Five Parts Dead

by Tim Pegler

  I don’t get to finish the sentence. ‘It’s no set-up if this is something we both want, Dan. Maybe you could ask. Or maybe you need to think about whatever it is you want.’ She snatches up her bag and storms off.

  I watch her go, shattered, as she disappears into a grove of trees, emerging a minute later in her bikini. She strides to the end of the jetty, drapes her towel over a bollard and dives into the river. She surfaces metres away, then I lose sight of her in the night.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! I think of a hundred things I could have said instead of spewing out useless words. And so much stuff I could have done—I could have taken action, moved closer and kissed her maybe—but then I never take action. And I always regret it.

  I’m a loser. I’m jumping at shadows, psyching myself out with shit that has nothing to do with Pip, Mel or anyone but…me.

  If I could run, I’d be sprinting down the beach until my lungs were molten in my throat. Shit! Shit! I thump the sand, once, twice,

  Maybe I should chase after Pip. Jump into the estuary, swim until I find her, and not give a toss about the plaster cast. Then again, I might sink to the bottom and be anchored in the mud forever. Maybe that’s exactly what I should do.

  Things were going so well. Pip and I…were good together. It felt right, like we were, or could be, I dunno, more than mates. Yes, I did, no…I do want to hold her. Kiss her freckled skin. But I’m afraid. Afraid that I’m too messed up. Not good enough for such a sassy, smart, unusual girl.

  Love your work, Dan. Another New Year’s Eve disaster.

  I lift the last cider bottle and hold it up to the moonlight. Empty. I want to smash the glass all over the beach, swear at the stars, curse the night, scream at Mel. Instead I limp down to the tide-line, gathering fistfuls of stones. I throw one, straining to see and hear where it smashes into the waves. I keep throwing them until my arm aches.

  Then, as I stoop to gather flat pebbles for skimming, an idea surfaces from the haze. More than an idea. A hope.

  C: AFFIRMATIVE/CHANGE OF COURSE

  I wait, nervier than an emo kid at a death metal party, clear what I want and clueless about my chances. Time grinds more slowly than in a dentist’s waiting room, but it’s not as if I have anything better to do.

  When I hear a series of rhythmic splashes, my pulse surges. Steady Dan…don’t get ahead of yourself. It could be fish somersaulting…or a midnight-snacking pelican… or a homicidal prison escapee in a rowboat.

  It feels like twenty minutes before Pip climbs the ladder at the end of the jetty, the moon at her shoulders. She shakes her hair and steps over to her towel. ‘Ow!’ She treads on a pebble, stoops, grabs it and tosses it angrily into the water. That was a risk I had to take. Maybe I can offer to rub her foot later.

  As she straightens up, she spots the trail of stones arranged along the jetty timbers. With a wry smile, she wraps her towel around her and begins to follow them.

  She doesn’t take any short cuts. She loops and arcs with the pebbles, her smile widening. As I throttle the tree branch I’m holding, she halts two-thirds of the way down the jetty where the smooth beach stones spell a message: ‘U R AMAZ-N.’

  I emerge from the shadows and make my way to the jetty. She seems to glide towards me, a moon goddess with silver-mesh water shimmering behind her. I feel so alive, so entranced that I’m almost sorry the jetty isn’t longer. I know it sounds Hollywood but I want the moment to last.

  When she’s within a metre of me, she smiles and my heart accelerates again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I really do want this…I mean, us…I mean, if you do. I’ve been scared of stuffing things up. Can I…can we…start again?’

  She nods. I lean my crutches against the railing and lurch onto the bottom step of the jetty so that we’re face to face. She leans in. We kiss. Her lips are cool and salty. The towel falls from her shoulders. I pull her closer, savouring the curves that meet my body. We press against each other, hungry for contact. Kissing. Stopping. Looking into each other’s eyes. Grinning. Kissing again.

  I’m kissing her neck, hooking my fingers under the straps of her bikini and easing them from her shoulders. Pip lifts my T-shirt from the waist. I raise my arms, emerging smiling and tousled when she wrestles it over my head.

  Hands dance over hips, backs and buttocks. I flinch, almost falling from the step, as her fingers slide beneath my waistband. Laughing, we grab Pip’s towel and shift to the sand hollows under the ti-trees.

  Sunrise doesn’t get any better than this: the sounds of the surf caress my ears. To my left, a cormorant does its laundry on the jetty. To my right, Pip sleeps on. Further down the beach, across honey sand painted by the morning sun, I can see Mel’s and Hiroshi’s swags, side-by-side. This is the first New Year’s Day I’ve been eager to wake, embrace the future…embrace the person beside me.

  Hiroshi’s tour group is due at a farmers’ market for a late breakfast—the idea is that a fry-up and fresh produce might be just what the doctor ordered for partied-out heads. Mel’s going with them. Pip and I tag along, too.

  Back in the van, I feel self-conscious again, as if Mel is watching Pip and me with a smirk on her face. Part of me wants to retreat and act as though nothing has happened, to keep Pip and me as our secret, just for us.

  So much for secrets. As the van winds through the forest, Pip curls up on the bench seat and snuggles against my chest. It feels good, feels right. There’s no ‘So…you two?’ from Mel, no wink in the rear-view mirror. Maybe I am too harsh on her, too ready for her to be scoring points off me. She’s probably glad to see her screw-up brother getting something right for a change. And I probably should be thanking her for bringing Pip along this holiday. I focus, Thanks, Mel, but there’s no response. Rosh must be dominating her headspace right now.

  Hiroshi’s soon back in guide mode, cattle-dogging his tour party together for their next activity. Mel chats to the bus driver as Pip and I sit up the back and watch Japanese surfies tumble on board. One freshly mohawked character swallows Hiroshi in a hug before belching and collapsing face-first along the aisle of the bus. It takes Rosh and two others to wrestle him onto a seat. The final pair to climb inside lean against each other like they’re part of a three-legged marathon and are losing their fight with gravity.

  Toshi and Chika have been badly bitten during the night: small bruises dot their necks. I wave and tap my throat, feigning alarm at their condition. They frown, then look at each other, their eyes widening in understanding. Toshi extends an index finger and sends it buzzing around Chika’s head to a ‘niiiii’ soundtrack. Chika swats at the pretend mozzie and tries to squash it between her hands. I bow in appreciation of their performance, knowing that insects had nothing to do with the bruising.

  Within minutes of the bus grinding away from the farm-stay most of the travellers are asleep and the show begins. There’s snorting, snuffling and strangled gargling audible over the drone of the diesel engine. Someone even sounds like a Vespa engine. In winter. With a clogged fuel filter. Hiroshi cranes his neck to peer through the headrests at the culprit and grins when I catch his eye. Next thing I see he’s holding up a phone, trying to record the menagerie of snores. It will make a sensational ring tone.

  The market is at a sports oval fringed by pine trees. All the usual suspects are there: locally made wine, olive-oil, shrivelled mushrooms that look like they’re from an archaeological dig, exotic jams and preserves, gourmet ice-cream, dusty sacks of spuds, organic honey, lavender skincare products, venison sausages and fresh fruit and vegetables. The bleary-eyed tourists follow the scent of frying and queue up at a sausage sizzle. Hiroshi and Mel have found hot chocolates somewhere and are giggling at each other’s froth moustaches.

  Pip and I do a slow circuit of the stalls and wind up at a tarot-card reader perched in the shade of two lumpy pines. Pip looks at me and I nod. ‘Sure—you first, though.’

  The tarot reader has wild, wavy hair barely restrained by her twisted scarf headband. Gold
hoop earrings, knuckles full of rings and a no-nukes T-shirt complete her costume. I consider asking what future the cards have foretold for nuclear power in Australia but decide not to risk pissing her off.

  She gets Pip to hold the deck, focus on the cards and then cut them, twice, with her left hand. Pip hesitates and then chooses one of the piles. The reader snatches up that stack. Her hands scuttle like spiders across the black tablecloth as she lays out the cards.

  She points to a picture of a man carrying a load of timber and looks up at Pip. ‘This represents your past…a burden you had to carry.’ She gestures at another card, a queen with a sword: ‘Hardship has given you strength and a direction for living your life.’

  I watch Pip frown, seeking truth in every utterance. And I’d thought this would be a bit of fun—‘You will meet a tall dark stranger’ and all those clichés. I watch a kelpie chase a magpie across the oval and my mind drifts.

  ‘The Star represents the present. You are newly awake to the beauties of life. Wishes are being granted.’ Pip’s mouth curls upwards. I snap to attention.

  ‘The future looks…positive.’ The reader glances at me. ‘The Ace of Cups signifies a beginning, long wished for.’

  Pip glows. Her open, naked smile gives me a rush of pride and I feel my body respond too. She’s stunning. How dumb am I that I never noticed her? Or thought that she might like me? And how lucky am I that she waited?

  ‘Would the young man also like a reading?’

  I’m caught off guard. Pip’s eyes are shining, willing me on. ‘Sure. I guess so.’

  The reader swiftly shuffles the cards and passes the deck over. It feels warm and almost pulses in my hands. I weigh it in my palm, split it twice, pass her two piles and point to one. She turns over cards and spreads them about the table. Then she frowns.

  Clouds mug the sun. Shadow shrouds the sports ground. The images on the cards seem menacing. My instinct is to cover my ears, or run.

  Pip finds her voice first. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  The reader looks at Pip, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘I…I’ve not seen this combination before.’ She gestures across the spread. ‘Four tens represent the elements: Fire, Earth, Air and Water. Ten is the threshold between beginning and ending…between birth and death.’

  She points to an upside-down image in which a man sits in bed, his head in his hands. Nine swords hover beside him. The reader looks at me, her face pale. ‘The reversed card indicates visitation…by something you do not understand.

  ‘In the present we have the magician, the link between the known and the unknown.’ She’s rushing her words now, even though there’s not another customer in sight.

  Her hands sweep across to another solemn image, a black-caped man standing despondent near five goblets, three of which lie in spilled wine…or blood. ‘This man is lost in his pain and…’

  ‘The future.’ Pip’s voice, higher than usual, intervenes. ‘What does it say about the future?’

  The reader’s answer falls like an axe as she points to a man hanging from a tree. ‘Time to take charge of your mind. Choose life or…darkness.’

  A: I HAVE A DIVER DOWN, KEEP WELL

  CLEAR & SLOW SPEED

  ‘Well that was freaky,’ I mutter as we wander back to the bus. ‘I might go with the bouncing castle next time and give Madame Creepy a miss.’ Pip’s smile is fleeting; the reading has unsettled both of us.

  I wish I could dismiss the cards with my usual cynicism. But I can’t shake the thought that I’m a messenger… some sort of courier for Death.

  The reading was full of boundaries—beginnings and endings; past and future; living and dead.

  What if I do have a foot on each side? Is that why I survive stuff? Or is it the twin thing again? Mel, with all her sunshine and happy-happy-joy-joy, is life. If I’m her polar opposite, that makes me death. An apprentice Reaper.

  I can’t get these thoughts out of my head, let alone process what they mean. Pip has already lost someone in her life. I’ve seen three mates die—and a baby I didn’t even know existed. If I am some sort of curse, who’s next? What if it’s my own family? Or Pip? What other tragedies will I witness…and live through?

  A lump forms in my throat like I’ve swallowed a river-stone. I feel drained. Empty. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes and I blink them away. I won’t cry again. Not now.

  I’ve got to be kidding myself, playing happy couples with Pip. I can’t see a way forward, can’t contemplate going back to school without the guys, can’t stomach the thought of everyone whispering, even the staff, that I’m the boy who lived…like Harry bloody Potter. I’m not sure I can turn up, open my locker, take my books out and act like nothing has changed. Not next month. Not ever. Everything ahead feels…altered, like I’ve been erased from each scene.

  The bus shudders outside the cottages while we discuss plans for the day. Hiroshi is staying on board; he has pelican-feeding this afternoon and penguin-viewing at dusk. Mum and Dad are back and, after way too many Happy New Year hugs, they suggest we all head to the beach. While Mel and Pip grab their towels and boards, I beg out. I’m not up for sitting on the sand while they surf.

  Pip and I kiss a lingering goodbye before Dad toots the horn. She frowns. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yeah, good…bit knackered though.’ I wink. ‘I had a tough night. I’ll kick back and maybe read more of the logbook—if you don’t mind, that is. Catch a wave for me.’

  Dad toots again. Pip blows me a kiss and bounds over to the car.

  AUGUST 9

  Commenced with squally unsettled weather with frequent showers of rain from the west.

  I have been summoned to Donington to assist with identification of the body discovered in bushland. I pray to God that it is not young Mr Sam. I embark with the Yatala tomorrow, weather permitting. Second keeper Bellows will take charge of the light. During briefing, he informed me that Mrs Bellows suffered a miscarriage last week. I asked if she was well enough for him to take charge in my absence. He replied in the affirmative and wished me God speed…

  AUGUST 15

  Commenced with moderate wind from the southwest and dark cloudy weather. At 4 ditto. At 6.49 put out the light.

  Have returned with fresh horses but grim news. Am greatly dismayed by the deterioration of affairs here. I sense something has altered our fragile community during my absence. Bickering is prevalent and duties have been neglected. The light appears not to have been cleaned in days. Mr Bellows tells me he ordered underkeeper Sutton to polish the lantern. Mr Sutton says he was given no such command. Miss Lily is limping and has severe bruising about her face but will only tell me she ‘fell’.

  AUGUST 16

  Commenced with fresh breeze at north, gloomy and ugly threatening weather till 6am. Very thick, damp atmosphere throughout. Trimmed lamps 1.45am.

  Employed cleaning the light and tower windows. At nightfall yesterday I noticed Mr Bellows circumnavigating his cottage holding a Holy Bible in front of him. When I enquired as to his motivation, he stated he was creating a shield around his home to ward off demons. He refused to give cause for this unprecedented activity.

  AUGUST 17

  Commenced with moderate breeze at SSE and continuous throughout—latter part dark and gloomy. Trimmed lamps at 1.30am.

  Employed cleaning brass work of the window frames. At 9.40am a schooner in sight bearing N by W, distance 15 miles.

  At dusk discovered Miss Lily sleeping in the stable, hungry and feverish. I took the poor girl into my cottage, gave her soup and set her in the bunk on the rear verandah. I cannot bear to deliver her bad news while she is so unwell.

  List of stores wanting:

  One small Bex lantern

  A back chain for the dray harness

  A few horseshoe nails

  AUGUST 18

  Commenced with fresh breeze & variable at ENE–NE by N. Lightning at NW from 10pm and a few heavy drops of rain.

  Miss Lily still feve
rish. Mrs Bellows says she is unable to care for Miss Lily, having been weakened by her miscarriage. Mrs Sutton also refused, stating that she fears bringing the fever into her own cottage and therefore cannot help. I am grievously worried at their cold-heartedness towards this young woman.

  AUGUST 19

  Commenced with strong wind at NW, overcast and passing squalls till noon. From noon heavy showers of rain and a few claps of thunder and lightning.

  I have raised the signal flag, Whisky, seeking medical assistance. Miss Lily is taking little food and appears to be failing.

  AUGUST 20

  Commenced with strong breeze at NNE and overcast till 6am. From 6, ditto wind. Very dark and gloomy.

  At noon, Miss Lily’s fever appeared to have broken at last. The signal flag has vanished from the light station. I asked as to its whereabouts and Mr Bellows replied it must have been lost in the wind. Mr Bellows also informed me he has injured himself and won’t be able to fulfil his duties for the foreseeable future.

  The next entry in the log is August 30 but there’s no mention of Lily. I don’t get it. The lighthouse keepers dutifully detail every weather pattern, passing ship and quart of oil used. What could have happened to make them skip nine days? I flick ahead in case they made the entries on the wrong page. But no, there’s nothing. Business as usual from August 30. It doesn’t make sense. Frustrated, I slam the logbook shut.

  Hang on…with the book closed, there’s a slight gap visible between the pages at the spine. I slide a fingernail into the cavity and open the book at that page… August 20. What the?

  I bend forward, my face close to the sepia paper. It looks as though three or more pages have been cut from the logbook. There’s even a score mark along the previous page, as if someone ran a razor blade along the binding. Whoever made the incision didn’t want it to be obvious or they’d have torn the pages out.