Shutterspeed (11 page)

Terri Pavish feels it too and sits, relieved, on the leafy soil. She leans against the trunk of a tea-tree and looks out to the river. ‘I wish I knew how to fix things.'

‘You want me to show you?'

‘Don't bother, there's some things I can't learn.'

‘Like what?'

‘All technical things.'

‘Like?'

‘Like programming a DVD player, for one. And setting the timer for the sprinkler in the backyard. Useless. It feels like I was born with that part of my brain missing. Do you know what I mean? If I could fix things I wouldn't get stranded like this.'

‘You're not stranded. Perth's not big enough to get stranded in.'

She laughs and nods. ‘Thanks for rescuing me.'

He taps at the throttle body for no other reason than to sound necessary. This night is growing bigger than he could ever have imagined, and he's loving the smooth adrenalin coursing through him.

‘I'm so jealous that you can do that.'

‘Don't be. There's lots of things I'm hopeless at.'

‘Like what? What can't
you
do?' she asks him.

‘Ummm … most things probably. Cook, clean.'

‘Boring. I can't touch my nose with my tongue.'

‘I'm crap at sport.'

‘I can't go a day without white wine. No … probably one day, but definitely not two.'

‘I hate vegetables.'

‘Really? Even corn on the cob with chunks of butter?'

‘Especially that.'

‘Sad. I can't do my taxes.'

‘I don't have a paying job.'

‘I don't have a motorbike licence,' she admits.

‘I don't have a motorbike.'

‘Shit, neither do I! It's a friend's.'

‘Tell them it's crap.'

‘I don't know why I'm telling you this … why am I telling you this?'

‘Telling me what?'

‘That I don't even have a motorbike licence. I lost it … for speeding. Twice.'

‘Geez,' he says, with a mix of pity and awe.

They both look out to the river, flat and silver. She sighs. ‘I can't resist that.'

‘I can't swim.'

‘Your folks didn't teach you?'

‘My dad never taught me and Mum wasn't alive to.' He doesn't tell her how much the water terrifies him.

‘I'm sorry,' she says softly. ‘Well you've got to learn. If you can learn to fix a motorbike …'

‘It's fixed,' he confesses, and regrets it. He doesn't want this to end. This night is the best he's ever had. And besides, what does he have to go home to?

‘What's it like living so close to the river and not being able to swim?'

‘I don't care.'

‘I think you should learn. Really. Don't be afraid.'

‘I'm not —'

‘I mean, you live once, so they say. So what have you got to be afraid of?'

‘What are
you
afraid of?'

‘Hey, who's asking the questions?'

‘I think we both are.'

When Terri Pavish taps the back of her head gently against the tree, it's like something inside her is becoming unblocked; a fuel line coming clean. Words rise up and spill out, with relief.

‘I'm afraid of missing out,' she says softly.

‘On what?'

‘Life. Anything. Everything.'

‘You can't have everything.'

‘I
want
everything, every day.' She laughs at the childishness of it. ‘Everyday I want … fast and slow … hot and cold … wet and dry … sweet and savoury … alone … and with others. Happy and sad. I need to feel it all each day. You know?'

‘What happens if you don't?'

‘I get bored, I guess. I get cranky. I've got to feel that each day is full. Complete. What annoys me is when old people sit in their chairs and say, “I could have been …” or “I wish I'd done …” I worked in a nursing home for a bit and it nearly killed me to listen to them talk about how unfulfilling their lives had been. That's what I'm afraid of,' she says, rubbing a stone in her hand. ‘I'm afraid of regret.' She throws the stone into the river and turns to face him. ‘Is it going to storm?'

‘Maybe.'

‘I should go. My friend's expecting her bike back. You sure it's all right to ride?'

He nods. ‘Tell your friend to use decent fuel next time and go easy on the additives. And to take it for a run occasionally.'

Terri Pavish stands and walks to where the Ducati is. Dustin steps back so she can slide her right leg over the seat. Her jeans are damp from the wetness of her skin. He'd love to touch her.

‘Thanks again,' she says, clipping the helmet strap under her chin. ‘I owe you. I'll give you a swimming lesson next time you rescue me.'

She turns the ignition key and the engine coughs, purrs, then roars the way a Ducati should. Dustin grins with
satisfaction, his heart beating hard in his chest. She smiles at him in the darkness and he sees it. Carefully, she edges the bike along the leafy track, then moves out into Harvest Road and the real world. The sound of the engine rises and fades as she leaves North Fremantle and heads home.

He knows this night is too significant to end. Not now. He gets on his bike to ride it one last time to Terri Pavish's house.

The lights are on when he arrives twenty minutes later. He can see her through the open curtains, sitting on a green sofa. She rests her head in her right hand watching television. She doesn't know he's standing in her driveway adjusting the zoom lens of a camera borrowed from school.

He finds her face and focuses the telephoto lens. He wants just one more shot of her, like this — calm and meditative. The number beside the shutter reads 36. It's the last one on the film. In the split-second he takes the photo he realises his mistake — the shock of the flash gives everything away.

Terri Pavish stands, sensing it was for her. She walks
straight to the window and scans the front yard through the screen, but he's crouching, holding his breath. She doesn't see him but knows someone's there.

She shouts, ‘I'll call the police,' then switches on the outside light.

He runs, seeking out darkness, clutching the camera and bag. He can't let her see him like this and get the wrong impression. He hadn't meant to scare her.

He runs to the end of the street, then left into Belvue Terrace.

Terri Pavish stands in her lounge room looking out at an unfamiliar pushbike in her driveway.

Dustin catches his breath in Curtin Avenue, alone. The camera in his hand pulses with the effort, bursting with images of her. He knows he's not going home. Not yet.

He hails the last bus of the night and shares the ride with three other passengers. His phone rings out loud with another call, but he ignores this one too. The bus rolls on and he turns his gaze to the window, to be startled by the white shock of his own reflection. His pale face looks like a ghost in the glass. He pulls his focus away, looking again to the front of the bus. Involuntarily, he thinks of his mother.

It's almost midnight when the bus pulls into High Street. Dustin steps onto the pavement and the bus lurches away.

He'd never wanted a key to his father's photo lab, but Ken had insisted, years ago. It was necessary, he'd explained, as a backup. Dustin had never had a use for it until now.

The lab feels alien at this hour, in half-light. Dustin switches the processor on and it grinds reluctantly. He knows exactly what he's doing. He sits on the short stool, unwinds the first few frames from his roll and feeds it into the machine. It clicks in and he presses the green button to begin. He sits and listens to the sound he's come to hate so much.

It will take three minutes and twenty seconds.

While he waits, he rolls to the counter and pulls open the heavy top drawer. He flicks through the letters, getting to P for Pavish. He wants to know everything about her.

The machine shudders and grinds to a noisy stop — too early. The room swells with this unwelcome silence.

‘Fuck!' There's no-one to reprimand him now.

The processor's useless, he knows that. His father, equally useless, is brilliant at pretending everything's okay. There are so many things he's let slide and Dustin's got no forgiveness for it. Not now.

The flashing light tells him it's a jam in Compartment F. He takes two breaths, then unbolts the cover and slips his hand over the paper feeder. He twists his wrist to reach down between the wall of the machine and Cog C. He expects to feel a crumpled photo, but there's nothing.

He swears again, quietly, fatigue setting in. He knows he can't just walk away and leave it like this. In the morning Ken would find the processor blinking, and after pulling it apart, find images of Terri Pavish swimming in a dark river. There could be no other explanation besides Dustin, and how the hell could he put into words the events that had led to this? Gut feeling and impulse cannot be explained to someone like Ken.

No, he can't leave any trace of her in the machine. He's got to find the crumpled photo and take the whole lot of them away, leaving the store exactly as Ken left it. His father would notice even the slightest difference in the room: an open tray, rubbish in the bin, even a new position of the stool.

Dustin's fingertips touch an edge of paper — thank god — and he pulls it firmly. The photo tears in two, a piece still stuck somewhere he can't reach. ‘Shit.'

He whips his hand free and when he does, he cracks the perspex with his knuckles. Fear rushes through him like a
heat. The split is irreparable. ‘Fuck!'

He shoves the processed photos into his bag and stands looking at the damaged machine. His face burns with the knowledge of what he must do.

The old processor crashes to the floor. Plastic shatters and trays break free. He kicks and the metal yields. He kicks in that fucking machine, that old and useless machine, that pathetic, incompetent machine. It breaks under him, smashing into its pieces.

The till breaks easily too, rupturing open on impact, empty of money. It sounds like a car crash — violent and permanent. It lies there, broken. Nothing fights back.

He knocks rolls of film and bottles of fluid onto the stockroom floor, recalling the endless fucking tapping of this shit. Papers fly until he's up to his knees in the frustrating mess of his father's life. He continues chucking and smashing until there is nothing left to break.

He knows he's got to do this properly. He shoves two cameras into his bag, to make it look like a theft — kids wanting stuff to loot and vandalise, that's all. With the last of his effort, he tears down all the annoying old prints hanging from the ceiling. The photographed woman — laminated in various sizes — falls about him and scatters across the floor. There is a beautiful sadness about her.

He doesn't know why he bends to pick one up. He doesn't know what makes him hold the photo in his hands, then turn it over like a washed-up seashell. But at 12:15 this morning, with no good reason, he does.

It reads:
My darling Meg, 1991
. His father's handwriting, faded.

He turns the photo over again and recognises for the first time his mother staring back at him, the way she's always done. From the floor, she looks up at him in duplicate.

He sees her now — in frames on the wall, glued to the counter, above the door in A3 portrait. He recognises his mother everywhere, and he suddenly sees himself in her. He'd thought her name was Margaret. He'd thought his father had forgotten her, that there were no photos of her. But she'd been here, all the time. Watching.

She still is.

Run, Dustin, run.

With his backpack on, he runs down High Street.
Run, Dustin.
A dog barks behind a gate. He turns left onto Queen Vic Road, belting out onto the pavement. He takes the traffic bridge and runs past a car stopped at the lights. He passes Mojo's, where two men walk out and lock the door behind them, humoured by the sight of a tall teenager speeding like a ghost in the night.

His breathing is ragged. The sharpness of air rips at his throat. His chest burns. He needs water to put out the fire in him. He needs the ocean, that soothing forgiveness of deep water. He needs to be up to his throat in it. He's running to Port Beach. He'll dive in, fearless.

Beside North Freo train station he feels a car on his heel, matching his pace. He turns into a side street, then another, hoping to lose it, and he almost does. Cops? he thinks. They've found him out already? But it's nothing but a cab, dropping off a woman in high heels. The engine idles as Dustin runs up closer, dizzy from the headlights.

‘You right, kid? Need a lift?'

Dustin stops and nods. He can't run anymore.

He slides into the front and belts up. The upholstery smells of damp carpet and cigarettes.

‘You're a fast runner, kid, you passed me back in Freo. You an athlete or something?'

‘Where did you see me?'

‘On the street.'

‘What did you see?'

‘Nothing, kid. You got some cash for a ride home or what?'

Dustin digs in his pocket for ten bucks, then gets in. To their left, the sea is a dark, relentless mass. Its waves slop onto the shore.

Shh,
they say.

Shhh.

They drive past Cottesloe Beach and he still feels the pull of it. He wants to know what it's like to be driftwood.

Outside his house in Swanbourne, Dustin closes the passenger door softly and the car retreats, as noiselessly as a wave. He notices blood on his hands; glass is still under the skin. It bleeds onto his jeans. He's dazed by all the things he doesn't know.

The front light has been left on for him. He unlocks the door, and the sound of the keys reminds him of what he's done. It's real. Everything is real now.

He fills a glass with water and drinks it at the sink. On the bench is a post-it note:
Lamb chops in fridge
. He turns off the lights.