Ringer

by C. J. Duggan

  “Miranda’s home! Miranda’s home,” she sing-songed up the steps joyously as she struggled to open the door with her cargo and raced inside.

  Pfft, at least someone was happy about it.

  I slurped on my tepid cup of tea as I watched Mrs Henry shut the passenger door. As predicted, she wore cream-coloured capri pants with a navy linen shirt pressed to perfection. Her sunglasses propped on her immaculate jet-black bob, as she gathered some shopping and some wrapped flowers before locking the car and moving towards the house without a backwards glance.

  Ha! Don’t worry, luv, I won’t steal anything.

  It had made my stance to not stay in the house a good one. Steve had said to come and grab whatever I needed from the kitchen, but I didn’t wholly feel comfortable with that arrangement. The house was spacious, grand, but I never felt anything more than claustrophobic in it, now more so that the older devil child had returned. I was out of there, I couldn’t have cared less about her eyes, they no doubt shot laser beams from them anyway. No, I was best here in my simple room, with my single cot bed: clean, comfortable, no TV, a rickety ceiling. That was all that mattered. I knew I wouldn’t exactly find a mini fridge and a mint on my pillow but that was okay. It was the change of scenery I had wanted. This was now my man cave.

  Orientation would begin early on Monday, which gave me the weekend to settle in, of sorts, get my bearings, become accustomed to the lay of the land, all the while avoiding Miranda Henry. Should be easy enough; she didn’t much strike me as the outdoorsy type.

  Cuppa tea downed and now butting out my last cigarette, I let the two front legs of the chair fall to the deck as I stretched and groaned, ready to turn in for the night. It was only eight o’clock, but with little else to do, I stood to make my way inside, pausing at the sound of clinking cutlery and footsteps crunching into the dirt. I squinted into the darkness, seeing the silhouette closing in from the house.

  “Hello,” chirped a friendly voice.

  “Hi,” I said, guarded until the form was visible. The glinting metal smile of Moira, carrying a chinking tray of food.

  “Mum thought you might be hungry.” She grinned, stepping up to the verandah and setting the tray on the rickety side table next to the chair.

  “You bloody ripper,” I said. Sitting back down on the chair, feasting into a tray of biscuits, cheese and fruit. It wasn’t exactly two meat and veg. Still, I was grateful nevertheless, not realising how hungry I actually was until I saw the tray of food.

  “Thurnks,” I managed through a mouthful of food, as Moira poured me a drink from a clinking ice-cubed jug.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said, her beaming eyes staring at me.

  Oh-O. I swallowed my food roughly. “Well … um … tell your mum thanks for me.”

  “There’s cake under here.” Moira lifted a lid off a small plate like she was a magician. “I made it myself,” she said with pride.

  “Wow, thanks.” I nodded in good humour; I’m not sure how much more I could say. Guessing that would be it, I thought she would simply skip back to the house. Instead, Moira propped herself up on the beam of the verandah and wrapped her arm around the post, making herself quite at home.

  “Is your name really Ringer?” she asked, cocking her head with interest.

  Here we go.

  I inwardly sighed, shaking my head no as I munched on some grapes.

  “Really?” She straightened, her eyes alight with interest. “What is it?”

  I slurped on my cold … cordial? Wow, tea to cordial. Things were starting to get wild.

  I cleared my throat. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?”

  “Oh, I won’t, cross my heart and hope to die,” she said, physically crossing her heart. I was just about to reveal my actual namesake when I was beaten by the distant calls of Moira’s mum.

  “Moira? Come leave Ringer alone and have some dessert.”

  Penny Henry stood with her arms wrapped around herself as if warding off a chill that didn’t exist on the tepid February night.

  Moira grimaced. “Muum.”

  “Now, Moira.” Penny’s voice went down a few warning octaves; it was enough to have Moira jumping off the beam and rolling her eyes.

  “I better go, she is in the worst mood since Miranda’s come home.”

  Really?

  I lifted my brows with interest, which only encouraged her to continue.

  “Mum and Miranda always fight, you should hear them go at it,” she said conspiratorially.

  “I hope I never have to find out.” I smirked.

  “Ha. You’ll be lucky.” She laughed.

  “Moira Henry!”

  “Oh, I’m coming!” she yelled, before turning to me with a double eye blink. “Night, Ringer.”

  “Night, Moira.” I stood as she skipped off towards her fuming mother. I lifted my hand to give a polite smile and wave, which elicited a head nod in acknowledgment. It was any guess why she would fight with her daughter, probably because they were so much alike … no doubt.

  ***

  I dreamt of dust, and exhaust fumes, the whoosh of air as I had sailed through it, right before my life had flashed before my eyes. The images of my dealings with death played out in my subconscious like a horror movie on a continuous loop except each time it came to flipping me off, it wasn’t Miranda doing it, it had been one of my mates. Sean, Toby, Stan … a different mate on each loop, always flipping me the finger, before tearing away, and leaving me behind in a cloud of dust. The sound of the car seemed so real, so loud, so …

  I stirred. Lifting my face from my pillow I struggled to decipher my new surroundings. I gingerly rolled onto my back wincing at my rib cage where a bruise was slowly surfacing and providing me a constant reminder of my fall. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sighing in part relief that I had woken from my nightmare, a nightmare that seemed so real, so loud, so very … current. I froze, listening to the very sound that had plagued my dreams; I sat up, cocking my head to listen intently. It was the sound of the Mazda; the beat-up devil car (if you could call it a car) certainly sounded like it was manufactured in hell: wheezy, rackety and, in this case, failing to start.

  Good.

  It was about time it was put out of its misery, I thought, as I lay back down, linking my hands behind my head. I smirked in the dark, listening to its continued struggle as it refused to kick over and come to life. I waited for it to die so I could relish the fact of not having to listen to the sound again … ever. I yawned lazily, reaching for my Nokia on my side table to check the time.

  I frowned at the illuminated screen. What the hell was the Mazda doing being started at one in the morning?

  Before I could think too deeply about the reasoning, I found myself moving towards my door, clasping the handle and cringing as I twisted it slowly, hoping the sound of the creak of the hinge wouldn’t alert me to anyone, not that they would be able to hear it over the sound of the ghastly, spluttering motor. Unable to see much through the crack of my door, I moved slowly to poke my head out and sneak a look down the verandah towards the Henry homestead, where the Mazda had last came to a stop. I slid along the wall of the huts, skimming myself along in the protection of the shadows as I neared closer, squinting to focus in the dark.

  What is she doing?

  The interior light of the car was illuminated with the driver’s door left ajar. There she was, Miranda Henry, her face crinkled up in fierce determination with each attempt to start up her shit heap.

  Come on, give it a rest.

  Stubborn as a mule, she kept going and going to the point of me yawning and shaking my head.

  You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.

  And then the thought occurred to me. Why would she be going anywhere? She just got here. My attention snapped to a new sound. The sound of silence.

  I edged my way closer, but still pressed far away from the rays of moonlight. Miranda’s head was pressed against the steering wheel; s
he stayed that way unmoving for the longest of times. I half wondered if she was okay? Had some fumes filtered back through the car? No, she should be all right, the door was open a bit. Still unmoving, an uneasy feeling stirred inside of me, and my brow furrowed at the strange sensation, the feeling I could have sworn felt like … concern.

  What a joke.

  Now the noise had stopped I should have just turned around and headed back to my room, gone back to bed and enjoyed the fact that I would be safe from future nightmares about the ex-working Mazda hatchback. Instead, as I watched the unmoving blonde head bent over in despair, I sighed, straightened and stepped forward out of the shadows; my foot barely landed on the deck lit by a strip of moonbeam when I paused.

  Miranda was on the move.

  I jumped back, cursing at how ridiculous this all was, hiding like a child in the shadows, scared of the boogieman, or in this case, woman.

  I watched on as Miranda flung her door open and slid out before slamming her door shut so violently, the sound echoed through the still summer night. How could I have been the only one woken by all the noise she was making, especially now that she had followed the door slamming with a kick from her expensive European boot?

  “Shit,” she cried, latching onto her foot. Her boots were obviously not meant for kicking car doors.

  A bemused smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth, watching her limp to the back passenger door as she flung it open with barely contained rage and grabbed for her bags. Much like she had when she arrived, Miranda Henry slung her belongings over her shoulder and slammed the passenger door. Shifting the awkward weight of her load, I waited for her to storm the exact same line towards the steps, onto the verandah and through the door. The only difference was I wouldn’t be there to open it for her, or to be told to ‘fuck off’.

  I fought the urge to laugh at the memory, but then something happened that wiped all trace of humour from me.

  She was headed my way.

  Chapter Eight

  Miranda

  There was a good chance that I would get over my car.

  Aside from the throbbing pain of my big toe, the ludicrously early hour of the morning, and the fact I was now stranded in the very last place on earth I wanted to be, I knew I would get over it. My fury had already started to dissipate.

  Until I saw him.

  Lurking in the shadows like a snake. I mean, did he honestly think I wouldn’t be able to see him? The giant human-shaped shadow peering from the verandah?

  Idiot.

  When it came to lessons on sneaking around Moira Station I was fully qualified on the matter; I had enough connections in order to sneakily weave my way into town undetected every chance I had, so utterly desperate to escape, just like I wanted to now.

  I didn’t care how much noise I was making, I knew my parents would never hear me, their bedroom was right at the back of the house in their little parents’ wing. Moira might have heard something if she wasn’t snoring her head off and listening to music through her headphones.

  All probably just as well. I had had enough of my parents’ preaching and I had only been home for eight hours. I had hoped maybe they would have adopted the same kind of laid-back, carefree attitude when they would come and see me in Paris. In fact, I had really enjoyed ‘holiday’ Mum and Dad, it was almost like they were different people. But when I came home they were ‘farmer’ Mum and Dad: stressed, overworked, overtired, and full of questions and opinions. It had taken me two-point-five seconds to begin arguing with my mum when she came into my room. Instead of being glad to see me, it appeared Dad, the traitor, had relayed my dramatic homecoming, and my offensive behaviour. Yeah, of course I knew it was out of line; could I have stopped myself? Pfft. No! And furthermore, I really didn’t want to have to be reminded of it every day of my time spent here, time I had hoped would be up as I threw all my belongings into the beast and drove off into the night.

  Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen. So my intention was, of course, to get as far away from my parents as possible. Seeing as it wasn’t to be by blazing a dusty trail out the gate, it would just have to be in the shearers’ huts. There was a less likely chance of my parents looming in my doorway with disapproving stares if I was out of sight, out of mind.

  Aside from being pissed off about his spying, there was no doubt that Ringer (my dad’s new pet) would have grabbed the best of the rooms, so much to my increasing burning hatred, I would have to settle for the room next to it. It still had a decent enough and less primitive set-up than the rest.

  Before he had a chance to skulk away, as I approached the verandah steps, I called him out.

  “Why don’t you take a picture, it will last longer,” I said, inwardly cringing as the words tumbled out of my mouth.

  What, was I in a high school?

  What had been scurried steps moving back along towards his room suddenly stilled. And by the time I had stepped up onto the verandah, he was standing in the open doorway to his room, looking at me with an incredulous dark stare.

  “Nice night for spying,” I said.

  Ringer’s mouth gaped, his brows knitted together.

  “Spying?” he repeated, his anger barely contained. “Me?” he said, pointing to his chest.

  I stopped before him, cocking my head and readjusting my bag on my shoulder.

  “Do you see any other weirdo lurking in the shadows?”

  “Weirdo?” he scoffed. “More like being woken up by that hideous sound your shit box of a car was making; I thought you were going to crash it through my fucking wall.”

  “It’s not a shit box,” I snapped.

  “No, of course not, she purrs like a kitten,” he said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the open doorway to his room. Right at that moment I really wanted to punch him in the face, but I think Mum and Dad might have me committed for acts of violence, or worse. Home detention.

  “Hey, Ringer?”

  His brows rose in surprise, as if the sound of me referring to him by name was not expected.

  “Just do me a favour and stay out of my way,” I said, weary with fatigue as I gathered my belongings and made my way to the room next door.

  “Well, Mir-an-da,” he said, deliberately emphasising my name. “It might be a little tricky, you know, now that we’re neighbours and all.”

  “Just keep the noise down,” I said, juggling to open my door as I twisted the handle and kicked it open. Making sure to give him a parting poignant ‘I’m-not-joking death stare.’ Unfortunately I was met with a devious grin as he watched on from his doorway.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t rev my engine for you.”

  I dumped my bags inside the door and coolly and casually walked back towards Ringer, who watched my every move with guarded uncertainty, but that smart-arse glimmer was still in his eyes. I came to a stop right before him, close enough to be momentarily distracted by his breath that blew down on me.

  I squared my shoulders, not thinking about that sensation. “If you call me sweetheart again, I will put sugar in your fuel tank; do I make myself clear?”

  Ringer’s jaw clenched, any trace of humour drained away with my threatening words. I had finally found his Achilles heel: his beloved Ford.

  “My mistake.” He nodded in a gentlemanly manner.

  It was almost like my ego had been stroked as I took it as a small victory. I nodded in return before spinning on my heel and heading back to my door.

  “Of course, in order to call you that, you would firstly have to have a heart.”

  I stilled, turning towards him, dumbfounded that he was still talking. My eyes locked with his.

  “And as for the former,” he said, pushing off from his doorframe, “there is nothing sweet about you.”

  Before I could even take in his sledge, he had walked into his room and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  Ringer

  I thought at first I was hearing things, then as
I pressed my ear to the wall the very reality hit me like a ton of bricks.

  No-no-no-no-no. Fuck!

  Miranda was crying.

  A soft sob that made my shoulders sag in defeat; never before had I felt like such a giant arsehole. I hadn’t even gotten a great amount of satisfaction in baiting her like I should. She was obviously planning to leave for a reason; something had obviously gone down bad enough for her to want to be away from her family, so bad that she resorted to sleeping next to me.

  Definitely rock bottom.

  I should have just walked straight up to the bloody car, asked if she was okay. Instead of getting my back up every time she was around me. Sure, she didn’t exactly bring out the best in me but that gave me no right to accuse her of having no heart, because listening to the whimpers next door, regardless of her icy façade, she had feelings. I made a mental note to just be a bit more … thoughtful in the light of day.

  Ah, Christ, I felt like shit.

  I ran my hand through my hair, pulling away from the wall; I started pacing hoping that the distance from it would leave me unable to hear it. No such luck.

  Even standing over the opposite side of the room, I could clearly hear her crying, as she became more distraught and consumed by emotion. It was clear; I was getting no sleep tonight. The guilt wouldn’t let me. At first she tried to contain her sound, but now it seemed like it was the breath hitching, sobbing kind of tears, and they were the worst. Harder to control, impossible to ignore.

  Please, please, anything but tears. Be a bitch, treat me like dirt, and make my life a nightmare. Just. Don’t. Cry.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, my head buried in my hands as a war raged inside of me. I blew out a long breath and lifted my head, staring at the thin wall that divided us.