I lost myself there for a minute.
It had been like a drug, the rush of blood and anger and adrenaline making him dizzy and invincible all at once. Even as the pain of each blow registered, Mason felt more alive than he had in months.
But now, slumped on the filthy floor, he felt the ache of his injuries and a familiar hollowness sinking into his limbs. He was even heavier than before. He didn’t know if he could stand. His eyes traced the lines of tile and grout until his vision blurred and everything slid out of focus. It reminded him of another bathroom, another incident, so many years ago but always close at hand.
I didn’t do anything, he heard himself telling his mother. He just slipped under.
Mason thumped his head against the concrete wall, trying to rid himself of his mother’s face, her distrust and disappointment forever seared into his brain. The way she’d pushed him aside to wrench Henry out of the tub, the way she glared at Mason and snarled, ‘Something’s not right with you!’ Henry’s cries filling the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles, overloud and everywhere.
Not right. Not right. Not right.
Mason released a long breath and a tender spot below his ribs ached in protest. The pocket of his school shorts vibrated. He reached down and pulled out his phone to find a message from Tom.
I brought your bag to class. Where are you?
Mason rattled off a quick explanation and waited. He knew Tom would come. He’d helped Mason out of some pretty tough spots without an ounce of judgement, and the way things were going, it was more than likely Tom would have to bail him out again. They were close, and the possibility of Tom going away for university in a couple of months filled Mason with a strange blend of dread, denial and desolate loneliness.
‘Your little boyfriend.’
The words spun around and around inside his pounding head. Foster had just been talking crap as usual, but unlike everything else that loser said, Mason couldn’t seem to let these particular words go.
Within minutes he heard quick footsteps outside in the corridor. Two sets, it turned out. Tom appeared in the doorway with Raf following close behind. Mason was surprised – Raf wasn’t in their class; he was in the year below.
‘I texted Raf,’ Tom explained as they hurried over to him. ‘Wasn’t sure what state you’d be in. Thought I might need some backup.’
‘Any excuse to get out of Maths,’ Raf joked. He hissed when he saw the state of Mason’s lip. ‘Maaate. You’re literally about to graduate. You couldn’t get through two more weeks without rearranging Foster’s face?’
Mason almost laughed. ‘Don’t think I quite managed that. He did have a bloody nose, though. Total fluke. I think it was my elbow.’
‘Here,’ Tom said, tearing some paper towel from the dispenser and running it under the tap. He crouched in front of Mason and dabbed around his mouth. Mason’s bottom lip was throbbing now and felt like it had doubled in size.
He sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. ‘Stings.’ ‘Should have thought of that before you went looking for a fight,’ Tom said, wiping the damp paper towel across Mason’s chin. It came away a deep watery pink. Raf grabbed a few more sheets from the dispenser and dampened them under the tap.
‘He cornered me. I wasn’t looking for anything.’
‘Who threw the first punch?’ Tom asked.
‘He was hassling me.’
‘Just an idea,’ Raf said, ‘but you could, you know, ignore his crap and not let him get to you.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Mason mumbled, then instantly wished he could retract it. Foster had been tossing racist insults at Raf and Sabeen since primary school, not to mention offensive comments about their gay mums. That Raf was able to let those remarks wash over him was a testament to his even temper, how comfortable he felt in his own skin. How did he convince himself to feel like that? How did anyone?
‘What did Foster say?’ Tom asked, taking Mason by the upper arm. Raf jumped in and grabbed the other, and together they hauled Mason to his feet.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Mason answered, avoiding their eyes. He leaned against the sink, taking a moment to assess which parts of him ached the most.
Raf switched on the cold tap and encouraged Mason to stick his knuckles under the running water. As he did so, Mason scrutinised his reflection in the mirror. His blond hair was stringy with sweat, one side of his shirt collar flipped up. His lip was bulging but his face didn’t seem too swollen anywhere else. A couple of red patches, a graze along his jaw, no blood on his school shirt. Passable. He could go back to class without the humiliation of everyone knowing what had gone down.
‘What really happened?’ Tom pressed.
It was a question with so many possible answers. Mason didn’t have the energy to begin. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, shaking his head. Tom frowned, so Mason added, ‘I might have a little anger problem, Tommy.’
Raf snorted. ‘Nah. Ya think?’
Mason smiled sheepishly. The cut in his lip reopened and he winced in pain. ‘Ow, don’t make me laugh.’ He was secretly relieved Raf saw the humour in the situation, and he even managed to coax a reluctant smile out of Tom. Mason needed to be able to laugh this off, play it down, anything to avoid facing the reality that he’d completely lost control.
‘How do you do it, then?’ he asked Tom. ‘When people hassle you about your dad being in prison. How do you not let it get to you?’
Tom tossed the sodden pieces of paper towel in the bin and moved to the sink to wash his hands. ‘You go to another place inside,’ he said, nudging his glasses up with the back of his hand. ‘You can’t control what’s happened or what they’re saying, so you block it out and focus on something you can control. Something to work towards. Train your mind to rise above the bad stuff.’
‘How the hell do I do that?’
‘Focus on things you’re good at, or somewhere else you want to be. Just know that whatever is happening right now won’t affect the rest of your life unless you choose to let it.’
They were quiet for a moment, the tap dripping a hollow beat into the steel sink.
‘Jesus, Tommy,’ Raf said. ‘Listen to you getting all zen on us.’
Tom laughed. ‘Hey, don’t be jealous that I’m enlightened.’ Mason sniggered, then winced. Tom leaned in to inspect his lip, his proximity distracting Mason from his injuries for a moment. His pulse thumped loudly in his ears.
‘Bleeding’s almost stopped,’ Tom said. ‘Can you walk?’
Mason scoffed. ‘Foster didn’t do that much damage.’
‘Come on then,’ Raf said. ‘Our teachers will think we’ve all got chronic diarrhoea.’
On the way to the classroom, Mason tried to replay the scuffle in his mind, tried to recall which part of him connected with Foster’s face, where they were standing, what Foster was doing. It was like being under water, blurry snatches of colour and muffled sound, upside down, wrong side up, like he was there but also not fully present.
Where did his mind go for those few minutes when rage took over?
He tried not to think about what he might be capable of if he disappeared again.
Now
Our game of Impostor was invented at the bush hut on a chilly June morning. The reason I remember it so well was because it was the first time my mother let me go bushwalking with Raf, Sabeen and Rina by myself. I was eight years old, and up until then Mum hadn’t allowed me to venture unsupervised any further than the Nolans’ place.
There was a mist lingering around the trees, and the weak sunlight was struggling to burn it away. Raf spent the whole walk attempting to spook us with a ghost story he tried to pass off as fact. The tale meandered off on ridiculous tangents until he couldn’t remember the thread of the story at all. ‘What was I talking about again?’ he said. And I relayed the entire thing back to him, having memorised the smallest details and silliest plotholes.
‘Stop being so clever, Chloe Baxter,’ he said, slightly miffed. Coming from my bes
t friend’s witty older brother, that felt like the biggest compliment in the world.
When we reached the bush hut, Tom and Mason were already there. They’d been friends since preschool and I knew them both separately; Tom was my book buddy from the second-hand shop, and Mason came to our motel to be minded three afternoons a week. Sabeen and Raf were my neighbours, Raf knew Tom from Scouts, and Rina was my friend from jazz ballet who was in the same year as Raf at school. Somehow our jumbled little crew fit together like the bush hut itself, a random assortment of pieces that supported each other and was stronger as a whole. And when Henry was old enough to tag along on our adventures, he slotted into what we’d created as though he’d been there all along.
I recall how Sabeen wouldn’t stop talking about Raf ’s unbelievable ghost story, and he challenged everyone to come up with a better one of their own.
‘It’s like a game,’ Mason said. ‘You have to make people believe you.’
‘There should be rules,’ Tom pointed out, always insisting everything was fair.
‘We need teams of two!’ Sabeen added.
‘I’m with Chloe then,’ Raf said before we’d even figured out how to play.
The whole thing morphed from there. A silly story where one fact was true. A true story where one fact was false. Eventually the game became a handful of made-up words on scraps of paper drawn out of a hat, every liar for themselves.
Whichever form the game took, the key to winning was understanding one fundamental question.
How well do you really know your friends?
It plays on my mind now as I trudge up Railway Parade, past the library Henry used to visit so regularly. What was he really doing in there on the computer when he wasn’t emailing me? I can’t stop thinking about the postcard, how he referred to the Facebook page. If Henry did write it, maybe he really does have a Facebook account I know nothing about.
I mull this over for another two blocks, finally steering myself to an empty wooden bench outside the Criterion Hotel. I sit and pull out my phone, open Facebook and type Henry’s name into the search bar. A number of results for Henry Weaver fill the screen, but as I scroll through them, none of the profile pictures are of my Henry. Some are cartoon characters, others are scenic snapshots. A few listings don’t have profile pictures at all, just the generic white silhouette in a pale blue circle. It occurs to me that Henry might not even be using his real name, which widens the net even further.
I log out of my account and it takes me back to the Facebook login page. I type in Henry’s email address. He’d entered his middle name and birthdate as a password when we set it up in Gmail. I type it in now and Facebook tells me it’s incorrect. The cursor blinks expectantly in the password field.
My conscience reminds me it’s a breach of privacy to hack into someone else’s account. But if Henry’s on Facebook, that’s a lead Doherty can actually trace. I try Henry’s birthdate by itself. That doesn’t work either. How many attempts can I make before Facebook locks me out?
A dark car rolls by on the road in front of me and my attention drifts along with it. It takes a second to register Mason’s blue station wagon pulling into a car space a little further down the road. Mason gets out of the car and starts striding up the footpath in my direction. He’s dressed in the same red and black polo shirt and dark work pants that Stu Macleod wears whenever we take our ute into his workshop for a service. Mason must be on his lunch break.
I’m partially hidden from his view by a row of trees in planter boxes at regular intervals along the kerb. As I lean back and peer around the greenery, I see him headed straight for me. Sabeen must have told him about the postcard. Or Henry’s note. Hopefully she didn’t blab about my suspicions he was lying on the morning Henry disappeared, or things will probably get heated. I put my phone away and steel myself.
Before he reaches the Criterion, Mason unexpectedly diverts across the road. He checks left and right for cars as he jogs across to the footpath on the other side. Keeping his head down, he walks the length of the block before crossing back to my side of the road again and approaching the post office from the other direction. It seems like an elaborate ploy to avoid me except I’m not sure he’s actually seen me at all. Behind me, the two-storey Victorian pub looms large with its dark iron lacework and imposing panelled windows. Is Mason giving it a wide berth because of his fistfight the other night? Or maybe because his mother is inside?
Curious, I watch him disappear inside the post office with one more furtive glance at the pub. I walk quickly towards the post office and head around the side of the building where the PO Boxes are located. Peering through a side window, I watch as Mason steps up to the counter to be served.
I’m unable to hear what he’s asking through the glass. The postal worker reaches under the counter to retrieve a form. She talks it through with him, pointing at several places on the page. I can’t make out a word, and I’m about to give up and leave when she gestures for Mason to walk to the end of the counter. She reaches up to a bracket attached to the wall and pulls down a white screen.
I hurry to the front of the building and slip inside the entry doors. A greeting cards and gifts section is on my immediate right, and I position myself behind two rotating card racks. The postal worker is telling Mason where to stand, pointing at a masking tape cross on the carpet. He runs a hand through his blond hair and straightens to his full height. ‘Don’t smile,’ she tells him. ‘Passport photos need to show a neutral facial expression.’
My chest flutters. Passport? Do any of our other friends know about this? No one’s mentioned it. Where is Mason going? If he was avoiding the Criterion just now, perhaps he doesn’t want his mother knowing about it either. Why is it secret? Is he planning to go overseas without telling anyone?
Once the photo has been snapped, Mason waits near the counter for it to be processed. The postal worker murmurs a few more things I can’t hear in relation to the form. It must be the passport application. Mason glances over his shoulder a number of times while he’s waiting, and I hesitate behind the card racks, missing my chance to sneak back outside. It’s not long until the postal worker returns with a set of four small photos, which she slides into an envelope. Mason pays with cash and quickly turns to leave.
If he wasn’t scanning the store in such a paranoid manner, he wouldn’t have even noticed me in the gift section. As soon as his pace slows, I know I’ve been spotted. Our eyes meet and I see the reluctance in his, which is no doubt mirrored in my own: we’re going to have to acknowledge each other.
‘Hi,’ I say. I pick up the first card I see and pretend to read the message inside. ‘What are you up to?’
He doesn’t break eye contact as he subtly moves the form and photos behind his back. His tanned skin and freckles help disguise the faint bruising around his nose.
‘Not much,’ he says. ‘Paying the water bill.’
Liar.
I shove the card back in the rack and pull out another one. Surely he must know I saw him having the photo taken. Why would he lie about it?
‘What about you?’ he asks.
‘Shopping for a card.’
‘Whose birthday?’
I nearly say Henry’s name. His birthday is only a few days away so he’s the first person who comes to mind. Mason’s expression makes me think his mind has gone there too.
I shove the card back. ‘No one you’d know.’
It comes out sounding rude. An awkward silence follows and Mason shakes his head like he knows I’m not being truthful either. He turns to walk away, then changes his mind.
‘It feels like you’re always looking down your nose at me,’ he says. ‘You never used to be this hard to talk to.’
My neck grows hot. ‘I could say the same about you.’
‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What do you see in me that you don’t like?’
I swallow and look away.
‘Is it because of my mother?’ he presses. ‘Who we are? Our crap
py house?’
‘What? Of course not.’
‘My father then. Everybody in this town knows he was violent. You think I’m like him, right? You think I’m capable of bad things.’
It’s too complex a question to answer. We’re all capable of bad things.
I don’t respond fast enough and Mason’s jaw clenches.
‘For years Henry’s fed you his version of what it’s like to live in our house,’ he says. ‘Have you ever once thought to ask me?’
‘Henry and I are close. He’s like a brother to me.’
‘He’s my brother,’ Mason snaps. ‘And you’ve known me for just as long. Why did you decide Henry was worth your time and I wasn’t?’
‘That’s not true, Mason.’
‘Really? ’Cause guess what? I like movie nights too.’
This catches me off-guard. I had no idea Mason wanted to be included in those nights. I thought he wanted space from Henry, and from me by association. When I think about what those movie nights meant for Henry – an escape from Ivy and the problems at home – perhaps I should have recognised that Mason needed that too. He had Rina, though. He had the Nolans. He had Tom. He didn’t think of me like a sibling the way Henry did.
‘When we were young,’ I say, ‘we were all close—’
‘And something changed.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, a bit too loudly. ‘You did. You became secretive and started bottling everything up. You were always cold towards Henry. You lose control, Mason.’
Two women at the counter glance over and one frowns. Mason ducks his head, avoiding my eyes. ‘Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.’
I regret my outburst. ‘Listen,’ I say, softening. ‘What I—’
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