The Best Australian Stories 2014 (22 page)

Dad was halfway down the drive. ‘Don't you fucking drive away, Kev!' he yelled. ‘He's my fucking son, don't you dare fucking drive—'

‘Just go!' I screamed. I stood up and started pummelling Kev's shoulder. ‘Go, go, go!'

Miss Munro was standing up. Her face was white, lips pink like the underbelly of a shell. She stared at Dad through the window.

‘Go, Kevin,' she said, quietly, and then louder when he didn't respond. ‘Go, for Christ's sake, Kevin! He's got a fucking
axe
!'

With that, the accordion doors squeezed shut and we lurched forward. Dad was running beside us now and he swung the axe into the side of the bus. The sound of it made me want to vomit. A strip of metal tore and was flapping furiously as Kev put his foot down on the accelerator. Miss Munro and I looked through the back window at Dad who stopped, threw the axe onto the road and then picked it up and threw it into a tree where it stuck.

‘You're dead, Gerard!' he yelled at us. ‘You too, Kevin! And you too,
you fucking bitch!'

*

I began to shiver. I was still standing, holding onto the back of Kev's seat. My arms shook. I wanted a cigarette. I'd never wanted a cigarette before but now I wanted one. I closed my eyes and imagined one in my hand. Felt its heat lick my fingers. Miss Munro came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. I jumped and she turned me around, sat me down.

Kev wanted to call the police. It was a one-cop town so that meant he wanted to call Gary. The thought of Gary hauling Dad down to the station made me wish I'd not run and simply laid my neck down on the wooden block for Dad. Miss Munro looked at me and then back at Kev. ‘Can you hold off calling him?' she said.

Kevjerked his head angrily. ‘How am I gonna explain the side of my bus?'

When we were sure there was enough distance between us and Dad, Kev pulled over on the road and got out to inspect the gash. Dad had managed to swing the blade right through the panelling and had torn a strip of it away.

Miss Munro shrugged. ‘Look, the last thing Gerry needs right now is Gary.'

Kev spat out his window, shifting the gears down as we took a corner. ‘Yeah, and the last thing I need is a bloody gash in the side of my bus. What the hell have you got against Gary?'

I curled my hands into fists and leaned forward, letting out a moan. Dad had a run-in with Gary not long after we'd arrived when Gary had pulled us over. He'd made us sit in our car beside the road waiting for ten minutes or so, not getting out of his patrol car, lights flashing until Dad got jack of it. He got out and stretched, relaxed and easy like a cat. Then he lit a cigarette and strolled up to the police car, leaning in Gary's window as if he were the cop. ‘You got a problem, mate?' I heard him say. Gary was furious. Mum and me watched as the cop pushed his door open and sprang out, yelling so much we could see the spray of spit from where we sat. Dad loved every second of it. ‘Best thousand bucks I've ever spent,' he said later that evening, Gary's traffic fines proudly stuck on the fridge.

Oh God, not Gary. My knees jerked up and down they were trembling so hard. Miss Munro put her hands on them and forced them still. She looked at me, bending so her eyes were level with mine and I could see Kev watching us in his mirror. ‘Gary's a shit, Kevin. He'll make things worse for Gerry.'

Kev sneered. ‘And you? What are you going to do for the boy? Getting cosy?' Miss Munro reddened and pulled her hands away from my knees. When Jackson and his sisters got on, we rode the rest of the way in silence.

At recess I was sitting on the bench next to the drinking taps when Miss Munro came and got me. ‘Gerard, can you come with me?' She tried to smile at me but I could tell something was wrong. When I followed her back into our classroom, I froze in the doorway. Gary and Kev were sitting in there, Kev talking fast and his hands flailing. ‘My bus, it's bloody ruined, the bloody psycho—'

Miss Munro coughed. ‘That's enough now, Kev, Gerard's here.' Both men looked at us, Gary's eyes running the length of Miss Munro, then me, then back to Kev. ‘Keep going, Kev,' he said, ignoring us. I felt Miss Munro stiffen as Kev picked up where he left off.

‘So bloody Colpitt, he fucking put his axe through the side of my bus. Tore the panelling off. Going to cost me a thousand at least.'

Gary raised his eyebrow. ‘An
axe
?' A smile ghosted around the corner of his mouth. He turned to me, his blue leather police jacket squeaking as he twisted in the desk he was sitting at. ‘An
axe
?' he asked again. I shrugged. I had liked it on the bus when Miss Munro emphasised
axe.
Kev had kept saying, ‘Man, what did you do, kid?' But Miss Munro would correct him each time, ‘It was an
axe
, Kev, no kid does anything to justify an
axe
.' But the way Gary was saying
‘axe'
made me nervous. He was excited. He was practically jumping-out-of-his-seat happy.

‘We were just mucking around,' I said quickly. ‘It was just a joke.'

Kev snorted. ‘A joke? A fucking joke?' His voice was high and whiny. Miss Munro put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Gerry, you don't have to—' I flexed my arm, made it hard and tense and shrugged her off. Gary thinned his eyes, slats of grey in his small face, acne scars like rat bites clustering around his mouth.

‘Well, your dad's a pretty funny guy, isn't he?'

I nodded. ‘Sure is. Made you laugh a couple times, hasn't he?'

It went quiet when I said that. No one said a word and scraps of the schoolyard came in through the window. A group of girls were singing the lyrics to a song I'd heard a hundred times on the radio, then started screaming at one of them for getting the words wrong, a boy kept yelling, ‘Here, here, here,' and the sound of a footy being kicked, the boy still yelling, ‘Here! I'm here! Pass it to me!' And then Mr Thacker, the school maintenance man, and his dog wandered into view. A bunch of kids ran a wide berth around him and the dog, a brindle with clumps of its winter coat still hanging off its ribs. It was mean to everyone but Mr Thacker and he kicked it and it still loved him.

‘Gerard?' It was Miss Munro. It felt like she was calling to me from a very long way off. ‘Gerard?' she said again. The classroom sucked back into focus. Gary was standing now, his fists clenched at his side. Kev was staring at me. ‘Gerard,' said Miss Munro, her eyes pleading, ‘tell Sergeant Henning why your father was chasing you with an
axe.'
And I started to laugh. I thought it didn't matter why, I thought that because it was an
axe,
nothing else mattered.

‘You rude little prick,' said Gary and suddenly his face was right there, his mouth with its teeth all overlapping as if crowding for a better view. I breathed it in, the taste of his uselessness, and laughed harder.

‘Stop grinning, you little shit,' he spat. I bent over, holding my ribs it hurt so much, and when it didn't stop hurting, I turned and ran out of the room. It was dark and cool and hushed in the corridor, jackets hanging off hooks, bags piled into unlocked lockers, an open packet of orange Twisties strewn and stamped into the carpet. In the classroom I could hear Miss Munro and the men start to talk, their voices muffled; I couldn't make out what they were saying. I touched my face. It was wet. I walked over to my schoolbag and took out the apple.

*

In the yard I stood near Mr Thacker as he dug out the dirt from around a fence post, swearing each time his spade got stuck in the clay. The dog sat a metre or so away, eyes on his master. I stepped a little closer to it and it lowered its bottom lip, baring its yellow teeth. I rolled the apple in my hands before shining it on my shorts. I took a bite and spat it out. The apple was bad. It was brown and floury. I took another bite to check and spat it out again. I looked down at the apple in my hand and held it out to the dog. It looked at me, then warily over at Mr Thacker who was engrossed in the fence. Getting up on its legs, the dog stepped towards me and the apple quivered in the flat of my palm.

The Panther

David Brooks

I came across the panther in the Art Gallery, in a painting entitled
Bestiary
by a little-known French artist of the late eighteenth century, Auguste Lorrain. I remember thinking how ordinary the painting was, and wondering why anyone would have wanted to enshrine it at all, until I saw it there, the panther, in the shadows at the back, seeming to stare – no, I will say
staring
– directly at me, its eyes so piercing they seemed to be tracking my thought itself. I mumbled something and my companion, leaning toward me, asked what I had said. ‘Nothing,' I replied, ‘nothing,' and then, in afterthought, ‘Why do you think it is, whenever artists are doing compositions of this kind – you know, all those Temptations of Saint Anthony and the like – that they have to put in there a
panther
?' My friend looked at me, then at the painting, quite closely, and then at me again, and at last, a quizzical look on his face, shrugged. Only later did it occur to me that he had probably not seen the panther at all.

We went out for a drink afterward, and talked about other things. After two glasses of wine and a long discussion about the coming election I suggested we go off to dinner somewhere, but he, a married man, was due home and so we parted on the pavement outside and I walked back toward my own small, book-crowded house through the old quarter, pausing over the curiosities in the boutique windows, and out, down Republic Avenue, along the edge of the National Gardens.

It was only then, away from the lights of the restaurants and cafes and the congenial congestion of the narrow streets, that I began to get the feeling that, although I could see no other pedestrian within fifty metres before or behind me, I was not alone. I stopped and peered into the shadows of the Gardens, listening intently, but could see or hear nothing. Twenty metres on, the feeling continuing, I stopped, repeated my survey, and decided to cross to the other side of the avenue, where the lighting was better and there were more people about. I do not carry much money but the little I do is hard-earned and I don't much fancy being mugged for it. Five minutes later, at my door, I paused and looked around before entering. It was a warm night. Bats were already swooping the streetlights. Apart from an elderly man putting out garbage on the other side of the road, there seemed to be nobody about.

Inside, I poured myself another glass of wine and began to think about food. There was little in the pantry – I should have been shopping rather than at the gallery – but within a few minutes I had the makings of a pasta with onions, garlic, olives, crushed dried pepper and some of the fine, rich oil I bring with me from my sister's neighbour in the country. I then set to opening my mail and had just shuffled through the half-dozen envelopes – bank statements, bills, charities asking for money, a letter from my publisher doubtless telling me how poorly my books were selling – when I heard a muted thud in my courtyard. A burglar, I thought immediately, and my heart raced as I stepped back into a small alcove by the telephone, from which I could watch the French doors – thankfully locked – without being observed.

A shadow moved there, black against the night's blackness, too low to be human, unless this burglar had injured himself in his drop from the wall, or was accustomed to approaching on all fours. A cat, I thought, but this was far too big. A large dog? But dogs do not leap walls. And what could it want? And then I saw the eyes. Exactly as they had been in the gallery. Absurd. Impossible. Electrifying. My first inclination was to think, in some embarrassment, that I was losing my mind. I looked away, a reflex action, and then back again, to find them thankfully vanished – the eyes and the shadow both.

Not
wanting
to see them, I suppose, I turned and got on with my dinner, reflecting upon the matter as I ate. If I had been dreaming then the dream had a remarkable realism and intensity. And as to my mind, well, it had not as yet shown any other signs of deterioration. But perhaps one could not oneself be always the best judge. Clearly it would be better to investigate than to ignore the issue. My meal over, I took my plate into the kitchen, came back and bent down, looked more closely through the door-glass into the darkness. Nothing. At first. Nothing. But then I looked up. The tree. There is a large tree on the other side of the courtyard, an old plane tree, with strong lower branches, upon one of which a panther was stretched out, staring into me. As if it had been waiting for a signal it now rose, leapt down – that quiet thud again – and ambled across the flagstones.

It seemed that there was little to do but open the door and allow the creature ingress. Strangely the prospect did not strike me with fear. Rather I had a feeling – an impression – of patience and calm expectation, on both sides. As if it already knew the place, it walked in, without hurry or hesitation, looking about itself, taking the scent of things at leisure. Having visited the kitchen, the hall, my study, it came back to the living room and took possession of the sofa. Was this dream? Was this insanity? I simply did not know. I sat two hours watching it, and for the most part being watched in return. I have no idea what it was thinking. Eventually, bored or satisfied, it closed its eyes and to all appearances went to sleep. Having in my kitchen no milk or meat, for I do not consume such things, I got for it a large bowl of water, deferring until daylight the question of sustenance. Who knew? If this was all a dream the matter might never arise. Seeing no point in sitting down there again, and feeling too exhilarated for sleep, I went to my study and wrote my diary. A test. In the morning, with any luck, there would be no panther, no bowl of water, nothing written under this day's date.

And indeed in the morning the creature was gone, although only half of the water, and none of my curious entry concerning the events of the night before. How it contrived to open the door I do not know, but then I was never to know, in the year thereafter. It never left while I was there, did not often arrive while I was there. Simply it
was,
on the sofa, or on the arrangement of cushions and blankets that I set up for it in my study. Thankfully it showed – but I should not call it ‘it', since it was very definitely a ‘he' – no interest in following me up to my bed.

Nor was there any knowing when he would be there or not. Sometimes he was with me several evenings in a row; sometimes gone for a week. Where he went when he was not with me I cannot say. Perhaps out into the countryside. Perhaps to some other abode. Perhaps back to the gallery, up into the painting again. Once, in the early months, upon a whim, not having seen him for forty-eight hours or more, I went back there to see. His eyes were there, as on that first day, staring, with only the slightest hint of recognition – the trace of a trace – although I readily admit that even this may have been my imagination. On another occasion, when he'd been almost ten days away, he met me at the National Gardens as I was walking home after dinner with a friend, if a meeting it was to realise that he was accompanying me, in the first tier of shadows, scarce more than a rustling amongst them, the glint of his eyes now there and now not as he passed beneath the branches. Indeed I put the beginning of our walks, our night perambulations, down to this night, for it can't have been long afterward that, tiring of my writing, I went out to walk at midnight, on a night when he was not with me, only to find him, now following and now keeping pace, padding from tree to tree through the suburb as if it was as familiar to him as to me.

I'd become complacent, by this. In the first month I'd done little else but interrogate the relationship almost obsessively in the attempt to determine what kind of being he was, even the extent to which he could be said to be being at all, but with our growing familiarity this had passed. On one such late-evening walk, however, we encountered an acquaintance, approaching so directly that there was no means of avoiding him. I was surprised that my panther did not recede into the shadows, melt strategically away. Instead, while I spoke with this gentleman, a librarian, the panther sat, half in shadow, I'll admit, but so close to heel that I could only presume that my acquaintance quite simply could not see him.

Often, on these night walks, we would venture into the vast Gardens – a place one is still well advised to stay away from after dark – and I became reacquainted with the peace and strangeness there, and the people and creatures who constitute its community of shadows. Drunks. Prostitutes going about their business. Night searchers. Once, uncannily, a deer grazing, for whom I immediately feared, only to find that it seemed to know and was not in any way alarmed by my companion. Once an old, great-bearded man who spoke in the strange phrases of a visionary. And, more than once, in the open space by the derelict rotunda, which seemed a kind of chapel to her, a bruised but beautiful young woman, in rags, who seemed to me to be somehow intellectually impaired, but who spoke each time with the panther dearly and softly, as if with an old friend, cradling his head in her hands, holding it to her breast, draping her long silver hair over him, with a tenderness I would suddenly long for.

Now and again, too, other of these night people would speak to us, or so it seemed, or shout, in their dark-shrouded anger or drunkenness. Once a bottle was thrown; he did not flinch; and once a couple were fucking in a broad space of moonlight and he padded over to them, investigated them intimately – surely they felt his hot breath! – then lay only a pace away, staring as if awaiting the moment to devour. And as we left the Gardens, as often as not, there would be an encounter with the amputee who kept vigil from a bench by the entrance, either welcoming or abusing us, depending upon the state of his inebriation, at one time, to my alarm, roaring that the panther had taken his leg, though this proved to be a joke, for there was laughter as we walked away.

On one of the earliest of these night walks, on the far side of the Gardens, my companion disappeared down a lane. The question of food had preoccupied me for a time, until I realised that it seemed no part of what he expected of me. I assumed that he looked after this himself somehow – that someone else was feeding him, perhaps – and that a belly recently filled was one of the reasons he would go to sleep so quickly after reclaiming his couch. Or perhaps, so strange a being as this being was, he had no need of food at all. But now, as if to tell me something – but what was it? – he reappeared with a parcel in his mouth and laid it carefully at my feet. Of meat, packaged for a supermarket and thrown away, having been tainted somehow, or passed its expiry date. It seemed he was asking me to unwrap it, which I did, with little pleasure, the first time I had touched meat in years.

The speed with which he then consumed the contents was disconcerting and the sight most unpleasant, of and in itself but also because he seemed to hate what he was doing; but I must admit that it gave me an idea, and on several occasions thereafter, recollecting, I investigated late at night a butcher's or a supermarket bin and brought home things I found there. The idea of eating the flesh of a living creature is abhorrent to me, but so too is the thought that, once its life has been taken so hideously, any portion of its sacred body should suffer the further indignity of being discarded – a logic, I'll admit, so fraught with its own inconsistencies that I'm glad only the panther has ever had to keep my secret.

Toward the end of the summer I went, as always, to visit my sister in the village. Normally I would go for a few days every month or two – she is a painter, and we enjoy each other's company – but for several months I'd not done so, reluctant to abandon my visitor, and despite the protests of my sister, to whom I could offer no satisfactory explanation. I could not avoid my annual sojourn, however, and so it was that I locked up my narrow city house and departed, apprehensive as I was that it might spell an end to this strange relationship.

I need not have worried. It was less than a week before he found me. I was sitting out with my sister one evening, drinking a last glass of wine with her in her large garden, when I became conscious of his eyes, staring from under the oleander, out of my sister's line of sight. It was possible that she might be one of those who would not see him, but she and I are so intimate, in so many ways, that I had little confidence of this. In the city I live reclusively, within the confines of my house, largely unobserved, but that was not the case here. Even if she could not see the panther – but he seemed to
choose
who would see him – it would be hard for me to behave as if he were not there.

‘You know,' I said, slowly, after a break in our conversation, the panther's eyes appearing to urge me to continue, ‘that I have been absorbed, lately – preoccupied – in town …'

‘Yes,' she said, leaning in a little, encouraging. She wanted me to have a partner, a lover, and I imagined she thought I was about to tell her of one. But as I went on, explaining everything, expecting, even from her, nothing but alarm and incredulity, I found only wide-eyed intrigue.

‘But I know!' she said at last, ‘I have seen it! The day after you came. In the orchard, near the barn. I am so glad! I thought I was losing my mind!' and then, after a pause, as if sensing, suddenly, its presence, ‘But why do you bring it up now?' And I told her, instructed her to look around, calmly, with no sudden movement, into the shadow beneath the dark bushes, with their moon-pale flowers.

In retrospect I see it as a turning-point, that moment in the garden. We managed the next two weeks quite well. The panther was an almost constant presence, and now that he had made my sister's acquaintance – clearly the thing he had been seeking that evening – a presence much closer to the house, although, oddly, he never sought to enter. And, when I returned to the city, within hours he was there.

It was some time in the third week of September that I heard from my sister, a phone call in which, for several minutes, she seemed uncharacteristically to avoid coming to her point. Eventually, however, she asked about ‘my' panther, and I described how swiftly he had made his way back, and how easily we'd resumed our urban routine, our midnight walks, our forays into the National Gardens.