Hunting Elephants

by James Roy

  The light from the hallway was casting a long, golden triangle across his floor, and it was quiet in the house, except for the low murmur of his parents' voices coming from the kitchen, and the soft wet noises of Daisy nibbling at her paw at the foot of his bed. Then he heard a chair scrape back, and footsteps.

  The tapping of Joel's sign against the door came just before Mum appeared, standing in the triangle of light. 'You're all in.'

  'Yeah, all ready to sleep. I'm tired,' he said.

  She came over to his bed and perched on the edge, just like always, and started absent-mindedly scratching Daisy behind the ear. 'So, ready for the big trip, Harry? We're going on Thursday.'

  Harry slipped the cards into their packet and put them on his bedside chest. 'Thursday?'

  'Yes, straight after you finish school. Dad's coming home early on the Thursday and taking the Friday off.'

  'And school?'

  Mum shrugged. 'What's one day off school? Are you bothered?'

  'Not really.'

  'Good. Then it's settled. Off to see the alpacas on Thursday.'

  'What's happening with Daisy?'

  'We've got her booked into the kennels.'

  'Oh, not fair! She'd have loved to eat a big fat alpaca!'

  'Hmm,' said Mum. 'You know who would have loved those things, but not to eat? Joel.'

  'He would have, too,' Harry agreed. 'Especially if they were wearing Holden caps.'

  'He always loved animals,' Mum said, as if this should have been something Harry didn't know. There was a gentle smile on her lips as she spoke, but in the shadows, Harry couldn't see her eyes. 'I remember when he was little, and you'd just started school, we went to your school fete, and he was absolutely terrified of the Shetland pony. But once we got him on, we couldn't get him off.'

  'I remember that,' Harry replied. 'Mum, I want to ask you something.'

  'Hmm?'

  'How long are you going to leave Joel's room like it is?'

  She sat back, just a little. It was as if she was recoiling from the question, and she hesitated before answering. 'We don't need to change it just yet, do we?'

  'No, I guess not, except you're always complaining about having to run a business from our living room –'

  'Please don't you start as well, Harry.'

  'No, but Mum, there's a room right next to mine that would make a perfect office.'

  'It made a perfect bedroom too,' she said.

  Harry didn't say any more about that just then. He didn't want to make his mother cry, because once she started crying, it'd be hard to get her to stop, and Dad would try to cheer her up by being funny, and she'd tell him not to – not like that. Then she'd start talking about how it was all her fault, and that wouldn't make any sense. It wouldn't make any sense because you can't do anything about the genes you have. Besides, if it was anyone's fault, it was quite possibly his.

  So he apologised. 'I'm sorry I brought it up, Mum.'

  'It's OK,' she replied, wiping both her eyes at the same time, just with the tips of her fingers. Then she pulled up his blanket, patted him on the chest and stood up. 'Come on, Daisy. Goodnight, Harry.'

  Harry rolled over then, and looked for sleep, but it wasn't easy, while ever Joel's sign was tapping against the door with each of his mother's footsteps.

  'Do you have any books about magic?'

  Mrs Ransome tipped her head to one side. 'Do you mean like fantasy?'

  'No, I mean magic tricks. Card tricks, coin tricks, that sort of thing.'

  'Hmm, I think so. Look in the seven-hundreds. Seven-eighty, seven-ninety. Why, Harry – are you planning a career as an illusionist?'

  'Not really. It's just a hobby, sort of.'

  'There's no such thing as "just a hobby, sort of". I think hobbies show where people's loves really lie. My ex-husband, for example – he does model railways.'

  'So he loves trains?'

  'Yes, but I also suspect he's never satisfied being in one place. Which we discovered with disastrous results about twelve years ago. Ironically, he met his new wife on a train.'

  Going by the glazed expression that had suddenly clouded Mrs Ransome's face, Harry figured it was time to move the conversation along. 'What about someone who knits?'

  'They want to nurture.'

  'Someone who does archery?'

  'They like to destroy, but with a minimum of mess. They like to be precise.'

  'Music?'

  'Self-expression and beauty.'

  'Reading?'

  'Discovery.'

  'Reading fantasy?'

  'Escape.'

  'Motor racing?'

  'Speed. Freedom.'

  Harry's eyes narrowed. 'Are you serious about this? Do you really think everyone's hobby says something about them?'

  'Of course! I mean, I've never done a study on it or anything, but it makes sense, don't you think? Your hobby would have to reflect who you are. Look at me, for example.'

  'Why, what's your hobby?'

  She smiled coyly. 'I do African drumming. See what I mean?'

  'I don't get it. What does that say about you?'

  'It says that I get tired of having to be quiet in a library, and I just want to be loud sometimes.'

  'Why can't you be loud in the library?'

  She dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. 'Because that's not how some people think a library should be, and they complain. So rather than fight it, I play a djembe. Loudly.'

  It was an interesting theory. Harry couldn't quite work out what his new interest in card and coin tricks said about him, but he knew he'd work it out eventually.

  'You know what, Mrs Ransome? I think you might be onto something.'

  'Oh, I know I am. Tell me, what's your mum's hobby?'

  Harry thought. 'She doesn't have one. All she does is work.'

  'And your dad?'

  Harry smiled. 'These days he just collects jokes, mostly.'

  Mrs Ransome seemed suddenly very sad. 'I don't know your parents very well, Harry, but I think their real hobbies might be hide-and-seek.'

  Harry was watching TV when something landed in his lap. It was a deck of cards in a worn packet.

  Dad was standing in the doorway. 'My best ones. Look after 'em.'

  'You don't have to give me your best ones, you know.'

  Dad turned up his nose, then adjusted his glasses. 'I don't really need them any more.'

  'What if you played poker again? As a hobby.'

  Dad held up his latest fantasy book. 'I've got the latest Grenville Marxson offering for that,' he replied. 'Slightly tawdry, but utterly addictive, just like me.' 'Thanks for the cards, Dad.'

  Mum was in their bedroom, packing for the trip, while Dad read in the living room. Harry knew why he wasn't helping. He'd heard the argument from his own room, which ended with Dad saying, 'You know what, Sandy? How about I get out what I think I need, and you can either put it away and get the right stuff out, or you can put it in the suitcase the way you reckon it should go.'

  'David, I'm just saying ...'

  'No. No, I'm sick of it, Sandy. Despite running a very successful accounting firm, maintaining an active and vibrant social life, and travelling across five different continents for fun and profit over the last twenty years, it seems that I am somehow incapable of selecting how many pairs of underpants and socks I should take on a three-day trip to the country. So you know what? You choose. I'll be guided by you. And if, on the day of the wedding, someone should comment on what I'm wearing, I'll be only too happy to say, "Talk to my wife – she packed the bags".'

  Then the door slammed, and Joel's sign bumped against the door with each of the heavy steps along the corridor.

  And Harry took all of his clothes back out of the bag he'd just finished packing and laid them on the bed, right next to his unzipped bag. The only thing he left in there was his pack of cards and The Little Pocket Book of Magic, tucked away in the little pocket at the front.

  Nine

  Mum and Dad wer
e waiting in the car, directly in front of the school. Half of the back seat had stuff on it – a suitcase, a couple of bags, and a box full of food. 'Where am I supposed to sit?' he asked.

  'I left a space down there behind my seat where you can stick your bag,' Mum replied. 'Besides, it's not like you're the biggest kid going around, so stop your whining.'

  'I'll whine if I want to. I'm missing Michael's party on Saturday, plus we're watching a movie in English tomorrow. The first time all year we haven't had to do any real work, and I won't even be here ...'

  'Boo hoo,' Mum said. 'You'll get over it.'

  'Where's Daisy?'

  'We've already dropped her at the home for dogs,' Dad said. 'You didn't think we were taking her along, did you?'

  'She'd love a farm,' said Harry.

  'Yes, but it's someone else's farm. A farm where they have alpacas.'

  Harry rubbed his belly. 'Yum – alpaca.'

  Not a lot was being said in the front seat. He carried a vague suspicion that his parents had been having another argument before they picked him up, but how he knew that wasn't clear. The words that were being said weren't angry words – they were just questions, answers, brief exchanges. But there was very little small talk going on, and that might have been it. That might have been the clue to tell him that things were a little tense.

  He decided to stay out of it, and disappeared into his iPod. It was going to be a longish trip, maybe four hours or more. And he sure didn't want to listen to four hours of his parents trying not to sound stressed about something that they were clearly stressing about.

  He didn't understand why it should be stressful to go on holidays anyway. Not now, without Joel. In the past, on the few occasions they'd tried to have a family vacation, there was always too much to think about. What if Joel got sick? Was there a hospital good enough and close enough? Would they be able to get in touch with Joel's specialist if things turned nasty without warning? Plus there were all those medications and machines to think about.

  The last family trip they'd taken was to Cairns. They'd flown up and everything, which made it a pretty big adventure, especially for Joel. Both the boys had expected to be able to swim, but when they arrived Mum and Dad said there were stingers in the water. And crocodiles too, apparently. They said they'd assumed the boys knew that. The boys told them that they'd assumed they could go swimming. Pretty much everyone assumed a lot of stuff, and in the end Mum and Dad assumed Harry and Joel had a good time splashing around the hotel pool while they lay back on banana lounges. Dad read the same books he always read, drank the same beer he always drank, and Mum spent quite a bit of her time in the lift between the pool and their room, where she had the laptop hooked up so she wouldn't miss any emails or orders.

  Dad grew more and more frustrated with Mum on that trip. He wanted her to have a holiday – a proper one. That was why he insisted that they were going to go out for dinner, just the two of them, at a nice seafood restaurant his friend had recommended. The family was staying in a suite, which was basically two regular hotel rooms linked via an internal door. Harry and Joel had one of the rooms to themselves, and the plan was that while their parents went out, they would stay there, get room service for dinner, and watch an in-house movie. Mum wasn't keen – she was worried about Joel – but Dad told her not to be silly. 'Harry can help Joel do his pills and potions, can't you, Harold?'

  'Sure,' he'd agreed.

  'Are you OK with that, Joel? Harry can help you with your meds, and help you set up your BIPAP if you get tired and want to go to bed.'

  'He doesn't even need to help me,' Joel replied.

  'But Harry's here if you do need him, OK?'

  'David, he only came out of hospital two days ago,' Mum said. 'I don't think we should go. It's too soon to be leaving them here.'

  'We'll only be in town – it's five minutes along the boardwalk. I've got my mobile with me, Harry, and you know my number, so you'll be right, won't you, guys?'

  'Yeah, it's fine. Have a good time,' Harry had said. Basically he was looking forward to not having them around for a few hours. What good is a holiday where you see more of your parents than usual?

  So Mum and Dad went to dinner. They said they'd be back by eleven at the latest. They weren't. But what happened wasn't their fault.

  'Harry. Harry!' He heard Mum's voice squeeze through the gaps in the music, and took out one of his earbuds.

  'What?'

  'Are you hungry? Because there are crackers in that box beside you there. We'll have some as well, while you're at it.'

  Harry found the crackers, took a handful and passed the packet forward. 'How long have we been driving?'

  Dad laughed. 'Twenty minutes.'

  He sighed and slumped back in his seat while he did some quick maths. Twenty minutes down, two hundred and twenty to go. Putting the earbuds back in place, he closed his eyes.

  Someone was shaking him. Harry opened his eyes slowly as that someone removed the earbud from his right ear and said, 'Wake up, snorey.' Dad was at his open door, grinning down at him.

  'Where are we?'

  'We're nowhere.'

  Harry frowned. 'Seriously, where are we?'

  'I told you, Harold, we're nowhere. We're at some anonymous service place in the middle of pretty much Nadaville. Come on, it's dinner time.'

  Harry stretched and looked around. They were parked in a mostly empty carpark out the front of a fastfood restaurant, and through the back window of the car he saw the giant aluminium awning of a service station.

  'What time is it?'

  'About a quarter to six,' Dad said. He put his hands on his lower back and leaned backwards, grimacing. 'Time to eat – I'm starving.'

  They found a booth table near the door. 'So, kids, what do you want?' Dad asked.

  'I'll get it, David,' Mum said. 'You've been driving. So, three roast beef dinners?'

  'And a Coke, please,' Harry said.

  'Make that two Cokes,' said Dad. 'Now, which way do you think the loos are?'

  As he sat alone at the table, flipping his cards over and over in his hands, Harry heard a rumble from outside, and through the tall window he watched a couple pull up on a huge motorbike, black, with lots of chrome. The riders were wearing leather jackets, and as they took off their helmets, Harry saw that the man was older than Dad, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a short white beard, and the woman with him was younger, probably in her forties. They talked for a bit, standing on opposite sides of the bike, then she headed into the restaurant while he waited outside and lit a cigarette.

  'Nice bike,' Dad said as he slid into the booth opposite Harry. 'It's no Harley, but it's still nice.'

  'It's not a Harley? Oh, I thought it was.'

  Dad shook his head. 'No, it's a Kawasaki. Poor man's Harley.'

  'It sounded like a Harley,' Harry said, as if he really knew what he was talking about. And unless Dad had some dark forgotten past as a poker-playing bikie, there was a good chance he might get away with it.

  'Oh, there's nothing wrong with it – it's just not a Harley,' Dad remarked. 'Perfectly suitable for a guy like that.'

  Harry pointed with his thumb. 'That's his girlfriend over there at the counter.'

  Dad glanced in her direction. 'Could be his wife. Or his daughter,' he added, after a second look.

  'Could be Frank and Greta,' Harry suggested, and Dad laughed.

  Mum was back with a tray, loaded up with plates. She had a bottle of drink under each arm as well, plus another one rolling about near the edge of the tray, and Dad did the chivalrous thing by jumping up to help her unload it.

  They ate silently for a while, as traffic swept by on the highway, and cars came and went from the service station. Harry watched the motorbike rider stub out his cigarette in the big plant pot by the window, before he came through the sliding doors, sauntered over to his girlfriend and kissed her on the lips.

  Harry caught Dad's eye. He'd seen it too. 'Nope, not his daughter,' Dad said.r />
  'What's that?' Mum asked.

  Dad shook his head. 'It's not important.'

  'So, how much further is it to Kalumorra?' Harry asked.

  Dad slipped his fingers up under his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if just thinking about the driving yet to be done was giving him a headache. 'A couple of hours, I guess.'

  'Do you want me to drive for awhile?' Mum asked, but Dad shook his head. He hated being a passenger. It made him tense.

  'And we'll see Frank when? Tomorrow?' Harry asked.

  'Probably,' Mum replied. 'They'll be busy getting ready for the wedding, but we'll try and get out there to see them. They're only about a quarter of an hour out of town, I think.'

  'And what are we doing with them? Having lunch, dinner, what?'

  'I don't know.' Mum sounded tired. 'Catching up over a quick cup of tea, saying hi, getting out of their way. They'll be busy. They're having drinks out there on Saturday night as well.'

  'And what are we going to do for the rest of tomorrow, once we've had a cup of tea?'

  Judging by the slight shake of Mum's head, Harry was beginning to think that it might be time to shut up. 'Look, I honestly don't know, Harry. Having a family holiday.'

  'I know, but what's ... to do out there? Apart from feeding alpacas, I mean.'

  'What more could you want, Harold?' Dad asked. 'There is no nobler beast than the alpaca, and it is our great and wondrous privilege –'

  'David.'

  'Shut up, you idiot?'

  'Something like that,' Mum said.

  Harry took that opportunity to check the reception on his phone. It was low, and getting lower.

  It was properly dark now. With music loud in his ears, Harry watched the trees and posts and country letterboxes appear in the headlights, then fade away as they swept past. He hadn't had an iPod when Joel was still alive. They'd had a portable CD player that they could put on the seat between them, with a double adaptor for their two sets of headphones.

  Sometimes it got tricky, because they couldn't decide on the music. Harry was into indie rock, while Joel was more into hip-hop. In most disagreements about the choice of music, Joel got his way. Harry suspected this was because he was younger. In some ways he would have preferred Mum and Dad to side with Joel because he was sick. Why should someone lose out just because they were older? People with disabilities got special parking spots, but as far as Harry knew they didn't have special spots for younger people.