by Leanne Hall
‘I haven’t seen him for days. Speaking to me isn’t high on his agenda. It’s nice to know he keeps in touch with you, though.’ I push open my bedroom window for air. The band is the only thread keeping us three connected. If we lose that, I don’t know what’s left.
‘Nah, it’s not like that. I ran into him on the street, totally random. He said he couldn’t make it to rehearsal.’
‘Where?’
‘Near Umbra. We went to this cool, uh, I guess it was a house party where everyone had to bring something they didn’t want anymore, and then you could take home anything you wanted. I got an awesome set of headphones. You should have come.’
Yeah, I might have been up for that if I’d been invited. Before the fact, and not after. I’ve hung out with Thom and his girlfriend Maggie enough times to know that I’m the appendix of the situation. I look out the window and across darkened rooftops. A long plume of smoke trails from the top of an Orphanville tower. It looks more serious than bonfire smoke. The Darkness is broken along the horizon, a mosaic of black clouds. It’s hard to tell if it’s light bleed from the city, or the reflection of a larger fire.
I don’t like admitting my paranoia to Thom but I have to ask. ‘Is he mad at me about something?’
‘No, Paul’s not mad at you. Why are you asking such dumb-arse questions, Jethro?’
I regret thinking that Thom would be a good person to discuss this with. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it feels as if Paul doesn’t look me in the eye anymore on the rare occasions when we do talk.
‘Because we’ve got a show in two days,’ I white lie. ‘And it’d be nice if we didn’t sound like shit for a change.’
‘Relax. We don’t sound shit.’
‘Don’t tell me to relax.’
‘You never used to care. You’ll be awesome. All you’ve got to do is get your howl on and you sound great.’
‘You used to care. Now you just sit on your fat arse with your girlfriend watching DVDs.’
Thom sighs. In the past he would have hung up on me for less than that. ‘You need to get some, Jethro.’ He sounds sorry for me. ‘You should have called that girl.’
My eyes shoot over to Wildgirl’s letter blu-tacked to the wall below my favourite Long Blinks poster. Thom doesn’t even need to say who he means. How could there be anyone else? I never told Thom and Paul that I did try to call her, the one time.
Thom speaks again. ‘I know you’ve been busy with Ortolan and Diana, but, dude, you’re not that busy.’
I hear a muffled voice over the drone of Thom’s TV. Someone else offering their unsolicited opinion.
‘Is Maggie listening to this?’
‘Ah…no.’
I grit my teeth. Thom sighs again. ‘Jethro, you sound knackered. Get some sleep and quit worrying about Paul.’
‘See you Saturday.’ I hang up. My throat itches. Moonbeams want to drag me out the window, but I won’t let them. I look more closely at Wildgirl’s letter stuck to my bedroom wall. Nia xx scrawled at the bottom. Her real name. I know it by heart. I can’t call her now. It’s been too long.
I pick up my acoustic guitar because that’s what I do when there’s nothing else to do. I sit on my bed and strum. The chords stream faster as I warm up. I used to call on the Darkness when I played the guitar. But now I close my eyes and the notes are black ribbons spooling from my fingertips, reminding me of Wildgirl’s hair.
four
I wake up curled around my
guitar like it’s a sleeping girl. I push it away from me and sit up, feeling pathetic. If I had any dreams I can’t remember them. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper sleep.
I find my watch next to the bed. It’s four, and it must be Friday, but I’ve got no idea if it’s day or night. Regardless, I should leave the house. Nothing good comes of moping around doing nothing.
Blake’s bedroom is empty and her bike has gone from the hallway. The insect book is still open on her bed. I rummage through her books, still thinking about the dead tarsier.
There are no Dewey decimal labels on any of the book spines, so Blake can’t have been raiding the abandoned public library. I select a book at random—Heliographs and Optical Communication—and look inside. The inside front cover has been stamped with blood-red ink. A curly W&S, set inside a rectangle, twined with leaves. An old-fashioned logo, or monogram. I check a few more books—they’re all stamped identically—but there’s nothing on tarsier.
As I’m piling the books back into the crate, some letters catch my eye. The book is cream-coloured and pamphletslim. The title embossed in gold on the plain front cover: SHYNESS: A young lady’s treatise. By Delilah Gregory. I wonder if she’s a relative of the Doctor.
I flick through the book. It’s old, and odd, with journal entries and sepia-tinted photographs. Delilah is twenty, but seems much younger. Her journal is as melodramatic as Paul’s early poetry. She apparently detested every member of her household, including the housemaid. No one understood her. No one cared about what she wanted. I wish Paul was here to see it. Historical artifacts are more his kind of thing.
Paul’s bedroom, my parents’ old room, is as empty as Blake’s, but it has a staler, sourer smell about it, with a thin camping mat and a sleeping bag in the centre of the room. There are still round marks in the carpet where the old bed used to stand. I can’t see Paul’s satchel anywhere.
I leave the door open to let some air in and head out into the night. The usual mist hangs near the ground along Oleander Crescent, but when I lift my face I can also smell traces of smoke on the breeze.
It’s amazing how the thought of Doctor Gregory can bring on a headache. Even before the night Nia and I came face to face with him in Orphanville, he would harass me with letters about my ‘condition’. I had to look up what ‘psychosomatic hypertrichosis’ meant. Doctor Gregory thinks I’m like this because I’m crazy. The howling, the hair, the appetite, the growth spurt, the muscles—all due to what’s going on in my mind.
After that night, after I beat up Doctor Gregory’s bodyguards, I expected payback for sure. But so far, nothing.
I take Hobson Street towards Ennio’s, the only decent place to get coffee in Shyness. There’s a long trickle of people walking in front of me, and, when I turn to check, quite a few behind. Twenty or so people walking in the same direction. Peak hour. This straight stretch of road is lined with two-storey terraces, mostly Dreamer houses. The only reason to be on Hobson is if you live here, or you’re going to Ennio’s.
I slow my steps, puzzled. Surely not everyone needs a caffeine fix at the same time? The people in front walk metres apart and don’t talk to each other, but, despite this, I can’t shake the feeling they know each other. They don’t look at each other at all, not even with casual curiosity or out of caution. They walk separated by neat regulated distances. A handful are dressed almost identically, in blue cotton pants and shirts.
I turn around, under the guise of checking the rooftops for tarsier, to see that several of the people behind me are also dressed in the blue uniform. I’m caught in a silent street parade. Everyone walks with purpose, eyes straight ahead. Most are youngish, in their mid-twenties, but there is one middle-aged woman among them. They don’t seem to notice or care that I’m checking them out. I drop into a crouch, pretending to tie my shoelace. I hope no one realises my boots have zips.
‘My boy!’ A voice calls out, whispering and urgent. ‘Over here!’
Someone stands in the shadowy doorway of the closest house, beckoning furiously.
It’s Lupe.
The dark doorway can’t hide the unmistakable red puff of hair, or her tropical tent dress. I wait until the last person has passed me, then join her.
‘What are you doing here?’
I’ve never seen her anywhere other than in sight of her van, and here she is on the other side of Shyness, deep in Dreamer territory. She has a thick cardigan over her parrot dress as a concession to the cold, and a battered handbag thrown over
her shoulder.
Her dark eyes crinkle. ‘I am being the spy.’
‘On who?’ I ask. ‘On me?’
‘Always you are thinking you are centre of the universe,’ Lupe smiles. ‘Not you, my boy—Paul.’
I poke my head out of our doorway to see the tail end of the parade turn the corner.
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘He passed already, before you came. I see him walk with blue people.’
‘Let’s go then. We can catch up.’
Lupe throws her hands up. ‘He has long passed and I’m an old woman. I won’t be running all over town.’
‘You’re not old,’ I say, even though she does look shorter and older outside her caravan, without her prize possessions gathered around her. ‘What are you doing on Dreamer’s Row anyway? How long have you been following him?’
Lupe flaps her hand vaguely. ‘I am a few streets away on errand when I see Paul. I think to myself I will talk to him. But then I see the blue people.’
‘You mean the way they’re dressed?’
While I’ve never seen people dressed like hospital orderlies before, Locals go through weird phases all the time.
Lupe pats my cheek. ‘Not just a pretty face, are you?’
I help her down the stairs. I can see the circle of white on the crown of her head where her hair needs touching up. ‘What errands do you have to do?’
‘Is all done, my boy.’ She pats her bulging handbag.
We start down the street. The middle-aged woman I saw earlier is standing in the yard next door, looking at us. A statue at the fence line. I take Lupe’s elbow.
‘Evening,’ I say, keeping us moving.
The woman comes to life, as if my greeting has activated her. Her face becomes animated and stern. She shakes her finger at us. ‘Marcus! How many times have I told you to take off your shoes before you come into the house? Tracking mud everywhere. I just did those floors.’
‘Sorry,’ I play along. I nudge Lupe. ‘I won’t do it again.’
‘That’s right,’ says the woman. And then her face changes again. The life ebbs out of it and a confused expression takes over. She looks from me to Lupe.
‘You’re not him, are you?’
‘No, we’re not,’ says Lupe.
‘Slippage,’ says the woman. ‘It happened again.’
Lupe hesitates, and I make it clear we’re leaving. ‘Bye now.’
I walk fast towards Grey Street, still with my arm linked through Lupe’s. She takes three steps to my one. I catch myself frowning at the ground as I walk. Has Paul really found new friends? Is that why he hardly comes home anymore? I wasn’t surprised to be dumped by Thom for Maggie, but I always assumed Paul and I would be tight forever.
‘Lupe, did you actually see Paul talking to those people?’
Lupe shakes her head. Her face is bright with make-up, her eyes sharp. ‘There is no talking but he is one hundred per cent with them.’ She grips my arm tightly. ‘Our Paul is like lost puppy trying to find family.’
‘He’s not lost,’ I say, trying to sound scornful about the idea, even though I haven’t seen him in over a week and if his absences go on much longer he could qualify as lost.
‘Jethro, I do not know if your eyes are open but I see Paul and this pretty girl go together for months. And I think to myself, there is youth and there is happiness. But recently I see Paul, and I see no pretty girl.’
I blink. Lupe is in one of her cryptic moods. I know that Paul was seeing this girl a while back, but her name has slipped from my mind. ‘I still don’t get why you need to spy on him.’
‘Because I only see Paul by his self. Not with pretty girl, not with you. Come to see me, on his own. And when I see him, it does not need a doctor to know that he is lost. And now he is with these people and, Jethro, these people are not normal.’
5
On Friday I’m neck-deep in
seventies shirts when the door buzzer sounds. I crawl to the edge of the mezzanine and look over, pleased to have an excuse to take in some fresh air. Helen makes sure all our stock is dry-cleaned before it even comes into the store, but there are some things—the chemical reactions that occur when armpits come into contact with polyester, for example—that cannot be erased.
The customer shelters beneath a ruffled black umbrella; the megawatt sun outside is visible even from this position.
‘Hey, are you free up there?’ Ruth calls out from underneath my feet—she’s probably busy with shop regular, Difficult Steve.
I’m about to reply when the words die in my mouth. The customer lowers her brolly, exposing cheeks as pale and perfect as pearls.
I’ve only met her once but I’d recognise her anywhere. It’s Ortolan.
I fall back from the edge of the balcony, suddenly aware of my heart beating in my chest.
I met Ortolan in Shyness, on the night I met Wolfboy. She used to go out with Wolfboy’s brother, Gram, and she’s pretty much the most stylish, nicest person I’ve ever met.
‘Babe?’ Ruth calls out again. ‘I need you down here.’
I risk another peek over the edge of the mezzanine. Ortolan is waiting patiently by the counter. Even as I’m panicking, I’m admiring her black outfit, which she no doubt designed and made herself. Her pants taper in sharply at her ankles, and the sun zings off the shiny gold epaulettes on her shoulders.
Ortolan must be the customer that Helen told me about, the woman who likes gothy things. Helen will kill me if I don’t take special care of her. And I forgot to tell Ruth about the clothes set aside in the storeroom. When I finally trudge down to the ground level, I have a sheepish look on my face. Ruth is stuck over by the LPs, deep in conversation with Difficult Steve. For the first time ever, I understand the saying ‘lamb to the slaughter’. What is she even doing on this side of town?
Ortolan’s face brightens when she sees me. ‘Wildgirl!’
I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure she’d recognise me. We only had a short conversation that night, albeit about the heavy topic of Wolfboy’s dead brother.
‘I’m Ortolan,’ she says, when I don’t respond. ‘I don’t know if you remember—’
‘No, of course I do,’ I say. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
I try to brush down the front of my pants. I’ve been grubbing around in bags of new stock and I’m covered in dust. Even my face feels coated.
‘How long have you worked here? I had no idea. I’ve been coming to Helen for years.’ Ortolan’s hair is the same coppery colour but she’s had it cut shorter, into a smooth bowl cut.
‘Uh, a few months. School holidays.’ I come to my senses and move behind the counter. ‘Helen left some stock out for you.’
I drag the plastic tub out into the open, bending over awkwardly with my bum in the air. It’s hellishly heavy. ‘Where do you want to look at this?’
‘I don’t want to be in your way. How about over by the window?’
There’s a long pause when I straighten up. I scramble for something to say while my cheeks flame red. I’d like to run away before Ortolan mentions anything about that night, but I don’t want to be rude. Her skin is even more translucent in this light. Faint sea-green veins cross her neck behind her feathered earrings.
‘How is Diana?’ I ask eventually. I think that was her daughter’s name.
Ortolan smiles. ‘She’s great—a real character. It’s frightening how fast she’s growing up. You should come over and meet her some…’
Ortolan’s voice trails off and she looks at her feet, as flustered as me. She knows, then, that Wolfboy never called me. I wonder how close to Ortolan Wolfboy’s become, and what he might have confided in her. For a brief, and stupid, moment I want to ask: How is he? Does he ever mention me? Not ever?
‘And business is good?’ I say instead; my voice sounds thin. I bend down and flip the lid off the tub.
‘It’s good. Better than good, actually. I’m so glad you’ve found a job with Helen, Wildgirl. She re
ally knows her stuff. You’ll learn a lot from her.’ Ortolan holds a black glomesh top up to the light, appraising it critically.
I choose this moment to back away, while my dignity is still partially intact. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m just over here.’
I retreat to the front counter, where Ruth joins me.
‘Sorry I didn’t come downstairs straightaway.’ I drag my fingers through a bowl of buttons. I’m already going over things I could have said differently. What if Ortolan reports back to Wolfboy that I’m an awkward freak?
‘I would have been fine, but Difficult Steve is in form today.’ Ruth is an excellent mimic. ‘And was this…uh, Herb Alpert recording…made before or, uh…after he disbanded the Tijuana Brass?’
There’s a wracking cough over by the men’s shoes. Difficult Steve stands on the other side of the cowboy boots, not ten metres away. His head is barely visible between the shelves, but there’s no mistaking that moustache.
‘Oh, crap.’ Ruth is stricken. ‘Oh, I feel awful. Do you think he heard?’
I pat her arm. ‘Not unless he has superhuman hearing.’
‘I shouldn’t make fun of him. He means well.’
‘He’s got a little crush on you,’ I say. ‘Duncan had better watch out.’
‘Did you hear Helen has talked him into modelling at Shopping Night on Monday night? Duncan that is, not Difficult Steve. You’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘It’s my first day back at school but Helen made me promise to come weeks ago.’
Ruth starts unpicking a loose hem. ‘You’ll love it. All the best customers will be there—no one misses it.’
I look across to where Ortolan is sorting the clothes into two piles. ‘So, Ortolan is likely to be there?’
‘I’d say so. You don’t like her?’
I could lie at this point, but this is Ruth I’m talking to. Ruth of the homemade cupcakes and the lifts to the train station. Ruth who manages Helen’s tizziness and is the mother hen of the Emporium, even though she’s only twenty-five, half Helen’s age.