by Bill Condon
I could tell her the very day we became friends. I wrote it down because I had a feeling it would be important. But if she doesn’t know, I don’t either.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well I’m just starting to get used to you – I’m not going to give up on us now.’
‘But you’ll be in Perth. Not a train ride or a bus ride away. Perth. That’s like another country.’
‘They’ve got email there. They’ve got Skype. We can still talk every day. And it’s not like I’ll never see you again. When we’re little old ladies we’re still gunna be hangin’ out together. We’ll always be friends, Tiff. Don’t you know that by now?’ She’s all sniffles and drips. Her chin is shaking.
Yeah. I know it.
‘I’m sorry, Kayla. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just a shock and I got sad . . .’
‘Well get un-sad, you big dope!’
The clouds open up and there we are in the middle of the road getting soaked, but not caring.
I’m on the bus to Menindah. There’s barely a roadside puddle to show for the downpour and now the sky is powder blue. And the ten or twelve people on the bus, same ones as yesterday, are dressed for cool and comfort. My head is in a book – what a surprise – but I have to give it a rest for a while. I love Sylvia Plath, but I can only read her poetry in short bursts; stay too long in her world and the gloom seeps through by osmosis.
The poem I read before I shut the book was ‘Mad Girl’s Love Song’. Cool title. The first line gives you a clue about her style. It’s about how the world drops dead when she shuts her eyes.
Sylvia killed herself at thirty.
Tempting fate, I shut my eyes too, and as I do last night comes zipping back to me, easy as pressing rewind.
We ran to my house, yelling over the top of the rain.
‘i know what we can do, tiff.’
‘what?’
‘sleepover. just like we used to.’
‘nooo way!’
‘come on – our very last sleepover.’
‘we’ve already had it!’
‘let’s have it again!’
‘newsflash, kayla – we’re too old for that.’
‘newsflash, tiff – we’re doin’ it! okay? – okay!’
Bull opens the door to two drowned rats.
‘You should have rung me. I would have come and got yers.’
‘That’s cool,’ says Kayla. ‘You can take us back.’
‘Thanks, Bull.’ I peck his bristly cheek as I brush past. ‘Won’t be a sec. I’ll get some dry clothes.’
‘But you just got here.’ His face glazes over with confusion.
‘I know you’re getting old,’ I tell him. ‘But try to keep up.’
‘I’ll do my level best.’
‘Tiff wants to have a sleepover.’ Kayla catches a towel I throw her and starts drying her hair. ‘I couldn’t talk her out of it. She’s such a child.’
The bus jolts over a pothole and I look outside to get my bearings. A sixty kay sign tells me we’re approaching another fly-speck on the map – a few bumps later and it’s behind us. Still a long ride to Menindah and the Eagle. I tilt my head back on the seat so the sun’s rays warm my face. And I close my eyes and go back to last night . . .
We sit around Kayla’s computer while Colin hunts for his flash drive.
‘He’s got a stack of photos of the house,’ says Inky. Her eyes have never looked more alive. ‘You just wait till you see it, Tiff – it’s lovely. Col, where have you got to?’
‘Almost there. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’
In a minute he’s at the door, holding up the flash drive like it’s a rabbit freshly plucked from a hat. And then the house appears on the screen. It’s just another house to me, a lot bigger than the current one, but it has to be fifty years old. It needs paint and repairs, while a couple of grenades would be a good way to start a garden make-over. And it’s not really in Perth. It’s in Valna; a country town. But as Inky is quick to point out, ‘Valna is bigger than Gungee.’
That wouldn’t be hard. There are garden gnomes bigger than Gungee.
‘I was brought up in that house,’ Colin says wistfully. ‘Had some good times. My grandparents raised me. Now my dad’s got a caravan and he’s doing the grey nomad thing around Australia. Didn’t want to leave the house empty, so . . .’
That’s why the rent is free and the lease is long.
‘We’ll do the place up real nice, Bess.’ He puts his arm around her. ‘It won’t take long to get it back to how it used to look. Be pretty all right, I reckon.’
Inky plants a kiss on Colin with enough energy behind it to light up Gungee. If it was on tv Reggie would dive for the remote to change channels. He’s not into the mushy stuff. Turns his stomach, he says.
‘Yuck,’ groans Kayla.
Colin flails his arms and legs about as if he’s being smothered, but he’s still in no hurry to get away. I think it’s just possible he might be having a very nice time.
Not too much later Kayla and I are on our own. We each sip a mug of hot chocolate, with marshmallows on top, compliments of Inky.
‘Hot chocolate always tastes better with the lights off,’ Kayla says.
Don’t think so. The only thing that changes with hot chocolate when you turn the lights off is that you’re likely to spill it. But I feel guilty for having such a killjoy thought, so when Kayla flicks the switch I say, ‘You’re right, that’s much better.’
And then we’re sprawled on the lounge-room floor, all snug in blankets and pillows and whispers.
‘I think I’m going to stop calling her Inky.’ The house is asleep. There’s only Kayla’s hushed voice and nothing else. ‘Yeah. I’ve decided. She deserves better. From now on it’s Mum – and you can call her Bess – okay?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘She’s never been as happy as this, Tiff. It’s perfect. Colin’s even lined up a job in a butcher shop. And when they’re married and they’ve got the place looking just right, they’ll apply to get Cody and Hales back from their foster homes. Inky – Mum – wants that so much. Me too.’
I remember when the kids were taken away. Bess used to drink a lot more then – that was before Colin. She was always a good mum but she forgot to pick Cody and Hales up from school once or twice and someone put in a complaint. Welfare came sniffing around and didn’t like what they found. They’ve been gone for over a year now. All that time both Inky and Kayla have been scared Welfare would take Harrison and Rowie, too. Colin being there is probably the only reason it didn’t happen. Now it looks like it never will.
‘They’ve got an rsl club in Valna, Tiff.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Colin knows one of the supervisors. He’s going to put in a good word for me to get a job – maybe waiting on tables in the bistro. I can handle that. Colin thinks I’ve got a real good chance.’
‘That’s the best news, Kayla.’
‘Thanks. I know it’s really not all that great, but I’d be glad to have it. And there’s a college where I can do an art course. Bistro at night, college in the day – that’s how I hope it works out.’
‘It will.’
She looks at me, smiling.
‘We’re not leaving for a few weeks.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So we can still go on our trip.’
I think I know what she means – I hope – but I pause, to let her say it.
‘Surfers Paradise – see your mum’s grave. You still want that, right?’
‘I thought you’d forget – especially now.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Are we still on?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
The last of the h
ot chocolate gone, I roll over onto my side.
‘Night, Kayla.’
For a moment the answer is silence, and then –
‘I didn’t want to go to Perth. Dead against it at first – it’s so far away. It wasn’t doing art at college that changed my mind – I found out about that later. It was Cody and Hales, and knowing how bad Mum needed them . . . we’re a family. You understand, don’t you, Tiff?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Shark!’ jordie rushes into the office, camera bag slung over his shoulder. ‘We got a story. A good one.’
‘That right?’
‘Just got a tip from a cop. Dead chick in the park. Only young. We gotta be there, man.’
One second the Shark is on the phone telling jokes, the next – ‘Call you back’ – the phone is banged down and he’s up off the chair and reaching for his notebook.
‘About time something happened round this hole.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘Let’s do it, Jord.’
I hunker low behind the computer, for once happy to be ignored. The Shark stops at the back door of the office and turns, his eyes hunting me down.
‘You serious about this job?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then this is your lucky day. We’ve got a hard news story for once. If you’re really genuine you should be over here right now. Well?’
Jordie drives fast, the Shark beside him. I’m in the back, full of dread at what might be waiting for me. The Shark looks agitated, leaning forward a little in the seat like he wants to jump out and run ahead, like he can’t wait.
We reach the park in fifteen minutes. Near a grove of trees are two green patrol cars and an ambulance, its back doors open wide.
‘There she is.’ Jordie points ahead.
The Shark squints into the distance. ‘Where?’
‘See the ambos?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s behind them. Between the cop cars.’
‘Aw, right. Now I see her. We’re in business.’
I make out a small orange-coloured shape on the ground. The dead girl. She’s covered over with a glossy plastic material; could be someone’s garbage.
Jordie pulls out a camera and drops his bag at my feet. ‘Mind this, will ya?’
He’s on his way before I have time to reply, running to the girl. The Shark hobbles behind him as fast as his bad hip will allow. Never in my wildest dreams is this what I signed on for. I wanted it safe. I wanted a kindly, patient teacher. And I definitely did not want anything to do with dead people.
The Shark swings around. ‘Are you comin’ or what? Make up your mind right now.’
I hurry after him as if I’m caught up in his slipstream.
Ahead of us Jordie closes in on the girl, taking photo after photo until two police shoo him away.
He hustles over to us. ‘Couldn’t see her face, but I got the back of her head, her hair and that – nice arty shot of one of her hands – sort of reaching out, you know? Reckon I might have a front page there.’
‘Good man.’ The Shark shuffles on, ignoring the young cops who chased off Jordie. They’re one-stripers: Constables. Bull’s a two-striper: Senior Constable. The older man leaning against one of the cars is a three-striper: Sergeant. Just before he reaches him, the Shark stops and turns to me.
‘You bring your notebook? Got a pen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Righto. Get it all down. What I say. What he says. Don’t worry about word for word – just get the guts of it. You can write it properly when we get back to the office. One other thing: keep your trap shut while you’re out here. Not a word. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
He takes the remaining few steps. ‘Morning, Peter. Lovely day for it.’
‘Sharky.’
‘Got the headline all written up. Killer Strikes. Police Manhunt Begins. That sound about right to you?’
‘You wish.’
‘Then put me straight, Pete.’
‘It’s no big deal, mate. Sorry to spoil your day. Just another dead druggy.’
‘Aw, right. So there’s no chance that–’
‘Someone did her in? Nah. Highly unlikely. She was a victim of circumstances, that’s all: eighteen and no brain. Only lobbed in town from Melbourne a week back. First night here she goes and does the same as this – bloody od. We dragged her off to hospital and they got her going again. She was pretty close to dead that time, too. I gave her the lecture myself. Really poured it on heavy. Doesn’t look like she learnt much, eh?’
Jordie falls in beside us as we trudge back to the car.
‘Go all right, Shark?’
‘Waste of time – junky.’
‘What a rip off! Had some good pics, too.’
‘More wallpaper for your toilet, son.’
I’ve never seen a dead body before. It didn’t freak me out like I thought it might, probably because I stayed well clear of it. All I saw was the piece of plastic on the ground from a long way off. There’ll be no nightmares for me. I escaped . . .
The only thing is that now, as I stare out the car window, I can’t shake that image from my mind. The body. It’s there on the glass as if I’m looking at a tv screen. And if I look really hard – and I do – I see underneath the plastic. The girl’s face. Not some gruesome zombie. Just an ordinary girl. Could be me or Kayla. And all of a sudden I feel ashamed that I’ve been calling her ‘it’.
‘Kind of quiet in the back there.’
The Shark takes charge of the rear vision mirror – Jordie doesn’t seem to mind – and adjusts it until our eyes meet.
‘You can ask questions if you want,’ he says. ‘It’s the only way you’re ever going to learn anything.’
‘Do you still want me to write the story when we get back?’
The Shark laughs quietly and shakes his head. ‘I’ll let you explain it to her, Jord.’
‘There is no story, Tiff. All we’ve got is that a body was found in the park. We don’t really have a drug problem in town, but young kids passing through – you know how it is – sometimes they make mistakes. The cops always say the same. No suspicious circumstances. Can’t see any headlines there, can you? About as exciting as watching paint dry.’
I don’t understand, and the Shark sees it in my face.
‘It’s like this,’ he tells me. ‘We can’t even say it was an overdose till an autopsy makes it official. Can’t say her name till she’s identified. She’s not a local so God knows when that’ll be. News is now. By the time we get all the info we need, it won’t be news anymore, my friend, it’ll be history. Couple of pars, that’s all this is worth. If that.’
I look at the window again. The dead girl stares back at me. The Shark swivels around in the seat to face me.
‘Tell me true. You don’t have the stomach for this, do you?’
I’m an expert at hiding the truth when I need to, and I need to now, because I really want this job. But even so, I can’t stop the word from rolling out.
‘No.’
The Shark nods as if he’s known it all along. Nods with contempt. That gets me angry and the anger is stronger than my fear of him.
‘You don’t care about that girl. It doesn’t matter to you that she died – that she has a family somewhere – that she was only eighteen. I don’t know how you can be like that, Shark. But I can’t.’
When he turns back to the road it feels like a door is being slammed in my face. He doesn’t waste another word on me.
We’re at our desks again side by side, but there’s a wall of ice between me and the Shark.
I swallow my pride. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’
He crinkles up his nose, shakes his head just o
nce.
A while later I try again.
‘I’m going out to the urn, do you want a–’
‘No.’
I wish he was openly hostile with me, then I could fight back. But I can’t do anything with just ‘no’.
It’s at least another half-hour before he speaks.
‘Andrew won’t be in today so you can’t get any work from him, but Joan’ll be here after lunch.’ He taps away at the keyboard as he talks. ‘She’ll probably have something for you.’
‘Right.’
It’s a storm and I should keep my head down, let it blow over.
Should.
‘Maybe it would be better if I just wasn’t here.’
He lets the words settle for a moment, continues typing, making me sweat it out until I can’t take it any longer.
‘Just tell me. Do you think I should go?’
He keeps bashing on the keys, harder and faster as if he wants to drown out anything I might say. I talk louder.
‘Well, I’ve admitted I can’t hack it and I’m pretty certain you’re not happy with me, so I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
He stops typing and whirls around to face me, his arms folded.
‘I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re stoppin’ me from working. This isn’t daycare. I’m not paid to wipe your nose.’
I wanted him to be angry and he is – his wild eyes burn into mine – but now I’m not able to be angry back at him like I thought I would be. Because I refuse to let him see me cry.
Have to get out of here.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home.’
‘That’d be right. Run off to Mummy as soon as it gets a bit hard.’
‘I haven’t got a mummy! She’s dead!’
That shuts him up.
I slump into the chair again, my back to him.
It’s stalemate for a moment and then he shoves a box of tissues in front of me.
‘No thanks. Don’t need them.’ I push them away.
‘Please yourself.’
There’s another frosty wave of silence, and then . . .
‘First thing: you were wrong. I care about that dead kid. Course I do. It’s a waste and it’s bloody sad. But no matter what you or I say or think or feel, it’s still not a story. And that’s what we’re here for. In case you forgot. I told you first day: this is a newspaper!’