by Tanya Moir
Now you ask me to marry you, Jemma said and Winstone went down on one knee and he did and Jemma said, I do. You may kiss the bride, she said, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and put her mouth on his for a second or two and it was damp and soft and breathy and warm and he felt the bones in her small chest press against him hard and flat and unconfronting as his own.
I love you Winson.
I love you Jim-jam.
Now we go to bed.
Jemma spun around and lay down and Winstone lay down beside her and opened his arms and Jemma shuffled in close and put her head on his shoulder and then she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to snore. Winstone petted her hair where it was trying to get up his nose and the skin of her cheek was soft and downy like velvet or marshmallow and her eyelashes fluttered against his neck and without opening her eyes she said, Is it morning yet?
No, he said. Not yet.
Jemma breathed in and out. Is it morning now?
Yes.
Okay. Jemma sat up and stretched and fake-yawned. I’m going to make us breakfast. She folded her lips and set out her imaginary pots and pans and tossed her hair and said how do you like your eggs, and Winstone said sunny-side up not knowing what that meant but because it sounded pretty and Jemma reached into the front pocket of her pink check pinafore dress and brought out two yellow dandelion hearts and she served them up on the palm of her hand.
In the weeks after that the weather broke and it stayed broken for a while. There was no more school and no more playing outside and a lot more TV and people complained on the radio but still the cold wind blustered and tossed around a fine rain that eddied and drifted from one day to the next as though it were looking for something. Winstone needed to put on his coat and boots when he went out to feed the dogs and Debbie lit the woodburner again and since he had a lot of spare time it was his job to keep it going.
On the day they drove to Alexandra Jemma was back in her pink gumboots even though they’d got too small and she said they squished her toes. It was raining in Alexandra as well and the lights showed yellow behind the closed doors of the shops and the few people walking past the closed doors all had their hoods up. In The Warehouse people were blaming the school holidays for the rain and some said it was the same every year and others said they’d seen nothing like it and a woman in zebra-striped leggings said she couldn’t wait for the holidays to end and behind her the kid she was with ran his arm along the shelf and wiped off a stack of towels and watched them scatter over the floor.
Debbie headed down the baby aisle to get to the shoes and on the way Jemma found a plastic lion she liked and Debbie sighed and told her to put it back and Jemma’s lower lip went out.
It’s a baby’s toy, Debbie said. You’re a big girl now.
Jemma stood holding the lion close to her chest.
You’ll be going to school in a few weeks, Debbie said.
Jemma lowered the lion. With Winson, she said.
That’s right, Debbie said.
On the bus.
Yes, Debbie said. With all the big kids on the bus.
Jemma looked at the lion while she thought about that.
Babies can’t go on the bus, Debbie said.
Jemma turned around and set the lion back on the shelf and she got it lined up nice and straight and then she turned back and brushed imaginary dust from her hands. I’m not a baby, she said. I’m a big girl now.
That’s right. Debbie held out her hand. Come on, let’s go find you some gumboots.
Winstone followed a few steps behind them and watched Jemma’s feet as she tried to walk on just her heels so her toes didn’t squish and he thought about her walking onto the bus and as far as he could think there wasn’t a single thing in the world that he could do about it.
There weren’t many gumboots left but Jemma found a pink pair with yellow butterflies on them and Winstone got some new tracksuit pants and he and Jemma both got a Chupa Chup on the way out and they crossed the wet car park flinging up the dark grit with their shoes. They went to the bank and the supermarket and outside the supermarket Winstone saw Tara and Sara-Jane and they saw him and they hid and Winstone looked at Jemma but she was busy stirring a puddle with the toe of her new gumboot and he was pretty sure she hadn’t noticed.
Debbie drove home and Jemma went to sleep in the back and ahead the grey sky was banded with rain and the hills stained dark and rain misted the fence wires and seeped from the black gravel verge and Winstone was still thinking.
In the night the wind got up and came howling through the hedge like a coal train bound for the coast and it slammed against the roof of the house and gave it a shake and the iron moaned and outside the windows the bushes twisted and clawed at the glass as if bent on escaping the storm. The noise woke Winstone and it woke Jemma too because he heard her start to sniffle and pant and the thud of her feet on the floor of the hall and he heard Todd’s voice say it’s okay, Jem, just the wind, and Debbie say go on, Jemma, go back to sleep and you’re too big for our bed now.
Jemma’s feet went back up the hall but she didn’t go back to sleep and he could hear her whimpering over the noise of the storm and then the first thunderclap rolled round the hills and he waited and no one got up and through the wall he heard Todd snore.
He went quietly so he didn’t wake Debbie and Todd and he closed Jemma’s door behind him and sat on her bed in the small amber circle of the nightlight and put a hand to the lump under the covers. It’s okay, he said. Jim-jam, shush.
Jemma poked her head out from under the duvet. I don’t like it Winson, she said.
I know. I’m here, it’s okay.
I don’t like it. The trees are trying to get in.
It’s the wind, that’s all.
Will you stay with me?
Okay.
Jemma lifted the corner of the duvet. You can be here.
Winstone climbed in and Jemma got close and he tucked the duvet around them both. He held her against him squirmy and soft and smelling of Debbie’s new apple shower gel and he patted her back and stroked the hair falling over his hands and she snuffled herself off to sleep and her quick little breaths fluttered in and out on his neck and then he slept too.
He dreamed about Tara and in the dream he sank his hand into Tara’s silky brown hair and grabbed it and pulled it hard and pushed Tara down and he woke up angry and hot.
Ow, Jemma said. You’re pinching me.
He relaxed and felt her warm downy skin swell under his fingers. Sorry, he said, and Jemma rolled over and pressed her back to him and he stroked her arm where he’d hurt it. The wind had died and the room was getting light.
Prrr, Jemma said. I’m a pussycat. Prrr.
She’d curled into a ball and he stroked her hair again and all the way down the side of her to her feet and she lifted her chin and he rubbed her throat.
Good pussycat.
Prrr.
Nice pussycat.
Prrr.
Jemma rolled onto her back and held her arms and legs in the air and Winstone rubbed her stomach. She flopped over again. Do you want to play cowboy and cowgirl now?
Not now, he said. It’s too early for cowboy and cowgirl. It isn’t morning yet.
When I come to school can we play cowboy and cowgirl then?
When you come to school you’ll play with the other kids your age.
Do they know how to play cowboy and cowgirl?
No.
Jemma thought about that for a while. Winson, she said.
What?
Who will you be playing with?
Where’s that pussycat gone? he said. There was one here just a minute ago.
Prrr, said Jemma. Prrr.
That was the morning that the rain cleared and Glentrool began to dry out and Jemma asked him to draw her a calendar so they could cross off all the days that were left until she started school.
WEST
COOPER AND THE KID rode the high yellow crust of the world and the world t
urned under their horses’ hooves and their shadows stretched as with each fall of their feet they moved further from the sun. When they came to the canyon rim in the hours after dawn the wind was up and the earth around and the sky above were cold and hard as the barrels of a gun. They rode wound and buttoned against the cold and the light was behind them and anyone watching them come would have seen preceding their dark muffled shapes on the sky the first swirling rumours of snow.
In that place at that hour the only colours were blue and grey in all of their gradations but when the Kid stepped down and squatted and blew at the blackened carcass of fire in the rocks it flared red as the fugitive sun. He looked back at Cooper.
Hot enough to cook coffee, he said.
Cooper scanned the country ahead. You figure their breakfast’s still warm?
The Kid stood and brushed the white feathers of ash from his knees. We got em, he said.
Yeah, Cooper said. We got em.
The Kid remounted and they rode forward and sat their horses on the rim of the tableland looking down into the canyon.
You see anythin?
Not yet, Coop said. But they’re down there.
Yep, the Kid said. Just one way they could go.
As they rode the only trail down from the ridge they saw small signs of riders passed before them and in the hour after noon they came to a wider place of flattened grass and at the side of the trail the doused embers of a fire with coffee grounds steaming upon it. They rode on without stopping and a little time later from the top of a bluff where the trail curved back on itself they looked down and saw two horses below them.
What if they look back? said the Kid.
Well then Kid, said Coop, I’ll guess they’ll see us comin.
They came out of the black and pregnant sky to the shaded canyon floor where the river curdled and all colours were ghosts of themselves and ahead among the grey coils of water and sand they saw their prey and before nightfall they’d ridden them down.
The riders had rested up for the night at the foot of the canyon wall behind a stand of willow. When they saw the fire in the trees up ahead the Kid and Cooper stepped down and led their horses along the sand where the horses’ hooves would make no sound until only a braid of shingle lay between them and the riders’ camp and there in the last fading minutes of dusk they squatted on their boot heels and watched the light of the fire move between the bare willow stems and the riders’ horses graze the bank.
You sure you wanna do this? Coop said.
I got to do it, the Kid said.
Well then, said Coop. I guess you do.
If I mess up, the Kid said. If he’s fastern me.
He aint fastern you, Coop said. An you won’t mess up.
But if I do.
I’ll be there, Cooper said.
You’ll finish him off, the Kid said. So it don’t never happen again.
I’ll finish him off real good for you, Kid. I swear.
The Kid pulled the six-shooter from his belt and he looked at it in his hand. He turned it sideways and spun the chamber and checked it and spun it again and he slid the gun back in his holster and felt the weight of it there and its distance from his hand.
You fixin to give him a chance? Cooper said.
I’ll give him a chance.
Kid.
What is it, Coop?
Maybe he had his chances.
Yeah, the Kid said. Maybe he did.
The Kid stood. He pressed his hand to the palomino’s head and felt its warm broad bones and he touched the horse’s nose and its forehead. Then he breathed the cold night in and sent it steaming back and he set out walking.
As the Kid walked he hitched his coat back behind his belt and his hand curved above the grip of his gun and the waiting metal spoke to the skin of his palm as if some current passed between them. Cooper followed him and he thought the noise of their boots on the stones would rouse the camp but it did not. He looked back at Coop and they motioned to each other and circled the tangled willow belt to come at the open ground behind and the Kid could hear Coop’s steps and his steps and he could hear his blood and the river running.
In the clearing the fire popped and yellow sparks fled up into the night and were extinguished. The light of the fire licked the toes of boots that were dusty and shabby and holed and above them the sickle-blade brim of a hat and beyond hat and boots the figure seated there was on the night just a shape of greater darkness.
Across the fire the Kid stepped slowly out of the dark and he stood and the shifting orange light moved over him head to toe and it glinted on the pale skin of his face and the silver buckle of his belt and on his white hat and his gun.
Through the swarming sparks the sickle edge of the rider’s hat rose but the eyes below it remained in darkness.
Firelight flanked the Kid’s face and the point of his jaw and his jaw moved as he wetted his mouth down to speak and when he called out the rider’s name his voice rang across the fire and echoed through the canyon.
Winstone!
CENTRAL
Jemma screamed when he did it. He wasn’t expecting that. That it could hurt. It was just his hand but he pressed too hard and Jemma screamed and it gave him a jolt and he didn’t think he just clamped his other hand over her mouth. Shush, he said. It’s okay Jim-jam. Shush.
But she was wriggling and trying to bite at his hand and he didn’t know what to do next and then the light burst on and Debbie was standing there in her dressing gown in the doorway. She screamed too. First she screamed get away from her and then she screamed Todd and everything happened fast after that, Todd stumbling in half panicked and half still asleep and Winstone plucked from the bed and flying off down the hall connecting with doorknobs and shelves on the way and next thing he knew he was on the laundry floor with Todd standing over him and Todd was shaking and had a look in his eyes Winstone knew and it was time to decide which to cover first, head or balls. He figured Todd for a head man.
What were you doing? Todd said, and it didn’t sound like him but a person lost and dazed and his voice was all broken up and he said it again like he hadn’t heard it come out the first time. What were you doing? She’s four years old.
Winstone stayed in a ball on the floor with his knees to his chest and his arms braced over his head and he watched Todd’s face from the gap between his elbows. He did not tell Todd that Jemma was about to turn five or that age didn’t count when you loved someone and he did not say that he’d wanted to make Jemma happy.
What’s wrong with you? Todd said. It’s the worst thing. What you were doing to her. The worst way you can hurt a little kid. It’s sick.
Winstone lay looking up at Todd and he thought about Marlene. He thought about the exact and particular chord her head struck, formica and flesh and bone and the resonant space inside the bone, and he thought of the drum of her feet in her dirty socks on the kitchen floor. He hadn’t known there were worse things than that. He hadn’t known but he looked at Todd’s face and he could see that there were and it didn’t make sense but somehow he’d done a worse thing and then he couldn’t help what he did any more and he let go of his head and his balls and he started to cry.
You little piece of shit, Todd said. Behind him the door opened a bit and Winstone could see Debbie’s jandals and feet and the bottom of her pyjamas. Green with little pink and red hearts.
I rang the emergency line, Debbie said. I said no way could he stay here tonight. They’re going to talk to the police. Sort out someone to come and get him.
Winstone thought about who they might be.
I hope they lock him up and throw away the fucken key, Todd said. Do the world a favour.
He needs help, Debbie said.
Help, Todd said, I’ll give him help. I’ll cut his fucken balls off.
Come away.
Jesus Christ.
I know. Come on. Debbie opened the door wide to let Todd out and Winstone could see her face all white and strange and she looked hi
m over as if to memorise his shape so there’d be no more mistakes and she’d know it for what it was next time she saw it. We took you into our home, she said. Then she turned away and Todd followed her out and shut the door and Winstone heard the big old iron key snick around in the lock on the other side.
He waited a while to see what would happen next and when nothing did he sat up and shuffled backwards until he hit the washing machine and he leaned against it. He thought about Jemma. He thought about her frightened and crying and hurt and he thought that he’d never wanted to make her those things and then he thought about all the things Jemma had and the things Jemma was and he wondered if it was true that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her even a bit. He thought that if he held her again it would make it true and he wanted to hold her again just even once hair and skin and the warmth of her and if he could hold her she’d laugh and say Winson it’s okay because it was only a touch and how could it hurt that bad?
He thought about how the world had been before he got out of bed and walked up the hall into Jemma’s room and he tried to think of some explanation or action or excuse that would put it back that way and for a while it seemed like there had to be one. But he knew there wasn’t and that only the things that didn’t matter could ever be fixed or changed or undone. It seemed a good time for the world to end and he laid his forehead down on his knees and he stayed like that a long time.
When he looked up the world was still there and it hadn’t improved. He thought about the people coming to get him and how long they might be. He imagined red and blue lights slicing up the highway and through the night and sirens waking all of Glentrool to tell them what he’d done and he imagined his face and the Jacksons’ house on the TV news like Bic’s face and the house in Rahui Bridge had been with the house all covered in police tape and hung up behind the newsreaders for decoration. But maybe it wouldn’t be the ordinary police. Maybe they had a special force for people who hurt little kids the worst way. Maybe they’d make him wear an orange jumpsuit and chains and stick electrodes to his balls.