The Darkening (7 page)

He found he was staring at the dark trunks, and pulled his eyes away and concentrated on the baked gravel at his feet.

He always slowed here, about halfway along his three-kilometre walk home from school. People dropped things on the path, and he was good at finding them. Lesser finds included a marble, tweezers, half a yo-yo, the ripcord from an SSP racer, a torn two-dollar note, and a pencil with its red paint shaved off just below the rubber and the name ‘Hill’ written there in ballpoint pen. Once, he picked up a pair of rusted pliers - snubby, alligator-nosed things that he took into the garage and cleaned carefully with machine oil he found in a white can under Dad’s old bench. When the jaws opened and closed easily, he hung them on a nail next to Dad’s other tools. It made him happy and sad at the same time, so he left them there.

Nicholas knew his mother preferred that he and Suzette walk the long way home through the prim, geranium-gardened backstreets rather than past the woods. ‘Why?’ he’d ask. ‘Don’t be difficult,’ she’d reply, and a crisp silence would hang there like uncollected washing. On most days, he respected her wishes. But on days like today, when Suzette wasn’t with him, he’d come home along Carmichael Road. The lure of strange jetsam was too strong.

He shifted his narrow shoulders. His school port was heavier today, weighted with a damp towel and wet swimming togs.
I got in the pool anyway
, he told himself encouragingly. But that thought wobbled on the top edge of the slippery dip back to this morning and its awful shame. He found his bottom lip tightening and his eyes getting stingy. He grew angry with himself.
Crybaby
, he said.
Sook
. He tried to think about something else - about the new space shuttle or the Mitchell-Hedges crystal skull or why Rommel lost, but it was too late: his thoughts tumbled down that slick slide into dark and unhappy waters.

Around eleven that morning, all the kids in his class had lined up under pandanus palms outside the school swimming-pool changing rooms, clasping swimming togs in plastic bags in hands or cloth duffels over shoulders. Nicholas was near the front of the queue because it was alphabetical and his surname started with C. He was trying so hard - as he tried every swimming lesson - to shrink, to become invisible, to attract no attention. He looked hopefully around for something - anything! - to get him out of this, but saw none. He was dreading the inevitable words that came next.

Miss Aspinall, with a voice like bells and a body like a medicine ball, called, ‘Okay, everyone. Sit down.’

Nicholas and his classmates sat.

‘Shoes off.’

The light grunting and groaning of piglets as boys and girls reached at their feet.

The smell of chlorine bit and the chug of the filter was loud as he pulled off his left shoe, left sock, right shoe . . . he looked around, and slowly, carefully . . . right sock . . . and there it was.

A pale toe the size of his second smallest, only not aligned with the others, growing out the top of his foot and lying atop the other five like some showboat seal above a striated beach.

He’d become quite good at covering his foot with his bag as soon as the sock was off. He was good at hiding. Perhaps, if no one looked . . .

A silvery tinkle-trundle of a coin dropped and rolling.

‘Oh!’

The twenty-cent piece rolled past Eric Daniels, looped in a lazy, diminishing circle, and tingled to a stop right in front of Nicholas. He looked up just as Ursula Gazelle stooped over him to pick up her dropped money. He was frozen, horrified and powerless, as Ursula’s eyes slid from her coin to his shoes to his foot . . . to his showboat-seal freak sixth toe.

‘Oh,’ said the prettiest girl in class, eyes fixed on Nicholas’s foot. ‘Yuck.’

She scooped up her coin and hurried back in line.

And Nicholas started crying.

He remembered pulling out his hanky, telling Steven Chan nothing was wrong, telling Miss Aspinall nothing was wrong, trying to cover his foot with his bag, hearing people whispering,
His toe. She saw his toe. What about his toe? His
extra
toe
. . . Cried. Like a pooftah. Nicholas knew what pooftahs were: boys who sobbed like girls.

He’d cried then, and remembering the red-hot shame of it was making him cry like a pooftah again now. He sniffed back mucus as hot as the oven air around him.

And so it was through tears, alone in the thudding heat on a narrow gravel path beside Carmichael Road, that Nicholas saw the bird.

It could have been anything or nothing, a tiny thing at the edge of the path tucked mostly into the whispering grass. Black and white feathers. Was it a magpie? Nicholas leaned closer. No, it was smaller. A peewee.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, wondering what to do with it. Dead things, he knew, were dirty (
riddled with germs
, his mother would say), and so he considered simply kicking it completely into the grass and walking on. But as he peered closer, he saw something that made him stop, shuck off his port and kneel.

The dead bird had no feet.

Its legs, no thicker than twigs, had been neatly snipped off below its backwards-facing knees, revealing sections of brown-black marrow ringed inside white bone as fine as porcelain, wrapped in grey, leathery skin.

Nicholas closed his mouth to avoid breathing in the poachy whiff of it. Who would cut off a bird’s feet? He scoured the dirt around the bird but couldn’t see the severed claws. He did find a short stick, chewed in the middle by someone’s dog. Delicately, aware only of the iron sun baking the back of his neck and the high electric singing of insects, he poked the stick under the dead bird and pulled the limp, swollen little body out from the grass. Then his stomach lurched.

Like its feet, the bird’s head had been removed. In its place, skewered to the body with a sharpened stick, was a spherical knot of woven twigs. The bird’s severed feet were stuck into the knot by the shins and protruded from it like tiny, knurled antlers.

Nicholas felt his fingers pulsing as his heartbeats thupped harder. Carefully, he turned the bird over. Something was painted in rust red on the false head: a vertical downstroke with an arrowhead like a ‘greater than’ symbol on its right-hand side:

Nicholas felt a swoop between his navel and his testicles. His skin was suddenly cold, and the edges of his vision were tinged with silver.

He stood, heart racing, and was struck by the silence.

No car passed on the road. Not a person moved behind the dark windows of the distant houses. The breeze had died and the blade grass had lost its lizard hiss. The crickets no longer chirruped, as if even they were afraid to announce their hiding places. The sky was as pale and hot as a kiln.

Nicholas suddenly felt dreadfully alive in all this stillness. Brilliantly alive with something so very dead beside him. He felt his heartbeats were as loud as drums, travelling for miles. He was alive and small and terrifyingly alone.

With the woods just a few feet away.

He knew he had to go - now. He kicked the bird and its strange woven head into the grass, and grabbed his port. He shoved his arm into the loop, missed, shoved again, missed again. His vision was edged with glutinous, dizzy stars. Finally, he got his arm through the strap, and straightened just as the silence was broken.

The grass crunched behind him.

Deep slices through the dry grass. Heavy, deliberate footfalls. Stealthy and close. The stagnant air had suddenly thickened with the odour of sweet rot, alive as the cloying whiff around the top of an old septic tank. Tangy and ugly. Something was coming up behind him. Something from the woods.

Bright white terror filled him. His adrenal gland poured its juice into his blood and his heart galloped and his small legs tensed and sprang . . .
Run!

Without turning, he flew.

4

2007

O
n the fourth morning after Nicholas returned home from London, the rain had gone. The cloudless morning sky was the brittle blue of artic ice, and abberant winds dragged the temperature down to three degrees. The chill whispered its way between the VJ boards and the loose casement windows of Suzette’s bedroom.

Nicholas woke feeling more buoyant than he had for a long time. The slope-shouldered weariness that always arrived a moment after waking - when he confirmed that he was alive and Cate was dead and London was muddling grey and busy regardless - didn’t come. He sat up. The sun was still below the horizon, but he could see how the cold winds had scrubbed the sky clean and the day would be beautiful and bright. He felt, he realised, the best he had since Cate died.

Knowing this delicate feeling of warm neutrality could easily slip away like a wriggling, diamond-scaled fish into abysmal waters, he decided to prolong the pleasantness as long as he could. He quickly pulled on his jeans, hooded cardigan and yesterday’s socks. He would walk the streets of his childhood suburb and drum up a breakfast appetite.

The Closes’ house at 68 Lambeth Street was a bulldog of a building with beige weatherboard flanks hunched on stumps and scowling down the hill at its neighbours. The wrought-iron gate opened silently, its hinge spikes still damp from last night’s rain.

Nicholas set out into the brisk wind. The walking felt good and easy. He was tall and lean; striding down the hill and forcing his enervated blood to move seemed to improve his already fair mood. He’d been away and, yes, terrible things had happened, but now he was home. New choices were possible. He could get fit. He could get a job. He could start again.

As he walked, he saw that his impression last night that his childhood suburb had been locked in time was wrong. Some things
had
changed during his absence. Sentences of chamferboard Queenslanders were punctuated by malapropos Tuscan-styled villas. The Sheehans’ house was gone, replaced by a two-storey block of flats. A tiny roundabout, its axis a bright fountain of yellow verbena, had been installed where Lambeth and Crittendon Streets crossed. But most of the original houses remained, refreshed dames under new paint seated coyly behind neat gardens.

The sun crested the horizon, and treetops were lit a mild gold. Nicholas breathed deeply. The stiff breeze brought fragrant snatches of wisteria. This was good. Life had gone on without him. Things did change. People survived.

He turned the corner into Myrtle Street. Halfway along, a small row of shops sat huddled under the long fingers of a massive poinciana.

Nicholas felt a tripwire in his gut twang, and he slowed his pace. Something about the sight of the shops disturbed him, though he couldn’t say what. Determined not to let anything spoil his walk, he picked up his pace and strode towards them.

One building housed four shops in a row that faced Myrtle Street from under a wide, bull-nosed awning. The area under the awning was raised half a metre off the ground; it was tiled and its front was separated from the footpath by a galvanised steel rail and a row of potted topiary trees. In his childhood, the shops had been a convenience store, Mrs Ferguson’s greengrocery, The Magill Fruitbowl, a butcher and a haberdashery.

He stopped at the two steps leading up to the shop porch. Jay Jay’s, he remembered the haberdashery had been called. Again, the taut, sly wire inside hummed uncomfortably. And again, he shook off the ill feeling. It was not yet six thirty and the shops were closed. The convenience store was still there, but under a new name and with window stickers proclaiming ‘Phone Cards: 9 cents/min, Anywhere in the World!’; the fruit shop’s most recent incarnation was as a Tibetan takeaway restaurant, the owners of which had clearly overestimated the willingness of locals to enjoy some good Kongpo Shaptak (it was now ‘For Lease’); the butcher’s had become the storefront for a computer repairer; the haberdashery (an old woman ran it; what was her name? He couldn’t recall) was now a health food shop.

Nicholas’s footsteps echoed on the cold tiles. The shop windows were dark eyes reflecting sourly the brightness of the new day outside their heavy lid. Quill, he remembered. The old woman’s name was Quill. And with the remembering, into his mind’s eye flashed an image of being eight or nine, holding Suzette’s tiny hand in his, and walking home from school past the shop and looking inside . . . and dark eyes set in a pale, wrinkled face looking back. Then Suzette started crying.

Nicholas stepped out into the early sunlight and felt a small flutter of relief. A long time ago, he thought. Childhood would prove to hold much nastier things than a dour-faced old woman in a dark shop. He picked up his pace again.

Laidlaw Street. Madeglass Street. Roads that to his younger eyes had been so long and languorous now seemed cramped and quaint. Jacarandas and liquidambars poked bare fingers into the crisp air. The leaves of callistemons and grevilleas whispered benignly. A Labrador watched him from a porch, its tail lethargically thumping the hardwood boards.

Nicholas put cold hands in his cardigan pockets and stepped into the narrow, pleasantly shadowed throat of Ithaca Lane. He realised he was looking not at his feet, or a few steps ahead, but to the crest of the steep lane fifty metres up. He was scanning horizons, looking for ghosts. But there were none. No fractured businessmen stepping in front of lorries, no sad-eyed women swallowing eleven, twelve, thirteen pills. He was a long way from London and its ghosts - as far as one could get, really. His memory caught scent of Cate, but he quashed the familiar urge to run and sit by her gravestone, and turned his thoughts to what he might do for work. Buying props for TV commercials? Building sets for the state theatre company? He could volunteer at the arts college until he found his feet and made some contacts. Shit, he could go back to university and get his Master’s. There was money in the bank, so why not take the year and start something new? Study illustration? Write and illustrate a children’s book? The possibilities pleased him, driving the uneasiness about the Myrtle Street shops from his mind.