by Lia Weston
‘How,’ says Mica, slowly turning to her, ‘do you do that in your head?’
Gen shrugs. ‘Do they have glow-in-the-dark balls here?’
It’s my turn to shrug. ‘Go and see.’
She swings her legs off the chair and scampers away.
‘I wonder what it’s like to be able to think in numbers,’ says Mica.
True to form, I gutter the ball. ‘The same as being able to see music in colour, I guess.’
‘You don’t have that?’
‘You do?’
‘No,’ Mica admits, ‘but it’d be nice.’
‘Or annoying.’
‘I guess you just get used to it.’ She picks at the remains of the cold French fries left on my plate. ‘You’ll also notice that I didn’t make a balls-related joke to your sibling.’
‘And I appreciate that.’
Mica gets up and still manages to take down seven pins with her left hand.
I gutter yet another ball.
‘You’re terrible at this,’ says Mica. ‘Here, have my lucky charm.’ She takes her pink and silver striped scarf and loops it around my neck. It’s still warm and smells of her particular mixture of mint shampoo, pepper and bergamot.
Gen returns. ‘They don’t have glow things. Can I have some more money?’ She points to the arcade, which consists of four games and an attendant with a thousand-yard stare.
‘It’s your turn.’ I indicate the scoreboard.
‘Duh,’ says Gen, ‘what’s the point?’
I hand her my wallet – this must be what parenting feels like – and watch her skip off again.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ says Mica. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s blown up zombies before.’
‘I just need to keep an eye on her.’
‘Did you know you sometimes act more like her dad than her brother?’
‘She’s fifteen years younger. And her existence is basically my fault.’
Mica stares at me. ‘Keep talking, because I’m getting some really weird ideas that I would like to put to rest.’
I stretch out in my seat. ‘When I was fourteen, my best friend was a guy called Hamish. His mum was like my second mum. She was the best. Really kind, really calm.’
‘Really pretty?’ says Mica.
‘Yup.’ I take a drink of flat cola. ‘I had a huge crush on her. And I introduced her to my dad. Dad really liked her too.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ says Mica, then, ‘Oh. Right. That’s bad.’
‘Yeah.’ I retrieve a black ball from the shoot. ‘He liked her so much he left us. They were together for about six months. Then it kind of died – I don’t know why, I never asked – and he came back.’
Mica plays with a purple-streaked bowling ball. ‘I’m amazed your mum forgave him.’
‘Taking him back is one thing.’ I aim and bowl. Six pins down. Champion. ‘Forgiving him is another, and I don’t think she really has. He looks the wrong way at a waitress and you can see the cracks forming. Anyway, that –’ I point towards the arcade, where Gen is swatting the flippers on a pinball machine, ‘– was what happened when Dad returned.’
‘She’s a bandaid baby,’ says Mica.
‘She’s the fix that didn’t take.’ I rattle the ice in my giant plastic cup.
‘Didn’t take?’
I look over to the arcade again. ‘There are some issues at the moment.’
Gen has now moved on to the claw machine. There’s a whoop as she almost wins something orange and fluffy, then a wail when it drops back down into the pile.
‘Does she know her origin story?’ says Mica.
‘Christ, no.’
Mica sits forward, resting the ball on her knees. ‘You know it wasn’t your fault, right?’
‘But I was the catalyst.’
‘That’s how a fourteen year old would see it, because fourteen year olds think that everything’s about them. You didn’t force your dad to cheat. You didn’t force him to leave. Anyway, how do you know he wouldn’t have done it with someone else? The blame is entirely on his side.’
‘I hated him for years.’ I watch Gen feed more money into the claw machine. ‘And it sucked because I idolised him at the same time. I still have moments where I completely forget what he did. Then I remember, and I’m angry with myself because I’m no longer angry at him.’
‘It’s a strange feeling to simultaneously love and hate someone.’
I think of Dad now, of Mum’s tortured certainty that history is repeating itself.
Mica bowls and gets yet another strike. ‘Maybe relationships aren’t strong points for the Lash men.’
‘Hey, I didn’t cheat on June.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘No.’ I bowl, miss, and sit down again. ‘I don’t do that.’
Mica looks at me steadily, the purple neon reflecting off the side of her face. ‘Good men sometimes do bad things.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’
‘This is what you assume? That I’m obviously scarred for life from a previous experience?’
‘I try to never assume anything about you, Mica.’
‘It’s probably best.’
The ball loops back up the shoot and rolls to the end with a clunk. Mica gets up to retrieve it. ‘Anyway, I’m just saying that not everything’s black and white.’
‘I won, I won!’ Gen comes belting back with her fluffy prize, wrestled from the claw machine. ‘It only took thirteen gos.’
‘What is that?’ I say, looking at the toy.
‘Trubuchup,’ says Gen. ‘He’s an anime character who fights crime and writes poetry and tells schoolchildren to get enough calcium.’
‘Is it just me or are cartoons getting more and more specific?’ I say.
‘It’s just you,’ say Gen and Mica.
CHAPTER NINE
Eighth floor. North side.
Red-spotted curtains signal her whereabouts. Little breadcrumbs luminescent in the forest.
Eighth floor, north side.
Looks down on a rooftop with a high-sided wall and a fire escape.
Eighth floor, north side.
The projector guides my hand. This is not my normal style. But this one is bigger than usual, bigger than anything I’ve ever done. Nothing seems normal at the moment.
I paint above streets which are almost completely dark. Construction workers pedal BMX bikes loosely across the footpaths to early shifts, not bothering with lights. Everyone else is still asleep, except for parents of newborns and one guy with a respirator who forgot his gloves.
The wall is illuminated by the moon, which is sinking fast. Colours jet into the bricks, my focus unbroken for hours now. I feel as if she’s watching.
I’m sure of it.
When I’m finished, I sit with my back against the half-wall that drops away into the street and watch the projector lines grow fainter. The horizon is beginning to burn. My stomach growls but I don’t move; I wait for the sun to touch the paint, and when it does, it lights her fingertips first. Sophia, running, spinning, lifting off the wall, a trail of bubbles from her footsteps rising with her. Sophia, effervescent, coloured beads dripping from her outstretched fingers. The sunlight shifts slowly down the vortex of her body, and she rises in front of me – an offering of all my euphoria and hope.
I have no idea why Dan has taken up running, but there he is by the gate, limbering up. I approach from behind, timing my poke in the ribs perfectly so he leaps about a foot. In retaliation, he lightly punches me in the chest; from Dan, however, a light punch is almost enough to send me flying. It doesn’t matter. I’m still buzzed from Sophia’s wall piece this morning. I don’t care if he sits on me.
‘Want an easy loop? We can head around the base.’
Dan shakes out his legs. He has thighs that could crush a beer keg. Ellie probably has to go on top for fear for her life. ‘Nah, let’s just do what you normally do.’
‘You sure?’
A tiny tic
k of irritation. ‘It’ll be fine.’
I feel like bouncing along like Gen, but pull it back into an easy jog. It’s peak time on the trail – nothing but T-shirts with sweat stains like Rorschach inkblots.
‘How’s Rosie?’
‘At kindergym. Trampolines and stuff. She loves it.’
‘Let me know if you need someone else to take her. I haven’t been on a trampoline for years. It’ll be a new way to hurt myself.’
Dan makes a noncommittal noise.
I watch the saplings glide past as we head towards the beginning of Shatterleg Hill. It’s a deceptive climb, this one. It lures you in with the soft chip bark path, slender trees and dappled shade, gradually increases the gradient while distracting you with pristine views and birdsong, then slaps you in the face with a nine per cent finisher. You always know the first-timers; they tend to be the ones throwing up at the lookout.
By the two-minute mark, Dan’s face is starting to match his crimson T-shirt.
I drop the pace back a bit. ‘Tell me if you need a break.’
‘It’s fine,’ he bites out.
He’s not his usual affable self. It’s a bit odd . . . though, now I think about it, the last time I saw him I inadvertently exploded his sister-in-law’s marriage and . . . huh, maybe he’s planning to shove me into the scrub when no one’s looking and murder me.
‘How’s Ro?’ Dan says.
Not a question I expected. ‘He’s Ro, I guess. Probably working out how to get a steak into a smoothie.’
‘You guys still hang out?’
‘Not as much as we did. Why?’
Dan shrugs. The red in his cheeks is starting to spread to his hairline. ‘Just wondering.’
I doubt it, but don’t press the point.
There are a few more minutes of silence. Our heads bob like mismatched marionettes. My mind flits back to the bliss of that morning, retracing the lines of Sophia’s arms.
‘Do you miss painting?’
I nearly trip, but catch myself. ‘What, like portraits?’
‘Art. Proper art, I mean.’
‘There’s an art to what I do.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘You’ve obviously never had to Photoshop Selena Gomez into a bar mitzvah.’
He sort of smiles, but it’s like Mum staring past the display on the stair climber, not really seeing what he’s looking at.
The path has reached a four per cent gradient now, just enough to start to hurt.
Two guys on the path ahead collide while taking selfies. Dan and I split to go around them.
‘There’s art to what you do, too,’ I say when we fall back into step.
‘I don’t call myself an artist.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘But you are,’ says Dan. ‘IF’s not the same.’
Six per cent.
‘Need a break?’ I say.
‘Nope.’
That’s the way it’s going to be. Okay. I get it.
A brunette has stopped to fix her headphones. I know immediately it’s not Sophia – her shoulders are too narrow – but can’t help sliding my gaze sideways as we pass. Roman nose, pale brows. A flicker of disappointment surprises me.
‘I was just wondering,’ says Dan, sweat pooling under his eyes, ‘if you’ve thought about going back to that kind of work?’
Something in his tone irks me unnecessarily. ‘So I can go back to living on nothing?’
‘No, but –’
‘I can’t eat paint, Dan.’
‘You could study again, maybe. There are student allowances and grants. You used to say that IF was probably only going to last a few years anyway.’
‘It’s June driving this, isn’t it?’
Seven per cent.
‘No, I’m just saying,’ he says, ‘there may be other opportunities. You wouldn’t have to keep doing IF.’
‘What do you mean “have to”? I’m not in a hostage situation, for fuck’s sake. It’s my company. And are you sure you don’t want a break? You’re redder than Kain.’
‘No,’ he gasps, the rest of his face saying otherwise.
Eight per cent. We are now officially on Shatterleg Hill, which, judging from his colour, may actually kill him.
‘Do your clients know why it’s called IF?’ Dan manages, between wheezes. ‘Ignis Fatuus. A deceptive hope, an illusion that misleads.’
‘It also means “will-o-the-wisp”.’
‘Doesn’t it ever bother you?’
‘Sure seems to be bothering you,’ I say.
His heels hit the ground like rubber mallets, echoing off the trees. ‘What about the books with the children, the ones who’ve died? It’s pretty creepy.’
‘You handle Victorian mourning jewellery. Memento mori rings with dead people’s hair. Actual body parts, Dan.’
‘But that’s my point. The stuff I handle is real.’
‘Real isn’t the point of what I do.’
‘That’s just it. IF distorts the truth. It’s like Trump with the whole fake news thing, or white supremacists.’
‘No, fuck you, not like Nazis,’ I say. ‘You owe me a round. And fuck you again.’
We’re finally at nine per cent.
I remember the client who turned up in despair, eyes like pomegranate seeds, because the ex from his book had married someone else. I think of the client I met in a bar who told me about her latest family holiday, despite the fact that Mica had created her family in a composite. The books didn’t do that. Those people were nuts well before IF came into their lives.
I accelerate and leave Dan behind.
The lookout at the top of Shatterleg is full of girls doing yoga. I keep running until I no longer feel like punching someone, then turn back.
Dan is just reaching the lookout, his T-shirt blackened with sweat, his shorts rucked up above his rugby thighs. He run-staggers to a walk, placing his hands on the small of his back, stretching his chest out. ‘Oh God.’ He circles the path. ‘Oh God.’
Behind him, the yoga girls are now posing for photos. I can guarantee that at least one includes a dude in the background trying not to vomit and another sweaty guy in a blue T-shirt. (Just an aside: if that was your pic, hi! That was us.)
‘Gotta sit down.’ Dan walks unsteadily towards a bench.
‘Good luck getting up again.’
‘Don’t care.’
He thumps down on the wood and puts his head between his knees. I watch the gum trees sway in the breeze and wait. Eventually, he straightens back up.
I offer him my water bottle. ‘You did pretty well for a first go.’
He drains the bottle and wipes his forehead on his arm. ‘I’ve been running for a few weeks.’
Whoops.
The yoga girls start leaving. A few of them jog half-heartedly for a few steps, then resort to walking.
‘You know, June was just concerned about you,’ he says, watching a blonde girl adjust the straps of her top.
I sit down. ‘She wasn’t concerned. She was embarrassed.’
‘Don’t know if that’s true.’
‘At Rosie’s party, Kimmie said you said I was an illustrator. You didn’t tell her about the company.’
Dan collapses back against the bench. The T-shirt sticks to his barrel chest. He fiddles with the drink bottle. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ve been thinking that it might wrap up at some point. I mean, is it really what you want to do? What about your art? You haven’t painted for ages.’
Little does he know. ‘Can’t I do both?’
‘But you don’t.’ He looks up as a white army of cockatoos screeches overhead. The blue is unbroken except for a few clouds brushed on the horizon.
‘I’m getting the feeling there’s something else,’ I say.
He hits the bottle on his knee a few times. ‘You’re acting differently. You’ve bailed three times on drinks. You keep forgetting to call me back. It’s not like you.’
I’m still myself; it’s everyon
e else who’s acting out of character.
‘Maybe you need a break from it.’ Dan sits forward.
‘Work’s kind of . . . I’ve been kind of preoccupied. Sorry. Look, how about next week all of us go out – you, me, Ellie, Rosie? That Greek place with those amazing chips.’
‘Uh,’ says Dan, obviously trying to think of a way to remind me that Ellie would happily drown me in a vat of rosé right now. ‘Maybe later.’
Three guys in matching baseball caps run in formation over the crest, touch the obelisk in the centre of the lookout and immediately turn back to retrace their route. There’s no talking, no high-fives, just the solidity of being in a single-minded group.
‘So I guess I won’t be making you a birthday album, then,’ I say.
He half laughs.
‘It’s a shame. I had a whole thing where you were The Rock.’
For a moment, I can see that he sincerely regrets it.
It’s dark by the time I get home and my stomach is growling at the memory of the leftover rice in the fridge. But then I see the fox again, the white tip of its tail slipping around the corner into the car park. I get there just in time to see it leap lightly onto the bins and over the wall.
A Volvo is parked under the Residents Only sign. The owner tips her excess cooking into my bin on Sunday nights. My sneaker dents her bonnet, and I’m up. Now on the edge of the car park wall, watching for movement . . . and there it is, a rusty shadow slipping along ahead of me. I follow as quietly as I can, trying not to think about the fall, happy that the concrete is wide enough for size eleven sneakers. There’s no moon to light the way tonight.
The fox slips down into the alley. A drainpipe assists my drop. The skritch of gravel under my feet. The white tail disappears between a dumpster and the wall, ducking out the other side and along to the darkened street; I quicken my pace. For three blocks, it trots in a straight line, vanishing and reappearing under the streetlights. I think I know where it’s going.
At the end of the block, the fox leaps up and over a whitewashed wall. I jump to catch the edge, tipping my toes against the flat, hauling myself up to the top.
I land amid dark serrated shapes, rows and rows of them. Statues guard their allotments of earth and bones. The fox hurries along the graveyard border, skimming the base of the north embankment. I move onto the brick path so there’s less chance of falling over or into something, and follow, passing the sentries of the dead.