The Promise Seed

by Cass Moriarty

  And in the midst of it all, his mother, his only mother, his dear mother who loved him and wanted him and was clutching him to her breast with the ferocity of a tiger protecting her cub. His mother’s eyes, beseeching, asking him, begging him. Demanding his loyalty.

  His mother talking about Christmas Day and the beach and the old man. His mother gesturing to the house next door and crying and holding him close. His mother speaking of unnatural relationships and too much time together and inappropriate touching.

  And the boy. His silence. At first. And then his mute acquiescence. Agreeing. Questions pushing down, answers required.

  His mother. Begging. Begging.

  Simple words to release the pain. To stop the questions. To take away his mother’s hurt.

  Yes. The old man. Yes.

  Him.

  Yes.

  …

  The boy had forced down an egg sandwich – it lay like a rock in his stomach – and the lady had allowed him to leave the room. He could hear the policeman speaking to his mother in low, controlled tones and gesturing with what the boy interpreted to be impatience. His mother appeared to be interested in a spot on the floor. Every so often she would shake her head. Eventually the policeman gave an exasperated sigh and presented his mother with a piece of paper. She did not read it, but signed at the place he indicated, with the pen he handed her. She eyeballed him then – the boy thought he heard her say thank you – and the policeman watched her retreating figure as she made her way over.

  Thank God that’s over. I thought they’d never let us leave. Come on, let’s get out of here.

  Her hand wavered in the air, then smoothed his fringe and tucked a stray bit of hair behind his ear.

  How about we get ice-cream on the way home? Huh? What do you say? You and me?

  Sure. Ice-cream sounds good.

  He followed her down the hallway, past the room where the doctor had inspected his back. He’d checked other parts of his body too and the boy had held his breath in embarrassment, wishing he would finish, hoping it would all soon be over. When they passed the room with the toys and the biscuits, the lady was standing in the doorway, watching. Waiting for them. She gave him a sad smile.

  You’ve got my number, right? You can call me anytime. Anytime at all. Even just to talk.

  The boy mumbled a reply. Her eyes were kind. He hadn’t noticed that before.

  As they headed into the main corridor, and the lady vanished from the corner of his vision, his mother muttered, Should mind her own fucking business, stupid bitch.

  He followed his mother into the darkness, his pupils dilating, trying to make sense of the shadows.

  49

  The female police officer was pleasant enough. She drove me home when good cop and bad cop decided to release me. Don’t leave town, bad cop had warned, as if I had anywhere else to go even if I wanted to. I needed to get back to my own house and close the door on the world and all its madness.

  I stumbled a little going up the stairs and she put her hand under my elbow and steadied me.

  Sorry. Bit light-headed.

  No worries, you take it easy. That’s a nasty bump you’ve got on your head.

  Then I couldn’t seem to get the key to fit in the door and I mucked around with the jolly thing for a good few minutes before she took the keys from my hands and did it for me. Her hands were quite large for a woman, but soft and smooth. It almost did me in, that softness. Especially after the day I’d had.

  Once we got inside she started flapping around, opening cupboard doors and offering to make me a cuppa, but by that stage I wanted to be rid of her. Didn’t think I could stand any more kindness. When she’d gone, I sank into this chair and haven’t moved since.

  To be honest, I don’t know what to think. The inside of my head’s buzzing with thoughts and questions. I feel mixed up. Angry, that’s for sure. And scared. Sad. Confused. And betrayed.

  I keep thinking about our day at the beach. It seems impossible that was only yesterday. I see the boy digging in the wet sand at the water’s edge, his shoulders going pink in the strong sun. I see those larrikins larking about, and the dog bouncing around the kid and barking fit to kill.

  I see the expression on the kid’s face as he lifted that jellyfish and poked it with his small fingers, trying to decipher its insides.

  And then I see the grey room, with bad cop spraying my face with his peppermint spittle as he spews out the most disgusting filth, taunting, goading, accusing me.

  And I can’t reconcile the two images. They won’t fit together.

  Something is terribly, horribly wrong.

  They wouldn’t let me see him. Not even after they let me go. Good cop spouted some gobbledygook about not pressing charges and lack of evidence. Huh. Hard to find evidence when there isn’t any, I told him. But even then they still wouldn’t let me see him.

  To be honest, I’m not sure I want to. See him, that is.

  On the one hand, if he’s hurting, then I should see him. Simple.

  On the other hand, those detective’s words keep ringing in my head. How come the boy said that you did? How come, indeed.

  I should never have got mixed up with the kid, him and his crazy mother. Lord only knows what tales he’s been spinning. I’m too old for this palaver. I’m weak pickings. Ready to be taken advantage of.

  A man should have more sense.

  Don’t think this is over, bad cop said before I left. We’ll be talking with you again.

  I heave my tired bones out of the chair, flick off the switch and drag my sorry self to bed. Don’t even bother unlacing my shoes. Just lie on the bed as I am and pull the covers up. Close my eyes against the late-afternoon light.

  50

  They were sitting at an outside table under a gigantic red-and-white-striped umbrella that blocked the worst of the sun. The boy sucked noisily on an icy frappé through a straw. His mother fanned herself with a menu and sipped her white wine. A plethora of shopping bags littered the ground around their feet. His mum had really gone to town: she’d taken him to Dogstar and City Beach, and then got him some awesome skate shoes from Skatebiz. They’d popped into Mossimo where she’d bought him three T-shirts and a pile of undies with the label around the band. She’d wanted to get him a Star Wars doona cover from Target but he’d baulked at that, saying he wasn’t a kid anymore. She’d shut up real quick and not mentioned sheets again.

  She hadn’t bought herself a single thing.

  And now they were sitting here eating burgers and fries, just the two of them. The boy tried to think back to the last time they had done something together, without anyone else. He couldn’t remember.

  What’s your face all screwed up for? You look like your brain’s thinking too hard.

  He relaxed his features and was surprised that a smile had found its way onto his face. Just thinking about how nice it is here.

  With you, he added.

  His mother’s phone trilled. She glanced at the display and then snapped it shut.

  Bloody cops. That’s the third time since yesterday.

  The boy drew his finger across the frosted glass. What do they want?

  Jeez, what do ya think? They want to know what the fuck happened, don’t they. Can’t leave a family alone. Gotta poke their noses into everybody’s business. They let that pervert next door go home, so now they need a different name to put on their fucking paperwork.

  She cupped her hand under his chin.

  Don’t worry, love. You did good. They can’t prove anything. They’ll get tired of it eventually and go catch some real criminals, and you and I’ll be left in peace.

  So … they let him go.

  Yes, baby, they did. And you stay away from the old perv from now on, all right?

  Yeah. All right.

  His mother’s cool hand on his face. Her smil
e a red gash.

  And … Snake?

  She leant forward and lowered her voice.

  Snake? she said. Snake wasn’t there. You didn’t see him, and I didn’t see him. Her tone became smug. The cops know nothing about him, baby. They don’t even know he exists.

  The boy’s heart almost burst with relief. It wasn’t the old man. And it wasn’t Snake. The boy tried to imagine that he had woken in the night to an intruder, an escaped prisoner who had beat him and hurt him and then run off into the night.

  It could have happened. Perhaps it did happen that way.

  His mother adjusted her sunglasses and tipped her glass towards him, her fuchsia nails gripping the thin stem.

  Well, we should do this more often. Maybe we will from now on.

  She took a long swig and placed the glass down. It rocked unsteadily.

  Maybe we will, she repeated.

  The café was filled with the holiday crowd. Tired women snapped at toddlers or sighed with exasperation at teenagers. The boy felt special, alone with his mum. No school for another few weeks, a mango frappé, and his mum all to himself, all day. He stirred the dregs with his straw.

  He took a deep breath. Wanna see a movie later?

  His mother sipped her wine and stared across the bustling tables.

  Actually, I have plans for later. We were … me and …

  She lifted her sunglasses and peered at the boy. He was aware of her gaze but sat immobilised, concentrating on the ice crystals, thinking about how quickly they melted in the heat. Finally he raised his eyes to meet her quizzical stare.

  Sure, she said. Why not. A movie would be fun. What do you want to see?

  The boy’s insides felt like the melting ice; warmth coursed through his veins. He felt he might dissolve with happiness.

  …

  Night had fallen by the time they arrived home. No motorcycle in the driveway. The boy was comfortably full of popcorn and Coke. He glanced at the old man’s house as he passed. A single bulb burned from the bedroom. The boy contemplated hopping the fence to check on the chickens. He could examine the lettuce leaves under the moonlight and find the juicy caterpillars that liked to come out at night, find them and wake up the hens with a tasty surprise.

  But a swathe of clouds scudded across the moon, and it was late, and he needed to pee. And his mum was already in the house. She’d mentioned hot Milo. The boy made a silent promise in his head to check on the hens in the morning. He followed his mother inside.

  51

  It’s been nearly two weeks now and real quiet without the kid around. Didn’t realise how much I’d gotten used to his visits. The girls miss him too. They were all bunched up this afternoon, over by the side fence, scratching as if their lives depended on it. Fretting, I’d reckon. You’d swear they were trying to make a break for it. The Great Escape, fowl-style. Looking for the kid and his tendency to overfeed and spoil them, I suppose. It’s gotten so I’m a pretty poor substitute. But I’m all they’ve got now. So they sit in the dust and wait.

  Buggered if I know what’s going on over there in that house. I’ve spotted the two of them, the kid and his mum, going in and out a few times. In fact I’ve seen them together more times in the last few days than I’ve ever noticed before. Maybe she’s got some holidays. Maybe they’re getting along better. I hope he’s OK. It doesn’t matter about me. I’m not important. It’s the boy I’m worried about. Like the police said, I’m only a neighbour. Not even a friend, not really. Not so as you’d notice.

  I suppose I should’ve known it wouldn’t end well. Fancy an old guy like me thinking he could be friends with a kid like that without someone taking offence. Unnatural, they said, down at the cop shop. Not normal.

  And yet …

  I miss our chess games. The board’s still set up from our last match. He was winning too, and not because I was going easy on him. He was getting better all the time.

  I’ve got a cupboard full of chocolate chip biscuits that nobody’s eating.

  School’ll be starting again soon, I suppose.

  I see him by himself every now and again. He belts out of the house, jumps on his bike and he’s off down the road like a rocket. Won’t make eye contact. Don’t blame him. Sometimes I think I should be angry. But then I think about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, and I figure it all comes out in the wash. In the end, you get what you deserve.

  And besides, the kid’s got his mum. That’s important. It’s good for a boy to have his mum. I should know. I remember what it was like to not have mine. Like the kid would say, It sucked, big time.

  I miss telling him to watch his language.

  52

  Down by the creek the light played through the trees, trespassing on the surface of the water. In its depths, the creek was the colour of steeped tea. A magpie carolled. A kookaburra landed on an overhead branch, fluffed its feathers and perched in perfect stillness, the silhouette of its beak stabbing the painted sky. The boy stared, willing it to move. It cocked its head, glared at him, and let out a laugh that echoed through the branches and over the water before disappearing along the track. Its mate gave an answering call, and soon the bush was full of their chatter.

  And then silence again. The bird so still that the boy wondered if he had imagined the movement, the laughter.

  In a sudden diving blur of brown and white, it dropped to the ground like a stone and was back on its branch in a moment, the only difference being the thick tail of a lizard hanging from its beak. The tail jerked back and forth and then disappeared as the kookaburra threw back its head and opened its gullet. What must it be like, the boy thought, to be eaten alive? To know – in those last few precious seconds – that the end was near, that you were trapped, and could do nothing to escape?

  As he scanned the sky for the bird’s mate, he picked at a scab on the back of his thigh. Not yet healed, still tender. He worried at the wound until his fingers felt sticky, then he gaped at the red smudges staining the ridges of his skin.

  He winced as he unfolded his legs and stood. His shirt still stuck to his back in places where the cuts had been deepest. At least it didn’t hurt to walk anymore. And the bruises on his face had almost faded. Only a pale yellow tinge hinted at what was there before.

  His mum had been pleased. Said he’d be all healed up by the time school went back. Nothing to make anyone start asking nosy questions.

  The boy touched his wrist: no sign of the angry red welts. It was amazing how the body healed itself. Cells multiplying, creating a new layer, closing over ugly injuries and making his skin smooth and new again. As if the wound had never existed. As if everything was the same as before.

  The canopy of green had concealed the state of the sky beyond. As he emerged from the foliage and retrieved his bike from its hiding place, rain began to spit into the earth. The boy doubted that the old man had remembered to put the hens away. He’d noticed more and more often lately that they were out of their routine – locked in their hutch when they should be out pecking the ground; or wandering all over the garden at dusk, when they should have been snuggled up inside, safe against foxes and the dangers of the night. A couple of times, the boy had snuck through the darkness to visit, and on one occasion he’d found them – well past midnight! – huddled together under the avocado tree, each one trying to push into the centre and away from the unknown. The poor things had seemed confused and lost. He had unlatched the gate of their enclosure, trying not to make any sound that would disturb the night air or frighten the chooks, and then bustled them inside, where they swiftly found their favourite perches and clucked at him in an admonishing but contented way.

  He didn’t like to see them like that. Not neglected, exactly, just … not cared for like they were used to. But if he thought too much about it, he began to feel guilty that he wasn’t there either, and so he restricted himself to his sporadic late-night s
ojourns.

  The garden was pretty pathetic too. Clearly not enough water – the plants were wilted and droopy. Weeds had sprung up into every available spot of earth, and a possum had lifted one corner of the chicken wire and helped itself to the parsley. All that remained was a bunch of stubby stalks.

  The old man had dropped the ball. But, as with the chickens, if he started thinking too much about the old man, he got a pain in his chest and a burning feeling behind his eyelids. So he tried not to think about him.

  That chess game, though, that was the thing. He’d been winning, too. He could see the board clearly in his mind; he could remember his last move, and the positions of all the pieces. Sometimes he’d try to think ahead, to plan the old man’s move, and then his next move, and the old man’s response.

  He wondered when he would get a chance to finish the game. If he would get a chance.

  53

  He was over here again last night. I noticed straight away. First off, the water container was filled to the brim, and yesterday it was at low tide. And secondly, I had to properly unlatch the gate and I’m pretty sure I only pushed it to last night. Tempting fate, I suppose. It’ll serve me right if a fox gets in and has a meal. I know I’m being careless but it’s calculated carelessness. I’m hoping if I leave enough things undone, the kid’s sense of responsibility will kick in and he’ll march over here all piss and vinegar and tell me off for neglecting the girls and inform me he’s taking over chook duty from now on. That’s what I’m hoping for.