‘A man chased me in the park. Where we went with Jess. It’s the neighbour …’
‘Are you sure? Which neighbour?’ Elton stared hard at the screen.
‘The one where the excavator dug the hole. Not that man but the other one.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, don’t let it get to you, Shaun. You’re in the city now. There’s a lot of weirdos out there; just give ’em a wide berth, okay? You shouldn’t be out.’
‘But –’
‘If you’re going to go out there on the street …’ Elton swivelled his chair. ‘If you’re going to go out, you’re going to cop everything there is, Shaun. Good stuff, bad stuff, ordinary stuff, and you have to take what’s dished up and deal with it. I told you, just stay inside, okay?’
‘Okay.’
NEXT DOOR, Simon thumped his fist on the island bench and a fork clattered into the sink. All day nothing had been said, but by evening he could contain himself no longer.
‘For God’s sake, Stefanie. I made a mistake! That’s no reason for you to stay out all night like some cheap … streetworker.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You came in at 3.30 a.m. Am I supposed to believe the dinner went until then?’
‘You’re not supposed to believe anything, Simon.’
That morning, in the first drowsy moments of waking, Stef had re-imagined the events of the night before: the dinner, the speech, the nightcap, her words: Would you like me to go home with you? From there, everything progressed so rapidly that she’d hardly had time to think – in fact if she’d hesitated she might very well have chosen a different path. One minute they were sitting on the bar-stools at Club 23 and the next she was out of her dress and spread across the good doctor’s king-sized bed. She had nothing whatever in common with him, until they were both naked, and then their interests could not have been more alike. In that respect, David Frieberg seemed healthier than he’d made out and she enjoyed every minute of it, not once thinking of Simon Warner. She hadn’t done anything quite so outrageous since art school.
She’d arrived home in the early hours and Simon had roused, switched on the bedside lamp, peered briefly at the clock and drifted back to sleep. She knew then that they would not be going to the studio; she anticipated shopping, banking, housework and, at some stage, a generous round of interrogation.
Simon did not disappoint. But it was not until late on that hot afternoon that his irritation escalated in concert with the rising humidity. He went to the fridge and opened it. He felt the cold air greeting him and accepted the changed conditions with vague interest. He had always maintained that double-brick walls kept the temperature stable but the endless El Niño was making a mockery of it. He was against airconditioning but his argument was slowly eroding, mediated by the nights spent lying on top of the sheets.
He returned to the lounge with a bottle of wine, his face grim. ‘Sav blanc. You want some?’
‘Okay.’
Simon sloshed the wine into two glasses and sat down. He glowered at the frosting bottle.
‘Christ, Stef. You could have phoned.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Simon. I should have.’
‘I don’t like you being out all night.’
‘I’m not surprised. And I don’t like you being out all night either.’ Stef took a sip of her wine, appearing to take an interest in the TV.
‘Okay, okay. I get your point. Can’t we just call a truce?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, flatly. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Simon swirled his glass but didn’t look at her. He waited until the oscillating fan pointed directly at him. ‘Alright, let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s your work going?’
‘Good.’
‘Good?’
She didn’t want to go into it but then realised it might help to smooth things. ‘Better, anyway. I’ve been looking at the different skies from up on top of my studio roof, night and day. Haven’t really started yet but it’s in here,’ she pointed to her temple. ‘I’m looking at a very smooth canvas, no brushmarks, just the shifts of colour; the nuances. Pared right down.’ The thought of it cheered her, as did the sudden recollection of the naked stranger tucked neatly between her legs. She sipped her wine. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ve decided to start a whole new series. I’ve had it with metal: rusted, bent, painted, whatever. It’s old school; I need to move on. I’m thinking about a series to do with our commodity culture, our follies, and our ability to destroy things: our recklessness. All those smashed vehicles, so-called accidents.’
He slugged his wine and thought of the other issue.
‘Fucking hell, Stef.’
‘So what will you make?’
Simon swirled his glass.
‘I’ve started collecting vehicle lights: tail-lights, headlights, dashboard lights … I want to build structures that pulse like a heartbeat. Red, yellow, white. And I’m thinking about two hundred car headlights on low beam.’
‘Do you have time now, before your show?’
‘Of course! When have I not delivered? You have such a poor opinion of me sometimes.’
‘And where does that come from, Simon?’
‘Will you listen to Miss Perfect! Where the hell were you? Are you trying to fuck us up or something?’
‘Me? You’re blaming me?’
The doorbell rang and Stef reluctantly rose to answer it. Shaun was standing on the footpath, the street lights vaguely illuminating his diminutive frame. He looked up into her strained face.
‘I … I was wondering if Jess was in?’
‘She’s busy, Shaun. She locks herself in her room and listens to music.’
‘Oh … okay. Would you be able to …? The man next door is … I went to the park and the man from the other side followed me.’
‘Shaun, this is a really bad time. Where’s your aunty?’
‘She’s gone out. To work.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘No, Elton’s there.’
‘Okay. Go home and speak to your aunty when she comes in, alright? I’ll tell Jess that you called.’
Shaun went back to his own front door. As he put the key in the lock he noted the camera on his neighbour’s wall. It was pointing directly at him.
Inside, he turned on his aunt’s new TV and sat upright on the sofa in front of it. He sighed. He pressed the remote and found the ABC news. He thought of his Mum and Dad. Each night they’d stop whatever they were doing to meet in front of the set at 7 p.m. He was too young to watch the news, they said; but he was older now, he had considerably more life-experience.
Undercover investigators revealed that wild monkeys from Indonesia were being exported to Australia for research labs. Syrian government troops were capturing, killing and torturing children, many under five. There were reports of electrocution, burnings, nails and hair pulled out. A song by a famous singer was played; Shaun did not catch the name but remembered his mother miming the tune in the kitchen. The star, aged forty-eight, had just died in a hotel room and overnight her most popular album had shot to number 1 on iTunes. The number of men abusing their partners was soaring – in Victoria, police attended more than forty thousand cases, though it was estimated that seventy percent went unreported. Male violence was the leading contributor to the deaths of women aged fifteen to forty-four. There was no sign of a murdered schoolgirl in the Cann River forest. A 42-million-dollar Mob Museum had just opened in Las Vegas. The man who had built the bomb that killed 202 people in Bali, including eighty-eight Australians, would not be executed, the newsreader said.
The Dow Jones came on. Shaun flicked off the set and went to his room.
ARMAN LAY awake most of the night: first, because it was uncomfortably hot even with the bedroom window raised, and second, because his housemate had staggered past his door in the dead of night. He did not look at all well. Arman pretended to be asleep, but through a crack in the door
he saw the man lean against the wall and bump into the door jamb before entering his room, leaving the entrance wide open. A little later he heard utterances from the man’s computer: laughter, interjections, cries of distress, the low hum of soothing words. His guts turned. Everything was getting worse; something had to be done.
He rose at 6.30 a.m. went down to the kitchen and assembled the ingredients: butter, sugar, cardamom and his large pouch of Kudzu powder. It was not uncommon for him to be nervous at the stove. Before arriving in the country he had never cooked in his life, but the anxiety that grasped him now was something else entirely. His whole body trembled as he prepared the mixture for a large batch of special cookies – Benton would not be the wiser. He searched for a bowl and crashed the pots unnecessarily.
‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’
Arman turned quickly. There in the doorway stood his fellow renter, shirtless, in pyjama pants and brown slippers. Arman backed up, bumping into the bench.
‘I not up to anything. Just doing some cooking.’
‘Cooking? Good grief man, it’s 7 a.m.!’
Benton looked beyond him and Arman moved to block his view. The taller man moved forward and pushed Arman aside. Both spotted the plastic packet and both reached for it, but Benton was quicker.
‘What on earth is this? More of your tricks, eh? Are you trying to poison me? Is that your game? Because if it is, you’re making a right mess of it.’
‘No Ben, I am trying to help.’ The Englishman’s bare torso and dark areolas seemed levelled at him and it made Arman squirm.
‘Why, Arman? Why are you trying to help? Why don’t you just look after your own affairs and stop meddling in mine?’
‘You are sick, Benton. Very sick. You get drunk and … and I hate what you have on the computer.’
Benton’s eyes widened.
‘I’ve seen it, Benton. I know what it is.’
‘Why you meddling little … Middle-Eastern bastard!’
Arman saw a way past him and made for the stairs. He took them two at a time, went straight to his room, slammed the door and slid the bolt. He stood quietly, listening to the approaching footfalls and backed away as he saw the handle turning. Benton smashed his weight against the door and sent the latch flying. His frame filled the opening, his naked torso threatening. He rushed forward and Arman fell backwards onto the bed. Benton launched himself and fell across Arman, pinning his body, and the Afghan readied for a rain of blows. Instead, the tall man wrapped his strong arms around him, drawing his body tight against his chest. Benton roared into the pillow, ‘Oh dear fellow, what has happened! Please forgive me, Arman, please! Help me. I’ll take your medicine, all of it! Pray for me, Arman. Please pray for me!’ He tightened his grip and Arman lay rigid, his arms and legs pinned under the lanky Englishman. ‘God forgives, Arman,’ he sobbed, causing the bed to bounce lightly. ‘Doesn’t He?’
Gradually Arman felt the older man’s body relaxing. He moved gently out from under him, wresting his body from Ben’s hot, damp skin.
He stood up. ‘You must leave.’
Benton was on his stomach and turned his reddened face towards him. ‘Why?’
‘Please leave my room.’
‘You love me, Arman, I know you do. And I’m attracted to you. Can’t we just –’
‘No!’
‘Arman; we’re friends. And we could be more than friends if –’
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’
Benton raised himself slowly. He lumbered into the passage and Arman slammed the door.
‘I hate you, Benton Hattersley!’ he yelled. ‘Get out of the house before I kill you!’ He smashed his hand against the painted woodwork. ‘Get out!’
SHAUN WOKE to the sound of a loud crash, then shouts coming through his bedroom wall. It was his bad neighbour, he felt sure of it, and he put his ear to the plasterboard. He heard the man’s raised voice; he could not mistake it. He was bellowing, at what, at whom? There was another high-pitched voice – the man he’d helped with the bricks? Shaun needed to talk to someone. He went to the door and looked towards his aunty’s room. She would have come in very late and would not be rising before noon. He looked for light under Elton’s door but he was obviously asleep. It was Thursday.
Returning to his bedroom, he approached the window. Out on the street, a car was being parked, and as it backed to the kerb, he heard a loud pop and saw glass explode from under the tyre. A lady got out and inspected it. He saw her shake her head and walk away. An old man hawked and spat on the footpath. The sky was grey though no clouds hovered. A flock of starlings shot over the rooftops. There came another shout from next door and a door slammed.
Shaun went to the bags that contained his parents’ things. He took out a beanie belonging to his father and examined it; another remnant of his mother’s handiwork. He put it on, climbed back into bed and pulled his pillow tight around him. He saw his father then, as clearly as if he was right there beside him. He was in an apple tree dropping the ripe fruit to his mother, who was holding a basket. Suddenly the branch broke and down his father came, knocking his mother to the ground. They laughed then and they laughed later: the expert arborist who fell out of an apple tree and the wife who tried to catch him. They were always laughing and they shared silly jokes with Shaun. Sometimes they took him in their arms, even as an eleven-year-old, and told him how important he was, how lucky they were to have him. But things weren’t always that good. Sometimes he’d be in trouble: Don’t leave your bicycle out in the rain! He wished he’d been more careful. The bike was a birthday present found in the fern gully with the aid of a hand-drawn map. It had a card attached and he ran home wheeling that shiny new hybrid, tears brimming – and he cried again now, burying his face in the pillow. It drowned out the noises next door.
5
SHAUN STOOD once more at his bedroom window. It was Friday, mid-afternoon and everything was at last quiet. Only he and Elton seemed to be at home. His aunt had gone out, Stef and Mr Warner would be at their studios, James at work, the Afghan man in his taxi. Where would the bad one be? Lurking in some dark place. That man was the only one who had shown an interest in him; everyone else had other concerns and busy lives that did not include the boy. The whole future looked bleak. He recalled a newsfeed about a baby orangutan that was sold to a zoo when its parents were senselessly slaughtered. Now he felt exactly like that homeless ape, alone in a cage with imminent threats.
He pushed open the window and looked out. If only he could fly away. He thought of his kookaburras, the way they would hunch before springing into the air. He tried to feel that sensation of gathering, the readying for flight – and there it was! He could sense it in his own body. He spread his arms and closed his eyes and away he flew: up, up, up.
An electric drill whined in a neighbour’s shed and Shaun opened his eyes just as the noise stopped, enhancing the silence. He put his hands on the windowsill and leaned out. Something to the right caught his eye and, along the flat expanse of the building’s back wall, he observed a pair of whitish legs dangling from the neighbouring window ledge. He went downstairs, out into the yard and climbed up on the paling fence. He pushed aside a badly chopped hedge to see Jess high above him, sitting in the open window frame.
‘What’re you doing?’
Jess stared straight ahead.
‘Fuck off, Shaun.’
‘Can I come up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’
‘Go inside, Shaun.’
‘Elton’s on his computer. And I just wanted someone to talk to.’
‘Then find another victim. I don’t want to talk to anyone today, thanks.’
Shaun tried to spread some of the sticks and greenery in front of him.
‘Okay, I’ll just stay here then.’
For the first time, Jess trained her eyes on him. ‘You’re a nuisance, Shaun, a fucking do-gooder. Why are you here?’
A plane could be heard high above them, its
quiet drone backgrounding the warm, still air. Jess looked towards the boy spread awkwardly in the hedge, and sighed. Finally, with profound indifference, she muttered that if that’s what he really wanted to do, the back door was open. Shaun clambered over and almost fell onto the expanse of cracked concrete. He entered Jess’s house, climbed the stairs, walked past her bedroom and into the small rear room which he immediately recognised as the twin of his own. He saw Jess ahead of him. She was sitting on the wide windowsill facing out, silhouetted against the bright light, and wearing only a T-shirt and underpants.
‘What … what’re you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’ she said, speaking into the outside world.
‘I don’t know.’ He stepped forward and put his hand on the windowsill beside her. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘The void, Shaun. I’m looking into the void.’
‘Can I sit beside you?’
‘Ha! You’d fall.’
‘I don’t care.’
Jess snorted. ‘You’d hit the concrete and splatter blood everywhere.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Okay, up you get. You can watch me jump. You can watch me hit the concrete and splatter blood.’
Shaun pulled a chair across, climbed up and put his legs through the window to sit next to Jess who maintained her vacant assessment of the suburban backyards. He gazed in the same general direction.
‘Maybe we could both jump,’ he suggested.
‘Shaun, you are far too young to be thinking about suicide. You’re just a kid.’
‘How old were you when you cut your arm?’
Jess’s face darkened; she wanted to object but just couldn’t seem to manage it.
‘Twelve.’
‘Did you want to commit suicide?’
‘Ha! That’s what everyone thinks. All wrong, all completely wrong.’
‘What then?’
Jess swung her legs, knocking her heels on the brickwork. She wobbled her head and her tangle of disarranged hair, two-toned and spiked unnaturally, elicited a vague, alien appearance.
The Colour of the Night Page 18