Just then a soft click came from the front of the house.
No!
A key in the lock, the squeak of a door opening.
I stopped breathing.
A thud and then a trickle of smaller thuds made me stand rigid to attention, the pad scrunched tight in my hand.
There was a grunt, as if someone was bending down to pick up the thud-things.
The door slammed.
Someone was home. And here I was in the Someone’s kitchen, with nowhere to hide. I glanced at the back door with a deadlock, the window behind me. No time. But I couldn’t bear the silence of waiting, the thick mounting terror, the choking stillness . . .
I dashed out with my hands up.
‘Sorry!’ I cried, coming face to face with the woman from the photograph, plus the bag of oranges that were escaping. Although I was as wired as an electric cable, I felt a rush of relief that she wasn’t the owner of the big jeans. We were so close that I could smell pizza – with anchovies? – on her breath. I realised two things at the same time: I was taller than her, and she must have been to Café Gigi with Kathy.
‘Did you have the anchovy pizza? That’s my favourite.’
‘What?’ The woman’s face was wild, her eyes trapped.
I tried again, but nothing came out.
Oh voice, don’t fail me now! I punched the wall in frustration.
The woman went still. But her mouth and eyes were tossing around like major landmarks caught in a wind.
‘No, it’s not like that!’ I cried, and reached out for her arm.
She yelped and a shudder like a quake ran through her body. She shoved the bag at me and my arms instinctively reached out for it. As I stood holding the oranges, she dashed up the hall to the kitchen.
I dashed after her, shouting something, trying to explain, but she snatched up the phone. ‘Police!’ she cried, and grabbed a knife off the bench. ‘Come any closer and I’ll kill you!’
I froze. All the muscles in my body stopped working and I dropped the oranges. My hands went up in total surrender without my telling them to, and I realised, watching them in front of my face, that my left hand still held the notepad. I held it out to her, jabbing at the words I’d written.
‘Dear Cordelia’s mother,’ she read out loud. Her mouth opened in a perfect O. Her face stopped going wild and she looked right into my eyes.
‘What?’ she said into the phone. ‘Oh no, never mind.’ And she put it down on the wall.
We examined each other. Blonde wavy hair, fine straight nose, lips pursed and drawn in like Cordelia’s. Her face would have been lugubrious if not for her deep green eyes flecked with gold. Calming eyes. They made you think of lovely duck ponds with the afternoon sun shining on them.
‘You know my daughter?’ she said softly.
‘A country like Australia could supply most of its domestic needs with solar and wind energy,’ said the radio.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry to barge in like this, it must have given you a dreadful fright – I’ve had a few of those myself lately – but I wanted to tell you about her and try to . . . well, try to help.’
‘We could be at the forefront of the alternative energy industry if only our politicians took the lead and invested— ’
Cordelia’s mother leaned over and turned off the radio. ‘What’s your name? Do you live around here? When was the last time you saw Cordelia?’
‘Louis. Yes. And I saw Cordelia this morning. Well, at least, I sort of glimpsed her . . . but she’s okay, she’s absolutely well, no need to worry about that, except she misses you terribly.’ I took a deep breath. I had so much to say, but I could tell that Cordelia’s mother would have trouble taking it all in, and I did have the bad habit of swamping people with my ideas and the entire panorama of my brain. So I decided to count to ten before I went on.
‘I’m Anne,’ said Cordelia’s mother. She put out her hand for a chair and sort of tottered over to it. Sinking onto the seat, she gestured for me to sit too.
We both looked down at the oranges, but neither of us thought of picking them up.
‘Hi Anne,’ I said.
‘Hi Louis.’ Then she smiled. My heart melted. It really did. It may be a common expression, but it’s an absolutely true description of the way your chest eases so that your insides feel warm and cosy like rivers of butter flowing gently with the tilt of the pan.
Anne had a beautiful smile, just like her daughter’s. She sighed with relief, pushing back her hair, and a large gold earring flashed into sight.
‘So, how did you meet Cordelia? Where is she?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ I said, to give myself time. This was a story, a true story. I’d try to tell it well, but mainly I’d be reporting . . . and giving the truth the best slant. It was like introducing a person, or showing their best side in a photograph. It would be important to consider what to leave out – the silences would be as important as the words.
‘Cordelia loves you and misses you. She’s safe and she’s staying with us . . .’ But how could I say how we met? A mother wouldn’t want to hear that her daughter had been a burglar. But that was the question she’d asked.
‘Are you sure she’s all right?’ Anne was searching my face. Her green eyes had grown darker, glittery, like emeralds. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
To answer her truthfully I’d have to say Cordelia was running from danger . . . which meant I’d have to tell her about Jimmy. And if I told the story CHRONOLOGICALLY, as in real time, I’d have to begin with Jimmy, which wasn’t a good place to start. I’d been wanting to work up to that . . . after all, according to Cordelia, her mother was in love with the man. Oh why didn’t real life ever go as you imagined in your head?
‘No, yes, well, see . . .’ I stammered.
This was going nowhere.
And then I thought about the politician Dad and I saw on last night’s news. He’d listened politely to the interviewer’s questions, but answered only those that suited him. Dad said afterwards that he’d ducked awkward issues like Mohammed Ali ducked punches.
Well, why not do that, I thought wildly – be my own politician! I could avoid the first question and go straight to my message.
‘Cordelia is staying in our tent,’ I said boldly. ‘She’s quite comfortable and well fed, but of course she can’t stay there for ever.’
Anne opened her mouth to say something. But, like the politician I was becoming, I forged ahead.
‘Your daughter is a very caring, good person, isn’t she?’ I said, making my voice go down at the end like a statement, not up at the end like a question. ‘While staying with us,’ I went on, ‘she’s done all kinds of things around the place. She’s mown the lawn, which was actually my job. She’s fixed the gate, which was also supposed to be my job, only I never got around to it. She pruned back the great mess of ivy and did, oh, a MULTITUDE of other good works. She didn’t have to do them, and she did them really well.’
Here I took a moment to breathe, but when Anne said, ‘Wha— ’ I quickly covered her voice with mine.
‘Which all goes to show how energetic and hard-working she is. Personally, I think this demonstrates that she’s been very well brought-up, with good ROBUST values built on trust and consideration.’
Anne was smiling at me now, and a little giggle burst from the corner of her mouth. I didn’t know what she found amusing – no one giggled like that at the politicians – but it was better than her interrogating me about things I didn’t want to talk about yet. I moved on to my next point.
‘Cordelia told me about the house down south where you both used to live. She loved that place, didn’t she. Collecting kindling together, sitting around the fire in the evenings. She loved the vegie garden and the ducks— ’
‘She told you about the ducks?’ Anne’s face lit up. She leaned forward and touched my arm. ‘She remembers all that?’
‘Oh yes, she said it was a wonderful time.’
I was about to launch into the delicate matter of how we might arrange the meeting with her daughter when the front door slammed.
‘Oh, that will be Jimmy,’ said Anne. ‘He’s been at the gym.’
‘I thought he worked Friday nights?’
‘Cordelia told you? Yes, he used to work at the club, but there was a bit of trouble. The manager was a brute, Jimmy said, so now he’s got work at the gym. He’s done years of training, you know, weightlifting, wrestling, that kind of thing, so it’s easy for him.’ She smiled and hugged herself. ‘Oh, he’ll be so pleased to hear about Cordelia!’
We listened to the heavy tread up the hall, the pause halfway at the bedroom, a dull thud as something was thrown in there . . . and then a man as tall and wide as a built-in wardrobe filled up the kitchen doorway.
17
THE TOP ROLL MOVE
‘Jimmy! Louis has found Cordelia!’
My stomach turned to water.
Jimmy was dressed in a gym singlet and black jeans. His neck jutted forward as he squinted at me, like a pit bull terrier sniffing before it attacked. His head was shaved, but stubble spread like a stain over his jaw and above his top lip. His eyes were ice-blue. They didn’t change as he pretended to smile.
‘Louis, eh?’ His voice was surprisingly high, almost a squeak, maybe due to all the effort he was putting into looking pleased to see me. He took a beer from the fridge. Sitting down heavily, he cracked open the can and drank.
I couldn’t help staring at his neck as he threw his head back to guzzle. It was broad and muscled, but what fascinated me was the tattoo of a tiger above his collar bone, writhing to the rhythm of the jugular vein beneath.
Cordelia hadn’t mentioned a tiger.
Anne leaned forward and touched his forearm. ‘Louis has been talking to Cordelia, Jimmy. She’s okay, she’s all right!’
Jimmy nodded. ‘What did I tell you? She just needed to let off some steam.’ His voice was different when he talked to Anne. Deeper, almost protective. He squeezed Anne’s hand, and reached over to touch her cheek. Then he looked at me. ‘And we’ve got you to thank for the news, have we, Louis?’ He smiled for about the length of a thunder-clap, then wiped his mouth.
‘So, where is our Cordelia then?’
I tried to find my politician’s approach, and pick up another angle of the subject, but words evaded me.
‘What’s the matter, boy? Lost your tongue?’ He flexed his shoulders, cracking his neck from side to side. When he clenched and unclenched his pectoral muscles, (or pecs, as Miles calls them), wild animals came to life on his upper torso.
I wished suddenly that I’d told Dad where I was going. I wished he was here with me now, talking tax breaks and superannuation input. Maybe that was something I could suggest to Jimmy as a sweetener if things got difficult – my dad could give him free tax advice if he didn’t break my arms. But Jimmy didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be interested in paying tax.
‘Cordelia’s been staying in a tent,’ Anne put in, saving me.
‘What, with one of her boyfriends?’
‘No!’ The word slipped out of my mouth like a burp. ‘I mean, she hasn’t got a boyfriend.’
Jimmy raised his eyebrows with a sneer. ‘Is that what she told you? Well, she mightn’t this week, but her last guy . . . he was arrested for drink-driving on his P-plates, and Cordelia was with him. She came home smelling like a pub.’
I looked at Anne. How could a mother sit there and have someone tell lies like that about her daughter? And with that sneer in his voice?
Anne was fiddling with a hangnail. She didn’t look up at me.
Jimmy shook his head. ‘He used to come in here and rake through the fridge. Then he and Cor’d drink all my beer.’
Anne sighed. ‘I told you, that was him, not Cordelia. She’s underage, she doesn’t even like beer.’ She tore off the bit of skin. ‘I . . . think,’ she added uncertainly. She glanced at me. ‘It’s true that we argue, Cordelia and I. Mostly about that boyfriend. She didn’t mention him?’
I shook my head. ‘She did say there were arguments, and she wished you two were closer, like when you were living down south.’
‘Oh, but that was so many years ago.’ Anne blinked, smiling.
I decided to risk something. A truth. I tried to block Jimmy out of my mind, which was difficult on account of his being built like a wardrobe. I looked straight at Anne, into those deep-green eyes. ‘Cordelia said she thought you’d be relieved that she’d left, that you were sick of her and the trouble she caused. She thought you wanted to be left in peace with . . . with your boyfriend.’
Anne drew in her breath. ‘Oh, as if . . . heavens, all families argue, especially in these teenage . . . oh, my poor little girl.’
Jimmy snorted and crushed the empty can in his fist. The dragon on his forearm blew smoke. ‘You know, I caught that guy coming out of our room once, and he had a fistful of cash in his hand.’
‘When was that?’ said Anne.
‘Oh, can’t remember exactly, a few weeks ago.’ Jimmy waved the can in the air.
Anne was quiet for a moment. ‘I wondered,’ she said, as if talking to herself. ‘I wondered where that money went. I was keeping it for the electrician, to do the rewiring. I thought I must have made a mistake, forgotten where I put it.’ Anne turned to Jimmy. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
Jimmy got up to go to the fridge. ‘I don’t know, he was out the door before I could do anything. I couldn’t be sure, and anyway, you’d been pretty upset and I didn’t want to cause you any more worries.’ He came back with another can, and bent his face down to Anne’s. ‘You know I want to save you from as much upset as possible, don’t you, babe. That’s my job.’
He rubbed his rough cheek against hers. She closed her eyes a moment, smiling. It made you want to vomit. What on earth did a woman like Anne see in him? How could she like that stubbly, lying cheek? Or the tiger below it?
Jimmy put the can down and headed for the door. ‘Back in a sec, gotta go to the little boy’s room.’
We heard his heavy steps and the slam of the bathroom door.
Anne traced her fingers over the empty cup in front of her. She looked at me, and away. ‘Sometimes it’s hard living with teenagers,’ she said uncertainly. ‘You never know if you’re doing the right thing. Whether you should be their best friend so that they’ll tell you what’s going on, or whether you should be strict and discipline them. But when you do, oh, the anger and arguments – you’re scared they’ll just light out of here. Cordelia . . . she’s almost starting her final year, you have to let them make their own decisions . . . but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to live with.’ She trailed off, running her finger over a groove in the table. ‘You just never know what’s right, you know?’
I looked at Anne. I probably had about four minutes at the most. ‘I know you’ve only just met me, but you’ll have to believe me – Cordelia was in a terrible state when I first met her. She was . . . she was running away from Jimmy.’
We both heard the toilet flush. I went on in a rush. ‘She was terrified. She said Jimmy stole that money, that he’s not who you think he is— ’
‘What?’ Jimmy obviously hadn’t bothered to wash his hands. He took a giant step and loomed over me. ‘What the hell are you saying? Who’s not who you think?’ He bent down and thrust his face right into mine. ‘Who are you, you little liar?’ The beer on his breath was overwhelming. The tiger on his neck throbbed.
‘Jimmy, stop it . . .’ Anne was tugging at his arm. He didn�
�t look at her. He wouldn’t take his eyes from my face. I was holding my breath so I wouldn’t pass out from the fumes. His fingers grabbed my shirt, digging into my skin. They gave me a hint of his strength. Fighting him would be like a mouse fighting a lion.
We gazed at each other for maybe ten seconds while I asked myself what the hell I thought I was doing. The other grown-up sitting next to me was smaller than me! And she had no influence over Jimmy; she didn’t seem to really know him at all. In those seconds I imagined how Cordelia must have felt being alone with him, caught in his power, feeling the strength of that finger jabbing at her.
What are you going to do, TALK your way out of the ring? I could hear Dad jeer.
An idea stirred. I tried to control the racing of my heart. It was a crazy idea, but it might just buy me some time.
‘Hey, Jimmy,’ I said, eyeing the hand that was holding my shirt. ‘You’ve got a great grip there. You work out, don’t you. But are you any good at arm-wrestling?’
‘What?’
‘See, to be a success, you need a particular set of skills. I should know, coming from a long line of wrestlers. I was just telling Anne here about it. I was saying, you wouldn’t think my father is who he says he is, just to look at him. I mean, his father, my grandfather, was one famous wrestler! He was called The Demon – ever heard of him?’
Jimmy stared. His fingers loosened, his hand dropping by his side.
I nodded. ‘Well, so my father trained to be a wrestler, too – he wanted to continue the family tradition.’ I leaned forward confidentially. ‘But you know, my father’s specialty is arm-wrestling. I’ve learned a trick or two from him in my time – you mightn’t think it to look at me – but you want to give me a try? I could pass on a few tips.’
I rolled up my shirt sleeve. My heart was pounding but I made my voice smooth and even. Jimmy sat down hard at the table. A smirk made his eyes mean. He slid his elbow onto the table and held out his hand to me.
Louis Beside Himself Page 14