had she seen? Had she seen him signing? She straightened, following his line of sight, peering over at the car. Squinting through the smoke. Sam ducked out of sight. The ghostly puff of condensation on the window above him shone white against the black sky.

  After a minute he inched his way back up. Dettie and Jon were still beside one another. Still silent. Neither looking at the other. Each taking slow drags from their cigarettes. Finally, Jon stretched out his arms and crushed the last of his butt on the edge of the table.

  ‘Well, Dettie,’ he said, standing up, ‘I’m knackered. Fancy I might run off to the little boy’s room, then turn in for the night.’ He pointed into the bushes.

  Dettie stared at him, her jaw hanging slack. A flicker from the campfire suddenly gnarled her face. From the angle of the light it almost looked like a sneer.

  ‘You—you called me Dettie,’ she said. Her voice was colder than it had been. Not angry, but somehow disappointed. ‘Isn’t that funny?’ But it didn’t sound like she found it funny at all. She sighed a laugh. ‘You don’t usually call me Dettie,’ she said. ‘Usually you call me—’ She hiccoughed, and a vague, gaunt expression hung on her face.

  Jon didn’t appear to be listening, and nodded, shooting her a half-hearted smile. Excusing himself, he pushed through the branches and out of sight. Sam watched the leaves rustle back into place behind him. When the orange throb of the fire glistened over them, the bushes seemed to ripple.

  Dettie stood, momentarily unsteady on her feet. She lifted the stick and began lurching towards the car. Sam huddled down even further, slipping the blanket over his arms, shutting his eyes, and trying to will the muscles in his shoulders to go slack. He didn’t dare even sneak open one eyelid, but he could hear her—the scrape of her feet, the drag of the stick, the snuffling and huffs of her heavy breathing. A current ran through his body. He could feel every fibre of the blanket against his neck, could smell the faint vinegar tang of potato chips from an empty packet on the floor. His own heartbeat thundered behind his ears.

  Swaying slightly, Dettie began muttering hoarsely to herself, but even this close, straining to listen, Sam couldn’t discern what she was saying. It seemed to be a long, unbroken stream of words. Eventually she shuffled away, still murmuring, back over to the table. She stood awhile, her eyebrows twitching, her lips moving rhythmically. Staring into the glow. Unblinking. There were tiny holes in the metal drum, and Sam could see the red coals burning within, could imagine them surging white. His head felt heavy, so he laid it back on the seat, peering through the window with one eye open.

  Sam lay for a moment, feeling his eyelids dipping shut. He could hear Katie’s breath, and as it mingled with the lightheadedness of sleep, he recalled again the girl behind the curtain. It was
almost her raspy breath that he was hearing again—the way it had started to fade that last night she was in hospital. Before she had disappeared, been moved to wherever she went. He could almost see her glazed expression as her chest rose and fell. So gently. So heavily. Nearly still. Her eyelids half open. Dry and rubbery. Her thin hand limp as the doctor placed it back on the mattress. She’d gotten better, they’d told him. And as he gave in to the sensation of sleep he accepted, in a detached way, finally and completely, what he already knew.

  They had lied.

  She was dead.

  An unsettling calm washed over him.

  Dettie dropped her cigarette butt and rolled the heavy stick around in her hands. She squeezed it tightly and let it go, shaking her head from time to time as though a shudder ran through her whole body. Eventually she moved off again, taking the stick with her, and followed Jon into the shadows. The fire snapped and hissed, and just before he surrendered, he thought he heard a sheep bleating wearily from a nearby field.

  56

  The engine growled to life. Sam was aware, suddenly, of Dettie’s gasping, and the scent of ash on her clothes. A door slammed, then they were moving. He sat up. It was still before sunrise, and as the headlights swept across the picnic area he saw a wisp of smoke curling from the now-darkened metal drum. Katie was murmuring something, but the car jerked, and Sam had to grab for his seatbelt. They lurched to the left, the tyres crackling, and as they sped off he thought he glimpsed two lumps of luggage tipped over on the road.

  Katie started shouting. She was telling them that Jon wasn’t in the car—calling out so loud that her voice cracked. When Sam turned, he saw that the front passenger seat was empty. There was no sight of Jon anywhere—even out on the road—and one of his shirts was still wound up into a ball on Katie’s lap.

  The car hit a deep pothole and the children were thrown about in their seats. Katie squealed.

  ‘Where’s Jon?’ she said, twisting in her seat.

  Dettie hissed through clenched teeth. She was frowning. Her head lolled as though she was struggling to hold it up, but her fingers were tight on the wheel.