Where did he come from? He was supposed to be in Sydney. I fumbled with the lid, desperate not to spill anything, but couldn’t get it back on the box. I heard Dad stop outside my room, down the hall. ‘Jarrah?’
Laura looked at me, wide-eyed. As I heard Dad start walking down the hall towards us, she grabbed my head and pulled me into a deep tongue kiss.
‘Hello?’ Dad’s voice trailed off.
We pulled apart. Dad was standing in the doorway, staring at me and Laura in shock. He backed away and I heard his footsteps going down the stairs, slow and heavy.
‘What the—?’ I whispered to Laura.
She gestured to the box of ash. ‘Better to get caught kissing, don’t you reckon?’
I took a deep breath and my heart started to slow. She was right. Would’ve been worse for Dad to find us running our hands through Toby’s ashes.
Faintly, outside, I heard the pool gate clang. Dad was going over to the studio. I got the lid back on, wrapped the tape around the box. Slid the whole lot back under the bed.
‘You’d better go,’ I said to Laura.
We crept downstairs and I slid the screen door open to let her out. She put her arms around my neck and hugged me hard. Kissed me quickly on the lips. She still had tears in her eyes. Turned away, down the stairs. Picked up the bike propped at the bottom and wheeled it across the lawn. Waved from the gate, and was gone.
The house was dead quiet, but I could feel Dad over there. He’d caught me kissing a girl in his bedroom. Plus wagging school. Was I in serious trouble? Or didn’t this kind of stuff matter any more? I stood for a long time, waiting to see if he’d come back, wondering what to do.
Half an hour passed and he didn’t appear. I picked up my phone.
Tom texted back straight away.
I was changed and out there in four minutes, jogging on the spot and stretching my legs. Still didn’t know why Laura was crying.
BRIDGET
Finn’s back. You know it as soon as you pull into the driveway on Friday afternoon, before you see the light on in his studio. Before you come across the grass and spot him stretched out on the cane lounge on the verandah, asleep.
You missed him last night. The loneliness had a different quality. He’s banished from your bed, but you still sense him hidden across in his studio, still sense you can rely on his presence.
You reach the verandah and stop. He stirs.
‘Back early,’ you say.
Finn rubs his eyes, eases himself onto his elbows. He looks dreadful. Lines carved into his face that you don’t remember. He swings his legs over and gets to his feet.
‘We need to talk.’
Your heart shrivels. Anything he wants to talk about can’t be good. His legal advice. Your night away from the house. His night away from the house. Anything to do with Toby. There’s nothing you can look forward to in this conversation.
‘Is Jarrah home from school?’ you ask.
He pauses, glances at his watch. ‘He came and went out again, I think. I dozed off.’
‘We need to keep a closer eye on him,’ you say, following him inside. ‘I’m worried about him.’
‘I agree.’ Finn sits on the lounge.
You hoped there’d be some preamble, some making of hot or cold drinks, something. You kick off your shoes, loosen some buttons and sit down.
You feel, rather than hear, that he’s crying. The shake of his shoulders is an earthquake tremor that travels down the lounge, into the floor and up into you. As if the foundations of the house are shuddering. The legal news must have been bad. You’re so close to reaching over with your hand and grasping his that it almost feels like you’ve done it.
When he speaks, his voice is choked.
‘The buyers pulled out.’
You don’t understand the words, and when you do, you don’t understand the meaning. Is he talking about one of his sculptures? Is it something to do with Edmund? When you realise that he means the house, something akin to relief seeps into your body. You do reach over then and place your hand on his, and he turns his hand upwards and grips you like it’s him who’s drowning. It’s terrifying, and you want to pull away from his downwards momentum. It takes all your strength to stay steady and not wrench your fingers out of his grasp.
‘It was a crap price anyway,’ you say.
He doesn’t respond and your anger starts its familiar burn. The house sale is hardly the most important thing going on. He’s been charged with manslaughter and you haven’t even talked about it.
‘Weren’t you going to Sydney to get legal advice? What happened?’
You can feel him fighting for control, literally wrestling down the urge to sob, and you hope he wins. It’s selfish, but you can’t even manage your own pain, and the tidal wave of his will swamp you.
His shuddering recedes a little; he gains control. Withdraws his hand from yours, wipes his eyes on his arm, fishes in his pocket for a tissue and blows his nose. He balls the tissue up in his fist.
‘I want you to hear me out.’
When you give a guarded nod, he continues. ‘We can’t stay here. It’s ruining us.’
A clenching, down low in your belly. Did he even hear your question about legal advice? ‘Hang on—’
‘Edmund’s offered us his home. He’ll stay somewhere else. Jarrah can go to school, you can start looking for work. We can get away from here.’
It’s not what you expected. ‘In Sydney?’
‘Just until we sell the house, or you find a job in Tasmania. Or I sell some pieces. I want us to pack what we need this weekend, leave the rest. We can be out of here by Sunday.’
The moment you felt softly towards him, the moments of missing him last night, are disappearing. ‘This is hardly the most important thing we have to talk about, for Christ’s sake. What did the barrister say?’
He shakes his head. ‘We can talk about that later. This is the most important thing.’
‘Have you thought of asking Jarrah and me how we feel about it?’
‘I’m asking.’
Rage starts, low in your belly. ‘Do you even know your son has a girlfriend?’
A strange expression crosses Finn’s face. ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Has it occurred to you he might not want to be dragged off to Sydney with two days’ notice? And what about me? I just walk out of the job? Don’t go back on Monday?’
‘Yes.’
You’re floundering. There’s nothing to fight in these replies, nothing to grasp and shake. You change tack. ‘What if we don’t want to go?’
‘We need to think about what’s best for us as a family.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ you snap.
He looks up, shocked, and you know you’ve stepped over some line. You shut your mouth.
‘Bridget,’ he says softly. ‘I’m begging you.’
Your head is shaking of its own accord. ‘I can’t leave Toby.’
It’s out of your mouth before you know it.
Finn looks at you, old and creased and confused. ‘He’s gone,’ he says, as though you’re a child.
You’re wrong, you want to yell at him. My son is out there in that pool. Instead you challenge him. ‘What if we won’t come?’
Finn looks at you for a moment, then his eyes drop. His head sags into his hands. You expect him to begin sobbing but instead he becomes completely still.
You don’t want to know the answer. You get up, walk quickly to the door and outside.
It’s dusk, still hot, and there’s no sign of Jarrah. You take a few breaths, and without thinking too much, you turn for the pool. Let yourself in the gate, close it softly behind you. Walk to one of the wooden chairs, drag it close to the edge and sit down, feeling the warm air lick the bare skin of your arms.
Nothing in your scientific training can support what you know without doubt: that Toby is someho
w in the water. You don’t want to know Finn’s answer to your question. You don’t want him to force a choice. You can’t leave Toby. You won’t.
FINN
Finn wanted to follow Bridget. Wanted to say: Where were you all night? Wanted to ask: What’s happening to us?
Wanted to say: I’m so fucking scared.
Couldn’t.
The garden gate clicked open and the boys came through, ruddy-cheeked, streaked with sweat. Tom said something to Jarrah, inaudible from where Finn was watching, and Jarrah turned his head and smiled. It was a smile that smote Finn. For a second his son was open, unguarded. It was a sweet smile, from a forgotten world.
They came up the steps, across the verandah; they were beautiful. Slender Jarrah, loose-limbed from running, moving easily, his boy’s body maturing, hinting at what it would soon become. Tom, beside him, broad-shouldered, strong, in his young prime. Finn hadn’t run or played sport in years. His belly was too big, his knees hurt, he was hairy, he was punch-drunk with pain, he’d become an old man too early.
Jarrah’s face closed when he saw his father, his body visibly tightening.
Finn sat up and forced a smile that felt like a grimace. ‘Hi, guys. Good run?’
Jarrah nodded.
‘Hi, Mr Brennan,’ Tom said. ‘Yeah, Jarrah’s thrashing me. You never said he was that fast.’
‘Tom, call me Finn. Please. How about a beer?’
There was a hesitation and Finn willed Tom to say yes, to stay with them, to share the normality of his life, sprinkle it around them.
‘Thanks,’ Tom said, somehow getting it, ‘Finn. That’d be great.’
Finn got to his feet and looked at Jarrah. ‘Wanna try one?’
Jarrah blinked, and Finn had a sudden image of the scene in his bedroom, his son and the girl, kissing in that way of teenagers, all tongue and need.
‘Sure,’ Jarrah said, and Finn was certain the flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from running.
‘Your mother doesn’t need to know everything.’ Finn paused to make sure Jarrah knew what he was talking about. When he saw relief in the boy’s eyes, he gestured. ‘Sit down. I’ll bring them out.’
In their old life, on such a Friday evening, the Brennan family would have headed out to the pool, plunged into its cooling embrace, laid around dripping on the deckchairs. Finn would have enjoyed watching Bridget in her swimming costume, would have wished his own belly were smaller, would have decided to eat less pizza. His sons would have played in the pool, Jarrah throwing Toby up and letting him fall into the water, snatching him out a few seconds after his head went under.
Finn shook his head. Way too dangerous. He opened the fridge, pulled out three longnecks. Corona wasn’t a bad beer to start Jarrah on. He shook his head again. Best not to make any assumptions. He didn’t think the kid was drinking, but then again he’d had no idea Jarrah was kissing girls – or more: at home during the day when he should have been at school, so what did Finn really know?
The boys had kicked off their shoes and socks and thrown them down on the grass. Finn sat down, handed over the beers.
‘Cheers,’ he said, and the three of them clinked and drank. He watched Jarrah out of the corner of his eye and saw the boy grimace slightly. Finn relaxed a little. Maybe it really was his first taste of beer. He wondered if Bridget was still sitting over by the pool, obscured by the thick palms. One small interaction at a time, that’s what he could manage. He couldn’t risk starting a discussion about offering their son alcohol. Better she stayed away, just now.
‘Much work on?’ he asked Tom. Wonderful, safe Tom.
‘Been a bit quiet this week,’ Tom said. ‘But that’s how it goes. Got a job on tomorrow.’
‘You like the work?’
Tom nodded. ‘Don’t have to take it home.’
‘You’re good at it,’ Finn said. ‘Thought of an apprenticeship?’
Tom took a big swallow of beer. ‘I dunno, Mr Bren— Finn. Mum’d like me to go to uni. We’re doing the forms at the moment. I can probably get into teaching sport.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Maybe.’
Finn turned to his son. ‘What about you, Jarr? Any thoughts of late?’
Jarrah looked at him guardedly. ‘No.’
He should have known that asking teenage boys about their future was a dead-end topic. Finn felt a wave of weariness. His muscles sank down into the chair and he took another mouthful of beer, trying to make it last.
‘Hey, how’s it going with your sculpture?’ Tom asked. ‘Jarrah says you were picked for a big show.’
Finn shrugged. ‘Sculpture by the Quay. I missed it. I’m meant to be working on a couple of commissions.’ He stopped. Gathered himself. ‘Don’t know if I can finish,’ he confessed.
‘D’you want a hand?’ Tom asked as casually as if offering to mow the lawn.
Finn blinked. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, you know,’ Tom shrugged. ‘Me and Jarrah could come over. Help you, like, lay it out, or weld stuff together, whatever.’
Finn felt a little flutter in his chest. He wouldn’t call it hope. He wouldn’t call it anything, he decided, lest he frighten it away with the weight of a name. ‘We could give a try, I guess.’
‘Great,’ Tom said, as though this actually sounded fun. He got to his feet.
‘Now?’ Finn asked.
‘Yeah, why not? I’ve got a couple of hours. We can make a start.’
Jarrah also stood and the two of them looked at him expectantly. Finn pushed himself up. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
Bridget was nowhere to be seen in the pool area. She must have slipped away while they were drinking beer. Finn led the boys through, opened the studio, and felt a wave of shame. It was disgusting. His life, in all its disaster, was laid out for everyone to see. But Tom seemed to take it in his stride.
‘Can I make a bit of space?’ he asked, and when Finn nodded, Tom instructed Jarrah to help him. They pushed the awful sofa bed into the corner and Tom tossed something over it. He shifted a few other hulking things to the perimeter and made an open space. Found a blue tarp, and after checking with Finn, spread it out on the floor.
‘OK,’ he said, hands on hips. ‘What’ve you done so far?’
In a daze Finn went over to the bench. He’d rearranged his scraps with the components of Dragon Sentry so often, trying to turn it all into something else, that he’d lost it. He waved his hand at the scramble of metal. ‘It’s a bloody mess.’
‘If you pass me pieces, we can lay it out down here,’ Tom said.
Finn rummaged in the pile, struggled with a large, pitted flywheel that had been a centrepiece of the work. Tom stepped forwards, gestured to Jarrah. The two of them took hold of it and Finn disentangled it from the rest of the mess. When it came free, they laid it down in the centre of the tarp.
Finn felt another rush of shame that the boys should see not only his failure, but what he did in here even when it was working well. Playing with bits of scrap metal. It was nothing. Anyone could do it.
But Tom was looking at the pile of crap with interest. ‘Next?’
Even Jarrah looked if not exactly interested, then not bored and not shut down, and God, that was something.
‘The centre of it is a series of clockwork gears,’ Finn said. ‘They go on the top of the big flywheel.’
They continued. The piece started to take shape again, down there on the floor, and he only noticed the passing of time when the studio became too dark to see properly.
‘Looking good,’ Tom said, arms crossed. ‘I can come back Sunday if you want?’
‘Sunday?’ Finn rubbed a kink in his shoulder. The weekend, when he’d planned to pack his bags, pack all their bags, get them out of this place, try to get them somewhere safe. Bridget wouldn’t come and he wasn’t brave enough to test her. He couldn’t force them and he couldn’t leave them.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ he said. ‘That’d be great.’
*
> The anonymous delivery of meals to the doorstep had dried up and the fridge was as disgusting as the studio. Worse. Finn pulled out some Tupperware thing from the back of the freezer, zapped it in the microwave until it was steaming, ladled it into bowls. It was unsuitable for the hot evening, but it was food, and he could put something on the table before calling up into the far reaches of the house: ‘Dinner’s ready.’
Jarrah and Bridget both emerged from whatever they had been doing up there on the second storey, where he almost never went now. Jarrah turned on the television as he came through the lounge, and by unspoken assent, all three of them took their plates and headed back in there. Dinner together at a table wasn’t quite possible, but dinner together in front of the television could be tolerated. Finn willed himself to become absorbed in whatever was on, but it might as well have been pictures and sounds from another civilisation for all he could grasp it.
Bridget and Jarrah seemed content to stare at the glowing screen once they’d finished eating, so Finn collected the plates and took them through into the kitchen. He loaded the dishwasher and then stood with his hands on the sink, looking out the window into the darkness.
‘Night, Dad.’
Finn turned. Jarrah was already withdrawing his head from the door, but at least the boy had voluntarily made the effort to speak.
‘Night, Jarr,’ Finn said hastily. ‘Hey, thanks for today.’
‘Yeah. You too.’
It was only a moment in which Jarrah paused and their eyes met, but it was something. Finn felt a stab inside him. He’d keep Jarrah’s secret; it was the only line of trust connecting them. But it was the first time he’d hidden something about his son from Bridget and the tug of loyalties hurt.
Finn heard Jarrah climb the stairs. What had happened between Jarrah and that girl up there in what used to be Finn’s bedroom?
In the other room Bridget switched off the television. Finn tensed, waiting. Then heard her footsteps on the stairs.
She wasn’t even coming in to say good night.
He heard the faint overhead sounds of her getting ready for bed. The thumps, the soft thuds, the flush of the toilet, the creak of the bed as she got into it.
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