So Wild

by Eve Dangerfield

  “So you’re serious about my sister?”

  His grin involuntarily spread wider. “Of course, I’m serious about her, I’ve been serious about her since I was eight, but we need to focus on—”

  Someone screamed on Nicole’s end of the line—a high piercing scream.

  “What was that?” Scott bellowed.

  “Tabby? Is that you?” Nicole called.

  There was another loud bang, followed by a scream.

  “I’ve got to go,” Nicole said and the line disconnected.

  Scott tried to call back but the line rang out. Every muscle in his body went tight and he gripped the steering wheel so hard, his bones hurt. What had happened? Was his father there? Again, his mind groped for alternatives—Tabby had broken something, Nicole was called away by a client—but his gut told him it was just wishful thinking. He remembered the fury with which his father talked in the voicemails and he accelerated his speed.

  It took a thousand years to get to his old street and as he drew up to Silver Daughters, he could taste blood in the back of his mouth. Scanning the road, he couldn’t see his father’s car anywhere. The reassurance of that was short lived. As he pulled over, he smelled the stink of burning plastic. There was smoke billowing above Silver Daughters.

  “Shit!” He ejected his seatbelt and leapt from the car. A small crowd had gathered around the storefront and he ran toward them. “What’s happening? Where are the girls? Has anyone rung the fire brigade?”

  “Yes,” said a woman with coke-bottle glasses. “They’re on their way, but no one’s seen the owners—hey, you can’t go in there!”

  But Scott had already flung open the door and run inside. There were no flames that he could see, but the smoke was everywhere. His eyes stung and he raised a sleeve to protect his mouth and nose.

  “Hello?” he called. “Nicole? Tabby? Where are you?”

  He could hear people moving at the back of the building and headed toward the sound, coughing a little. “Hello? Nicole? Tabby? Gil?”

  “Scottison? Is that you?”

  Scott almost laughed with relief. It was Tabby, and she sounded fine. “Yes, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “Out the back!”

  Scott pushed forward, his hand outstretched to detect unknown obstacles. He saw natural light glowing at the end of the corridor and headed toward it. The back door was open and he stepped through it and into a small concrete courtyard that was thick with blue-grey smoke.

  “Scott!”

  It was Nicole, smudged with grime and holding a green garden hose. To her left was Tabby, paler and smaller than Scott had ever seen her. She was hunched over a big wicker basket, feverishly patting the six black and gold puppies and their mother. They were whining loudly and Scott felt his guts shrivel up like old fruit. “Are they okay? Are you okay?”

  “Yes to both,” Nicole said grimly. “Look at our shed.”

  Scott turned and felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. The corrugated iron was a tangle of smoldering metal. “What the hell happened?”

  “No idea.” Nicole turned on the hose, spraying the shed with water. Her spine was straight and her eyes clear, but there was a brittle quality to her voice, like if given one more nudge, she might scream. Scott turned to look at Tabby for more information.

  “It was deliberate,” she said, picking up three puppies and holding them close. “Molotov’s or petrol bombs or something. They got the shed and the back door. That’s why the whole house is smoked out.”

  Scott turned and saw the back door was burned up in the middle as though hit by a cannonball. His vision hazed over. This couldn’t have been his dad. His dad was angry and rude but he wouldn’t throw a Molotov cocktail at a building filled with women. Why would he? He wanted to buy the house.

  “I was with the pups when the first petrol bomb, or whatever got thrown over. It hit the shed.” Tabby was holding four puppies at once, tugging them close whenever they attempted to squirm away.

  “Did you see who did it?” Scott asked.

  “No, I had my back to the fence. I thought it was a meteorite or a firework or some shit like that. I was trying to get the pups together to take them inside when the back door exploded.”

  “It was okay, though,” Nicole said quickly. “I got the fire extinguisher and stopped the door burning too much, then I used the hose to do the shed. It was mostly metal, so I put it out pretty fast.”

  Her eyes were bright. Scott moved toward her, wanting to give her a hug or a comforting arm, but she backed away.

  “Sorry,” she said with a fast smile. “I’m a bit rattled, I think.”

  “Nix saved us.” Tabby stared at him, imploring him to believe her. “She didn’t freak out at all. I was screaming and Gil ran out the front door with the customers. If it wasn’t for her…”

  Tabby buried her face into the mass of puppies, her shoulders shaking.

  “Oh Tabs…” Nicole handed Scott the hose and knelt beside her sister. “Everything’s okay. No one got hurt.”

  “You were so brave,” Tabby sobbed. “You were so brave and I’m always a dick to you for no reason. I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” Nicole said firmly. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Nicole wrapped her arms around her sister and Scott turned away, touched and embarrassed to be present for such a tender moment. He returned his gaze to the smoldering shed. Someone had thrown two petrol bombs or accelerants at the property. But why had they gone for the back door and not the building?

  “Come on,” Tabby said, pulling away from Nicole. “We’re embarrassing Sam’s Special Friend.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Scott said.

  “I don’t, but I feel like we should be doing productive stuff.” Tabby picked up a puppy and used its fur to wipe away her tears. Nicole laughed. “I’m so glad they’re okay.”

  “Me too,” Tabby said. “So what now? What should we do?”

  “The people out the front of the building said the cops and the fire brigade are on their way,” Scott said. “If you ask me, we should lock the doors and make sure none of the rubberneckers come inside and steal anything.”

  “Good point. I should make sure the laptops and tattoo machines are somewhere else, as well.” Nicole’s forehead furrowed. “Scott, could you put the puppies in your car? They’ll need to see a vet to make sure they’re okay, and Tabby’s too shaken up to drive.”

  “I’m fine!” Tabby protested.

  “No, you’re not. Scott, can you please help her?”

  “Of course.”

  He helped Tabby to her feet and scooped three of the squirming pups into his arms. Tabby opened the side gate to let them onto the street and Scott realised he’d picked up the girl-pup he’d been drawn to a week ago, the one with the curious eyebrows. She was tucked closest into his elbow and was making tiny, squeaking noises that had him feeling a curious swell of adoration and absolute fury at whoever had done this—teenagers like the ones who’d harassed Sam, maybe? Were they capable of such stupid, reckless fuckery?

  “Where’s Sam?” Tabby asked as they walked the main street to his car. “Did she come see you?”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, reflecting that it felt like a hundred years ago. “She left just after I did. She should be here soon.”

  “She’s going to freak out. The spare tattoo machine was in the shed. So were a bunch of old photos.” Tabby looked as deflated as anyone with blue hair and three puppies could look.

  “That doesn’t matter. No one got hurt. That’s all that matters.”

  Tabby hoisted her puppies a little higher. “Are you sure? Seems what matters is that we’ve got a crazy nutter trying to firebomb—what are you doing?”

  Scott had stopped dead. From where he and Tabby were standing, he could see straight into his old house. In the front room behind the milk-white blinds stood the silhouette of a man he knew well. Disorientation hit like a crushing wave, a sense of fre
sh unreality. It was true, and maybe he’d already known that, but there was the evidence his idiot heart couldn’t deny.

  “Tabby,” he heard himself say. “Take my keys and get the pups in my car.”

  “Um, why?”

  He knelt, not breathing, barely thinking and put the squirming puppies on the nature strip. He dug into his pockets, holding out his keys. “I have to go check something. Ask the people out the front of the shop to help you, if you need, I just…I have to go.”

  He strode toward his old house, then remembered something and turned back. “If you see Sam, tell her to stay with Nicole. She’s not to come anywhere near me or my old house, understand?”

  Tabby blinked rapidly. “But, no wait! Come back.”

  But for the second time that afternoon, he was running. He ran toward his old house as though his father might disappear beneath the floorboards and never be seen again. He’d have given a great deal, every dollar he had, to still believe it had been someone else, but there was no doubt left to find. His dad had set the DaSilva’s home on fire, could have easily killed Tabby and the dogs and Scott needed to talk to him, he needed to know why.

  Knowing the front door was locked—leaving it unlocked was one of the many, many things that brought Greg Sanderson’s temper down upon you—Scott headed to the kissing gate at the back of the property. The bolt was stiff with rust and clearly hadn’t been used in ages but it slid back all the same. He wrenched the gate open and stepped into his old backyard. Another wave of floating strangeness washed over him—the familiar space strewn with the remnants of another family; deflated footballs, a plastic slide, a murky paddling pool. He stood frozen, trying to remember how it had been before.

  “Hello, boy.”

  His father was standing on the back porch wearing normal clothes, as though this were just a normal day in which normal things happened. The sight of his navy blue polo, black slacks and sports coat made Scott feel dizzier than ever. He could taste blood in his mouth again. “D-d-dad, what are you d-d-doing here?”

  His father looked almost disappointed as he walked down the back stairs. “You’re still fucking stuttering. A decade of the best speech pathology money could buy and you still can’t talk properly.”

  “I can talk just f-fine,” Scott said, his heart hammering so hard it felt like his blood was poison. “What are you doing in the old house?”

  “I’m the landlord, remember? I’ve got the spare keys.” He smiled a smile Scott knew like the back of his hand. The one he’d always flashed before heading to a busy day at the office.

  This is how men murdered their wives. This is how ordinary people shoot up their high schools. Blank and business as usual.

  He imagined running at him, tackling him, hurting him—but the images swam with the same unreality as the present moment. This was his dad, his mother’s husband. He couldn’t have done this, could he?

  His father reached the bottom of the stairs. “Are the cops, here yet, boy?”

  “No,” Scott said numbly. “You could have killed them, you know. You could have burned their house down.”

  “But I didn’t.” His father flashed him that same agitated smile. “I was trying for their gutters, but my aim’s not as good as it used to be. No matter, I’ve got back-up.”

  His father pulled out a glass bottle from his sports coat, the white liquid inside it sloshing ominously.

  “Metho,” he said. “Burns better than alcohol.”

  Scott watched, as though with someone else’s eyes, as his dad extracted a long red rag from another pocket and unscrewed the bottle cap. “Fucking hell! You c-c-can’t be serious!”

  His father ignored him, poking the rag into the alcohol. He rotated the bottle gently, like a man swirling wine in a stemmed glass, making sure it was thoroughly soaked. “They should have fucking sold this house to me,” he said. “The heritage application’s cancelled, they won’t take my fucking money. This is what they get.”

  Scott’s heart was thumping so hard, he felt on the verge of a coronary. He took a step forward and his dad held up the bottle and shook it. “I don’t think so, boy. You come closer and I’ll make you sorry you did.”

  Scott hesitated. He could tackle him, but his father was six-three and heavy with fat and muscle. What if he broke free and chucked the bottle at his old house or the tree or set both of them on fire? He didn’t have the luxury of assuming that wasn’t a possibility. He needed to stay calm and de-escalate this situation. He edged toward the gate, trying to subtly put himself between it and his father. “Dad, we need to talk.”

  “I’m done talking,” his father said, gesturing violently with the bottle. “I’m already fucked, I might as well get the job done. Now, get out of the way, boy.”

  The gate creaked open. “Scott? Is that you?”

  Scott’s mouth went dry. Of course, she was here. Of course, she’d come.

  “Sam, get out of here!” he called, refusing to break eye contact with his father. “It’s not safe!”

  “Scott, what the hell is happening? Tabby said you’d—oh god, it was you.”

  A look of slippery cunning came over his father’s face as his gaze moved from Scott to Samantha. “Hello there, missy. You should have sold up when you had the chance, shouldn’t you?”

  In spite of his terror, Scott had room for the quiet shame that this was his father, taunting and hurting the woman he loved. “Samantha, don’t come any closer.”

  “Why shouldn’t she?” his old man demanded. “This is all her fucking fault. If her family were smart they’d have moved a long goddamn time ago.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam’s voice was hard with anger.

  “Your family’s nothing but fucking trouble, that’s what I mean. We move in and your whore of a mother runs off, leaves you girls to run wild and interfere with my son. Meanwhile, your filthy fucking father’s trying to have it off with my wife behind my back.”

  “That’s bullshit! Dad never went anywhere near her!”

  But that wasn’t right, Scott knew. Edgar and his mother had sat on this very porch and drunk tea and talked about books and movies. They’d been friends.

  “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” his father told Sam, as he pulled a small black lighter from his pocket.

  “What don’t I know?” Sam demanded.

  “How to fucking quit. The whole lot of you don’t know when to quit. I told your old man when we moved in to stay away from my family and he never listened. Then I showed him, I show him over and over again and you still never learned.”

  Scott frowned, confused, but behind him Sam gave a small scream of laughter. “Oh my God, it was you! You stole Nicole’s pictures and posted them, didn’t you?”

  His father gave her an ugly smile. “I did. Walked into the house one afternoon and stole them out of her bedside table. Your old man’s fault for not locking the front door like a decent person.”’

  Sam gave another mad shriek. “I knew it! I knew only a fucking old person would post pictures on a school website. You wrote that letter, too! That one that said my mother was a whore! What the fuck is wrong with you? I was eight!”

  Scott risked a glance around, and Sam was stark white, her hands balled into fists. He stepped backward, blocking her body with his. “Samantha, listen to me. I know this is fucked up, but you need to get out of here. Stop engaging with—”

  “I told your father to leave my family alone,” his father interrupted. “You knew exactly what you were doing, all of you. I tried to be fair, tried to buy your fucking house, make you move, get you lot out of my hair, but you didn’t listen. I’m done taking your shit.”

  “You don’t even live here, anymore,” Sam screamed. “What the fuck is your problem? Just leave us alone!”

  His father flicked the lighter open and exposed a small reddish flame. “I’m done talking to you, missy. Get out of my way and let me finish what I started.”

  “No!” Sam scre
amed. She tried to get around him, but Scott gripped her wrists and held her fast. “You can’t, Samantha, he’ll hurt you.”

  “I don’t care!”

  As Sam struggled against him, he heard his father cackle and knew they were running out of options. He was going to have to push Sam down and rush his old man—hope he wouldn’t light the rag in the process. He pushed forward, trying to bend Sam over without hurting her, when the back door to the house slammed open. “Oi, is that the bottle rocket guy?”

  Tabby of all people was making her way down the verandah steps, holding what looked like a microphone. She looked bizarrely out of place with her blue hair and dirty pink dress. A 2D Pokémon dropped into reality.

  “Get out of here!” he and Sam shouted as one.

  “Yeah, nah, I’m here to help.” Her gaze fell on his father. “Oh shit, it was Scottison’s dad. Fuckin’ plot twist!”

  “Tabby, get the fuck out of here!” Sam screamed, still flailing her hands and trying to break Scott’s grip. “He’s dangerous!”

  “So am I,” Tabby said, holding up the microphone. Now that she was closer, Scott saw it looked more like an electric razor and wondered what the hell it was.

  His father, apparently startled by Tabby’s arrival, lowered the Molotov bottle. “How the hell did you get inside my house, missy?”

  “Yeah, sure, as if I’m telling you, cunt,” Tabby said with a laugh. “Hey, are those shoes rubber?”

  His father’s face contorted with anger. “The fuck are—”

  Tabby ran toward him, holding the microphone/razor like a baton. Before anyone could do or say anything, she pressed it into his back and there was a loud snapping sound, like a box-worth of matches being struck at once. His father grunted like a wounded gorilla, his face twisting into a fleshy mask. He dropped face-forward into the grass. The Molotov bottle thudded onto the ground, the contents glugging onto the grass.

  That’s going to fuck up the soil. Jesus fucking Christ.

  “Fuck yeah!” Tabby said, raising her implement to the sky and making it crackle once more. “That was for the puppies, you ballbag.”

  “What the fuck!” Sam gasped. “Tabby, what is that?”