Shutterspeed (12 page)

Lying in his single bed, he waits for the phone to ring.

It does, at 3:00am. He hears his father's muffled voice in the lounge room, followed by the blunt sound of the front door opening and shutting, then the Commodore reversing.

As soon as sleep takes him, the familiar nightmare begins: the same car, the same crash, but now a motorbike. There'd never been a motorbike before, so why now? The bike speeds off, the car spins and the dream stretches out in slow
motion as usual. And it takes so long! Her hair covers her face, getting into her mouth and eyes. As she turns, her hair is everywhere, sticky and matted, hiding her face. Is it really his mother? He's not so sure anymore.

Then suddenly he's awake and the room is lightening with sun. He hears his father's footsteps on the kitchen tiles. His father, the keeper of secrets. Is that how his mother was killed — by a motorbike? That would explain his father's hatred of them.

He wonders what else he doesn't know.

‘Dustin, I need to talk to you.'

Ken's standing in the bedroom doorway.

Dustin's finger throbs with the ache of glass.

‘I'm late,' he says, sitting up and reaching for the clothes on the floor.

‘Where are you going?'

‘School.' He rummages for phone and keys.

‘Don't. I need you to stay. Something's happened.' Ken isn't keen on dramatics. Never has been. Like his son, he prefers to let things slide. There's no outpouring of emotion. No shouting or pleading.

‘I'm going to Nugget's,' Dustin lies, keys and phone in hand, moving through the doorway.

‘Stay.'

‘No.'

‘Something happened at the store last night,' Ken says, following Dustin from room to room, ‘and I need you to be here. I need you to …'

The house is shrinking and Dustin's got to escape, now. He's got to find Jasmine — no, not Jasmine. His mobile lists another missed call from her. He leaves through the kitchen to get his bike from the back fence, but it isn't in its usual spot. He suddenly remembers a torch beam shining off its handlebars in Terri Pavish's driveway. He flinches. Shit. He needs wheels.

His father follows him into the back yard and looks around at the expansion of grass. The mess of it confounds him and he mumbles, ‘When did it get so overgrown?'

Dustin re-enters the house, making his way through the airless rooms to the front door.

‘The police tell me it was you,' Ken says, stopping the chase.

This pulls Dustin up short, just for a moment. He hadn't realised it would happen so quickly.

‘They say it was someone with a key. Tell me it wasn't you. Tell me you wouldn't …'

Dustin burns with a confession but before he gets the
chance, his father crumples. Ken leans against the fridge as hurt rises up and spills out. Secrets can surface at such times. Confessions can float to the surface, debris from long-ago storms.

‘I need to talk to you, Dustin. There are things you should know.'

The kitchen is filling with driftwood, knocking at Dustin's legs. And Dustin can't swim.

‘You need to know why you're like this, why you feel the way you do. She was sad too, Dustin.'

She?

‘Your mother had depression. She was sad too.'

Dustin leaves and shuts the front door behind him. He almost trips over Jasmine, who's sitting on the front step in her school uniform. What's she doing here? Did Ken ask her to come? He doesn't need her psychoanalysis crap right now, so he steps over her legs and jogs the three blocks to Stirling Highway. The bitumen is wet from early morning drizzle and the clouds begin to spit rain again.

For $2.20 he buys a ticket for the 7:15 bus to South Beach, straight to Nugget's house. None of the other passengers care who the lanky kid is in the middle of the bus, and what he did or didn't do last night. That's the beauty of being anonymous — no-one can blame, and
no-one can expect anything of you. He's going to Nugget's place because it's safe, and because Nugget's always Nugget. Life is always normal at his house, with noise and people and mucking around. Nugget's house is a home.

By the time Dustin gets to the front door, the rain has set in and the fire in his chest is subsiding. He makes himself stand tall, reminding himself he's a figure of strength, not pity. He will not let guilt weigh on him like his father.

But Nugget's house is quiet this morning.

‘Nugget? Mrs Hooker?'

He walks through the hallway, his wet shoes marking the cream carpet with each step. He opens the door to Nugget's empty room. The bed is unmade. Clothes and CDs cover the floor. His room smells of man.

‘Nugget, you here?'

The wind is picking up outside, so Dustin reasons they could've all gone down to the beach for an early windsurf.

Then he hears something, a voice from outside. Someone's speaking on a mobile. He moves closer to the window and looks through a gap in the blinds.

Nugget is sitting on the weights bench wearing Batman boxer shorts. He's picking at a toenail as he talks. ‘No, go to school, Jaz. He might turn up there. Where else would he go?'

Dustin's chest flares hot again.

‘… no he wouldn't … he wouldn't, Jaz.'

Dustin walks away from the window.

‘I know … but he's not his mum … what were you doing in his dad's room anyway?'

Dustin sits on Nugget's bed, not wanting to hear his two best friends talk about him like a stranger.

‘Don't cry.'

The gentleness in Nugget's voice surprises him. He'd never heard Nugget speak to anyone like that. He turns his attention instead to his mate's bedroom. So much has changed in here. There's a new duvet cover, a new stereo, a new built-in robe. When did all this happen?

There's a new desk too, and from his vantage he can see photos that have been blu-tacked to the wood. One of Nugget's brother Ben, and a family shot on the sand at Prevelly Beach. There's last year's group shot, with himself and Jasmine in it. And there are other photos. Of Jasmine. Three from school camp, one from the newspaper article on her winning a sculpture competition, and two of her cut
from last year's school magazine.

‘Dustin?'

Nugget's standing in the doorway and for a moment they're both silent, grappling with things unknown.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘What's all this?' Dustin's voice catches on the words. ‘What's going on, Dustin? Your dad's worried. Jasmine's freaking out.'

‘Why do you have photos of Jasmine?'

‘Everyone's worrying about you. Did you do what they said?'

‘Fuck that, tell me about Jasmine.'

‘What? She's my friend, like you.'

‘But the photos …'

‘I've got photos of everyone.'

‘Don't talk shit. I know what I see! What's with you and Jasmine?'

‘Just calm down. I'm calling your dad.' Nugget is scrolling through the numbers in his mobile phone.

Dustin knocks the phone out of Nugget's hand. They both know that things will never be the same.

‘You care about Jasmine.'

‘Of course I care —'

‘No, you
like
her.'

‘So what? She's so into
you
.'

‘You know it's not like that.'

‘Geez, do you want it all? You want to keep her as a friend, but not let anyone else near her?'

‘It used to be the three of us.'

‘Until she turned me down,' Nugget says. ‘It was you all along, dickhead, and I didn't want to watch that anymore. Now you're stuffing that up too, just like you stuff up everything.'

Dustin shoves Nugget into the wall — enough to hurt him — and steps through the doorway. He's already outside by the garage when Nugget catches up.

‘Just go home, Dustin. Your dad's waiting.'

‘Fuck you.'

‘I'm trying to be your friend.'

‘Well, leave me alone.'

One of the garage doors is open, with surfboards, a jet ski and two motorbikes in view.

‘Go home. There's nowhere else to go.'

Dustin picks up the spare key from the toolbox and straddles the grey Honda CBR 1000F.

‘You wouldn't,' Nugget says.

Dustin tightens the helmet straps, then shrugs. He turns the key in the ignition and revs it once. With a roar, he's away.

The engine drives him with a force he's never experienced. He's a projectile, a bullet. The noise is in his ears and head, deafening any voices he might have had. Those fucking voices. The 1000 is hard and fast and awesome. It's better than he'd imagined. He commits to a corner onto Hampton Road, tapping the throttle and powering through. This is what it feels like to be in control. He knows exactly where he's going.

And Nugget's not far behind. He's on his new Yamaha FZX250, at the same time phoning Jasmine, telling her not to worry, to go to school, and the two of them will meet her there.

Nugget hits Hampton Road, seeking out Dustin, trying to follow the noise of his father's engine. He wonders if it's as serious as Jasmine thinks. Dustin's always had an underlying sense of humour about life, hasn't he? Everyone has bad times. He wouldn't do anything stupid, would he?

Ahead, Dustin's thoughts aren't of Nugget. There's only space for Terri Pavish. This is how she must feel. This is what makes her eyes shine the way they do, and her mouth turn up at the corner. This feeling is her secret. Being anonymous under a helmet, flying, on someone else's
machine. He wants to share all of her secrets.

He turns off Hampton Road onto High Street, then Stirling Highway, headed for her house. He overtakes cars. Bicycles look stationary from where he sits. Now he waits for no-one, is bullied by no-one. He's going to see her and tell her how incredible she is. He knows the way she swims alone at night, how she lives, what coffee she drinks, and how she looks when she's close to sleep.

He'd like to get above 100kph but these roads are too busy. He has to keep braking for lights and traffic, but the speed within him can't wait.

In Swanbourne, Jasmine is driving her Mini Minor away from Dustin's house. Yesterday she'd wanted to hug him, kiss his eyelids and tell him he was a beautiful person. But instead she'd found his mother's last letter — depressed and filled with surrender:
Dustin is a burden
.
And there are no more reasons to get out of bed.

Jasmine drives south, crying, because he isn't a burden, and she has to tell him that in case he believes it.

Dustin's phone rings again, in a back pocket of his jeans. He feels it rather than hears it, and lets it go to message bank. There are three now, kept in the memory of the mobile phone. These jeans — still smelling of smoke from the Sail and Anchor pub; still with splinters of glass from the photo lab — hold their own secrets. Dustin rides north, pushing on.

Dustin, it's me, Jaz
, says the first message, Thursday 7:15pm.
I'm sorry … I came on strong. It's not your fault. You didn't spook me. There was something else. Dustin, you've got to talk to your dad. It's not your fault; you were just a baby. Don't think it's your fault.

He slows for a red light, indicating to turn left onto Tydeman Road. He'll erase the messages soon anyway, without listening to them. He'll never hear them.

Nugget's amongst traffic and has lost sight of Dustin. He hopes he's going north to his dad's house like he'd told him to. The 250 motorbike beneath Nugget is too small for his weight and sits too low. It was meant for a child, he thinks, not a man.

It's me again
, says the second message
. I hope you're up. I couldn't sleep last night. Dustin, don't hate me. Don't hate me. And don't be sad … you'll be okay. I'm coming round to your house this morning. It's not your fault. It's not hers either.. … Your mum loved you, she must have … lots of people love you.
I'm coming round now, if you trust me … We'll still be okay.

But Dustin is on Stirling Highway about to turn off for Mount Claremont. He'll be at Terri Pavish's house in two minutes. He's waiting at the traffic lights, desperate for them to turn green. And Terri Pavish is on the other side, heading south, facing him. He recognises the yellow Ducati first, from the night before, then sees her in the saddle, wearing her red helmet. She too is impatient with the red light.

The light changes and she's gone. He tries to U-turn but there's oncoming traffic and he's got to wait before he can turn back on himself to chase her. He can't see her, but he follows her sound. He pushes his knees into the Honda's tank beneath him and pushes down on the inside foot peg as he overtakes each car, criss-crossing lanes, to chase down the noise of her. Cars merge into his periphery — reds, blues, whites and greens. His senses are ablaze. All he knows is her.

He wants to catch her and he does. It's at the lights near the Eric Street turn-off. He slows alongside her and their bikes idle. He's too close to her; they both feel that. From under her helmet, she turns her face slightly to look at him,
and Dustin gestures for her to pull over ahead.

‘What?' She answers with her hands.

Dustin points again to the road's shoulder.

She nods to him and Dustin's chest soars. He's thinking about what he's going to say when they take off their helmets and meet properly, in the daylight, for the first time.

The light changes to green. Dustin gently turns the throttle and veers left into a side street. Terri Pavish follows and the two bikes are so close they're almost touching. But then she's gone!

The yellow Supersport 750 burns right across the lines of traffic and heads down Eric Street, riding the roller-coaster of bitumen. She knows these streets and she can shake off anyone. He follows, charged with adrenalin, convinced that she wants him to chase her, to catch her. He hits 110 on this street, and the noise and the wind are enough to overwhelm any lingering thoughts of this morning — of Nugget and Jasmine, of the way his father had cried against the fridge, and about what it all means.