At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

  Somebody was screaming. He heard it. Etta.

  God, help her. Please. God. Save them.

  He listened for a few seconds. The lady was on the phone talking. Her voice was sweet and gentle, nothing like Mum’s. But he still found it soothing, calming. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear any sirens yet. How long would it take? Come on, lady, he thought. Stop rattling on.

  Peter sat up, rubbed his head, slapped his face. Things around him were fading, as if someone, somewhere, were turning off the lights.

  Come on, Peter.

  He had to fight this exhaustion – take deep breaths, stay awake.

  It was no use. Oblivion had found him. It was a huge bird hovering over him, using its sky-sized wingspan to make everything dark.

  ETTA

  I thought of Peter’s words – stay hidden – but I couldn’t help myself. I broke out of my hiding place in the woods and staggered into the clearing like a frantic, wounded deer.

  ‘Jonah!’

  He was sprawled on his back, his legs and arms spread out. Why was he just lying there? Why didn’t he get up and run away?

  I dropped to my knees beside him. I put my arms out to shake him awake but something was leaking on his shirt. It was wet and dark—

  Blood? I pulled back my hands.

  No. This can’t be real.

  The stain was spreading, soaking his shirt, forming a river that dripped onto the ground.

  ‘You shot him,’ I shouted. ‘He’s dying.’

  My heart pounded and I couldn’t breathe. Was I dying too? Everything was spinning – the grey gravel road, the faded green grass, the brown earth.

  I put my hands on the ground to steady myself. I bent over Jonah’s body and listened for the sound of breathing. Nothing.

  ‘You killed him,’ I sobbed, looking up at the men, wiping away the tears that made everything hazy. ‘What did you have to kill him for?’

  It was like they couldn’t hear me. Fat Charlie stared at his gun. Chipmunk was behind the car, puking. Weasel smiled like a stupid stoner. I caught a glimpse of Kyle inside the car. He was sucking on a cigarette, blowing smoke through the open window, not even bothering to look out.

  A gurgling sound came from the back of Jonah’s throat. Still alive. I put my hand on the sleeve of his shirt, clutched the red-soaked material as if that could keep him with me. Maybe there was time. Maybe if somebody called an ambulance, he’d pull through.

  ‘Please, please, won’t you help us?’ Fat rivers of snot and tears flowed down my face. I looked at the men again, tried to focus. Maybe one of them cared. The younger ones were like us. Just kids.

  ‘Please. Before it’s too late.’

  They stood in front of the car in a jagged, blurry line. Charlie. Weasel. Chipmunk. Their faces were empty – blank white spaces. There was nothing in their eyes. No pity. No shame.

  Jonah coughed. That meant he was still breathing, right? I touched his hair, felt his warm forehead. The blood wasn’t coming out as fast, but it covered the front of his shirt now, and the pool on the ground was seeping into the dirt.

  ‘Jonah?’ I whispered. ‘Can you hear me?’

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. There was a sickening groan from the back of his throat, but after a few seconds that stopped, too.

  I looked at the men again. Weasel lit up a cigarette, Charlie checked his watch. Nobody said anything. These guys were like soldiers, just doing their job. Nobody cared that Jonah was dying.

  I shut up, too. What was the point of any more crying or pleading? I lay down next to Jonah, draped my arm across his body, closed my eyes and waited.

  Part of my mind was still working, though. How could I get a gun or shovel out of somebody’s hand? I pictured it – I’d jump up suddenly from where I was lying, take them by surprise. I’d kick Charlie in the nuts and grab his gun while he was bent over, then swing around and knock Kyle out with the gun-barrel.

  But most of my mind was still, and that stillness slowed the frantic parts down, made them fade away, until I felt peaceful, almost happy.

  I wasn’t thinking at all, but hazy pictures floated in and out of my brain, like a pretty slide show. Mom was in some of them, laughing with me, holding my hand, kissing me. My brothers were there too, playing with me like they did when I was little – itsy-bitsy spider and peek-a-boo. A picture from one of the Duchess’s fancy art books drifted past, one of a girl standing in a muddy creek, laughing, with her white skirt held up to her thighs. And the Duchess was sitting beside me on her expensive leather couch, pointing things out in the picture to me, saying she always knew what a smart girl I was. So smart, she said, the way I could always figure things out.

  A car door slammed, jerking me back to reality. I opened my eyes a little, watched my right hand move up and down on top of Jonah’s chest.

  Up and down? Was he breathing? I listened. I could hardly hear but there it was – a tiny, wheezy snore.

  I wanted to shake him awake but something hard and leathery touched my other hand. It was like the heel of a boot tapping on my skin, tickling me. Was this some kind of game?

  Stay still, I told myself. Play dead. Blank everything out.

  The boot – or whatever it was – pressed down harder, twisted back and forth. I held my breath, trying not to cry or shout, but it ground my hand into the dirt, and I felt the weight of it crunching my bones.

  ‘You like that, Etta?’ Kyle’s voice. He pressed down harder. The flesh on my fingers tore. I bit my lips, squeezed my eyes shut so the tears wouldn’t come out. Just get it over with, I thought, whatever you’re going to do. I’m not going to beg again. I don’t even care any more, so why don’t you just. . .

  Kyle took his foot away. I let out little breaths, imagined the cool air on my raw, burning skin.

  ‘Let’s see if the Injun’s awake.’

  I heard a dull thud. Jonah groaned in pain.

  ‘Stop it,’ I whimpered. ‘Don’t hurt him any more.’ I wanted to get up, fight back, but my body was frozen and so was my brain. I was in a kind of cocoon. It was light blue, a nothing colour. Empty.

  ‘You say something, Etta?’ Kyle, bending over me. ‘Can’t hear you from down there.’

  He grabbed my wrist and yanked me up so hard my arm nearly came out of its socket. The rifle that was strapped across his back slipped a little, so he hiked it up with a twitch of his shoulder. He turned toward the woods. ‘We got a couple more for you, Charlie.’

  I looked over, blinked a few times to make sure I was seeing things right. There were the tied-up guys from inside the car, huddled together in a clearing, wearing blindfolds. Fat Charlie had a gun pointed to one guy’s head.

  A couple more. That meant Jonah and me.

  Things went spinny again – my stomach heaved, my heart pounded. I had to find that cocoon again – the blue, empty place.

  ‘It didn’t have to be like this, Etta.’

  Kyle’s voice sounded echoey and far away, like he was talking down a hollow tube. He was right next to me, though, touching my hair, like that was supposed to reassure me. Like that was his way of saying sorry or something.

  ‘It still don’t have to, if you know what I mean.’

  I straightened up, quick as I could. I moved away from him, but he stepped towards me again, even closer.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Well what? What was he talking about?

  ‘OK, then,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  He nodded to Weasel, who leaned over and hoisted Jonah up by the shoulders, hauling him across the lawn like a bag of garbage, towards the woods where Charlie was waiting.

  ‘No,’ I shouted. ‘Let him be.’

  Weasel kept going. I tried to squirm out of Kyle’s grip but he had both of my arms pinned tight to my body.

  ‘Like I said, Etta, it’s up to you.’

  ‘Make him stop!’

  Kyle ran one of his hands across my shoulder, up to my neck, touching the back of my ear wit
h his fingers.

  ‘That’s what you want?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. He tickled the back of my ear with his fingers. He made gentle tracing movements, around my ear, behind it.

  ‘You sure?’

  In my ear.

  ‘Course I’m sure. Leave him alone.’

  Kyle dog-whistled Weasel, nodded toward the ground. Weasel dropped Jonah and stood over his body – like he was waiting for Kyle to bark out the next order.

  ‘OK, then,’ Kyle said, smiling. He took my face, tilted it up by the chin. A brown spot of tobacco was stuck between two of his teeth.

  ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Inside?

  ‘What do we need to go inside for?’

  Kyle pushed me toward the cabin, squeezing my arms, making the old bruises hurt again. ‘And there’s your mom always saying what a smart girl you are.’

  My mom. Jesus.

  ‘Don’t do nothing till we’re done,’ Kyle shouted to the weasel.

  Done? My stomach flipped over, bringing burning liquid to the back of my throat. I had to get away from him, away from the cabin door that was getting closer and closer.

  ‘No good changing your mind now,’ Kyle said.

  My legs buckled and my feet dragged on the ground.

  ‘Come on, Etta,’ Kyle said, as he pulled me through the bashed-in door. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  PETER

  ‘You that boy from the Robinson place?’

  Everything was hazy, as if somebody had wrapped his eyes in cling film. A man in uniform stood on the porch and looked down on him – a tall deputy sheriff in a brown peaked hat and tight-fitting brown jacket and trousers. The woman from the house was there too, clutching a heavy red blanket.

  ‘Son? Can you hear me?’

  Peter recognised the man’s voice from the phone. He sounded like the first guy, whatever his name was. Johnson, that was it – the nice, helpful bloke.

  ‘We got a patrol car on the way there now.’

  Peter looked at the cop and shook his head. ‘It’ll be too late,’ he said. He put his head down, wrapped himself with his arms and sobbed.

  The fucking cabin, he thought, that fucking jealousy and pride. It was too late for anything now, too late for being sorry, too late for. . .

  A patrol car. Shit.

  That dodgy cop.

  Peter looked up, wiped his eyes, his nose.

  ‘Hey, officer?’

  He wanted to shout, but the words came out in a croaky whisper. The deputy was lighting a cigarette, nodding along to the hawk-like screeches that came from his walkie-talkie. The woman put the blanket around Peter’s shoulder as he tried to sit up.

  ‘He wants to say something, Ray.’

  ‘Don’t send any cars,’ Peter croaked.

  The deputy flicked his cigarette away. He sat on the steps, his long legs spread apart in a macho pose. ‘What did you say?’

  Peter looked at the woman, who wrapped the blanket tightly as if she were trying to cocoon him, to keep him safe as well as warm. Her eyes were blue, like Mum’s. They were wet and teary, as if she felt sorry for him, but she was nodding, smiling a little, encouraging him to speak.

  ‘What’s your name, honey?’ she asked him.

  ‘Peter.’

  ‘Well, Peter, my name’s Julie and this here’s Ray. Now, I’ve known Ray for as long as I can remember. He goes to my church – every Sunday, never misses. And I would gladly swear on a stack of bibles that Ray Bryson’s a guy you can trust with your life.’

  The deputy moved a little closer, bent down, leaned in.

  ‘You wanna tell me what happened, son?’

  ‘OK.’ In a strange monotone voice that he scarcely recognised as his own, Peter told them about his journey to the cabin, about the girl who’d tumbled out of the darkness, and the Indian boy who built his own wigwam on Ojibwe land. He started to tell them the rest of the story, about the gun and shovel guys smashing down the doors. . .

  Bryson? Is that what she said? Jesus Christ. Bryson.

  Wasn’t that RoboCop’s name?

  ‘Well?’ Bryson took off his hat and ruffled a thick, sandy mop of hair. His eyes narrowed and he started twitching his fingers, running his thumbs along the side of his hat.

  ‘Come on, son. You can tell me.’

  There it was – the change in his voice. Impatience. Irritation. Harshness, like scraping on metal.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ Peter said, his throat hoarse, his mouth desperately dry. ‘Sorry. I heard a gun go off. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Okey-doke, then.’ The nice cop voice was back again. Maybe Peter had got this all wrong. Maybe this was the good guy. ‘I’ll head over. See if they need backup.’

  The deputy strutted back to his car. He turned on the red and blue and yellow lights, but left the siren off. From inside the car he waved to Peter and smiled at Julie. He started up the engine, tipped his hat to the child in the doorway, and silently pulled away.

  Julie went to the open door. ‘Come on inside, Peter,’ she said. ‘Have something to eat.’

  ‘In a minute, if you don’t mind.’

  As soon as the door was closed behind her, Peter got on his feet and let the blanket drop to the floor. He shook out his arms and legs, tiptoed across the deck.

  This was stupid, he thought. Julie went to church with the guy. How bad could he be?

  Inside the kitchen, Julie rattled pans and hummed to herself. After a second or two, a light came on – soft and golden – an invitation to shelter, safety, a hot, tasty meal.

  ‘Come on, Peter.’

  He ducked below the window level. When he was sure Julie couldn’t see him, he jumped off the deck and sprinted across the lawn to the edge of the woods. It was darker now – he could hardly see the path. He dived in, anyway, pushing forward, as if the forest were a huge, stormy sea, and as if Etta were out there somewhere – sinking, drowning – and only he could pull her back to land.

  ETTA

  ‘You need to get washed up.’

  Kyle pulled me toward the kitchen sink, stuck my cut, swollen hand under the tap. The water still worked – it felt nice and cool on my burning hand – but everything else in the kitchen was wrecked. Drawers were hanging out, those pretty yellow dishes had been smashed on the floor, the telephone wires stuck out of the wall like plastic neon veins.

  Outside the window I could still make out the narrow strip of lawn and the thick, dark wall of forest – our hiding place on the first night. Maybe I could get back there – it was only thirty feet away – smash the window, dive out. There wasn’t a path like there was on the other side of the cabin, but I could drag Jonah into the undergrowth, find someplace safe until Peter came back.

  ‘Your face, too.’ Kyle turned the water off, pulled me up close to him again. ‘I want you looking clean.’

  He picked up a damp, stinky rag from the bottom of the sink. He put some dishwashing detergent on it, rubbed it hard across my face until I had to spit out the suds.

  ‘There,’ he said when he was finished. ‘All pretty.’

  He touched the side of my face and smoothed my hair. ‘When we’re done, I’ll let you and the Indian kid go.’ He was talking softly now, nice and sweet, like I was his girlfriend.

  ‘Them spics in the woods, too – all we wanted to do was scare ‘em, so they’d stop muscling in on our business.’

  Lies. I knew that. But I nodded my head, smiled. I had to keep him going like this, play dumb, just like Mom would. If he thought I believed the crap he was talking, maybe he’d let his guard down, drop the gun, give me the chance to run away.

  ‘Long as you promise,’ I said. That was good, wasn’t it, stringing him along?

  Kyle led me into the living room with his arm around my shoulder, like this was his cabin now and I was getting the grand tour. It didn’t look like a cabin any more, though. It was like a bomb had gone off – torn curtains, the table split in two, pieces of shattered glass from the broken window sprayed
across the floor.

  Kyle set me down on the couch next to the fireplace. He took his rifle off, like a cowboy in a movie, leaning it against the sofa, facing upwards.

  ‘There we go,’ he said. ‘Nice and cosy.’

  He stood in front of me, bending down so his knees brushed against mine. He moved them backwards and forwards so they touched me for a second, then didn’t touch. He rocked his hips a little – touching, not touching.

  ‘Or maybe you want it in the bedroom?’

  It. My stomach heaved again. I kept my eyes down, thought about something else so I wouldn’t get sick. I concentrated on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. The colours were so pretty – brown, grey, red.

  Kyle sat next to me and put his outstretched hand on my bare thigh.

  ‘Well? Where’s it gonna be?’

  I looked out the broken window, the shards of glass like razor-sharp teeth. What difference would it make, I thought – here or there? This room or that room? The cabin or the woods or the lake? Any place, any time – it was all going to end up the same way.

  Then I remembered the morning – the sweet, yellow light when I woke up, the peaceful sounds of Peter asleep, the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, like a lullaby coming through the window.

  ‘Not the bedroom,’ I said.

  ‘Right here, huh?’ Kyle put his arm around my waist, squeezing me, moving his hands up along my side, my front. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  I tried to twist my body to get his hands away, but he grabbed my hair and before I could even breathe, he’d straddled me with his legs, pinning me underneath him. I couldn’t move any more, couldn’t wriggle away, couldn’t do anything to stop him from—

  Lights. Colours dancing across the walls, reflecting off the shattered glass. Yellow, red, blue.

  Kyle got up, grabbed his gun. ‘Down,’ he barked. ‘Now.’

  I dropped to the floor and curled up into a little ball, with my legs tight together, my arms wrapped around my body.

  What was out there? An ambulance? The cops? It had to be, with lights like that. Peter must have gotten through.

  Oh, thank you, Peter. Thank you, thank you.