The Driftwood Dragon

by Ann Charlton

  For no real reason her anger surged up, made her hands tighten into fists. He had every right to be there—to run on the beach that she thought of as hers, but which wasn't. Just the sight of that masculine figure infuriated her. She watched for a moment the rhythm of his loping stride against the blue-green sea then went inside. If any new crop of topless sunbathers caught a glimpse of him the beach would be simply littered with nubile bodies stretched out to catch his eye. Sam wouldn't be enough to discourage them in that event. Dru muttered and slapped butter on two slices of bread to make herself a sandwich.

  Maybe she should go back to Brisbane and leave Mr Matthews in sole occupation. When he came in he was windblown, faintly pink in the face and wearing a shirt that reached to his hips and barely touched the upper edge of swim trunks that were only just decent. His mood certainly had improved. The famous grin flashed white as he held up a large fish. The smell wafted about the kitchen.

  'Dinner,' he said.

  'Whose—yours or mine?'

  Locke lowered the fish and closed his smile. 'Such a gracious landlady. I was going to cook it for you. As some small reparation for frightening you on the stairs last night.'

  'I've made my lunch,' she said and picked up her uneaten sandwich.

  'I didn't say lunch—I said dinner.' His mouth compressed, 'If you hadn't been so damned sour, I was going to come over tonight and make you a meal to remember.'

  'Thanks but no thanks. I don't need a meal to remember.' I need one to forget, she thought as desolation found its way through her new, therapeutic anger. 'And I'm afraid you won't have to "come over" as you put it, because I still haven't got your key. There must have been a mix-up with my brother's friends who last rented the flat.'

  Locke gave a sigh of exasperation. The fish flapped back and forth in his hand.

  'Hell, what if Shelley arrives today?'

  'There are the double bunks,' she suggested. He threw her a dark look. 'I'm sorry about the key,' she said briskly, wondering how she could explain her misdirections if Shelley did come back. 'If at all possible I'll get hold of it today. Otherwise—there is a Motel not far away… or you can use my spare room again tonight.'

  He made a sound of disgust. 'This is—' he began, raising his hand in resignation. The fish swung to and fro like a pendulum.

  '—a fine kettle of fish?' she finished, unable to resist it. There was something delightfully ridiculous about Mr Wonderful, locked out of his rightful rented flat, with that fish dangling at the end of a graceful actor's gesture.

  He stared at her. A faint smile edged her mouth and she held out a hand to him.

  'Are you trying to hypnotise me with it, Mr Matthews?' The scales glistened silver-grey-silver-grey and he looked down at the fish as if he'd forgotten its existence. 'You'd better give it to me. I'll put it in the fridge.'

  'Well, well—so there's a sense of humour inside that lemon skin you wear.'

  'Not all of us put everything on show,' she snapped, regretting already giving in to her sense of the absurd.

  'It's a pity you don't remember that about others,' he returned cryptically. 'Here, catch.'

  The fish landed in her arms and she gave an involuntary cry of aversion as the cold scales touched her skin. In a flurry of movements she juggled it, holding it by thumbs and forefingers to slap it on a plate. And all the time he laughed—a low chuckle that grew into a belly laugh at her grimaces. At last she put the plate on the refrigerator shelf and slammed the door shut on it.

  'Very funny.' She washed her hands and turned to look at him. He was in his favourite pose—one shoulder against the wall. Why on earth was the man always nearly naked?

  'Where did you get it? The fish.'

  'From Sam.'

  'You've spoken to Sam?' She was surprised. Sam was loath to talk to anyone except herself and Barry and his family. Sometimes even she didn't see him for days at a time. Sam was a loner. 'Did you tell him who you were?'

  'But of course. I went right up to him and said: My good man, I'm a film star, you'll have heard of me— how about a fish?'

  'Sorry. I forgot you're not seeking publicity right now, are you?'

  He pushed himself away from the wall, came and stood near her. 'You're pushing me, Dru. Landlady or not, if I keep getting cracks like that I'm likely to lose my cool.'

  'Don't issue me with warnings, Mr Matthews. I say what I want to say and I don't care if you are the hottest screen property around and every fool woman's dream.'

  She didn't see his hands move. They simply shot out and closed around her upper arms and hauled her to him in one smooth blur of motion. He was furious. The green eyes were narrowed, hard as malachite and she felt a flutter of nerves. If he was angry at this, what would he be like if he found out she'd sent Shelley away?

  'You're not only righteous but rude. I've a good mind to—' His eyes dropped to her mouth and she felt a charge of electricity run the length of her back.

  'Oh come now, Mr Matthews, that's been done to death. When the heroine gets a bit above herself she's punished with a kiss! I saw you do it in a Ramage episode that I was unfortunate enough to catch.'

  'No, I won't kiss you. It might not prove a punishment. Not to you, anyway,' he added and his face relaxed into satisfaction at her quick swallow. Silently she flayed herself for walking into the trap so that he could tell her again what she already knew. Kissing her would be no pleasure. She had no sex appeal. 'Some have it—some don't' Gillian had said once or twice. She'd said it flippantly herself a hundred times but it always came out a fraction mistful when you knew you were on the minus end.

  'Let me go please.' She pulled against his hold.

  'What's the matter, Dru,' he put his hand to her ribs, just below and to the side of her breast so that his thumb touched the full underswell, 'I'm not disturbing your prudish senses am I ?'

  The beat of her heart quickened at the so nearly intimate touch. He bent his handsome head and looked deeply into her eyes. Mr Wonderful was setting her up for another slap in the face.

  'Let me go.'

  'What's the hurry?' His arm slipped all the way about her waist and now she was against that panel of warm, tanned skin left uncovered by his open shirt. 'Am I really that awful?'

  Dru decided against an undignified struggle. There were other ways of dealing with Mr Matthews and his ego.

  'Not—that awful,' she said.

  'Am I so unattractive to you?' His voice had dropped to a whisper and his breath sighed past her ear. Boy, she thought—a lot of women would give their eye-teeth to play a scene like this.

  'No—o—'

  'Well then ?'

  'Mr Matthews,' she said softly, as he angled his head in another pretence at kissing her, '—you smell.'

  He froze, whether at her criticism or her failure to be captivated she couldn't tell.

  'Cut,' she said drily and removed herself from his grasp. 'A great scene, Mr Matthews, played with feeling. But you smell offish.'

  He went off to shower after that, casting a speculative look at her. Before he came back she finished her lunch, left a sandwich for him and went outside to resume her work on the much neglected windowframes. Her sandpaper rasped and the paint flakes flew as she scrubbed. Long before he spoke, she knew Locke Matthews was standing somewhere near, watching her.

  'Thanks for putting my bike away.'

  'Don't mention it. I didn't want your reporter friends spotting it and intruding on my holiday.' She stopped for a few seconds and brushed the white paint particles from the sill. 'How come you're travelling by bike anyway?'

  'I like to ride occasionally. And it's less conspicuous. Though those reporters last night cottoned on. I flew from Sydney and borrowed the bike from a mate of mine in Brisbane.'

  'A mate?'

  'Yes—a mate. In the circus I live in there are one or two real people.'

  That sounded sad. He's an actor she reminded herself. If he wants sympathy he can get it. Her fingers ached from being flattened to t
he sandpaper. When she paused the top joints locked and she flexed her hand.

  'You're going about that the wrong way?' Locke said.

  'Oh, really?'

  'If you find yourself a small block of wood and wrap the sandpaper around it, you will find it a lot easier.'

  'Did you do a play about a housepainter too?'

  'I did play Hitler once,' he admitted with a snap in his voice, 'But I picked up that trick painting houses for a living.'

  She laughed. 'Please, Mr Matthews—I may not be sophisticated but I'm not gullible.'

  'You don't believe me? I painted houses with a friends—the same one who loaned me the bike—for a year. My life wasn't always strewn with willing women and contracts.'

  Dru stopped, met his eyes. She felt vaguely ashamed but just looking at him made outright apology impossible.

  'How big a piece of wood?' she asked and he demonstrated with precise movements of his hands. In the shed she selected one of Barry's timber offcuts left over from a repair job. Then she did as he suggested and had to admit that gripping the block would be a great deal more comfortable.

  'Thanks for the tip,' she said when she returned to her work to find him stretched out on the sparse lawn.

  'My pleasure.' he murmured and checked his watch again before looking down the road. Wondering where Shelley was no doubt, Dru thought and her conscience twinged. The girl might have given up by now and booked in somewhere for a solitary holiday.

  After a while he got up and went over to fiddle with the door of the flat he'd rented. Bending he peered in through the small window, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other.

  'Thinking of breaking in, Mr Matthews? You could always charge at it and force it open with your shoulder the way you do in your movies. But remember this one isn't made of balsa.'

  'If you run out of sandpaper, Dru—just use your tongue.'

  She had to admit he knew a good exit line when he had one. He strode away, skirted around the mango tree and went along the beach in the direction of Sam's cottage. Whether he found a brace of topless sunbathers on the dunes or whether he found Sam himself, he didn't reappear.

  Dru made another fruitless trip to the nearest phone box to phone Barry, but there was no answer. In any case, it was too late to get the key for tonight but she had been hoping to find some way to fetch it first thing in the morning. Now she would have to repeat the procedure all over again and probably make the long drive to Brisbane to get Mr Matthews' key. Either that or bear the expense of bringing in a locksmith.

  'Well?' he demanded when he returned up around six and found her in the lounge.

  'If you mean the key—sorry. No luck. And if you mean Shelley—again no luck,' she added at his arrogant appearance.

  Why did just looking at him rile her so? Dru had an uncomfortable feeling that she was shooting barbs at Locke Matthews which rightly belonged elsewhere. But she had so many unused barbs and he had made himself the perfect target with his traumatic arrival and his calm assumption that she was there for his benefit. Until of course, he'd had a proper look at her. He was from another world. A man not quite real. It seemed not only permissible to fire at him—it was irresistible. She turned away to the kitchen.

  'What time do you want dinner?'

  'Good lord, are you offering to cook it?'

  'In view of the fact that we've messed up your booking I feel it's the very least I can do.'

  'And you intend to do the very least, of course,' he grinned.

  'Of course.'

  'Can you cook?'

  'No. I'm terrible.'

  'That's it then. I'm not handing over my fish to a terrible cook. I'll make the dinner.'

  'Don't tell me—you played a chef in a play once.'

  He opened the fridge, took out the fish, weighed it up in one hand and weighed her up visually.

  'Nope. Got a knife, Dru?'

  'How come Sam hadn't already cleaned it?' She picked out a sharp cook's knife from the drawer and held it out to him.

  'I didn't ask him.' The knife changed hands and he put the fish on a board. With a wicked, threatening glance he held the knife up and ran a cautious thumb under the fine blade edge.

  'I played a murderer once…' he purred in a Vincent Price voice.

  'Did you get caught?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well there you are, Mr Matthews—you're better off playing the lodger.'

  Her fine, fast reply left her tongue before she saw the implications. The lodger had saved on sheets with the landlady. Locke grinned, ran the knife point along the spine of the fish.

  'That's what I'm doing. Again.'

  'Never mind, you'll be able to ditch the role for another more familiar if Shelley turns up.'

  Green eyes sparked at her. 'One thing we won't need with this fish.'

  'What?'

  'Lemon.'

  Dru wandered about, sat in the lounge for a time and turned on the television. But it didn't hold her and she switched it off, standing there for a moment as the sound of Locke's voice reached her. He was singing—absently in an unremarkable but pleasant voice and she couldn't help thinking again how incredible it was. One—that she should have a man singing in the kitchen at all—and two, that it should be him.

  'Is there anything I can do?' she enquired.

  'Not a thing. Go and make yourself beautiful.'

  'I meant something possible,' she retorted and as she left caught his quick glance at her.

  Beautiful, she thought ten minutes later—regarding herself through the steam in the bathroom. Fat chance. Fate had given the prime bits to Gillian—the leftovers to her. Gillian had the heartshaped face, the crushed strawberry lips, the wide, slanted eyes and model's nose. Dru had the same heartshaped face and there the resemblance ended. Her mouth was too wide, its curves flattened out more, her eyes were average, thick lashes which was a small bonus, her nose was rounded, girlish without the chiselled tip that gave Gillian's such class. Dru grabbed a towel and wiped a clearing in the misted mirror. Even in the matter of colour she had got the leftovers. For Gillian there had been china-blue, blonde and pale gold. For her there was grey, mouse and tan.

  She dried off and dressed in jeans and shirt. At least her figure was okay if a bit on the athletic side. But her hair! It hung in ghastly tight curls to her shoulders. Dru towelled it, dragged a comb through its astrakhan pile then put on some lipstick and left the bathroom before the mirror cleared entirely.

  The dinner was delicious. The fresh fish tasted of herbs she hadn't known were in the cupboard, the salad had a light dressing that defied identification and there was wine on the table. He had found the cupboard under the stairs then.

  'This is very good, Mr Matthews.'

  'Call me Locke.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Worried you might get too familiar with the lodger, Dru?'

  'No. I'm not worried about that, Mr Matthews.'

  'What is it with you? Is it just me you hate—or men in general?'

  'Nothing so simple. It's just movie stars I can't relate to. Why only last week I was saying the same thing to Mel Gibson—'

  He laughed. 'How old are you?'

  'Twenty-three.'

  'Are you involved with someone, Dru? Engaged?'

  'I've no intention of discussing my love life with the lodger.'

  He reached out and patted her hand, poured more wine into her glass. 'Very wise. That was how it all started.'

  'All what?'

  'In the play I told you about. I was the lodger and the landlady started confiding her troubles to me and before she knew it we were…' he gave a Gallic shrug.

  'Saving on sheets. I know, you told me last night.'

  'Talking of last night—how come you were so demented?' he enquired. 'I mean just before I put the light on you were raving about monsters.'

  Her colour went sky high. 'You frightened me.'

  'But monsters?' he chided. 'What did you think I was—the bogey man?
Not afraid of the dark are you Dru?'

  'Not any more. But this was our family holiday place before my parents died and I used to be terrified of that place on the stairs—when I was about eight years old—and last night when I heard a noise I was half asleep—'

  'So when I touched you in the dark…' He grinned and put on his Vincent Price voice again, 'I let loose the monsters of your youth.'

  'There's no need to be smug about it—I daresay you have your fears, Mr Matthews,' she paused, 'Though I don't suppose being alone in the dark is one of them.'

  He reached for the bottle of wine and topped up his glass. 'If those reporters find me,' he said slowly, 'I'll sic you on to them. You'd eat them alive.'

  It was going to be another night of no sleep. Dru accepted the fact around midnight and didn't bother with her charade of closing her eyes and lying in the position most likely to succeed. Instead she stared up at the ceiling and tried to make a list of all the work she could do on the house. The windowsills… 'if you run out of sandpaper, use your tongue.' Was she becoming a vinegary old maid at twenty-three? The front doors could do with stripping down, the shed needed a new pane of glass in one window. 'In the circus I live in there are one or two real people…' Such a lonely sound that had.

  She got up and went to her window, looked out on the cold beach. The moon shone down and made the earthly scene its own with its hills and craters, the ocean a glittering alumina sheet behind a line of foam. The surfs hollow roar merely accented the stillness of the night. No wind, no movement in the cottonwoods by Sam's place; So quiet. So still.

  When it came the cry ripped through the night. Terror held Dru fast as that one note of pain, her mind blanked out to a primitive level, adrenalin pumping into her system.

  The sound stopped.

  She let out her breath and turned back to the silent moonscape. There seemed to be a connection somehow. Perhaps if she kept looking out at the silver stillness, that cry would not come again… but the sound that came seconds later was so anguished that she shot to the door and out into the hall to put the light on.