Jasper Jones

by Craig Silvey;

  But I don’t turn back. I stay. I follow Jasper Jones.

  And I see it.

  And everything changes.

  The world breaks and spins and shakes.

  I’m screaming, but they are muffled screams. I can’t breathe in. I feel like I’m underwater. Deaf and drowning. Jasper Jones has a hand pressed over my mouth; another across my shoulder, pulling me in toward him. My hips lurch back, back, back out of here, but my feet are rooted to the clearing. Blessedly, my eyes cloud over with tears and obscure it all until they are blinked away. And it’s there before me again. Jasper has me hard. He covers my thin frame easily. It’s horrible. Too horrible for words.

  It is a girl.

  It is a girl and she is in a dirty cream lace nightdress. She is pale. In the silver light I can see she bears scratches down her arms. And her calves. And her face is smudged and bruised and bloody. And she is hanging by the neck from a thick rope tied to the bough of a silver eucalyptus tree. She is still. She is limp. Her feet are bare and turned in. Her long hair is trapped tight under the noose. Her head is to the side, like a piece of biblical art. She looks disappointed and sad. Surrendered.

  I can’t look away. Jasper can’t look. He holds me like that, his back to the girl, absorbing my movements until I fall quiet. I am breathing very quickly. And quaking. I don’t understand. He knew this. He knew and he brought me here. To see a girl hanging from a tree. She’s dead. She has died. Jasper drops his arm from my shoulder as I speak. I can barely stand.

  “Who is it?”

  Jasper Jones takes some time to answer.

  “Laura Wishart. It’s Laura.”

  It takes me a moment.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. It is. It is her.”

  “Yeah,” Jasper says softly. He’s observing her now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head shake softly. He looks so skinny now. And slouched. Like a boy. I am completely lost. Everything seems slow and dreamlike. It really does. Like I’m not really here and it isn’t happening. It is all apparition. I am removed from it. Spectating from beyond my body, watching it all on a screen.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m sorry about this, mate. I dunno what to do.”

  I am hugging my elbows. I turn to Jasper Jones.

  “Why would you bring me here? I shouldn’t be here. I have to go back home. You have to tell someone about this.”

  “Wait. Charlie, not yet, mate. Not yet.” It’s a firm plea. We fall silent.

  “Why did she do this? What is …? I mean, what? I don’t understand. What happened?” I am almost whispering.

  “She dint do it. Herself, I mean. It weren’t her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she can’t have, Charlie.”

  “What? Why?”

  “She can’t have. For starters, look. Look at that rope. See? That’s mine. That’s my rope. Use it to swing into the dam there. Look. See? But I always hide it after. I wrap it way up there on that branch so you can’t see it.”

  Jasper speaks fast. Too fast to absorb. And for the first time, I observe the surrounds. Behind the eucalypt, which is broad and hollow at the base, like an open tent, there is a small water hole. In front of that, the space we are standing in is perfectly cleared and ringed by high shrubs and trees. It’s a strange little enclave. I imagine it might be something rare and amazing during the day. A quiet bush oasis. But right now it just seems sinister and suffocating. I need to leave. I can’t be here. Laura Wishart has died. And she’s right here. I can’t look.

  The eucalypt rises bare for over fifteen feet before it extends the thick arm the rope is tied to. Save for a fat black burr about halfway between, there are no footholds or grips.

  “And it’s fuckin hard to get up there,” Jasper goes on. “You got to almost sort of shinny up. Like those coconut trees or whatever. See? No way Laura could have got up there and brought it down herself. No way.”

  “What about with a stick or something? Or it might have just come loose. With the wind. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t see any sticks about, Charlie, d’you? Or wind. And it can’t have come loose, cause I wrap it up and tie it. Cause I don’t want anyone to know about this place.”

  I nod, dazed. I can’t think properly.

  Everything falls silent again.

  “So what are you saying? What does this mean?”

  “Charlie. Listen. I’m saying she dint do it.”

  “So who did?” I ask, before a cold feeling of terror and dread suddenly has me backing away from him. I gag on the word:

  “You?”

  He turns to me. He looks baffled and disdainful. He shakes his head impatiently. His chin kicks.

  “What? Shit, Charlie. I thought you were smart, mate. You reckon this was me? You reckon I did this? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I think.”

  And it’s true. I don’t. I just feel ill and very tired. I want to leave.

  But Jasper turns and shakes his head again. He spits.

  “Listen, Charlie. I got to explain. This spot here, this space, it’s sort of mine. See, I’m not the only one who’s bin here, but I’m the only one who knows how to get here. No one has bin here without me. Ever. Well, till now. Till tonight. But this is sort of where I stay. I sleep here and eat here when I’m not at home. It kind of is my home. You unnerstand?”

  He pauses to scratch the back of his hair and slide his arm across his forehead. He clears his throat.

  “Anyway, I come here tonight. And first thing …” Jasper pauses and shuffles, his voice gets thick. “Fuckin hell, first thing, I saw her up there. I saw it was Laura straight up. And I run over there and grab her legs and I try to hold her up. I try to stop her. But she was gone already, Charlie. I could feel that she was gone, right?”

  It is all coming at me in a dim rush. My mouth is ajar.

  “So what did you do?” I ask.

  “Well, I dint know what to do. I just sort of backed away and looked at her. But I couldn’t stay here. I just couldn’t. I got out. And that’s when I come to your place.”

  “And you think somebody did this? Somebody hanged her?”

  “I do, Charlie. Look at her face. It’s all beat up. She dint do that to herself, did she? Someone’s done this to her.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At this point I shrink away and scan the trees. My knees actually tremble. This is a nightmare. It has to be. I’m not living it.

  “Christ, Jasper! What if they’re still out there? What if he’s watching us right now? What were you thinking? Why would you bring me here?”

  I keep scanning. It feels as though the trees are closing in.

  “Easy, easy. It’s orright. Charlie, it’s orright. There’s nobody around now.”

  “How? How do you know that?” I’m shrieking. Like a girl.

  “I dunno. I just do. I can tell,” he says calmly.

  But my fear is itching me. A sickly buzz on my skin. I feel as though somebody is watching us. Listening intently. The body of Laura Wishart is haunting and surreal. It is so close. The fact of her death still hasn’t entirely occurred to me. That it isn’t Laura Wishart anymore. It’s an empty bag. A wax doll. A sloughed shell. It is so strange. I can’t muster any tenderness for it. It’s as though there’s a part of me up there, limp and unfeeling.

  But it’s clear that something very violent has happened in this still place. And we are here in its wake, in its passing. Bucked by its ripples. Laura Wishart is dead. Look. Dead. She is right there, hanging from that tree. Right there. In the center of Jasper Jones’s part of the world. Hovering above his piece of earth.

  Two boys and a body.

  There are drums in my head. Doom doom doom. It’s so difficult to breathe in this little clearing. Something has shifted. A bubble has burst. I want out. I feel faint. I’ve got to be away from this. I want to be back at home, but that seems very far away. And I’m so threatened
by the fact that even if I broke out of here, I couldn’t get back there if I tried.

  No, it’s too late. Like Jasper Jones, I have seen what I have seen. I am involved.

  “Jasper, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I’m here,” I say, observing Laura Wishart’s bare, grubby feet. “This is horrible. We’ve got to go tell somebody.”

  Jasper looks at me with unnerving intensity.

  “No, we can’t. We can’t tell anybody. We can’t tell anybody, Charlie.” Jasper presses his lips firm, his eyes wide and white.

  “We have to find out, Charlie.”

  “What do you mean, find out?”

  “We have to find out who did this. Who killed Laura. We have to find out who come here and done this to her.”

  I shake my head briefly before I reply.

  “What are you talking about? No we don’t! We go to the police! That’s what we do. We go to the sarge and we tell him what happened and where she is, and they find out. That’s their job. We can’t keep this a secret. Her family have to know. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

  “Shit, Charlie. You got no idea, do you?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Open your eyes, mate.”

  “What does that mean? They are open! What are you trying to tell me?”

  Jasper sighs heavily.

  “Bloody hell. Listen, Charlie, we can’t tell anyone. No way. Specially the police. Because they are gonna say it was me. Straight up. Unnerstand? They’re gonna come here, see that it’s my place; they’ll see her face, they’ll see she’s bin knocked around, they’ll see that it’s my rope. And they’re gonna say it was me that lynched her up. They’ll charge me and put me away, mate. No questions.”

  “What? Why? That’s bullshit, Jasper. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Really?” And Jasper points at me now, rising like a snake. “Who was the first person you thought of? Who was the first person who come out of your mouth?”

  And it happens like that. Like when you first realize that there is no such thing as magic. Or that nothing actually answers your prayers, or really even listens. That cold moment of dismay where your feet are kicked from under you, where you’re disarmed by a shard of knowing. He’s right. Jasper Jones is right. He’s really in trouble.

  Of course this town will blame him. Of course Corrigan is going to accuse him of this. And it doesn’t matter what he says. His word isn’t worth shit. All that matters is the fact of this girl’s death and this town’s imagination. He’ll be cuffed and led away. The outcast that killed the shire president’s daughter. He doesn’t stand a chance.

  “Then what do we do? And what about Laura?” I ask. “They’ll start looking as soon as they notice she’s gone. They’re going to find her here anyway.”

  Jasper shakes his head shortly as he pinches out a cigarette. I notice he is quivering slightly. He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he pulls at another thread of thought. “That’s what I don’t get, Charlie. Why here? How did it happen here? Someone must’ve follered me. Someone else knows about this place. I don’t think it’s chance. It can’t be.”

  “What, you think someone is trying to set you up?” I ask. Jasper offers me a smoke, and again, for some reason, I gesture to suggest I’m too full to accept.

  “Yeah. I reckon they might be, Charlie.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “But you said earlier that people had been here before. With you. Like me, tonight.”

  “Sure. I know. But you’re the only bloke who’s bin here, and I can count on my hand the girls who have.”

  “Did you ever bring Laura Wishart here?”

  Jasper Jones pockets his hands and looks at the ground.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did. A few times, Charlie. A lot, actually. But I always took her a different way through the bush, so she’d never know how to get here on her own.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Well, why d’you reckon? I don’t want anybody knowing how to get here. It’s hard to explain. It’s orright to share it sometimes, but I also want to keep it to meself.”

  I nod.

  “But it wasn’t like how you’re thinking with Laura,” he goes on quickly, though I have no idea what he’s presuming. “She weren’t the same as other girls round town. She was smart, Charlie. Not smart like you. Different. Sort of wise. We got on real good. She always wanted to come here. She was always on at me. But I liked to let her. You know how you meet someone and you feel like you’ve known them all your life? That’s how it was. Real easy. It wasn’t like those other girls that come here. We never really fooled around much, even though she were older. She was strange about all that stuff. But I never cared, really. It’s not why I brang her here anyways.”

  None of this clears my confusion. Jasper’s shoulders have eroded. He looks defeated and sad.

  “Who would do this, then? Who? You knew her—is there anybody who could do this? Who would want to?”

  “I have a suspicion,” he says, and lights another cigarette. Despite the stillness of this place, he shields the tip with his curved palm. He doesn’t offer me one, though this time I almost wish he had. “I think I know who could have done it. It came to me straightaway, and I can’t shake it off. I keep thinking about it. And I reckon I might be right.”

  “Who?” I lean forward.

  He taps his cigarette, holds it by his thigh, and turns to me.

  “Jack Lionel. I reckon it was Jack Lionel.”

  My eyes widen.

  “See, Charlie, when I say I seen him a bunch of times, it’s because he’s got it in for me, more than anyone else in this town. For certain. He’s a bloody madman. Every time I pass his house on the way to here, and I mean every single time, he comes out on his porch wavin and yellin, callin out my name. Real strange. He knows my name, Charlie. I reckon he’s out to get me. Got to be. For sure.”

  This is all too much. It’s all too fast. I’m hopelessly lost. And afraid. I really feel like that cigarette now. I watch its amber ember rise and fall with each toke. It looks comforting. I feel tired. I want to sit. Or to lie down on this soft bit of earth. But I can’t. I’m involved. That’s what I don’t understand: that somehow I’ve become enmeshed in this.

  “But what has this got to do with Laura? If Mad Jack Lionel is out for you, why would he do this?”

  “Because he were out on his veranda hollerin every time I walked past with Laura. So he’s seen her. He knew we were together a lot. And she’s seen him too. She got really afraid of him. He got her all worked up and tense. So maybe he followed us. He’s the only one I can think of who might’ve. Or maybe he knew somehow where we were going. Maybe he knows about this place. Maybe it was him, Charlie.”

  Jasper anticipates my next question.

  “Every night he sees me, he runs out and screams and yells and carries on. Every single night. Every night except tonight, Charlie. Remember that? Not even a light on. Nuthin. And we were out there waiting. Not a word.”

  I frown. I don’t feel so removed anymore. I bite at the inside of my cheeks. Sudden tears sting my eyes. I really don’t want to cry, but I’m angry. And stunned. And I’m very afraid. I don’t know. I feel betrayed. Or something. But mostly just scared. My voice cracks and breaks.

  “Wait, after you had a suspicion that Mad Jack Lionel had just killed someone, you came to get me, and then you took me straight to his house? Without telling me why? And then you bring me here, to see this! And there’s a chance this crazy bastard is still around here, waiting for you or for the both of us? Why? Why would you do that to me? Piss off. And … fuck you. I’m going. I’m fucking going.”

  I grind my teeth hard to stop the tears from coming. My nostrils flare and my tongue grows fat and my mouth tastes sour. I’ve never really sworn like this before. It feels strange. And of course, I’m not going anywhere. I’m trapped here. There’s no avenue for escape. From anything. This place, this mess. Jasper Jones is my return fare.

&nb
sp; And he walks tall toward me, his smoke resting between his lips. He extends a hand to my shoulder and it is immediately calming.

  “Don’t go yet, Charlie. Please, mate? I need you to help me. I dunno what else to do. I really don’t. I’m real sorry. I really am.”

  I blink hard. I sniff and spit and readjust my glasses. Jasper’s hand stays on my shoulder.

  “Listen. You’re safe here with me, Charlie. Trust me. You got to trust me. Like I trust you. I know you’re a good sort. I know it. We’re gonna do the right thing. We are.”

  I shake my head.

  “But what? What are we going to do? Don’t you see how hopeless all this is? We’re not detectives! This isn’t Nancy Drew! This is serious. We can’t conduct interviews. We can’t talk to people about it. We can’t do anything.”

  “But we can still try. And that’s more than the Corrigan police are gonna do if I go walk in there right now and tell them what’s happened. It’ll be ‘case closed’ before it’s even opened, Charlie. There’ll be a fuckin court date before there’s a funeral. You know it. You know this town. I don’t have to do nothing to get into trouble here. So we got to find out who done this. We got to.”

  And as much as this is absurd and illogical, there is something in Jasper’s reasoning that is irresistible. It’s easy to accept that he really could be right. That he will go to prison for something he didn’t do. That this town is that crooked and low. That Mad Jack Lionel could really be responsible for this. That it is up to us. That the curse over Jasper’s head is that thick and evil. And maybe we can solve this and set things right. Maybe I am the only person in Corrigan who would ever believe Jasper Jones. Maybe that’s why he came to me. Maybe that’s why he sought me out. Which means that, for some reason, he had trust in me from the moment he vaulted our back fence and approached my weatherboard sleepout. He must have presumed me to be genuine and fair. Like Atticus Finch: dignified and reasonable and wise. Or the closest thing to it in this town. Or maybe he just knows that I don’t have it in me to ever betray his confidence. Maybe it was a mix of both. Safety and trust. Though I prefer the thought of me sitting up late at night, poring over Mark Twain, while Jasper Jones rushed to me for my poise and wisdom. As though I were Solomon himself. The person you come to when it all goes horribly awry.