As Far as You Can Go (35 page)

Graham pushes himself up and follows him into the hall. Larry unclips the keys from his waist and unlocks a door into a big dim room. Just as Cassie described. Only no fire.

His eyes go to the sofa. Brown velvet worn bare in patches
like the hide of an old bear. He looks away, notices a painting above the fireplace, glass so grimy you can just make out a watercolour of the bush, a black figure with a stick on a rise. Red hills rippling behind him.

‘Came with the house,’ Larry says. ‘Worth a bob or two. However, that’s not what I wanted to show you.’ He puts down one envelope that he’d been clutching and picks up another from the mantelpiece. He slides a photo out of it. He hands it to Graham and goes over to the window, pulls the curtains back to let in the last of the light. Graham sits down on the sofa. Dim blurry print, digital. It is of a couple having sex. His arse is small and pale between her dark, sturdy, paint-smeared thighs. Her face is swoony with pleasure. And it is Mara. His face is hidden, but there is no doubt that it is himself.

‘I warn you, any violence and Cassie will immediately become familiar with these.’

He can hear Cassie, back in the kitchen again, the regular chop, chop, chop of knife against wooden board.

‘What do you think?’ Larry walks over to him. Stands above. Graham will not look up. Larrys voice is filled with glee. ‘What is that absurd expression? Gobsmacked,’ he says. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look
gobsmacked
before.’ He waits, his legs twitching in their pale pressed trousers. Graham squeezes his eyes tightly shut and sees red. Energy pumps through his arms, he stands up but Larry has backed off. Is over by the door before he can take a swing at him.

Larry tuts, hand on the door handle. ‘Now, now,’ he says. ‘Can’t we talk like civilised people? Won’t beat about the bush. You behave or I show Cassie this rather splendid image. Deal?’

‘Behave?
’ Graham goes over to the grate and flicks his lighter at the print. It’s not readily flammable and takes several flicks until it catches, the image shrivelling away to ash. He drops it in the grate.

‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Larry observes. He’s
half out the door. Something in Graham could almost laugh. ‘Now, I’d like you to spend another morning with Mara. Tomorrow, shall we say?’

Graham pauses. ‘How did you take it?’

‘Trade secret. Now come on, let’s see how Cassie’s doing in the kitchen.’

Graham shakes his head, stands up, then goes for him. Larry’s out the door, tries to slam it but he’s misjudged Graham’s speed and he gets through after him. Chases Larry through into the kitchen, gets him smash on his jaw and he falls backwards, just goes down; crash of his head against the stove, spray of blood sizzling on to the hot plate where the kettle is rising to a boil, immediate sausagey smell of cooked blood, bubbles rising and charring black. Larry slumps down beside the stove, blood coming from his head, eyes shut.

Graham goes back into the sitting room, takes both envelopes from the mantelpiece, brings them through and stuffs them into the flames inside the stove. The flyscreen bangs and he jumps up. Cassie stands in the doorway, open-mouthed, arms full of white washing.

‘Graham!’ she wails. Drops the washing. ‘Oh my –’ She drops to her knees beside Larry.

Graham’s legs give way. He gets on to a chair, puts his face in his hands. Maybe passes out for a second. Deafening fizz in his ears. Fist burning
again
, skin split. Stink of burnt blood.

‘Gotta get out,’ he says. Goes out the door, looks back, Larry slumped, Cassie kneeling, white clothes on the floor. Steam from the kettle. He walks away from the house and into the dark. Air is warm around his feet and legs; cooler, higher. Maybe his fist is bust. Takes a breath. A couple of stars have come out. The moon gleams like a dead old tooth.

The kettle hisses. Cassie gets up and moves it off the hot centre. Black-flaked bubbles. The smell mixing with the chopped onions on the side. Larry is unconscious but not dead. She takes his limp hand, tries to pull him into a more comfortable position. She gathers up some of the shirts and bundles them under his head for a pillow. At least they’re clean, like dressings. Dark blood soaks into them. They’ll be ruined. Yella pushes in through the screen. He comes across to Larry, whines, sniff, licks his face.

She doesn’t know what to do. What do you do? You phone someone, an ambulance, but there is no phone. She thinks of the radio. The keys are clipped to his belt. For his own good she should go through. Radio and bathroom – get some stuff for his head. For his own good. Antiseptic or something? The wound is underneath, can’t bring herself to turn him. She’s ashamed. Just leave it. Head wounds bleed a lot, she remembers that from somewhere. They look much worse than they are.

‘Larry?’ she tries – not a flicker. His face is grey, but he’s breathing quite steadily, she watches the rise and fall of his ribs. His eyelashes are stubby and grey. He’s bitten his lip, fleck of blood, shiny swelling. She unclips the keys from his belt. A heavy bunch. She stands up, giddy from crouching. She goes to the door and looks out. Almost dark. A clear evening, moon up.
The sound of an owl. Mara’s door shut. Should she take her anything? Should she
tell
her? She squints across towards the trees and sees movement.

‘Graham,’ she calls, not too loud. She beckons him. He walks towards her, feet dragging like an old man’s. He says nothing, goes into the kitchen, stops and stares at Larry. He sits at the table. He looks so unlike himself. So pale.

‘You still haven’t eaten anything,’ she says.

He shakes his head. Looks at her as if she’s mad. Half his hair has come out of its rubber band and hangs beside his face. His fist, lying on the table, is bruised. Flies buzz over the table, over Larry.

‘We should see if we can radio for help,’ she says. She holds up the keys. He nods weakly. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘you
must
eat something.’ She opens the biscuit tin. ‘Have a flapjack,’ she says.

‘Couldn’t.’

‘Eat it.’ She puts it on the table in front of him with a glass of water. Stands by him while he chews and swallows. ‘OK?’

‘Yeah.’ He looks at Larry again. ‘Christ,’ he says. ‘He slipped – I didn’t mean
this.’

‘Shhhh. Come on. Oh, we’d better take a light.’ She lifts the globe of a kerosene lamp and lights it. Not quite dark yet. The wick smokes and the flame flutters till it settles, throwing a soft yellow glow.

They go into the hall. She fumbles about with the keys until she’s able to unlock the study door. A clustery, sick excitement rises inside her. First thing they see in the lamplight is a picture of the two of them, pinned on the wall. A black and white print. It is themselves, naked, making love. Taken in their room, on their bed. Not very clear but it is definitely them. Cassie’s eyes are closed, her mouth open in a smiling grimace, as if she is in agony.

The blood drains from Cassie’s face. ‘The
pervert. How?
’ In
the shadows thrown by the lamp Graham’s face scares her. She looks round. There is a radio; a computer; shelves of audio tapes; files. It’s so neat, she’s never seen anything so neat. Everything labelled, dated in black ink, his minute, cramped but
oh so neat
handwriting. She props the door open so they can hear – just in case.

‘Can you work the radio?’ she says.

He tears his eyes away from the picture. ‘Dunno.’ He leans over. ‘What will we say?’

‘There’s been a fight, that’s all.’

Box files marked with dates. Photographs. She shudders. One marked CORRESPONDENCE. She takes it off the shelf and opens it. Sees at once her own writing. A card to Patsy.
Miss you so much. Why don’t you write?
‘My God,’ she says,
‘Graham
, these are our letters and stuff.’

He makes the radio hiss. ‘Mayday, Mayday,’ he says, pressing something.

‘Stop pratting about.
Look
– he never posted anything!’ She sees her own words:
Graham and me – why don’t you write—it’s all so strange
. She shuts the lid, opens another file. More cards and letters. She picks one out. The same parrot postcard she’d sent – thought she’d sent – herself.

Darling Mum and Dad
,

Mum, you would die at the dirt! Could you send me some more T-shirts – very cool ones and that old broderie anglaise dress? I asked Larry, Dad, no he doesn’t play golf! Think time’s going to go pretty slowly. Keeping up my French. Will write more later. Miss you tons. Lots of love, Lucy. (And Ben)
[added in another hand].

Cassie fights to keep her voice level, ‘The others. What do you think happened to them?’

‘Can’t work this bloody thing.’

She looks round. Fear prickles like sharp fur down her back.

‘He can’t hurt us now,’ Graham says, touching her hand.

‘Let’s see what we can find out.
Now
, while he’s out of it, quick, just see if we can find out what the hell’s going on. Keep trying the radio.’

She pulls one of the cassettes off the shelf.
‘26th October: location 1
.’ She shoves it in the machine. Sits down in an office chair that swivels under her weight. Presses ‘Play’. A long silence, a hiss of noise, a clunk: something dropped. A voice says
Shit! Graham, what you doing? Taste this, salty enough?
The voice is tinny and odd but still hers. Sound of hissing, clattery movement.
Great
, Graham’s voice. Her laughter.
Your face!
She switches if off.

‘The sensors,’ Graham says.

‘What?’

‘In the rooms.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve been bugged. The
fire sensors.’

The breath catches in Cassie’s throat. The fire sensors? Surely not, he wouldn’t do
that
– but all the times he seemed to know things he couldn’t know. His little talent for reading situations. Her hair almost seems to lift from her head. Maybe.
Yes
.

Graham switches on the computer. ‘Don’t,’ she says, stomach clutching up with fear, ‘Let’s not look, there might be things –’ But the computer starts up, goes through its codes, files appear on the screen. He opens a document file, closes it, opens another. It is called Spycam.

‘Oh yeah,’ Graham breathes. ‘Here we go.’

On the screen is an outline plan of the buildings, a blinking light to indicate the sites of camera and recording equipment. He clicks on the kitchen and there it is, seen from a high, oblique angle: a button invites him to ‘take’. He clicks again on the shearers’ shed and there is their empty bed, covers all messed up just as he’d left it, seen from above. Cassie hugs
her arms and shudders. Neither speak as Graham switches locations. They see Mara slumbering, oddly lit, grainy like a film of nocturnal creatures on the telly – infrared?

‘So that means he could sit in here watching us –’

‘Too right he could. The fucking perv. The
weirdo.’

She puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t look any more, Gray.’

‘Hang on.’ Graham closes Spycam but clicks on another file marked ‘Data’. He stops, lifts his hand to his mouth, leaving a sweaty film on the mouse. ‘Christ.’

Cassie leans over to see.

25.10 Subjects 3 and 4. Approximately 500 mg XX32.

Prolonged sexual activity.

26.10. S3. Complained of moderate headache.

30.10. S4. Withdrawn.

A list of such entries, dated from shortly after their arrival at Woolagong.

‘What?’ Cassie says. She doesn’t get it. Graham scrolls so fast the screen’s a blur.

15.11 S4 1000 mg XX12. First usage. Usual dose, behaviour consistent with previous experiments. Repeated invitations to S4.

Graham starts to speak but they both freeze as they become aware of a sound in the kitchen. Of footsteps coming down the hall. Nothing they can do. Slow footsteps followed by the clicking of the dog’s claws.

*

He stands in the door frame behind them and they turn. Graham swivels the chair round and stands up. Cassie edges
towards him and reaches for his hand. Larry takes a step into the room. His neck, shoulder and all down one side of his shirt are dark with blood. The dog follows him, sits down and scratches, thumping its leg against the floor and groaning with pleasure.

Cassie swallows. ‘Are you … all right?’ she says. ‘We were trying to radio for help.’

‘A touch concussed.’ Larry’s eyes flick round, taking in what they’ve seen. ‘That was unfortunate, was it not?’ He looks at Graham.

‘You should lie down,’ Cassie says. She forces herself to look into Larry’s face. Sharper even than usual, pale, shadowed beneath the eyes. One side of his lip swollen where his tooth went in.

‘What – what’s this all about?’ she manages to say.

Larry frowns. Runs his hand back over his hair, spreading blood. Looks at his hand with distaste, wipes it on his trousers.

‘You’ve been bugging us!
Spying!’
Her voice rises.

‘Clever system, don’t you think? Modelled on a security system. With the addition of audio, of course.’ Larry glances at the pinned-up print. Cassie’s nails serrate her palms.

‘You’ve been
drugging
us, man,’ Graham says.

‘Is
that
why –’ Cassie stops.

They both look at her.

‘Yes?’ Larry says.

‘What?’ Graham says.

‘Why I’ve been feeling so –’ She looks down.

‘Amorous?’ Larry supplies.

‘You’ve been
experimenting
on me. On
us!’

Larry picks up a silver pen and clicks the propelling mechanism up and down.

‘Why?’ Graham says. His mouth sounds dry. She swallows, dry too, desperate for water.

‘These are important experiments,’ Larry says. ‘I have Mara,
of course, but obviously I require an interaction of subjects. I like to observe.’ He clicks and clicks the pen. There is a long pause.

‘So,’ Graham says at last. ‘What now?’

‘Well, of course, it’s over,’ Larry says. ‘Once subjects are aware of their experimental status – a shame you have to be so curious. Why are subjects so curious? If you could just accept the status of subject, just
be
, then all would be well. As it is –’ He spreads his hands as if helpless in the matter.