The Bogan Mondrian

by Herrick, Steven

  ‘Where’s Hayley?’ I ask.

  ‘Detention,’ he says.

  ‘You’re made for each other.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe I’ll stay at school until the end of this year after all.’

  It makes me smile.

  We watch the boys taking turns to shoot from outside the three-point line. Blake scoffs every time they miss.

  After school, I stop at Frank’s Corner Store for a sausage roll.

  Betty shakes her head. ‘We’re branching out from pastries, Luke.’ She offers me a bread roll stuffed with meat and carrot and cucumber and some other stuff I don’t recognise.

  I reach in my pocket to pay and she shakes her head.

  ‘Guinea pig, remember?’ she says.

  I take a tentative bite. Betty looks on closely.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ I say. ‘Sweet and spicy and meaty.’

  She nods. ‘France and Vietnam in one roll. It’s very popular in Sydney.’

  ‘Better than pizza,’ I say, through a mouthful.

  Betty laughs. ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Only if you let me pay.’

  She sighs.

  ‘What do you call the sandwich?’ I ask.

  ‘Bánh mì.’

  I repeat the name. I wonder if Betty will teach me swearwords in Vietnamese?

  ‘Do you have children, Betty?’

  She shakes her head. ‘My husband is more than enough.’

  ‘But he’s always in the kitchen.’

  ‘The perfect place for a husband. Teach them early in the marriage and everything is fine,’ she says.

  I think of Dad and his delicious meals.

  ‘If you come in tomorrow morning, I’ll give you a bánh mì for your school lunch at half-price,’ she says.

  As I wave goodbye from the door, Betty calls, ‘Tomorrow, my friend.’

  When I reach the street corner, I put the rest of the sandwich in my bag for Mum. She’ll love it.

  The next morning, Mum leans over me in bed and touches my forehead. I’ve slept in too long. She wants to make sure I’ll go to school and won’t use her early shift as an excuse to stay home.

  ‘I still don’t have a fever,’ I say.

  She leans down and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’ve got thirty minutes to get dressed and go to school.’

  ‘I’ll have bacon and eggs, thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Maybe we should buy some hens to roam the backyard. Free eggs.’

  ‘We’d have nothing to feed them. I don’t think they eat leftover pizza.’

  ‘What about that roll you gave me last night? It was full of salad,’ she smiles, ‘and delicious.’

  I stop at Betty’s on the way to school and she has the bread roll already prepared. I offer her full price, but she crosses her arms firmly and pretends to be insulted.

  ‘I’ll buy a coffee this afternoon,’ I promise.

  My schoolbag smells of coriander, chilli and something Betty calls daikon. I’m tempted to eat it before the first bell rings. Then Charlotte walks through the school gate and I immediately know something’s wrong.

  I rush towards her.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she says.

  I lead her away from a crowd of students. ‘Let’s wag school.’

  She nods and follows me out of the schoolyard. I keep looking behind, expecting Pakula to know what we’re planning.

  We walk in silence until we reach the concrete stairs leading up to the public library. When Charlotte tries to speak, her lip trembles. She buries her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her.

  And wait.

  Her voice is quiet, muffled against my shoulder. ‘I hate him. I want him gone.’ She reaches into her schoolbag and pulls out a laptop. ‘It’s loaded,’ she says.

  I look around before opening it. She shows me where to click.

  I take a deep breath.

  Charlotte touches my arm as she stands. ‘I can’t watch. Not again.’ She walks over near the library entrance and sits against the glass wall.

  I turn back to the computer and, although I don’t want to, click play.

  The kitchen and dining room are just as I remember. The table is covered in a beige and blue tablecloth and the dining chairs are made of polished wood.

  Her mum walks into shot and takes a roast pork from the oven. She transfers it to a long silver tray, and places the tray in the centre of the table before returning to the kitchen to get two bowls of vegetables. Charlotte’s mum asks someone to bring the gravy and Charlotte comes into shot, still dressed in her school uniform, to pick up a silver gravy boat.

  Mr Walsh enters the room and sits at the head of the table with Charlotte and her mum opposite each other. The camera points directly at Charlotte. I can see Mr Walsh in profile, but Mrs Walsh only from behind. They eat without saying much. Charlotte shrugs when her dad asks her a question about homework.

  All of a sudden, he starts coughing as though he’s choking. He stands quickly and rushes to the kitchen where he spits some food into the sink. Charlotte’s mum gets up and runs to him, touching him lightly on the back. He coughs again. She puts her arm around his shoulders.

  He half-turns and hits her with a backhander across the face. The sound is horrible. She falls to her knees, holding her cheek, looking down at the floor. He towers over her, his fist raised. He stays like that for a few seconds. The only sound is the muffled crying of Mrs Walsh. He turns away and reaches for a glass of water. Mrs Walsh cowers on the floor. Charlotte hides her head in her hands. Mr Walsh takes a step towards his wife.

  Charlotte pushes her chair back, ready to run.

  I close my eyes, not sure if I can stand another moment. I hear a crash.

  He’s thrown his glass; a puddle of water spreads across the kitchen floor.

  He walks out of the room and out of the camera shot.

  Charlotte and her mum stare at one another, not saying anything.

  All I hear is the whir of the camera, like a long drawn-out breath.

  Mrs Walsh doesn’t move, but Charlotte glances to where her father stormed out.

  The camera keeps filming.

  Charlotte’s mum stands up, her shoulders hunched, holding her cheek. She looks at the puddle on the floor, kneels down and begins picking up pieces of glass. Charlotte walks into the kitchen and gets a dustpan and brush from under the sink. She scrapes shattered glass into the pan. When it’s all clean, Mrs Walsh leaves the kitchen.

  Charlotte tips everything into the garbage bin. She begins to walk away, then stops. She turns and strides towards the spice rack. Her face looms large in the shot, her eyes are red, her cheeks flushed. She looks directly into the lens. Her hand reaches up.

  The screen goes blank.

  I close the laptop. Charlotte walks over and sits beside me. She puts the computer in her bag.

  I lean back on the concrete. ‘Did you talk to your mum, later?’ I ask.

  Charlotte bites her lip. ‘I hid the camera in my room, then went downstairs again,’ she says. ‘Mum was sitting in the lounge. Neither of us could eat dinner, we were still shaking.’

  She attempts a smile. ‘Mum asked me to play the piano … to calm us down.’

  Charlotte shrugs. ‘I did what I was told,’ she says. ‘It worked. Afterwards, I reminded Mum about her promise.’

  ‘And?’

  Charlotte stares at the ground. ‘Dad came back,’ she whispers, ‘with flowers.’

  I reach out to grip her hand.

  ‘He walked in, got down on one knee in front of Mum on the lounge,’ Charlotte’s lip curls, ‘like he was proposing marriage all over again. He said he was sorry. Mum didn’t react. We were all frozen, waiting. Then she reached out and took the flowers.’

  Charlotte sighs.

  ‘That was it,’ she
says. ‘No more. I went to my room and loaded the film.’

  ‘Did you see your mum this morning?’ I ask. ‘Maybe …’

  ‘No. I could barely sleep another night in that house,’ she says. ‘I’m not going back.’

  I wrap my arms around her and she begins to cry.

  ‘You can stay at my place,’ I say.

  We sit on the steps for a few minutes until a crowd of senior citizens hop off the community bus and begin walking into the library. Charlotte and I stand and walk across the square.

  ‘What now?’ Charlotte asks.

  ‘Have you got the camera?’ I ask.

  She nods.

  I take out my phone and text Rodney. ‘We return what isn’t ours,’ I say.

  I look across the square. Tracey is locking her bicycle in the rack. She’s wearing black tights and a green lycra top with the words Mont Ventoux written across the front. She walks across to us.

  ‘Where’s that?’ I ask, pointing to her shirt.

  ‘In France,’ Tracey says, ‘Ventoux means wind. I got blown up the mountain for two hours on my holiday. My reward was a lolly stall on the summit. So, I stocked up and then got blown down the other side.’

  ‘My father talks about riding that mountain one day,’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Men have died racing up Ventoux,’ Tracey says. ‘It’s a beast.’

  ‘Well, it’ll suit him then,’ Charlotte says.

  Tracey isn’t sure how to respond. She can see Charlotte isn’t joking. She glances at her watch.

  ‘One of us is late for work,’ she says. She looks at our school uniforms, ‘And two of us are … having a holiday?’

  ‘We … we have an important assignment,’ I say.

  ‘Let me know if I can help,’ she says. She looks meaningfully at me. ‘In any way. Okay?’

  21

  At the reservoir, we sit on the log and count the cockatoos in the gum trees. They squawk and screech as if the end of the world is upon us. We hear footsteps coming down the track.

  Rodney stops a few metres behind us. He looks at Charlotte. She stands and reaches into her schoolbag, pulling out a leather case. She holds it out to Rodney.

  ‘That case isn’t mine,’ he says.

  ‘Neither is the camera, strictly speaking,’ I say.

  Rodney suppresses a smile.

  ‘It’s a donation,’ Charlotte says, ‘for your help.’

  Rodney takes the case and unzips it. ‘Amazing what falls off the back of a truck,’ he says.

  He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, then stops.

  ‘What? You giving up?’ I say.

  ‘Cutting back.’

  ‘My mum went from a pack a day to one in the morning, one in the afternoon,’ I say.

  ‘Considering she has to put up with you, she’s a fucking hero,’ Rodney answers.

  Charlotte laughs.

  He looks at her. ‘He’s like a rash, isn’t he?’

  ‘More like a healing cream,’ Charlotte answers.

  Rodney snorts. ‘Good luck with that,’ he says, before turning and walking up the track.

  Charlotte reaches into her schoolbag and pulls out her phone. She swipes the screen and looks at me.

  ‘I’m emailing you the video,’ she says. ‘As security.’

  ‘I need your father’s work address,’ I say.

  Charlotte shakes her head. ‘We go together, or not at all.’

  ‘We could go to the police instead?’ I suggest. ‘We have the evidence.’

  Charlotte looks across the reservoir. A breeze ripples the surface. She doesn’t speak for ages.

  ‘I want him gone forever,’ she says.

  ‘Then we threaten to email the video to his partners,’ I say, ‘if he doesn’t leave home.’

  A heron flies across from the far side of the reservoir and lands in the shallows a few metres from the bank.

  ‘He cares more about what people think of him,’ she says, ‘than what he does in private.’

  I reach out for her hand.

  ‘Let’s do it now,’ she says.

  We both stand and begin walking up the track.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, ‘do you have money for the train fare?’

  Charlotte pokes me in the ribs. ‘I’m a rich girl, remember?’

  The train to the city is quiet with just a few shift workers coming home and the occasional university student with their eyes focused on a computer screen.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your photos on the tree,’ Charlotte says.

  She looks out the window at the gardens we’re racing past. Hills hoists, green lawns, above-ground swimming pools and Colorbond sheds.

  ‘You and I are the same,’ she says. ‘You take photos. I get lost in Mondrian.’

  ‘There’s got to be more to life than school, basketball and … and …’

  ‘Sex with my Art teacher?’ Charlotte smiles.

  ‘That would keep you occupied for a while, I imagine.’

  ‘Until I get expelled again.’

  The office towers of Sydney loom into view. The student in front of us closes his laptop. Charlotte leans close and tells me her plan.

  We get off at Central Station and follow the crowds down George Street. An old lady wheeling a shopping trolley waits at a traffic light to cross. She reminds me of Mrs Shankley. She leans in close, fiddling with her hearing aid, waiting for the ticking signal to indicate green. When the light changes, I tell her she can walk. She looks at me and smiles. ‘Thank you, dear.’

  ‘My hero helps little old ladies cross the street.’ Charlotte giggles.

  ‘I am a walking cliché.’

  Charlotte stops outside an office tower. She reaches for my hand. I lead her through the revolving doors and across the polished granite floor towards the lifts.

  ‘His office is on the eighteenth floor,’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Do you think they have open windows?’

  ‘Are you expecting him to jump?’

  We’re alone in the lift. As it races upwards, Charlotte turns to me and says, ‘No matter what happens,’ she grips my hand tightly, ‘I’m not living in the same house as him ever again.’

  The bell dings for our floor. We don’t step out.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll tell you in an hour.’ She attempts a smile before leading me through the doors. I let go of Charlotte’s hand because mine is sweating so much.

  A woman behind a wood-panelled reception desk looks at Charlotte and me in our school clothes. We don’t want to talk stocks and bonds.

  ‘We’d like to see Mr Walsh. He’s my dad,’ Charlotte says.

  The woman smiles thinly. I can tell she doesn’t trust me. Charlotte looks the part. I’m too scruffy.

  She speaks quietly into the phone and a few seconds later Mr Walsh comes out of a room at the end of the hall. He’s wearing pleated trousers and a white shirt. The top button is undone and a red tie hangs loose. He sees Charlotte and smiles, then notices me and a flicker of recognition crosses his face. He steals a quick glance at the receptionist.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he says. ‘Come into my office.’ He reaches out a welcoming hand, ushering her down the hall. He’s cool and confident. I follow behind. He turns around and says, ‘If you’ll be so kind as to wait at reception …’ He’s forgotten my name.

  ‘Luke’s coming in,’ Charlotte answers.

  Mr Walsh takes a deep breath and leads Charlotte into the office. He closes the door behind us.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Luke,’ he begins, ‘but shouldn’t you both be at school?’

  Charlotte sits down on the padded leather chair in front of his desk. I’m relegated to the seat near the wall.

  Mr Walsh walks behind his desk. He’s so calm. No
t a hair out of place. I look past him to the view all the way down the harbour. It’s a magical blue-sky day of white-sailed yachts and Sydney ferries. A plane tilts across the expanse of water as it prepares to land at the airport.

  Charlotte takes out her phone and swipes the screen. ‘I’m sending you a file,’ she says.

  Mr Walsh leans forwards in his chair.

  ‘What’s troubling you, Charlotte?’ he says. He looks at me and smiles, as if we’re both having to indulge his unpredictable daughter. He makes my skin crawl.

  She takes a deep breath.

  Mr Walsh looks at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Perhaps we can all talk about it tonight?’ He looks at me. ‘Luke, you can finally come to dinner at our place.’

  I shift uncomfortably in the chair.

  ‘When we leave here,’ Charlotte says, ‘check your inbox.’

  He looks at the computer screen.

  ‘Not now,’ Charlotte demands.

  His eyes shift from me to her. He rolls up his sleeves to give his hands something to do.

  ‘When you open the file, you’ll see it’s a video. After you’ve watched it, you should drive home and pack your bags—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, girl,’ he shouts, before realising where he is. I’m shocked by the change in his voice. From smooth to stormy in a second. I look through the internal window and see the receptionist at her desk. We’re safe as long as she stays there.

  ‘Pack your bags,’ Charlotte repeats.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ he says, a tremor in his voice.

  ‘And,’ Charlotte hesitates, ‘… and do whatever you want, just don’t come home. Ever.’

  Her last word pushes him back in his chair.

  Charlotte stands and reaches for my hand.

  Mr Walsh jumps up. Instinctively, I step between Charlotte and her dad.

  ‘Check your email,’ I say. ‘Now!’ My voice is louder than necessary. I want the receptionist to hear.

  ‘If you come near us again,’ Charlotte is crying as she speaks, ‘I’m sending the file to your partners.’

  Mr Walsh slumps back.

  ‘The cops will get a copy as well,’ she adds.

  She goes to the door. Just as I’m about to follow her into the hallway, I turn and shout, ‘My beautiful dog just wanted to play. You fucker.’