by James Roy
Harry surveyed the garden, and the bush beyond. Nothing to do, and lots of space in which to do it. The view had changed quite a bit in the last day and a half. Early the previous morning he'd crossed the damp, empty lawn to go for a walk and an unexpected date with a gunman. Now there was a large white marquee in the middle of the garden.
Perhaps he'd go somewhere different this time anyway. Past that marquee was the hill, and the saddle, and the log next to the dead collection of fur and gristle that had once been a small grey rabbit. Not wanting to revisit that, he turned instead and went left, past the triple garage with the covered jeep, and around the end of the house.
He reached the backyard, and saw the chicken pen, and the clothes-hoist, and beyond that the caravan, which just sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing, frowning at him as it squatted low on its piers.
It was just a caravan, but Harry found himself swallowing hard as he walked in its general direction. He also found himself walking closer to the van than he needed to, and trying to catch a glimpse of something – anything – through the windows. But Trent had been right; there were curtains and blinds, and it was impossible to see in, certainly from a few metres away.
He looked back at the house, not even sure what he'd see. A face peering out at him from between the blinds?
Still, to be sure, he went to the far end of the caravan and around to the other side, out of sight of any of those potentially prying eyes. Then, stepping up to one of the windows and rising onto the tips of his toes, he cupped his hands against the glass to shield away the light, and looked in.
A heavy lace curtain hung on the other side of the grimy glass, and dark shadows and blocks of paler light blended together beyond it. Nothing was clear.
The chain threaded through the door handle was cool and heavy in Harry's hand. It was clearly there to stop intruders, but what kind of intruders, all the way out here, miles from town? Frank's grandson and the woman he was about to marry, and that woman's timid friend? Hardly.
He tugged at the chain with what he convinced himself was nothing more than childish curiosity. After all, what possible harm could be done by wrapping his fingers around a few links of chain and giving them a gentle tug?
His eyes widened as the padlock popped open with a muted click, and swung free. Startled, he took a half-step back, now faced with a new problem. He'd never have entered a locked van, or shed or house or room. But if a little pressure could make a padlock spring open, was it ever really locked to begin with?
His curiosity was so strong now, certainly strong enough to push aside any annoying questions about the rights and wrongs of what he was doing, certainly strong enough to allow him to unspool the loose end of the chain from the handle of the door, hang the hook of the padlock through the last link of chain, and gently open the door of the van.
The smell – it was like grease, or oil, strong and distinct enough to make him wonder, while his eyes were adjusting to the sudden darkness, whether he'd entered another workshop. Perhaps once he was able to see clearly, the table in front of him would turn out to be covered with cogs and cranks and pushrods and camshafts, all brushed clean with solvent.
As his eyes finally adjusted fully, he saw that the table was empty, except for a couple of books, one of which had been left face-down, and a cup, with a stagnant dribble of brown liquid in the bottom of it. Up high, above the window, was a cupboard, with a sliver-edge of paper poking out, as if the door had been slammed shut in a desperate effort to contain whatever was inside. And at the rear of the van, beyond the narrow passage near the tiny kitchen, the bed was unmade, with nothing on it but a sheet, a pillow and a rumpled quilt.
Harry turned in a slow circle. So that was all the mysterious van was – a study, out in the bush, away from the house. Or perhaps a retreat, a refuge, a private place to go, and to read. But again, why? Was Frank ashamed of what he did out here? What could that be? He could see nothing that looked even slightly illegal. No test tubes and burners and beakers for making drugs, no computer for running a seedy website. Nothing but a crumpled bed, a few books, and some photos.
Two of these photos hung on the woodgrain wall behind the table, which made the space more like a real place that someone actually came to, rather than something more surreal or unlikely. Those crooked-hung photos, more than even the messy, unmade bed and the book spread wide and face-down on the table, gave the van an atmosphere of occupation and use, and in some deep corner of his awareness, Harry was relieved to see them.
The largest picture – the one at the top – was of a young man, a soldier. It was clearly Frank, although much younger. Not much more than a boy, really, he was smiling, wearing a floppy army hat, and Harry thought he looked quite a bit like Trent, with the same almond shaped eyes and thin nose.
In the photo below was a group of young men, some fully dressed, others bare-chested and in shorts, dog-tags around their necks, standing in front of some kind of vehicle – a truck, or a personnel carrier, perhaps. And on the right hand end of the group he saw Frank.
Harry leaned closer, to see better in the dim light of the van. There could be no doubt that the tiny, shirtless young man with the wide grin was Frank Duncan. His chest, arms and narrow shoulders were shiny with sweat, and tightly bound with wiry muscles.
In the wall opposite the kitchen, the door of the wardrobe stood slightly ajar, and once again Harry wrestled with the notion that if something was open, then he wasn't in fact intruding by peeking inside. Conveniently, he was able to suppress the nagging thought that his being in the van already made him a trespasser.
Slowly opening the wardrobe door, as if a terrible sight awaited him, he looked in. 'Huh,' he said softly, reaching one hand towards the clothes that hung there.
Harry froze, his arm still extended, as footsteps crackled on sticks outside the door of the van. Then the sound stopped, and Harry held his breath, a dozen hopeful possibilities shouldering past each other through his mind like panicky shoppers heading for an exit. Curious Reg wasn't heavy enough to make that much noise underfoot. No, it was definitely a person – perhaps Trent, going for a walk with or without his rifle, or Dad, stretching his legs after a couple of hours of eye-crossingly dull auditing? Mum? Greta? Robyn? Anyone – please, anyone at all – but Frank. Harry moved noiselessly towards the door, ready to edge his way out as soon as the footsteps retreated.
But they weren't retreating, and he stood silently, still hoping, trying to control his breathing. Walk away, I'll slip out, and no one will need to know I was even here, he thought.
Then came the very voice he most dreaded. 'Who's there? Is someone in there?'
Harry swallowed hard, aware of his heart pounding, and the tingling wave of adrenaline flowing up his neck into the base of his skull. Even if he could find somewhere to hide in that tiny van, how could he do it in time? Especially now that the chain was rattling, and the door was opening, drenching him in sudden light, frozen as he was in the doorway of the caravan.
Frank looked up at him. Harry expected to see fury, but instead he saw something more like confusion, as Frank's head inclined slightly to one side. 'What are you doing?' he asked, his voice level, like he was doing no more than asking what was on TV.
'It was open,' Harry replied. It was a pathetic response – he knew that. But it was all he had on such short notice.
'I doubt it.'
'It was. The padlock was open. I don't have the key or anything.'
'Of course you don't,' Frank said, holding up his right hand. A single key on a ring swung from his finger. 'I've got it here.'
'I just ... Like I said, it was open.'
Frank nodded slowly. 'So you let yourself in?' he asked, again so simple and direct.
Harry's mouth was terribly, terribly dry. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean ...' He stopped. Harry, you're sounding like an idiot now, he thought.
Like a cornered cat, he backed a little further into the van as Frank stepped up into the doorway. They were now st
anding very close together in that tight space, and Frank was running his eyes around the van, scanning every surface like a cyborg. From such close quarters, Harry could see the grey bristles in among his stubble.
'I didn't touch anything,' Harry said.
'Shut up.' It was the first thing Frank had said that could have been interpreted as angry, and Harry felt his face flushing.
'Sorry.'
'What did you see?'
Harry shook his head. 'Just ... just books and stuff, I guess.'
'Anything else?'
'Those photos on the wall. Like I said, I didn't touch anything. I just stood here.'
'The photos? And what did you make of those?'
'They're of you?'
'Yes, they are. With some of the boys.'
'Tunnel rats? Other tunnel rats, I mean?'
Frank turned his head slowly. 'I don't think so, no. Tell me, Harry, what should I do now?'
'With me, you mean?'
'Yes, with you.'
Outside, somewhere further up the hill, a crow cawed. The sound hung between them like a sigh.
Dad had relocated to the living room, and was watching TV. As Harry came in, his breath still slightly lost, he immediately recognised the sound of V8s in full flight, and he perched on the edge of the couch to watch. It was important to act casual, like nothing had happened. Like he'd learnt nothing new, mere minutes ago. So he tried to calm his breathing, while he concentrated on watching the TV as normally as possible. 'Simmons Plains,' he said, as a group of cars braked into the tight hairpin at the end of the main straight.
'Correct.'
'Who's in front?'
'Holdens in the first five places,' Dad said. 'The Fords are getting thumped, me boy.'
Harry grunted. 'Joel'd be happy. Is that Jake Hanslow in the lead?'
'Sure is.'
'Boo.'
It was Jake Hanslow who'd visited Joel in hospital, and given him a Holden jacket and a signed cap. Joel had been so excited. He didn't know much about Hanslow, except that he drove a Holden, but that was good enough.
Harry remembered Joel's smile. They'd known that the drivers were coming in, and that they'd be on the ward some time before lunch. Harry and Mum had waited with Joel in his room, and typically, it was just after he'd been given his nebuliser mask that they heard voices outside the door. A woman was saying, 'I think they said the boy in bed fifteen is a bit of a racing-car fan.'
Harry had glanced at Joel, hoping to see some kind of excitement. He'd been in hospital for weeks, and hadn't been excited about much for a while.
Joel was looking towards the doorway, his eyes wide above his hissing mask, his face partly hidded by mist, as he waited for a glimpse of Jake Hanslow, a real life Holden driver.
Then Jake was in the doorway, wearing a red cap and a red Holden polo shirt, and carrying a black and red bundle. 'Are you Joe?'
'Joel,' he'd replied, but his voice was muffled by the mask.
'Gidday, Joe, I'm Jake. Are you a V8 Supercar fan?'
Joel had nodded. He'd been pretty much speechless.
'And do you like Fords or Holdens?'
'Holdens.'
'Good boy,' Jake said. Then his eyes had darted around the room, taking in the posters, and Harry couldn't help thinking that if he'd bothered to do that to begin with, he never would've had to ask Joel which sort of car he supported, because every single poster was of a Holden.
'Well, Joe, I hope you feel better soon. I've got something for you.' He'd handed Joel the bundle. It was a red Holden cap like the one he was wearing himself, and a black and red official team racing jacket.
'What do you say, Joel?' Mum had said, and a muffled 'Thank you' had come from within the mask.
'Well, I hope you feel better soon,' Jake Hanslow said, again. 'I'll sign one of these posters too, if you want.'
Joel had smiled and nodded, and Jake took a felt pen from his pocket and with a flourish, he'd deftly signed the poster above Joel's bed.
'And this too? Please,' Joel had asked, holding out his new cap, and Jake signed the peak.
'There you go, Joe. And go Holden!'
'Go Holden,' Joel repeated. 'And thanks for the stuff, Jack.'
'No worries. Good on you, champ.'
The jacket had been way too big. Occasionally Joel had worn it in his bed, and occasionally he had it on when the physios came down to the ward to take him for one of his slow walks, but he never got to wear it outside. Never once.
And now Harry was watching Jake Hanslow win a race at Simmons Plains. 'Let me know if a Ford starts winning,' he said, standing up.
'Harold, you right, mate?'
'Yeah, I'm fine. Why?'
'You, leaving while there's a race on? That's unheard of! You sure you're not crook?'
He heard footsteps outside on the verandah, and saw Frank pass the window, heading for the front door. 'No, I'm all right. I'll be in my room.'
Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Okey-dokey,' he said.
The pre-wedding drinks party was planned for that evening, and Harry groaned inwardly when Mum reminded him of it. He wanted to hide, wanted to disappear into his room, but he couldn't. Instead, he was expected to go and have a shower and get ready for the guests that were about to descend on the house. He was expected to be sociable, which didn't suit his mood at all. But at least there would be more people to be sociable with. People other than Frank.
They'd crossed paths a couple of times since they'd met in the van – just Frank passing through a room that Harry was in, or Harry going into the kitchen to get a glass of water while Frank stood at the bench and spoke on the phone. But they hardly said a word to each other, and Harry was glad for that. And with more people in the house, there'd be even less chance that he might find himself face to face with Frank.
The guests began arriving at about seven. Many were from Frank's family, and Mum and Dad knew most of them, greeting them with hugs and warm handshakes and enquiries about people Harry didn't know, had never heard of, and didn't much care about. Several members of Greta's family were there as well, and in a very short time the quiet house had been taken over by laughing, drinking, happy people. Shiny, happy people, Harry thought, remembering a song he'd once heard. And it seemed that Frank was the shiniest and happiest of all.
Harry stood by the window and watched the party, deck of cards in hand, his thumb busily flipping the top card. Over and back, over and back, faster and faster. He wasn't able to do it quite as smoothly as the guy on the website, but he was improving, and with practice he'd soon be able to make the card turn fast enough to fool the eye.
At one stage Frank walked by him with a couple of beers, and Harry heard him clear his throat as he passed. But their eyes didn't meet, and Harry was glad. After what had happened in the van, he just wanted the weekend to come to an uneventful close so he could go home.
'What's your problem?' Trent asked.
'I don't know. What do you mean?'
'You look like your dog's just carked it.'
'No, I'm all right. Bored. Is your dad here yet?'
'Nah, he'll arrive tomorrow, if he can even be bothered turning up.'
'Why wouldn't he?'
Trent raised one corner of his lip and sneered. 'Because he's a waste of space, like I keep saying. You can't trust him. Tells you one thing, does another. I stopped believing anything he said years ago. Boring party, huh?'
'Yeah, pretty.'
'We need some babes,' Trent said casually, taking a long sip from his glass.
Harry nodded. 'Some babes would be good.'
'But instead we get kids,' he said as two young boys wandered over. 'What do you want?' he snapped at them.
The kids ignored him. They were too busy watching Harry's hands, and the card which seemed to be changing back and forth like TV channels. 'What are you doing?' one asked.
'I'm practising.'
'For what?'
Harry opened his eyes wide. 'To be a magician!'
>
'Really? Can you do magic?'
Trent snorted.
'Maybe,' Harry replied, slipping his right hand into his pocket and feeling for the ten cent coin he'd put in there earlier, for just such an eventuality as this. Meanwhile his left hand continued to cut and fold the deck, and flip the top card over and back.
'Do some magic for me, then,' the kid demanded.
'It'll cost you ten cents.'
'I don't have ten cents!'
Harry looked at Trent, who was watching this with reluctant interest. 'Trent, do you have ten cents for ... What's your name?'
'Luke,' the kid answered.
'Do you have ten cents for Luke?'
'Yeah, right!' said Trent.
'No? Then I'll have to find it somewhere else,' Harry said, opening his hands to show that they were empty, before reaching behind the boy's ear. When he withdrew his hand, the coin was there, between his fingers. He'd almost impressed himself to see that the trick had worked.
The kid was stunned. 'Hey!' he said, turning to his friend. 'Where did that come from?'
'Like I said, it's magic.' Harry handed the coin to the boy. 'There you go – it was behind your ear, so I guess it must be yours.'
'Wow, that's amazing!' Luke examined the coin closely before putting it in his pocket. 'That's Daniel,' he said, pointing at his friend, who had a finger up his nose. 'What's your name?'
'I'm Harry.'
'You're good at magic.'
A woman in a startlingly yellow dress had come over, and she took Luke by the hand. 'Come on, stop bothering people,' she said. 'Uncle Frank's put a DVD on in the other room for you littlies. Do you want to watch that?'
'What is it?'
'I don't know. Some kids' movie.'
'Yeah, come on, Luke, let's go and watch a movie!' said Daniel, and with a quick glance back over his shoulder at Harry, Luke allowed himself to be led away.
'I guess you think you're clever, being able to do magic tricks,' Trent said.
'Not really. It's just fun.'
'It's actually kind of cool. Maybe you could teach me a couple of tricks some time. Do you know how to make things disappear?'