Angel Rock

by Darren Williams

  “Just nice?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Grace nodded. “But they don’t have much of a smell.”

  She pulled one out of the bunch and put it in his top pocket. He looked down at it solemnly.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  A gust of wind blew a strand of hair across her face. As her hand pushed it back he realised it was because he loved her that he felt so sick about her going away. It was the same feeling he’d had at the circus, but far stronger. It gripped his chest—like a fist round his heart— and made him feel giddy, but then, along with the pain, came a feeling of wonder and happiness. It washed over him, a rare and awful feeling, bought with blood, but all the more fierce for that. To look at her just made it worse and he turned away.

  “What do you want to be?” he managed to say, his voice a little shaky. “After university . . . and all that?”

  “A lawyer, or maybe a doctor. Something useful.”

  Tom nodded. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.” He found himself looking at the scars on her calf and even though he knew she had seen him looking he was unable to stop.

  “There was a pack of stray dogs that had been killing calves,” she began, her voice low. “I was only five. Much braver than I am now. I’d gone to visit Darcy. You have to walk past that bit of bush?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Anyway, I felt them watching me, from in there, and then they came out and started chasing me. One of them got me by the leg and I fell over.”

  “What happened?”

  “I must have been screaming pretty loud because Mr. Steele heard me and came running with his gun. The dog was trying to drag me away into the bush. Mr. Steele had to hit it with his gun before it would let me go.”

  Tom stared at the pale scars.

  “What’s the matter? You look sick.”

  “I don’t know. Do you think . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you think when you grow up . . . do you think you know why things are, why things happen?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Pop says people see things better— understand things—when they’re young.”

  “Yep, he told me that too.”

  Grace nodded and put her hand on his arm. “Tom,” she said, “don’t worry, we won’t be young forever.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Ham snuffled past, his nose in the grass.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  He glanced at her. She looked very serious. He lifted his head and looked at the tanned skin at the top of her chest.

  “Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. “I mean . . . if you want.”

  She moved closer to him and put her hand up to the side of his head. She stroked his hair a little, then his cheek, and then she closed her eyes and leant forward. He closed his eyes too, then moved his head forward until his lips, very gently, touched hers. They were smooth and warm and very soft. They kissed for what seemed like a long time and then they parted. He opened his eyes to find her smiling at him and he blushed. She kissed him again, harder this time, and he felt the hardness of her teeth behind her lips, the warm jets of her breath against his cheek. They kissed until he couldn’t feel parts of his body any more, but he didn’t want to stop. When Grace finally pulled away and lay back Tom rested his chin in his hand and looked at her. Her lips were very red and her cheeks pink and her eyes very big. They looked at each other, their fingers intertwined, and they smiled but didn’t say anything. After a while she took his hand and placed it on her thigh, just below her damp dress, and sat up to kiss him again. He didn’t move his hand for a long time—he was too terrified—but then some deeper intuition took over that knew no fear at all and he slid his hand up her thigh—very slowly—and then down again. Her skin was cool and soft and still damp. She didn’t stop him, didn’t scream, and then her kisses changed, almost seemed to be encouraging him, and soon his hand was sliding up and down her legs—from the leg seams of her underpants to the scars on her calf—as if he’d been doing it for years.

  “Further,” she whispered, breaking away from his lips only for the time it took to say the word.

  He brought his hand up past the side panel of her pants and onto her belly. Her dress gathered in the crook of his elbow and rode up. He glanced down at the pale bareness of her thighs. He felt her belly and the shallow well of her navel and then he ran his hand up over her chest, his heart in his mouth, and cupped her bare breast, feeling the rubbery nipple at its peak. Again, she didn’t stop him, and he ran his hand up and down her body, sometimes kissing her, sometimes not, but never tiring of either, just amazed at the feel of her, the satin of her skin, and amazed it was happening at all.

  “Put your hand down there,” she whispered to him, finally. “Inside my pants.”

  “Are . . . are you sure?”

  She didn’t answer but looked from his eyes to his lips, kissed them again, hard. Her mouth was sweet and salt, hot and cold, all together. Her tongue stole in between his teeth and began to flick by his and that tied a great big knot in his belly.

  “I want you to,” she breathed into his ear, resting her forehead against his shoulder. He looked down at her neck, saw the vein pulsing in it, and then he moved his hand slowly down over her belly and slipped his hand in under the elastic of her pants. He moved his fingers around, feeling the hair, the hot, slippery structures further down. Her head fell back onto the grass and she closed her eyes and then Ham blundered in, trying to lick Grace’s face—and broke the spell.

  Tom picked up the pup and shook him and Grace laughed.

  “That was really . . . nice,” she said, after Ham had busied himself elsewhere.

  “Yeah,” he nodded.

  They lay back down, resting their heads on their arms and looking at one another. They kissed some more and then Grace pushed back on his shoulder until he was lying on his back and then slid herself up and onto his body.

  “I’m not squashing you, am I?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t anything he’d ever glimpsed Henry doing with his mother—it was always Henry’s back he’d seen—but Grace seemed to know what she was doing and that was good enough for him. For a while afterwards she seemed to forget he was even there. She closed her eyes, raised herself up a little, her palms on his shoulders, and began to move her hips. Very slowly at first, up a little, and down again. He counted the first half-dozen and then he didn’t bother. He looked up at her instead, trailed his fingers down her side, felt her breathing, the ridges of her ribcage, her damp dress, her perspiring skin warm beneath it. He could see the stubble under her arms where she’d shaved, and a trailing drop of sweat, the fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead, her long lashes, her sweet nose, her white teeth, the line of her jaw and her princess chin, the faintest of dimples in her right cheek, her dark hair, her long arms. He saw it all but still she changed before his eyes, became something he couldn’t have imagined and couldn’t even have dreamt. She was off in her own little world and queen of it and he loved her even more. Her eyes opened. They were green, like his own, and so clear, their colour so fine, so beautiful, that he knew he’d never forget them.

  “Don’t look at me,” she whispered, putting her forearm across her face in case he did anyway. All he could see was her embarrassed smile, but then it slowly faded as the movement of her hips against him became more insistent. Her head dipped to one side. The friction built and built and then he heard her take a breath, like a swimmer about to dive, and then she lifted her hips clear of him, drove down again, then wilted against his chest. When she’d got her breath back she lifted up her head and looked at him.

  “That was . . . good.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  Grace smiled. “You’re a good kisser. Have you been practising?”

  “No.”

  She laughed at him and then leant her head forward until her forehead touched his. He looked down at her nose
and lips and felt her warm breath against his skin and he closed his eyes and let the feeling he’d had before envelop him.

  She’d slid off him and started running her hand down across the front of his trousers when they heard the sound. It was a snap, and in its aftermath, in the silence, they both hoped it had only been their imaginations, but when they looked at one another they knew it had been real.

  “What was that?” Grace whispered.

  “A branch falling, I think,” answered Tom, looking around. “Maybe it was Ham. I can’t see him anywhere.”

  “He’ll be here somewhere.”

  “I’ll have a look.”

  He stood, his head a little woozy, and began to look around the clearing they were in.

  Grace straightened out her dress and propped herself up on one elbow to watch Tom. He disappeared behind some trees but she could still hear him calling Ham’s name. She waited for him, looking up at the branches of the gum overhead, its smooth grey-green bark speckled with red sap. The breeze cooled her. She listened to the sound of the water, the calls of birds, and thought about what she’d just done with Tom. Even though she hadn’t even been thinking about doing anything of the kind she was glad it had happened.

  Minutes passed and still Tom did not return. There was no sound but the water, the breeze through the trees, the electric codes of insects.

  “Tom?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She stood and brushed off her dress, then put on her sandals and took a few steps in the direction he’d taken.

  “Tom?”

  She walked up the track a little way and as she crested a rise she saw, down in the gully below, a figure standing just near Tom. It was Sonny Steele, with a sickly grin on his face. He was holding Ham roughly by the scruff of his neck and the little dog was squirming around, trying to bite his hand, sick of the game. Sonny’s dog, Blackie, was loose by his side and her legs went to jelly the instant she saw him.

  “Tom!” she cried, but then someone appeared at her elbow, threw his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close. She whirled her head round and up, too startled to make a sound. It was Charlie Perry.

  “Ooh, Grace, honey,” he murmured in her ear. “Didn’t take you for a cradle snatcher. Should try a real man next time.”

  At first she thought it was shame that made her face flush red, but she knew she wasn’t ashamed. It took a few moments for her to find her breath, and then her voice.

  “Wait till I tell Pop!” she spat.

  “You won’t tell anyone, sweetheart. Come down here with me.”

  “I can’t! The dog—”

  Charlie half carried, half dragged her down into the gully. He was carrying a rifle in his free hand. They stopped a few yards away from where Sonny and Tom were standing glaring at each other.

  “Put him down!” said Tom.

  “Did you kill my dog, you little cunt?”

  “Put him down!” Tom seethed.

  Charlie put down the rifle and then reached up and pinched Grace on the buttock.

  “Did he kill Sonny’s dog, Gracie?”

  “No!”

  He pinched again, harder, and Grace gasped and cried out. Tom turned and saw her as if noticing her presence for the first time.

  “He had to—” Grace began.

  “I’ll tell, Sonny,” yelled Tom, cutting her off.

  “What? You going to admit it?”

  “I’ll tell. You put my dog down, and you let Grace go, and then you two piss off, or I’ll tell. I’ll tell everyone what I saw.”

  “What?” Sonny snarled.

  “You know, near the mill,” said Tom, looking him square in the eye.

  Sonny’s face drained of expression and his eyes went blank. His hand gripped Ham even harder and the little dog’s lips drew back into a grimace.

  “You killed my dog,” he spat, his voice dripping with menace. “You let your faggot little brother die! No one’ll believe you!”

  Sonny reached up with his other hand and wrung Ham out like a wet towel and all four heard the wet pop as the small bones in his neck gave way. Sonny flung him away and his limp little body skidded to a halt in the grass and didn’t move. Grace didn’t breathe for a moment—no one seemed to—and then Tom launched himself at Sonny, a strange, hoarse moan escaping his lips.

  For a time it seemed an equal fight. Even though Tom was smaller, Grace could see that he was strong for his age, and would maybe be as strong as Charlie in a few years, but as they wrestled and rolled across the base of the gully Sonny’s greater weight began to wear Tom down and soon all he could do was try and defend himself from Sonny’s blows. Blackie danced around them, barking furiously.

  “Stop them, Charlie!” Grace screamed.

  “You can’t just kill someone’s dog and get away with it,” he muttered.

  “Aren’t they even now?”

  Charlie didn’t answer. She twisted round and looked up at him, saw the thick whiskers straggling out of his chin, his sweat, and felt nothing but disgust. She couldn’t believe she’d fancied him for so long— the boy she’d known for years had gone and in his place was someone she barely recognised. He looked back at her, a strange expression in his eyes, and then he pressed his crotch hard into her hip. A cold panic gripped her.

  “Charlie?” she said, shakily.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know why Darcy killed herself?”

  Charlie shook his head. The question seemed to take the wind out of his sails.

  “No,” he said, and then his eyes grew wide. Grace looked round to see what had caught his attention.

  Sonny, standing now, had pulled out a knife. They saw the blade flash in the light. He went for Tom with it, but Tom, still on his knees, caught his arm and held it. Gradually, Sonny’s weight began to tell, and he forced the knife down towards Tom, his face red and streaming.

  “Stop!” Grace screamed, but Sonny didn’t. Instead, he eased his downward pressure—then suddenly reversed it. Tom came up with him a little way before Sonny bore down again, putting all his weight behind his knife hand. Grace screamed again. Tom wrenched back his head, but the blade sliced into his cheek and might have gone even deeper had he not pushed Sonny’s arm aside at the last moment.

  “Charlie, stop them!” sobbed Grace.

  Grace wrenched herself away from Charlie as his grip weakened and picked up a stone and pegged it at Sonny as hard as she could. It hit him in the chest and he looked up, stunned. Blackie took a few steps towards her, growling and showing his teeth, but even as her courage and legs failed her the dog gave a whimper, then turned and skulked away with its tail between its legs. As Charlie grabbed her again she felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck. She heard a deep, menacing rumble and then a shiver ran up her spine and her breath seized in her chest. Something was coming towards them from the thick undergrowth further up the gully. She couldn’t see what it was but could see the long grass and bushes move as it came closer.

  “Shit,” said Charlie, behind her. She glanced back at him, saw his big Adam’s apple bobble up and down. Sonny, oblivious, had stepped back to survey his handiwork and she thought for a moment that he would stop, but then he approached Tom’s crouching form again and brought back the knife for another blow.

  “Charlie!”

  Charlie relaxed his grip again and bent to pick up his rifle. Grace struggled free of his arms and grabbed the barrel before Charlie could and ran forward with it, swinging wildly. Sonny turned to her just as the butt came smashing into his face. He staggered back and then sat down hard, blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

  In the silence immediately afterwards Grace realised that whatever it was that had been in the gully had gone. She went and knelt down by Tom. He was on all fours and fat red drops of blood were falling steadily from his cut face onto the bare earth. She ripped a strip of material from the bottom of her dress, folded it into a wad with shaking hands, then pressed it against his cheek.

  “What h
appened?”

  “I don’t know. Something was there. Maybe . . . maybe it was Billy.”

  She looked back at Sonny. He was prodding at his face and looking at the blood on his hands.

  “You stupid boy!”

  “He deserved it,” Sonny spluttered, blood spraying from his mouth. “He killed my dog. Got a beating ’cause of him!”

  “You selfish pig! We came up here to find out about Darcy! Don’t you care what happened to her?”

  Charlie had retrieved the rifle and was standing looking at the undergrowth, the weapon trained there.

  “Tell her, Sonny,” Grace heard him say, in a low voice.

  “What?”

  Sonny scowled at Charlie and shook his head.

  “Darce came and asked us for help . . . just before,” said Charlie. “She said . . . she said a man was after her, that he had one of the boys.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We . . . we told her father.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He didn’t believe her. That was it. He . . . ah, chained her up in the shed, like a dog, for lyin’. He was always doin’ it. He was always real tough with her.”

  “Shut up!” Sonny shouted.

  “You shut up. Come on, let’s go. Your nose’s broke.”

  Charlie reached out his hand to Sonny but Sonny ignored it. He got to his feet by himself and, breathing hard, glared at them all before staggering off up the path. Charlie put the rifle up on his shoulder and nodded to them and then he followed.

  “I swear, that’s all we know about Darce,” he said, walking away. “That’s all Sonny knows.”

  Grace nodded to him and then she turned to Tom.

  “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We have to tell Pop.”

  “Yeah.” He tried to stand but the wound in his cheek opened again.

  “Hold still and hold it there!” Grace scolded, and he did, until the bleeding was stanched and the stars stopped whirling around whenever he closed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dejectedly, after he’d recovered a little. “I should have looked after you better.”

  “Don’t be silly.”