by Brown, Honey
‘Okay, yeah, I’ll tell her.’
‘And see if she wouldn’t mind us going to see her.’
‘I’ll ask.’
Nathan had been staring off to the side, thinking about something Scotty had said, or all the things together . . . a person not linked to the Mission . . . Billy staying in . . . changing his appearance. Nathan looked up.
‘I think I know where he is.’
The more Nathan thought about it, the surer he was. Keeping low. Obvious.
They got up to leave. Nathan stopped next to Scotty, leaned in to speak to him.
‘You had a different poster up in the toilet last time I was here.’
Nathan’s father was standing by the door, trying not to interfere or seem thrown by Nathan’s private words to Scotty. You could see it affected Nathan’s father, though. He stuck his hands in his pockets, dropped his head, looked wounded for a moment.
Scotty kept his ear close to Nathan’s mouth, frowned and shook his head. Then a grin lit up his face. ‘January,’ he whispered back. ‘You’re lucky I liked the detailing on the car. Stay here.’
Nathan’s dad pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. He glanced at the folded-up poster when Scotty returned with it.
Scotty slipped it into Nathan’s hand.
‘Good taste, I must say.’
On the way down the path, Nathan’s father looked again at the folded poster. Nathan didn’t know how to explain it, he felt too unsure to even put the poster under his jumper and protect it from the light rain. He kept it down beside his leg, pretended he didn’t have it.
In the kiosk, while his dad ordered pies for lunch, Nathan stuffed the poster up under his jumper, held it there with his arm – as casually as he could manage – across his tummy. He was careful getting into the car, not wanting to bend or crease it any more. Quickly, while his dad walked around to the driver’s side, Nathan took the poster out and stashed it under his seat. He sat up.
Nathan ate his pie. His dad opened up the map to look for the best route to the beach. They had Big M milks. They didn’t talk.
Footpaths were cleared of outdoor dining. People were eating inside the restaurants, in the warmth. Cold ocean wind cut through Nathan’s clothes and chilled him. Stung his cheeks. Made his eyes water. It whipped the colour from his father’s lips. They walked past the barbershop, past a footpath sign with pictures of Vern’s artwork on it. One was a small reproduction of the Silver Wave picture. Nathan’s dad motioned to it.
‘It says to go up the stairwell at rear.’
‘That’s right.’
When they got to the alleyway, Nathan’s dad checked behind them.
‘Is this artist guy a big fella?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Should you wait in one of the shops?’
‘Billy won’t know you. He won’t trust you.’
Vern’s brown van was parked beside the steel stairwell. Nathan and his dad climbed the steps. No seagulls about. Roar of sea and sky.
Nathan’s dad slid the glossy door open.
It was warm inside the studio. The fans were rotating slowly, pushing heated air down. Vern was painting at an easel. He was dressed in loose baggy pants and a knitted poncho. The smell of paint and turpentine was strong.
Vern called out, ‘Welcome. Please look around.’
Nathan kept his head down to avoid being recognised. Vern continued painting. The kitchen door down the back of the studio was shut. Nathan started towards it.
They wandered past large artworks. Wound their way around easels displaying finished paintings. Prices were written on hanging tags, gently fluttering in the moving air. All boys. In every painting. Most of them with naked torsos, some with bare backsides. Nathan could feel his father’s hackles rise. There was one painting that caused him to do a double take. At a glance the boy looked like Nathan. The boy was sitting in a gutter. Shirtless, solemn expression, a hairstyle similar to the one Nathan had when he was found. Nathan’s hair had been cut even across the fringe now. The sides and back were still short. His face wasn’t as gaunt anymore. It did seem, though, that his face was naturally bony.
‘Is it you?’ his dad whispered.
‘No.’
‘Did he paint you?’
‘No.’
‘Happy to look?’ Vern called. They were getting close to the kitchen door. He put down his brush.
‘We’re good,’ Nathan’s dad called back.
Vern got up.
His dad left Nathan’s side, walked to meet Vern.
‘I wouldn’t mind you talking me through this one over here.’
When they went behind the easel, Nathan made his way quickly to the kitchen door.
His heart hammered. He could sense, just knew, Billy was in there.
A piece of canvas had been hung over the window. The kitchen was dim because of it. A bar heater down on the floor glowed red. The smell in there wasn’t right for Billy. It was cold takeaway, body odour, the worst type of cigarette smell – tar and chemicals that seeped into skin and hair and nails – and another smell Nathan couldn’t place, earthy, fungus-like, not pleasant. The couch was strewn with clothes. The floor had greasy wrappers and pizza boxes on it. On the sink was a tobacco tin containing a row of roughly rolled small cigarettes. Beside that was a plastic bottle filled with dirty water, a piece of pipe pushed through it.
Billy was on the bed behind the door. He was on his side, facing the wall, lying on top of the blanket, in jeans and nothing else, legs curled, spine showing, shoulder blades protruding, shrinking muscles, a still-red scar running down the back of his arm, and a head of close-cropped hair. He hadn’t woken. Nathan felt a rise of panic, fear for his friend. This room, Nathan knew. This bed, he knew. The blanket, the empty plate on the floor, the poor light, the faint smell of urine. Nathan wasn’t recalling the kitchen from the last time he’d been in it; he was seeing the room for what it really was. Billy’s backroom.
Billy woke. He swallowed. You could hear it, a dry and sticky throat. He turned on the bed, squinted bleary-eyed at Nathan.
‘He wants us in the studio,’ he croaked. ‘Wait out there.’
Billy sat up, put his legs over the side of the bed, hands either side of him, head down, looking at his knees. With his short hair he looked finer-boned and frailer.
‘Fuck off, I said. Let me wake up.’
‘Billy, it’s me.’
He shaded his eyes, as though the weak light coming through the canvas was too much.
‘Kid?’
Nathan hadn’t shut the door. His ears had been ringing, now the ringing faded enough for him to hear his father’s voice in the studio. ‘I want you to call the police. Do it,’ he was saying.
‘What’s going on?’ Billy said. ‘Who’s that? Who have you brought here?’ Billy grabbed a fistful of blanket and pulled it up over his shoulders.
‘It’s my dad.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’ve come to let you know that we’re telling the police.’
Billy got up, the blanket slipped from him. He went across and took the tin and bottle from the sink, put them in the cupboard. Nathan went to the couch, picked up a T-shirt, held it out for Billy. Billy didn’t take the top; he eyed Nathan’s body, his clothes, his hair, his shoes.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have to tell the police.’
In the studio, an easel or large painting dropped with a loud bang.
‘I know people,’ Vern was saying. ‘You’re making a very big mistake.’
‘I don’t care if you know the fucking queen.’
‘That’s your dad?’
‘Yes.’
Billy breathed out, snatched the T-shirt from Nathan’s hand. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Nathan?’ his dad called. ‘You all right?’
‘We’re okay.’
Getting up and moving around had made Billy short of br
eath. And dizzy. He leaned on the table for support. There were dark circles under his eyes, bruising around his biceps, a red mark on his shoulder, one on his neck. He regained his balance and coldly surveyed Nathan again.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing. Vern will kick me out.’
Billy turned away, went to the sink and washed his hands, splashed his face. He used his T-shirt to dry himself. The act of washing weakened him again. He sat down on a kitchen chair.
Nathan’s dad pushed the door wider and turned on the light. Billy covered his eyes, blinded by the high-watt globe.
‘You okay, Nathan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Vern says he’s ringing the police, so that should be good.’
Billy kept his face shaded, swung his head and muttered, ‘Fucking hell.’
Nathan’s dad held Nathan’s gaze.
With the light on it was clearer what the room had been. A cell.
In amongst the clothes, Nathan found a jumper. Under the bed were Billy’s sneakers. Nathan reached and got them out. Nathan’s dad followed Billy into the studio. Billy went to the windows. He was looking for any sign of the police. Vern was hovering nearby, not too close, though. He might be solidly built, but if it came down to a fistfight, Nathan’s dad would win. Vern knew it too. Nathan took the jumper and shoes to Billy. He’d sat down in a brown leather armchair. It was a high-backed, crafted piece of furniture, a prop for paintings. As Billy put on the sneakers and pulled on the top, the fluidity worked its way into his body. His voice lost the croak.
‘If the cops come it’s because you called them,’ he said accusingly.
His number one habit returned: he looked around for his smokes. Remembering seeing them, Nathan returned to the room to get them for him. He came back out and handed the packet of smokes to Billy. The lighter was inside the packet. Billy took out a smoke and lit it. Sucked in hard.
Vern went into the kitchen. They could hear him there, opening cupboards and moving things about. Billy settled deeper into the chair.
‘Terrific you feel better for warning me, but you can piss off now.’
‘We’re telling the police I shot your dad.’
‘Happy days for you.’
‘William,’ Nathan’s dad said, ‘we had to come. Nathan has to talk. We know you’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t have to hide. Nathan can clear your name.’
‘He can do that, can he? Well, fuck me.’
‘The only way to stop the police blaming you is if we talk,’ Nathan said.
‘That’s gonna work real good for you and real shit for me.’
Vern walked past with a plastic bag of rubbish from the kitchen. Billy tried to catch his eye. Vern didn’t look across.
Billy switched to stare blindly out the window, his nose wrinkled. ‘You’ve told me. I know. You’ve done the right thing. Off you go.’
‘Scotty says the Mission won’t be able to touch you if you stand up next to me and say it.’
‘Scotty doesn’t know the Mission. He’s got no fucking clue. None of you have. The cops are the Mission. Vern is the only one they can’t touch, because he knows the next rung up. And you’ve just fucked that up for me. If you don’t believe me . . .’ He looked up at Nathan’s dad, pointed his cigarette to a wall covered in photographs. In one of the pictures Vern was on the steps of the Opera House. He was bowing in front of Queen Elizabeth. In other photos he was posing with TV stars and singers, politicians. ‘Not so clever now, hey?’
Nathan’s father stared across at the photos.
‘Come with us, Billy,’ Nathan said. ‘It feels like you can’t leave, but you can. The police know you were at the market. They’re making up how it happened. They’re saying you lit the fire. They’re saying you planned to kill your dad.’
‘And that’s exactly my fucking point.’
‘How about this . . .’ Nathan’s father said. He lowered his voice and crouched in front of Billy. ‘I can ring someone who was a detective but isn’t now. He knows people in the media. He was high up in the force and knows how it works. What if I can get him to meet us, and we can go together to a news station, straight to a paper? He’ll get you on the news, in print, before the police can lay any charges, or take you away, arrest you. Say whatever it is they’re trying to stop you from saying, say whatever you have to about this man, don’t hold back, and it’ll be out there. There’s no reason to chase you if you’ve said it, nothing will be gained from keeping you quiet if you’ve already spoken. It’ll be out. They might keep trying to charge you with things, but everyone will question what they say.’
Billy didn’t immediately dismiss it. He blinked fast and wide a few times.
‘The man is a friend,’ Nathan’s father pressed, seeing he almost had him. ‘He was in charge at the start of the case. He knows it top to bottom, but he’s out, out of the force. He won’t ring the police. I know he won’t. Use that against these people,’ Nathan’s father said, pointing at the pictures on the wall, ‘everyone will listen because of that. You’ll have Nathan backing you up. This ex-detective can get the biggest reporters onto it. He’ll get it on the news tonight.’
‘It won’t make any difference. They’ll find a way.’
‘It’s all going to come out anyway. If you move first you’re ahead of them.’
‘Don’t you hate me?’ Billy said suddenly to Nathan’s father. ‘Why are you trying to help me? Don’t you know what I did?’
‘I know.’
‘So leave me alone. Don’t pretend you wanna help me.’
‘If we’re not blaming you, Billy,’ Nathan’s father said. ‘I don’t see how you can keep blaming yourself.’
Billy’s hand trembled on the way to his lips. He swallowed the smoke more than drawing it in.
Nathan’s dad stood up. He went to the desk against the wall, picked up the phone, dialled. He stared flatly when Vern appeared and began to approach. He said across at him, ‘Well, come on, keep on coming, have a go.’
Vern didn’t. He folded his arms and just watched.
Nathan’s dad turned his back on Vern, kept his voice down. Nathan heard him say Gerard’s name, heard the beach mentioned.
‘And no police,’ he finished the call with. ‘Okay.’
How Nathan wished there was a way to lock Vern in the kitchen, like he’d locked Joe in the backroom. Then Vern might start to understand. Then he might finally get it. The kitchen walls might start to feel like bars to him. If no one came when he banged and screamed, if no one heard his cries, if they walked past the window and never looked up, he’d have to start to see. Or probably not. Vern was using Billy’s fear even now, using Billy’s hesitation, twisting that; Vern opened the studio door, slid it as wide as it would go, cold air flooded in, he put his hands on his hips and stood back, as though blameless, completely faultless, as good as saying, The boy doesn’t even want to leave, the kid can’t have minded too much if he doesn’t want to go.
Billy walked slowly to the door.
He had to stop and take a breath before stepping out onto the staircase landing.
‘I won’t be able to tell them everything.’
‘Tell them as much as you can.’
‘You won’t bail on me?’
‘I promise I won’t.’
‘He’ll know,’ Billy said, looking at Nathan, ‘Jason will find out I’m not normal.’
‘I think he’ll see how normal you really are.’
A chicken or a tiger, it was hard for both to leave their cages.
A couple of days later Nathan remembered the poster he’d stashed under the car seat. With everything that had happened it had slipped his mind. Tamara was outside stacking firewood, dressed in a grey jumper and bright pink pyjama bottoms, slippers on her feet. She’d been allowed the day off school, but had a list of jobs to do instead. Morning sun covered the ground. It hadn’t warmed the air. Tamara stopped stacking when Nathan appeared outside and walked across to the car.
Nathan
felt under the seat. Took the poster out. He put it under the flap of his duffel coat. The sound of a helicopter drifted in. Tamara didn’t look up. Nathan didn’t either. They craned to see down the driveway towards the gates. If the choppers were up it meant the media vans weren’t far away. Sure enough, Channel 7 was parking by the letterbox.
Nathan ducked inside, walked fast into the kitchen.
His dad was on the phone to Sarina. ‘Hasn’t the university got security? Ask for their names . . .’
Nathan veered down the hallway, a light jog into his room.
He shut the door.
A problem. The only place for January was on the back of the door. Where else? She had to be up. It was like the photo of Billy on the corkboard; Nathan’s room needed colour, spark and energy. January had as much life in her as Billy. The difficulty being, though, that Nathan’s mum came in and closed the door when she vacuumed. If not for that, he’d be the only one who ever saw the back of his bedroom door.
Nathan took the roll of sticky tape from his desk drawer. Regardless, he had to see what she looked like up there, even if she had to come back down.
Nathan took the time to get her straight. A faint scent of Scotty’s house permeated the glossy paper. He noticed that the detailing on the car was creative. Easy to see why Scotty liked it. January was – no need to say it really – beautiful. Nathan backed up and stood looking at her from the best distance. He resolved to leave her up until tomorrow. His mum was busy with everything, unlikely to give the place a clean for a little while.
Tamara had come in from stacking wood. She’d tracked in dirt. Nathan’s dad hung up the phone.
‘Tamara, wipe your bloody feet.’
‘You’re honestly yelling at me right now?’
‘William’s mum is on the TV,’ Nathan’s mum called from the lounge room.
They went through.
The media called her Mrs Benson. She was out the front of her house. It was a weatherboard place, with a steep driveway. The green car was parked under the carport. Lace curtains, a tidy garden, but not too neat. The lawn needed a mow. Gerard was standing by Mrs Benson’s shoulder. Billy’s little brother was in a pram. He had a blue bonnet on. The footage showed the crowd of reporters on the nature strip. Gerard singled out which reporter could ask the first question. Mrs Benson’s hair had been blow-waved. She was wearing high heels. She touched the corners of her mouth, checking her fingers for lipstick. Nathan’s mum raised her eyebrows at Nathan’s dad. He gave her a little frown and a small shake of his head. Mrs Benson did seem to be taking it all very well, though. She used the words I and me and my a lot. She talked about the threats she’d received, the suspicions she’d always held, the trust they’d broken in her.