The Ottoman Motel

by Christopher Currie

‘What about the slope?’ Simon remembered his own public swimming pool experiences, that sinister feeling of the water creeping up your body the further in you went.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll put a grippy covering on the floor, and the tables and chairs will be specially made so it feels like you’re sitting flat.’ Pony pointed to the far end. ‘Do you see down there?’

  ‘The deep end?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s where the best seats will be.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because you’re in the deepest part of the pool. The best view’s from the deep end table. That’s where the famous people will sit.’

  ‘Like Neil Armstrong?’

  ‘The man on the moon?’

  ‘Yes. Ned said he served him lunch once.’

  ‘Neil Armstrong.’ Pony smiled. ‘Definitely. I’ll make him something myself.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like cooking, though.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ve mostly seen you eat cereal.’

  ‘Well, I help out in the kitchen sometimes. When it’s busy.’ Pony frowned. ‘I’m not a freeloader you know.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ said Simon. ‘At the Gales’ house, I mean.’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘Where did you live before here?’

  Pony squinted up his eyes, as if trying to focus on some details at the pool’s edge. ‘Ned could help in the restaurant,’ he said. ‘He’d be very useful.’

  Simon stared at the broken card table, and something came to him. ‘Did your parents go missing as well?’

  Pony drew in a breath like he was going to say something. Then he shook his head and laughed. ‘I was going to say yes,’ he said. ‘It was too good to miss. But that’s not what happened to them.’

  Simon’s stomach lurched with anger and embarrassment. All his life’s bullies howled in his head. ‘That’s not funny,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t laugh at me for that.’

  Pony chuckled on. ‘Admit it,’ he said. ‘It was pretty funny.’

  Simon stood up and threw his half-finished muesli bar through the gap in the seats, even though he never littered. He started to walk back down the grandstand.

  ‘Oh come on,’ called Pony. ‘I was only kidding.’

  Simon made his footsteps rattle the wood.

  ‘I’m sorry, okay?’

  Simon kept walking. Sick of this, sick of stupid Pony, sick of everything.

  ‘My dad shot my mum with a rifle, okay?’ Pony’s voice cut through. ‘And then shot himself.’

  Simon froze.

  ‘That’s how my parents died,’ said Pony. ‘If you wanted to know.’

  Simon slowly climbed back up the grandstand. He sat down next to Pony. ‘I didn’t…When?’

  Pony took off his hat. He stared upwards. A threadbare awning was stretched above them, covered with the soft shadows of leaves and sticks. They twirled and danced: swishing fingers on the old fabric. ‘I was…maybe nine? Ten? We lived on this property, outside of Roma. Cattle farm. My mum worked in the doctor’s surgery in town. She was the receptionist, she’d organise everything for the doctors. She didn’t like the farm, all that stuff. Neither did I. I spent a lot of time in the waiting room. I read a lot. National Geographics. Never thought I’d finish them all.’

  Pony wedged his hat between his knees, and went on. ‘Dad was just obsessed by the farm. Kept wanting to make it bigger. It wasn’t making any money—the drought, you know—but he was always saying speculate to accumulate. We were getting poorer, and basically relying on Mum’s wage and Dad couldn’t believe that nothing was working. He’d get so angry.’

  Pony was folding up his muesli bar wrapper, over and over on itself. ‘We were just sitting down to breakfast, same as any morning. Walked in with a gun under his arm. Started shouting about living and dying on the land. I thought it was a joke, you know? Like he was overacting to make us laugh. But then—’ Pony thrust his hands into his pockets. He pulled out a band-aid, flicked it against the palm of his hand. ‘After he…after Mum, he pointed it straight at me.’ Pony put two fingers at the side of Simon’s head, just above his eyebrow. ‘Kept asking if I agreed with him, kept saying I’m right, aren’t I, I’m right, I’m right?’

  ‘What did you say?’ Simon could barely get his voice to make a noise.

  ‘I told him no. So he shot me.’

  ‘He shot you?’

  ‘Tried to, except the gun jammed. He kept pulling the trigger.’ Pony tapped Simon’s temple. ‘Click. Click. Click.’ Pony put the band-aid back in his pocket. ‘I took my chance. Punched him in the guts and ran. I was out the front door and I heard the gun go off again. I waited for the pain. I actually waited to feel the bullet. But it wasn’t me he shot. They were there together, in the kitchen. I went back.’

  Simon cleared his throat. ‘That’s horrible.’

  Pony shrugged. ‘It’s not something I think too much about.’ His voice was steady, but Simon saw his hands were shaking.

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’ said Simon. ‘What happened…after?’

  ‘I just left,’ said Pony. ‘I knew where Dad kept all the money, so I took it. I dunno, maybe they think he buried me somewhere. Maybe they think I killed them.’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t told anyone that,’ he added. ‘Ever. And you can’t tell anyone, okay?’

  Simon nodded. ‘You haven’t even told Ned?’

  ‘All they know is I ran away from home. Dad’s money got me a bus fare and half a year’s accommodation here. I just stayed. No one asks you much about what you did before.’

  ‘Are the Gales your family now?’ said Simon.

  Pony didn’t say anything for a long while. He studied the long wooden plank beneath his feet. Eventually, he said, ‘You see these?’ He pointed between his shoes. Simon peered over. A long line of light brown ants threaded a path over the wood. ‘These are the same ants from this morning.’

  ‘The ones stuck in the orange juice.’

  Pony nodded.

  ‘But they haven’t got any wings.’

  Pony raised his finger like a teacher. ‘They haven’t got any wings anymore.’

  ‘You mean they fall off?’

  Pony nodded. ‘When they find somewhere they want to stay, they shed them.’

  ‘But why? Why wouldn’t you want to keep wings?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Pony, ‘they know they won’t need them anymore.’

  ‘Mr Tarden!’

  Tarden jumped, physically jumped, as Audrey’s face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He always felt like a naughty child when he left Iris. Stupid, they were both adults.

  ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Audrey, you know you can call me Jack.’ His heart hammered so thickly in his ribs he was sure Audrey could hear it. He tried to smile.

  ‘Okay. Jack.’

  It was a game they went through every time they talked. He disliked being called by his last name, a shorthand that reminded him too much of that long time in his past when his life was not his own.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ said Audrey. She met him at the bottom of the stairs. Her outfit was strange, even by Audrey’s standards: a tweed coat that crumpled at her feet and nearly obscured her head, her hands poking shapes halfway down the arms. She reminded Tarden of the witch from that old movie, melting to the floor after getting splashed with water. She shuffled one hand out the end of the sleeve and held out an envelope. It was bright fluoro yellow and covered with red glitter. ‘It’s an invitation,’ said Audrey, ‘to Gin’s birthday party.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said Tarden. ‘It’s his birthday, is it?’

  Audrey looked at him like he was stupid. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s his actual birthday tomorrow. He told me he was happy to have his birthday later, when things were less busy, but I told him that was silly. It’s not the same if you don’t celebrate on your actual birthday.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway, Dad said
yes, just a small celebration, but we thought it might be nice to have a party. You know, after Simon’s parents going missing and Dad going to hospital.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarden. ‘Of course.’ His ears burned at the mention of Simon’s name.

  ‘Say you’ll come?’ She pressed the envelope into Tarden’s hand. ‘You’ll come, and Mr Kuiper? It’ll only be for a few hours, and I’m getting proper party food. Dad wanted to make stuff, but it wasn’t real things you eat at a party.’

  Tarden smiled. ‘We’ll do our best,’ he said.

  Audrey put her hand on her hip. ‘I need a definite RSVP.’ She made a concerned face, a quizzical twist to her mouth. ‘I need to confirm numbers.’ Her face reminded Tarden so much of her mother that it shocked him.

  ‘Of course we’ll come,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He knew exactly what Robbie would say, but—frankly—fuck him. He’d make him come along.

  Audrey beamed. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Now, you don’t have to bring a present tomorrow, but you’ll probably need to give it to Gin soon after.’ She sneezed, twice in a row.

  ‘That coat a little dusty?’ said Tarden.

  Audrey wiped her nose. ‘A little. It’s been in storage.’

  ‘Is that your mum’s coat?’

  Audrey’s eyes opened, as if Tarden had unravelled a great mystery. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Her opera coat. Look,’ Audrey dug into the other pocket and pulled out a piece of crumpled, yellowing paper. She handed it to Tarden. ‘Be careful, though.’

  Tarden took the piece of paper and peered at it. ‘The…Barber—’

  ‘The Barber of Seville,’ said Audrey. ‘It’s her favourite opera.’

  ‘Really.’ Robbie listened to them sometimes, but to Tarden it just sounded like people hurting their voices.

  ‘She took the train,’ said Audrey, ‘to see it in Sydney.’

  ‘She must have loved it.’

  ‘She does,’ said Audrey, ‘she does.’

  Tarden looked up. ‘Last of the true locals, your mum.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not many people left now who actually grew up here. This place has always been for people travelling through. Or people coming to work for a season, moving away. Now it’s tourism,’ Tarden said the word like it was sour on his tongue. ‘People coming to spend time by the sea.’

  ‘But we live here,’ said Audrey. ‘You and me.’

  ‘Yeah, well we’re the smart ones.’ Tarden tapped the side of his head. ‘We know how good this place is.’ He remembered hearing stories about Audrey, about what she did to herself after Stephanie disappeared. It’d be enough to send anyone that young over the edge. ‘Your mum, she was a good woman.’

  ‘Is a good woman.’

  The girl’s eyes, Tarden thought, held something that would never soften. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘She is a good woman.’ He gave the opera ticket back. Audrey took it, but didn’t put it back in her pocket. Instead, she reached into another pocket and took out something else. A piece of glass, Tarden thought, bottle green, worn smooth.

  ‘This is hers too,’ said Audrey.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sea-glass. Mum told me about how there used to be a city under the sea. This,’ she held up the glass to the light, squinting at it, ‘this was a part of the city once.’

  Tarden nodded, wondering where that part of him had gone that would have once believed such things. He pictured a shard falling into the sea, tumbling, its edges eroding in a lifetime of saltwater. Currents and wind and the warmth of the earth carrying it to a random slice of coastline, where Stephanie Gale had found it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Audrey quietly. ‘I know it’s just a bit of a bottle.’ She put the glass and the ticket back in her pocket. ‘Anyway, you’ve probably got things to do, but I’ll see you at the party?’

  ‘See you there,’ said Tarden, and turned to leave.

  ‘Did you and Iris have a nice chat?’

  Tarden froze. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We did.’

  ‘It’s nice to have a friend to talk to.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarden, as Audrey skipped away down the hall. ‘I suppose it is.’

  They spun off the sealed road and took a shortcut through a small patch of scrub. Simon hadn’t ridden a bike in such a long time that it had taken him a moment to get used to the speed, the trust that momentum alone would hold you upright. Ned’s bike was slightly too big for him, and he kept losing the pedals and having to stick his legs out for balance. Each time, he fell behind Pony, who pedalled furiously even down hills, arms locked straight, hat flapping from underneath his helmet, khaki rucksack swinging on his back. He kept swerving too, on straight roads, puffing the brakes to correct his angle. Simon guessed these were more safety tests.

  When they sprang through some sandbanks and rejoined the main road, Simon could see the town centre at the bottom of a gentle hill. They passed a yard of abandoned cars, a decrepit garage, a small nursery ringed with terracotta pots. Pony came to a sudden stop by a large water tank at the top of the main street. It was set up on wooden struts and looked for all the world like a gallows. Simon went past him, had to turn around and pedal back. ‘I usually go much faster,’ said Pony. ‘But I thought you might not be able to keep up.’

  Simon had to tip the bike over to get off; his feet couldn’t touch the ground otherwise. He tried to make it look like it was easy.

  ‘Let’s get a drink, anyway,’ said Pony. ‘Just lean the bike against the water tower. No one’ll take it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a rule. No one’ll be around anyway.’

  ‘Thought it would be busy on a Saturday afternoon.’

  Pony shook his head. ‘Everyone’s done their shopping, now they’re all at home. Trust me.’ He strode away down the centre of the road, his shadow swinging behind him, lengthening up the hill. The street was as quiet as a painting. The only sound as Pony walked was the stones in his pockets.

  Pony opened one of his trouser pockets with a Velcro rip and pulled out a fresh pink-brown band-aid. He peeled off the backing and placed the band-aid on the underside of his left wrist. Smoothed it down.

  Simon was sure Pony didn’t have a cut on his wrist, but he said nothing. After what Pony had told him about his dad, about the gun, Simon didn’t think anything could be too strange. ‘Are we going to…what’s it called, the cafe?’

  ‘The Ottoman,’ said Pony. ‘Only it’s not a cafe at this time of the day, not on the weekend.’

  ‘Why is it not a cafe?’

  ‘After two o’clock, that part closes, the other part opens up. For drinking.’

  ‘Drinking beer?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a pub in the afternoon.’

  ‘What’ll we drink?’

  ‘Beer. Whatever.’

  Simon’s heart thrilled at the mention of something so adult. His dad had a separate fridge for beer at home, or at least in the last home they’d been in. One bottle of each type, each with glass of different colours, different shaped lids and metal caps. Simon had never been allowed one. ‘Beer,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’

  Pony pulled at his bottom lip, puffed out a laugh. ‘You’re having a Coke.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Simon. ‘Whatever.’

  Pony led them down the main street and through a door just up from the cafe entrance. Simon’s stomach lurched as he recognised the entrance from the night before. Up the three steps. Inside, the sticky smell of stale beer. A darker room, a larger room. Behind the bar was the large man from the search at the dam, Nat, polishing a beer glass with a white cloth.

  ‘Here.’ Pony ushered Simon into a circular booth at the back of the pub.

  Simon sat down. He realised he didn’t have any money. ‘Pony,’ he said, turning out his pocket, ‘the drinks—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pony. ‘I’ve got a tab.’

  Simon nodded, impressed. He thought only famous people had tabs in bars.

 
; Eventually, a waitress came over to their table, the same one that had served Simon and his parents the day before. She was wearing all black. Her T-shirt had a faded picture of a horse on it, a silhouette, upside down. ‘Lads,’ she said. ‘What can I get you?’ Simon noticed Pony pulling his shoulders back, sitting up straighter. His voice strained, even more than usual. ‘Hi, Megan,’ he said. ‘Beer for me, Coke for Simon.’

  ‘Pony,’ she said, closing her eyes, making a wide smile, ‘when have I ever pulled you a beer?’

  ‘No, I meant—’ Pony squirmed in his seat. ‘I’ll…have a ginger beer.’

  The waitress, Megan, chuckled. ‘Wise choice.’ She cocked her head at Simon. ‘Any news about your parents?’

  ‘No.’ Simon was sure he could see a tattoo peeking out from under the arm of Megan’s T-shirt. The legs of a spider, maybe.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Fingers crossed, hey.’

  Pony took off his hat. His hair was stuck down like moss to a rock. ‘I’m helping Simon,’ he said. ‘No one else is, but I am.’

  Megan looked at him strangely. ‘Coke and a ginger beer, was it?’

  Pony put his hat back on.

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘Thank you.’

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Pony leaned into Simon and said, ‘That’s Megan.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She works here sometimes. And when it’s busy, up our place.’ Pony kept tapping his hand on the table, his thumb and little finger vibrating.

  ‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘You told me at breakfast.’

  ‘She doesn’t live in Reception. She stays over sometimes, or she drives back up the coast.’

  ‘You two are friends?’ Simon thought about the silver stud under Megan’s lip. It would probably get in the way when you ate.

  ‘What?’ said Pony. ‘Not really. Maybe. I don’t really like her.’ His cheeks tinged with red. He drummed the table more. ‘How long does it take to pour two drinks?’

  Simon knew Pony liked Megan, the way people sometimes liked other people.

  ‘Won’t be quiet for long,’ said Pony. ‘All the fishers’ll wake up soon, looking for a drink.’

  ‘What, they sleep in the day?’