Tigerfish

by David Metzenthen

  I listen but mostly I look at her – and see a person making her way through the real world – meeting it head-on, trying to keep the other people around her together, happy and safe. She’s got about as much to handle, I reckon, as Bobby-boy or Jude, whereas me, I just seem to watch the world go by from two steps back. Or that’s what it feels like.

  ‘I like your pyjamas,’ I say. ‘I like you. You’re perfect.’

  Ariel looks down, holds her arms out, wrists and hands up, as if she needs to see them clearly.

  ‘That is one thing I’m not.’

  ‘Close to it, then.’ I look at her cardigan, an op shop special with little blue and pink roses, set off by a fine silver chain around her neck. ‘You’re the real deal.’

  She appears not to want to hear what I’m saying and instead reaches over the hay bales and finds her dress, a loose handful of summery yellow cloth.

  ‘When we came to Templeton, Ryan,’ she says, ‘I thought it was all over. Everything. Then I met you and now I’ve changed my mind. I can see the future. No –’ she holds up a hand, ‘I can see there is a future.’

  It hits me like a hammer why I want to help her, and maybe why I love her, if you can ever know those things – it’s because she trusts me with herself, with Kaydie and Jill, with her story, with the new life she’s living and the old life she lost. She trusts me like I trust Slate, or my parents, or Evan, or his mum. She knows I’m on her side and I always will be.

  ‘I owe you more than you owe me,’ I say. ‘Now where’s that tap? I need to wash my face.’

  Ariel shakes out her dress, a soft beating sound, like a bird taking off.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  We get dressed, then walk around the shed to where the tank, old and grey, sits on a wooden stand. Ariel turns on the tap, letting water splash out on a bed of gravel and moss. Taking it in turns, we dish it up into our faces, the shock of it like a slap, the smell like a river, the taste like something from the old days, water fallen from the sky, pure and good.

  ‘Man, that’s great.’ I use a tiny towel that Ariel brought, with a picture of a duck on it. ‘Great.’

  There’s hardly a sound, the fog at our fingertips, a tractor rumbling in a paddock who-knows-where, a magpie singing from a high branch, me wishing that we could just go on being together for a long, long time.

  We get our stuff together and leave. I look back at the shed on the hill with its postage-stamp walls and I know that even if we went back there now it would not be the same as it was. Time just keeps on truckin’ and you have no choice but to go with it.

  We walk past the square of bare ground where Ariel’s house stood, but she doesn’t stop, only slows, looking at it as if she’s more puzzled than anything.

  ‘How can it be like that?’ She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to see beyond what is there now and balance it with what she remembers. ‘It’s like we were never here. Look.’

  We stop and look at the patch of gritty ground.

  ‘But you were,’ I say. ‘You were. And you have Kaydie and Jill to prove it. And yourself.’ I tap my temple. ‘And it’s in here, isn’t it?’

  Ariel considers what I’ve said, then turns toward the road – walking away from the place as if she’s decided to cut it loose once and for all, and let it find its own way back into the world.

  ‘We’ll go a different way to the station, Ryan.’ She says this as if giving an order. ‘Past the cemetery. It’s not a terrible place. It’s quite nice really, I guess.’

  I look at her but she doesn’t look at me. She studies the distant mountains that are blue in the sun above the fog, with a band of brown rock like the top of a fort. She knows them like she knows the back of her hand, I can tell. She knows them in a way I never could.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, which doesn’t feel like I’ve said enough. ‘Of course. Absolutely.’ And that sounds like too much.

  We turn onto a different road, passing a pair of grim-looking old houses sitting cramped among collapsed tanks, ancient pine trees and old cars. A few dirty white chooks wander around and dogs bark, heads up, backs bristling, meaning business. The two houses, like nasty twins, put out a vibe of hardness.

  ‘Not always a great life in the bush.’ Ariel gives the houses a sideways look. ‘No money is no money.’

  We go on, not talking, not holding hands. It’s like today we’re different, serious people. Ariel stares ahead and I scan the paddocks, half a dozen cows standing at the fence like patient grandmas waiting for someone to come home.

  Through a line of big trees I see a square of open ground surrounded by a white fence, each picket cut to a sharp point. Gravestones – new and old, brown and grey, straight and crooked – stick out of the ground, giving off a weird sense of it being crowded in there. A little archway, old and fancy, has been built over the gate.

  ‘Well.’ Ariel slows, shoulders slumping as if her bag has suddenly become three times as heavy. ‘Now comes the worst bit.’

  ‘I’ll wait here.’ The closer I get to the cemetery, the sadder and spookier it feels. I don’t want to go in. ‘I’ll mind your bag.’ That sharpened picket fence is too much. Stay out, it says; there’s nothing you can do here. This is the place of the dead. Mind your own business. Let them sleep. Move on.

  Ariel slips her bag off and hands it over. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I watch her go in under the arch and make her way through the headstones until she reaches the far corner where there are a few long, rounded mounds of clay. There is a simple white wooden cross in each. She stops and I look away.

  I wait, knowing that I can’t throw stones, or practise sidekicks, or do anything stupid like that to pass the time. It’s quiet, too, like the cemetery insists upon it. The air is still and the big trees, their heavy branches like massive arms, are full of shadows. One car passes, its sound trailing away, and all I can think of is things coming to an end, for everyone, one day.

  Oh, Jesus, cheer up! I tell myself, but that doesn’t work, so I wait on in a space of zero time until I see Ariel making her way towards the white gate. She shuts it behind her, then walks slowly up the grassy slope. Her face is dry and severe-looking.

  ‘I don’t know, Ryan.’ She holds out her hand for her bag. ‘That wooden cross isn’t the best. It’s a bit plain. A bit too fucking simple.’ She takes a tissue from a little packet and blows her nose. Then she looks at me as if I’ve just wandered by. ‘It should be better than that. It doesn’t explain anything. But I don’t have the money. You wouldn’t believe how much those stone things cost.’

  I look at her, at the outline of her body in her white hoodie, her hair wild, her eyes angry and wet, knowing the truth of what she’s saying isn’t in the meaning of the words.

  ‘I love you, Ariel,’ I say. ‘You better know that.’

  ‘Well thanks.’ She looks at me as if she hardly has the time. ‘But sometimes that isn’t enough, Ryan. Not in some of the cases I’m familiar with. It can’t save people when you hope it would, no matter what some people say.’ Then she takes a step, puts one hand behind my head, and kisses me hard, her teeth and lips grinding on mine, her eyes open. Then she lets me go and looks toward town, a red-brick steeple needling the sky. ‘But I don’t know anything. Come on. Let’s get away from this place. Even though I know I shouldn’t say that.’

  We walk, me thinking that Ariel is living in a parallel universe to mine and I can’t get there, no matter how hard I try. Too much has happened to her. The road ahead is not clear or straight. Her life isn’t what she wants; it’s what it has to be. Of course, I could be wrong – but I think, for once, I’m more likely to be right.

  I tag along like a dog. Not completely a bad thing, I guess.

  We get on the train and it’s like meeting up with an old mate. Our carriage is warm and clean, the wheels clicketty-click-clacking as if they’re counting off the ks as we race towards home. The land is like a black sea dotted with islands of light, and we’re passing like a
speeding ship, each of us a passenger on their own journey.

  Ariel is asleep, snuggled into her fleecy white top, her face turned away from me, using her hand as a pillow. I just sit and enjoy the ride. Being with her, watching over her, makes me feel kind of important. I also wonder if she’s finished with me, because a lot has happened, a lot has been said over the last two days and not all of it seemed so great.

  We’re heading home and things have changed. Or perhaps I understand more because I’ve seen more of Ariel’s old life and some of what she went through. I make myself think of the future. It might be fantastic! Everything might turn out. Why not? It’s possible that things can go well just as easily as they can go bad. It happens.

  Ariel wakes, looking at me dreamily as if she might not even know who I am. Then she stretches, pushing her hands up, then taking them back.

  ‘Ten years from now, Ryan.’ She blinks, her eyes clearing, one cheek red. ‘Where do you think you’ll be?’

  Now that’s a bolt from the blue, as Jude says; and a question that Johnny James Dunnolly’d be proud of. I go with my instincts, my default position, my Templeton way of thinking.

  ‘Celebratin’ the Dogs winnin’ the flag,’ I say and make a fist. ‘For the third time in a row. Keepin’ the faith. Go Doggies.’

  Ariel takes my hand and tucks it up into the soft warmth under her arm. Perhaps she gets that what I really mean is that I s’pose we just keep on keepin’ on and that the things we hope might happen, do happen. Just keep running hard and straight like Boydy.

  ‘I hope so.’ She looks out the window, the lights of the city spilling outwards like a flood of their own, three million of them making no pattern that I can see. ‘The big city,’ Ariel adds. ‘The big future.’

  ‘Damn straight,’ I say.

  If there is no pattern to the city lights, there is a definite pattern at school: everywhere Elmore goes there is silence and fear. No one speaks to him and he speaks to no one. It’s weird, it’s worrying, and it’s been going on for two weeks now. It even worries Johnny James Dunnolly.

  ‘I feel the pressure’s rising,’ he says one afternoon as we head out of the place, him to the car park, me for the front gate. ‘Any guesses about what’s going on with Elmore? Any suggestions? And don’t tell me to ask him. I’ve tried.’

  As far as guesses go, I guess it’s about Eden, and I guess it’s about the little brother who’s gone, and their mad old man and suffering mother. And I guess I don’t know anything for sure, except that Elmore is an extremely dangerous dude in the state he’s in. As for suggestions, I actually have one. ‘You could always do what a lot of other teachers do,’ I say, and wait for the sharp-dressed dude from Dunkeld to take the bait.

  Johnny James stops at the entrance to the staff car park – a more dud collection of cars you’ve never seen. His ute is the only thing I’d be seen dead in.

  ‘And what do a lot of other teachers do, Ryan?’

  ‘They quit, bro.’ I laugh, swinging out onto the footpath, and turning right, Sky Point straight ahead and open nine till eleven every day of your life.

  ‘Not me, sport,’ Johnny James calls out. ‘I’ve signed on. Things are gunna change. I can see it coming.’

  I turn, grinning, walking backwards, the warm afternoon air soft on the back of my neck. ‘You must have freakin’ great eyesight then.’

  He lifts a hand, a smart guy who fell into this place like a tiger into a pit.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ I yell back. ‘You’ll need it.’

  Evan and me shoot arrows in his backyard. There is something fascinating about the way they fly, straight and slick, glittering for one silvery second before smacking into the target. Archery’s the perfect thing for the dude; it’s difficult and silent, its deadliness underestimated. He could put an arrow through your hand at thirty metres, day or night.

  ‘How’s Elmore’s style these days?’ I say. ‘What d’you reckon that cat’s thinkin’?’

  Evan draws back, aims and releases. He lets the bow fall forward, Olympic-style, watching as the arrow flies as fast as a thought to bury itself into the hay bale.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Evan is out of arrows. He puts the bow down and we walk to the target. ‘But if Eden comes back then it really will be out there. One wrong move and the whole place could go up in smoke.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s primed.’ I stand to one side, thinking of what I know about the Larkins that probably no one else in Tempy knows. ‘Anything could happen. I just hope it’s on the upside, for once.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Evan hands me the arrows, like a bunch of space-age flowers. ‘But it’s doubtful. They’re hardwired for a shit life.’

  We walk back to the table, me thinking that’s a harsh call, but unfortunately probably true.

  ‘You know, if their little brother did die,’ I say, weighing up each word as if it was a measure of gunpowder, ‘and Eden and Elmore are gettin’ the blame, then no wonder he’s mad. It’s a big thing.’

  ‘They’re cursed,’ Evan says. ‘Down through the ages.’

  Maybe they are. Maybe the Larkins are one of those families that terrible luck tracks like a bloodhound. Things go bad for them no matter where they are or what they do, one thing after another until it’s a total catastrophe for all concerned.

  ‘One thing can change everything,’ I say, then aim and fire, the arrow taking out the middle of the target as if it were laser-directed. ‘Like freakin’ science. Suddenly everyone knows you can’t fall off the edge of the earth. Things can get better.’

  Evan laughs. ‘For everybody except the Larkins. But maybe you’re right.’

  I hope so, because there’s a definite flow-on effect if a family, any family, is happy; they turn out fewer axe murderers and road-ragers, which is a good thing. We go on shooting arrows, talking about the players the Doggies got hold of in the draft for next season, hoping they’re as good as the club says they are. Then we discuss the latest weird shit that’s going on in the paddocks, like about fifty metres from Evan’s back gate.

  ‘Someone stencilled a line of black skulls on a fence,’ Evan tells me. ‘With a cross painted between each. Interesting. Very interesting.’

  ‘Freakin’ bizarre,’ I say. ‘Whatever the hell it means.’

  My mate grins, takes an arrow, and strings it. ‘It means showtime, Ryan. That’s what it means.’

  We pack the gear away then I decide it’s time to hit the road. To the west, I see the sun has gone behind a big black cloud that is rising, getting bigger by the minute, until it seems as wide as the city – but I don’t see it as a bad omen. It’s just bad weather coming, you’ve got to deal with it, and you have to think you can.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  Later in the week Bobby-boy gets a call from Anthony, the deadlock guy, saying he hasn’t forgotten Ariel’s doors, but he’s got to help a mate out in the bush who’s been in a car crash.

  ‘Least he rang.’ Bobby swaps the phone for a stubby, heads to his chair, and turns on the TV. ‘He’s a good young feller. He’ll get around to it. Next Wednesday, he thought.’

  I’ve got no option but to say fair enough and I’d better let Ariel know, the sooner the better. So I grab Deed, put her on her lead, and we head outside. It’s also a good excuse for Ariel and me to talk, as we haven’t seen each other since getting back from the country. And I’d like to know – no, I don’t know what I’d like to know. Yes, I do. Something!

  Five minutes later, Deed and I are out in the dark. The footpath looks like ice under the streetlights and there are shadows like black pools wherever you look. To my right, Sky Point rises like a dead city, no sign of life, and the reserve is a no-go zone at this time of night unless you’re a thrillseeker, or want to give some dude your mobile and wallet.

  Coming towards Deed and me, I see this boxy-headed dog. It’s kind of skipping and skittering along, head down, tongue out, a grey thing, odd-looking, crazy-eyed. I suck in a breath and haul Deed in close. It’s a
bloody pit-bull cross, with that stupid grin they’ve got, because they don’t know the difference between living and dying – which is why they will fight anything on the planet. I start to head for the other side of the road, but I’ve left it too late.

  It comes straight at us and launches at Deed. Instantly there’s a tornado of growling and biting, dogs thrashing and spinning, the sound furious and frightful. Me, I grab the bloody grey thing’s collar with my left hand and punch it in the head with my right but that does nothing. So I step back and kick it as hard as I can under the chest, the little mongrel lifting off the ground and landing on its back.

  It gets up, wagging its tail as if this is a game, ready to go again. Now I hear someone running and when I look up the footpath I see some rough old bastard about Bobby’s age coming at me. His face is stretched with rage.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ gone, dickhead!’

  He comes in, hands bunched, so I sidestep, stay low with my left fist up and tensed. Then I tee-off with my right and land it hard on the side of his fat head. Man, it’s a good shot but I do not wait to throw another. I grab Deed and we sprint out into the reserve. Here it is the deadest pitch-black, but that’s fine by me. I’ll take my chances in the dark because I can do the percentages.

  ‘Come on, Deed!’ I hiss. ‘Come on, mate! We’ll be right!’

  We veer to the left, away from home, but I’ll swing to the right as soon as I’m out of sight. Deed gallops along beside me, moving okay, me panting for air as tears of panic and rage pour down my cheeks. ‘That bastard! And his stupid fuckin’ dog!’ Behind us I can hear the bloke shouting but I ignore it as we sprint up the bank and into the bushes, where I turn right for home – and run smack-bang into this massive bloke, who is as tall as the shrubs and carries some kind of a long stick or sword.

  ‘Fark!’ I say, and scramble backwards, tripping, landing on my knees.

  ‘You are safe,’ the guy says, a broad black outline against a mass of black bushes. ‘I am doing God’s work. On your way, little brother. Go home. You are safe.’