So you don’t deny that you took the boy to the beach yesterday?
No sir, I don’t deny that at all. That’s exactly what we did. We went to the beach.
On Christmas Day? You took a ten-year-old boy, a stranger, with you to the beach on Christmas Day? And you don’t think there’s anything odd about that?
First off, the kid’s not a stranger. He’s my neighbour. And my friend. And second off, what’s so strange about spending Christmas Day with a friend?
He’s not your grandson. He’s not related to you in any way. You took him away without his mother’s permission and against his will.
Now hang on, that’s not true. His mother knew. The boy told me she’d given her permission. And it most certainly was not against his will. He had a great day. We both had a great day. We ate fish and chips on the beach. He saw a jellyfish.
Detective Sergeant Logan appraised me from under his bushy eyebrows. I have no doubt at all that YOU had a great day.
He leant forward and rested his arms on the dented metal tabletop. It was grey, like the rest of the room. Grey walls, grey folding chairs, grey light shifting through grey shadows. He moved his face close to mine. His skin was pockmarked with decades-old acne scars. His left eye twitched involuntarily. His breath smelt of peppermint and Fisherman’s Friend throat lozenges. When he spoke again, he whispered, a low growl that frightened me more than I cared to admit, even to myself; certainly more than his loud posturing of the last hour.
That poor kid, on the other hand, he didn’t have such a great day, did he now? Huh? Those welts on his back, they weren’t that much fun. Those belt marks on his legs, they probably weren’t a barrel of laughs either.
I stared at him, mutely, like the idiot I am. Like the idiot I must be.
I began to wonder about the wisdom of my choosing not to have a solicitor present.
And fondling his privates, that was the icing on the cake for you, wasn’t it. But I’m guessing for him, not so much. No, I reckon that was pretty unfunny for him by that stage. But then, you’ve always had a penchant for little boys, haven’t you? All those years in the Boys’ Home, does funny things to a bloke. Only a matter of time before your natural instincts came out. I’m only surprised it took so long. But then, I’ve heard grooming the kids is the best part. The an-ti-ci-pa-tion. He drew out the syllables.
My eyes met his. I couldn’t look away.
The payoff must almost be an anticlimax, huh? His honeyed tones became a screech. Especially when you get caught, you dirty bastard!
I looked down long enough to see my hands trembling like I was having some sort of seizure. They seemed not a part of me, some strange restless creatures at the ends of my arms.
And then I passed out. I must’ve hit my head pretty darn hard on the corner of that metal table on the way down, ’cause I had an egg-shaped mound on my temple that lasted a full week.
…
The police medic saw to my head, pronounced the egg a minor injury, and declared me fit to continue interview. She clearly couldn’t feel the pounding behind my eyes or the throbbing above my temple.
But back to the grey room I went.
The detective with the cratered face was waiting, the smell of cigarettes wafting from his pores. Another man sat in the shadows. I hadn’t noticed him before, but now that I had, it seemed he had been there all along, silent and listening. I lowered myself gingerly into the grey chair, trying to avoid any sudden movements that might aggravate the pain in my head. The detective sat with his forearms crossed over his paunch. He stared at me, daring me to look away, saying nothing.
The other bloke stood and made an elaborate show of lifting his chair and placing it at the table before clearing his throat and addressing me.
I hope your head isn’t troubling you too much, sir.
Clearly we had entered the realm of good cop, bad cop.
We understand all this must be very troubling for you, sir, and now on top of that you’ve had a fall and got yourself a nasty bump on the head. We don’t want to keep you here any longer than is absolutely necessary, all right?
I begrudged him a nod, merely to acknowledge his politeness. The place above my ear jangled.
You must understand our concern. The boy’s a friend of yours, you say, so surely you can see we want to work out what’s happened and make sure he’s OK. All right?
All right, I echoed.
Are you still saying you haven’t seen the boy since you returned from Bribie Island yesterday?
That’s right.
So you haven’t seen his injuries?
I flinched. No, I haven’t.
I had heard them described, though. Heard the foul words bandied about as if they were speaking of a stray dog. Made me sick to my stomach.
And you still deny having anything to do with those injuries?
Yes. Through gritted teeth.
Has he ever seen you naked?
The change in tack took me by surprise and it must have showed on my face, because bad cop leant forward in his chair, eyes ablaze with interest.
An automatic no quivered on the edge of my lips, waiting only for the puff of air to expel it from my mouth and become real. But then my mind tracked back to that day, the afternoon the boy found me covered in my own vomit and urine, drunk as a skunk and smelling like one too. I saw him peeling off my clothes and running the shower. I saw myself hunched over the toilet bowl, trying to pee; heard myself telling him to go out and shut the door so I could piss without an audience. Saw him glance at my sorry nakedness with disappointment.
It wasn’t in me to be dishonest to this fellow, not when he was making such an effort to be polite.
Yes.
Sorry, yes? Did you say yes?
Yes. Yes, he has seen me naked. Once, just the once.
I began to babble. I knew I was babbling, could feel the words tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out and explain themselves, but I couldn’t seem to stop.
Only the once. He was helping me shower. I was drunk. I mean, I was drunk and upset. The kid helped me. He saved me, really, saved me from myself. I was in a bad way. He fixed me up, he … he … I mean, it was innocent enough, he …
I stared at the two men, at the disbelief on their faces. My monologue petered out and I slumped back in my seat.
I was embarrassed to discover my eyes had filled with tears. My voice came out meekly as I whispered, It’s not how it sounds …
Bad cop’s hands, white-knuckled, clasped the edge of the tabletop.
You dirty bastard. He spat the words at me like poison. You filthy, dirty bastard.
I don’t know what came over me then. All at once it was too much – his language, my fear, my concern for the boy, my confusion, the ache in my head.
Oi, watch your language, I said. The phrase rolled off my tongue. I’m old enough to be your father. Show some respect.
Good cop leant forward, his hands together under his chin as if in prayer. All right, grandpa, calm down.
Calm down? CALM DOWN?
I shouted the words as I pushed my chair back and stood to my full height, concentrating all the anger I could into my glare. I enunciated my words as slowly and clearly as I was able.
You two bozos listen to me. That kid is my neighbour and my friend. If he’s been hurt in any way, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me. You should be out there finding out who did it instead of wasting your time interrogating an old man. He’s a good kid. Smart, and funny, and clever too.
My eyes betrayed me again. This time the tears coursed down my cheeks unchecked.
If he’s hurt, I need to see him. I should be with him. He’s been there for me. I need to … to see him. To make sure he’s OK.
I never touched him, I added, for extra emphasis.
Bad cop swore at me again but good c
op held my stare. And then, in a very quiet voice, so quiet that I had to strain to hear the words, he said, So how come the boy said that you did?
48
The boy huddled into the sagging vinyl of the armchair, his legs pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. He was trying to take up as little space as possible. His back still hurt; he could feel the raised welts with every slight shift. So he tried not to move, or to look at the woman opposite him, or to think. Especially not to think. If a stray tentacle of thought even attempted to make its way into his head, he chopped it off before it had a chance. He pictured a miniature axe inside his skull, ready to lop off any intruders. He’d seen an octopus once on a documentary, watched how the creature sneakily stretched the tip of one tentacle into a crack in the rock, the gross arm wriggling back and forth, forcing its way in, until before you knew it another and then another had penetrated the tiny crevice, and the animal’s whole body had insinuated itself right through the crack and into the space beyond. He pictured the possibility of that happening inside his head. He did not want the thoughts crowding his brain. He couldn’t afford to let a single one slip through. He didn’t know how it had all gone so horribly wrong; all he knew was that he must not think about it. Not think at all.
He concentrated instead on the details of the room. It was spacious, as big as three rooms of his house put together. One wall was almost entirely panes of glass. Despite the air conditioning that he could hear humming away behind him, several of the windows were open to the breeze, which swept through in irregular gusts. He imagined the lady kept them open to air the room, to sweep away the words no-one liked or wanted to hear.
He could hear the rumble of a train. Two pigeons landed on some unseen perch in a flurry of feathers, squabbling over the best spot. The sunlight poured through the glass, pooling on the floor, throwing the remainder of the room into shadow. Behind him was a wall, blank except for a large painting done by a child. He’d noticed it right away when they came in. To his right were three straight-backed chairs around a table. Coloured pencils and textas spilled across its surface. A blue pen had fallen and leaked onto the beige carpet. Beyond that were cane storage cubes housing the greatest assortment of toys he had ever seen. Picture books, chapter books, puzzles and boxes of games vied for attention on the cramped shelving. Soft animals, blocks and pull-along toys lay scattered across the floor. Two lifelike dolls sat together, a girl and a boy. She had long blonde hair and chubby arms, while he had short brown hair and a mischievous grin. The boy suspected they were completely lifelike under their clothes too. He looked away.
To his left was the door through which he had been ushered an hour earlier. It was closed. His only escape route, sealed shut. There was a couch that didn’t match the armchairs, and a small kitchenette in the corner. He could see teabags and a kettle, an under-bench fridge, a packet of plain biscuits. He had refused one when the lady offered. She’d said she wouldn’t eat them either, too boring, and had suggested they ask for chocolate cake, but the boy had shaken his head to that too. He didn’t think his stomach would hold anything, not even a plain old biscuit. He didn’t think he would eat anything ever again.
At first the lady had tried to talk to him. She’d spoken about the weather and school and sports. She’d asked him if he liked reading and what he enjoyed watching on TV. She’d asked if he had any pets, but the boy had curled tighter into the armchair and stopped looking at her, so she hadn’t asked about that again. Eventually she stopped talking. She simply sat, patiently, silently. Every now and then the boy snuck a glance at her: sometimes she was picking at a fingernail; once she was adjusting her shoe. From time to time she would gaze right back at him in a questioning way. The boy wondered if her look was accusing, but decided it wasn’t. She was older than his mum and dressed much older still. While his mum favoured short skirts that showed off her legs, and low-cut tops and strappy sandals, this lady wore a loose printed dress and comfortable shoes. Her earrings jangled against her cheeks when she spoke. They were made from seed pods. The boy focused his attention on the patterned material of her dress. At first he’d thought it was an abstract design, but now he saw the outlines of birds and flowers hiding amongst the randomness. The known hiding in the unknown, the familiar in the strange.
The lady straightened in her chair and rose stiffly to her feet, arching her back and clasping her hands.
I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’m going to slip out and order us some sandwiches before we fade away. What’s your favourite?
The boy remained silent.
Well, I’ll order a selection. Egg and lettuce, some ham and cheese – maybe some corned beef and pickles; that’s what I feel like myself. You sit tight. I’ll be right back.
She pointed to a door beside the kitchenette.
You remember that’s the bathroom, right? You go ahead and use it if you need to, while I’m gone. Make yourself at home.
She studied him a moment before turning away. At the door she paused.
Maybe you’ll feel more like chatting when you’ve got some food into you. I know I just can’t think at all on an empty stomach.
And she was gone.
The boy released a sigh like a balloon deflating. His ribs hurt from the tension of shallow breathing and trying not to move. He got up, his legs tingling from being cramped into the one position. Pins and needles pricked his left leg and his foot landed heavily on the floor, numb and unfeeling. He rocked to and fro on the spot, trying to get the circulation back into his limbs, and then made his way to the bathroom.
He closed the door behind him. There was no lock. He lifted the lid and aimed into the centre of the bowl, then flushed. He washed his hands under water that was ice cold and splashed some onto his face. He raised his eyes to his reflection in the mirror above the basin. A stranger peered back at him. A tired boy with red-rimmed eyes and messy, tangled hair. A bruise darkened one eyelid. The yellow of an older bruise circled his jaw and disappeared under his ear. The boy in the mirror seemed worn out and sad. And guilty.
How did it all go wrong? The boy felt the octopus tentacle groping inside his head; he closed his eyes and conjured the axe, imagined with all his might the blade falling sharply onto the horrible, slippery thing, severing it, halting its progress. But the axe was blunt and the water was icy and the bathroom light was harsh and confronting, and although the boy tried and tried, he failed to stop the probing thoughts. They entered his head in a tumbling rush; they ambushed his skull and took over his brain. He saw the ropes and the dark curly hair and the sand glistening on the beach. He saw his skin peeling from his nose and the welts on his legs and felt someone else’s hand touching him. He saw a blue tattoo and a battered hat and green shoots pushing through the soil. He saw the innards of the jellyfish pulsating and a sodden Santa suit; he saw a red blanket of pain. It was all mixed up in his head. So many thoughts colliding.
What had been said could not now be unsaid. But that didn’t mean he had to say it again.
He pictured his mother, her arms grasping him to her, covering his nakedness. He felt her rocking him there in the grass, holding him so tightly he couldn’t breathe. Her hands had rubbed the wounds on his back, causing him to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Her sobs, terrible heart-rending sobs, as she clutched at the boy as if he was a life raft in a stormy sea. Her words, he had tried to make sense of her words, to understand the meaning underneath her cries and her moans.
I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. Please forgive me. Please, please forgive me. You’re all I’ve got. You’re my whole world. We’ve got to take care of each other. We’ve got to stick together. It’s you and me, baby. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
Listening to the word – sorry – the sound of the letters as she sobbed and groaned, as she dragged the word from inside herself, the word becoming a mantra, a symbol. Not a word anymore but a prayer,
an incantation, a cry for help. Sorry, sorry, sorry, over and over until the word itself sounded strange and new, another language.
And then her anger, sharp and furious. She had grabbed his shoulders, hard, her grip so strong it hurt. A vice. An animal caught in a trap.
He’s special, special, do you hear me? This is my chance for happiness. Don’t mess this up for me, all right? Don’t do this, don’t ruin this for me. He doesn’t mean anything. He only wants you to be good. He wants us to be a family. God, he’s the first one in how long to show you any attention, any affection, and this is how you react? Huh? This is how you repay everything he’s given us? Everything he’s done for us?
Her face melting, the anger draining away, replaced again by sorrow and regret. And something else – fear.
Oh baby, please, please, let’s start again. Please? For me?
The voices from the darkness, the beam of a torch falling across his mother’s shoulders. Two policemen in uniforms, solid boots and pale blue shirts with creases ironed in. Questions thrown about in the night, crowding overhead in the humid air. Questions and responses jumbling together, like night insects buzzing around uncovered skin. Queries about nakedness and injuries and bruising. About anonymous phone calls and reports of a disturbance. About minors and domestic violence and child abuse and unsafe environments. Questions he couldn’t answer. Questions he didn’t want to hear. Who? When? Where? And Why? and How? Questions sucking the oxygen from the atmosphere and doing his head in.
The Promise Seed Page 21