The Glass Mountain (4 page)

10

Outside the library a star-shaped door revolves. A woman rotates it quickly, pulls her children closer and joins others being swallowed by books. The young bikie follows. Readers glance up as he moves to the desk. He puts down the card.

‘Yes?'

‘I've gotta find her.'

The young librarian shakes fair curls, ‘We can't give out that information,' she says.

‘I've got her purse, see?'

‘I'm sorry …'

At Thomas's Gift Store a white-whiskered salesman bends low. Turns the card over.

‘See, this little lady comes in — …'

‘Everyone comes to Thomas's.'

‘She buys these very excellent gifts an' tells me to pay 'em off …'

‘Name?'

‘Ellis.'

‘No Ellis.' An aged hand clicks off the computer. ‘But have you seen our latest —'

On the other side of the road is a phone box. The boy jiggles coins in his pocket. The phone card's long dead.

‘I've gotta make an appointment for Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I've gotta make an appointment for Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘Excuse me a moment.'

He hears uncertainty in the voice. Then silence. The voice returns. ‘May I ask who's speaking?'

Another silence. And then a click.

Again he rummages in his pocket. He'll need more cash, even dollars, for long distance …

There's a queue at the bank.

‘Oh, Mrs Ellis.' The teller has purple hair that hangs like a curtain. ‘We'll see that she gets it.'

‘I would like to accomplish that myself —'

Eyebrows shoot up.

‘On the occasion of there being a reward like.'

‘Just wait there,' says the girl, ‘I won't be a minute.'

Outside, in the square, people and parcels spread along seats. The young bikie hobbles up and down, props against a tourist information booth and hoicks up his jeans. The purse is heavy. He'll burn it, stuff it with little stones and chuck it somewhere …

The pain's back. Now it's in his head and his side as well as his leg. They'd warned him not to go heaving himself around the first couple of days. He's got to lie down, but only deadshits and dogs lie down in the street. He'd even like to be back in his bed at the clubhouse. Even there. He's got to … He knocks out a cigarette. His head's pounding. But even between hammer blows he can hear that voice.

‘If they don't play fair they don't deserve no fuckin' consideration. But you've done the right thing an' I'm proud of ya. Yer a good little kid an' one day I'm gonna get ya a Sherrin what the Tigers use for proper matches an' all. Ya hear me?'

‘I hear ya.'

‘Do as ya would be done by, Kid.'

‘Yeah, Dad.'

A studless boot grinds the smoking stub underfoot. Murphy's got it all wrong. Crying does no fuckin' good 'cos if ya start ya'll never be able to stop. He turns to the board to study the map, the network of streets.

But everything's a blur.

11

Room 23 is large. It's wide, expansive. It has a bay window curtained in velvet in which one can sit and gaze into the garden beyond. It's a nice room. Even with little furniture, it has charm.

But now the room is in darkness, the curtains are closed and the door is shut. A touch of mid-winter on a balmy autumn morning.

A hand taps once, twice, pushes at the door and emits a spillage of light.

‘Come to clean your room, dear.'

‘Thank you, Irma.' The voice comes from the bed. Someone's been there all along. And now that someone gets up and makes her way slowly out of the room and along a passage and into a dining area. She sits alone. ‘Just toast and tea,' she says.

Before long she's back and has returned to her position on the edge of the bed in the dark of the vacuumed room.

Now another face peers around the door.

‘Doctor's here.'

A man wearing a striped suit and a fixed smile enters, nearly trips, flings back a curtain and snaps open a case. ‘Well,' he burbles, ‘and how are we today?'

‘Do you mean you and me or just me?'

‘Just you.'

‘Frustrated, resentful, unhappy, lonely, bored out of my mind, angry, miserable and in pain.'

‘That's quite a list.'

‘Do something about it,' demands Mrs Esther Ellis. ‘You must get out, talk to people —'

‘You must eat your vegies, talk to people …'

The doctor sighs. ‘Is the medication holding?'

‘I don't take more than I have to.'

‘Good.' The man stands, clips closed his case and shuffles his feet … ‘I'm sorry, Essie,' he says.

‘I'm sorry too,' replies Mrs Esther Ellis. ‘You can add being rude to the list.'

‘You must — that is, you've got to realise —'

‘I know, doctor. Thank you for coming. And close the curtain on your way out …'

12

The morning's tortoiseshell. It's like someone's wound gauze around the sun. A boy could almost bathe in the air, it's that crisp and clean. He wanders around, hears the crunch of his boots in the empty street.

A large pale-haired dog pees against a tree, sniffs at the morning and mooches on. Things spill from a bin on the corner. The young bikie circles the spot, finds a blueberry muffin still in its paper, half a banana, a pear … A throw-away town.

At the fountain in the square he eats breakfast, shares stale muffin with the sad-eyed stray that's flopped down at his feet. ‘Beggars can't be choosers, Spot.' The dog closes its eyes as a hand caresses its silken ears. ‘Ya go an' have a nice little dream 'bout bones.' Bones. A hand pauses, mid pat. “She's gone.” The man at the house had said “She's not here, she's gone.” Gone means dead. She's dead. It's in the cemetery that he'll find her … The dog moves closer, sleeps, as the young bikie sleeps …

The morning deepens …

Suddenly ears prick up, the dog's heard something. Something apart from the predictable sounds of a new day.

The boy's heard it too, he'd know the sound any-where … He screws up his eyes, sees the image shimmering on the rise draw nearer.

They've sent someone. Not Carver, please don't let it be Carver. Pres has sent one of them to check him out, see that he really does have a job like he'd said he had when he rang through … He can't go back, not till he's found her —

Please don't let it be Carver … He's gotta think up a work place, but what an' where?

“O what a tangled web we weave

When first we practise to deceive.”

Fuck off, Dad. I gotta think …

The figure draws nearer and dismounts. In the dirt and sweat of his arms and neck, snakes curl.

‘Horse!'

‘Pres said ya'd be hangin' round the bank,' the rider mumbles thickly. ‘An' ya are.'

‘Whatcha doing here?'

‘I gotta bring ya back. Pres said.'

‘I've just been speaking with him, Horse, on that phone right there. I'm in real need of a few bucks till my next allowance. That's why I'm hanging round the bank like ya said.'

The man stares. ‘Pres said,' he repeats.

The boy glances around, sees shoppers corkscrew out of their way, eyes fixed ahead.

He grabs at damp denim. ‘Listen, Horse, I got something to show ya. We're going for a ride, see? I'll tell ya the way.'

Along the highway they roar, through the township and on to dirt roads. Past factories and farmhouses, fields and fences. Right left, left right. Into a countryside thick with the haze of burning off.

In the distance a pillar of smoke rises from the belching chimneys of the brickworks. Perfect.

‘Right again, Horse.'

They pull up at the main gate.

‘It's fuckin' excellent, don't ya reckon, Horse?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Ya can't go in. Gate's electrified, fences too.'

‘Fuck!'

‘Biggest loony bin in the state. Real dangerous they are.'

‘Fuck!'

‘An' I work here, Horse.'

‘Fuck!'

‘See those very nicely mowed beds of grass round and about? Well, I did that.'

‘Fuck, Nom, aren't ya scared?'

‘I get protection. Ya know what I mean by that, don't ya?'

‘Yeah.'

‘So, Horse, ya gotta tell Pres yer seen it, see. The old geek who does it all the time's gone away, an' I'm helping out. An' ya wouldn't want me to let 'em down, would ya, Horse?'

‘No Nom.'

‘Well then.'

‘Nom, I reckon yer real —'

‘Real what, Horse?'

‘Real — I forget.'

‘Honourable?'

‘Yeah. Real honourable yer are, Nom.'

‘Ta, Horse.'

13

In the still, short-shadowy afternoon the young bikie moves through the cemetery, steps high between slabs, observes lizards and angels and sunbeams twinkling on marble.

Here and there he stops to read. He's found this cop that didn't just die, he was murdered — that's what it says — an' not by any old trigger-happy jerk, by Ned Kelly, an' all. The Big Man would've said that a little snooping of this kind on a nice afternoon was very excellent.

He meanders on. He hasn't found her and somehow or other he's happy about it. He is. And he can't work out why.

Finally on the other side of a winding weed-growing path he comes upon it. A vault beneath a Latin cross that's divided in two. On its base is the word ‘ELLIS'. He reads:

Sacred to the memory of

* *

She's not dead. She's not there.

‘Yer looking for someone?'

He wheels around.

A man in overalls is picking his way forward. ‘Unmarked graves all over. Yer standing on one now.'

‘Shit!' The boy stumbles back.

‘Paupers. Lots in the old days.' The man takes off his glasses, wipes his face with his sleeve. Studies the grave, studies the bikie.

‘Ya know 'em?'

‘Henry's my uncle.'

Silence.

‘Great uncle.'

‘There he is.'

‘Actually — that is, I'm looking for my aunty.'

There's a pause. A blue-tongue slithers down Edward. Eric and comes to rest on Mary Elizabeth.

‘Yer aunty?'

‘My great aunty, Great Aunty Esther.'

Fingers scratch through overalls. ‘Six foot above.'

‘That's very excellent news. Where?'

Silence.

‘Yer acquainted with my Great Aunty Esther?'

‘Yeah.' The caretaker spits, scrubs lenses, stares into the sun. ‘And my feeling is yer not.' Overalls crowd closer. ‘Whatcha doing here?'

Two feet step back, the ground rises. ‘Fuck!'

‘Whatcha doing here, ya young punk? Yer don't belong to them … Hey, you! Stop! Stop, do ya hear!'

The boy runs, stumbles, falls. Crashes through brambles …

‘Fuck you!'

Twigs snap, splatter. His hands are torn, bleeding. He fumbles for the purse, wenches it from his pocket and heaves. It falls with a small thud in the scrub by the side of the road.

“You don't belong to them —”

“You don't belong to them —”

The words beat a melody, a battle hymn. Or a wail.

He's screaming, he's beating his fists and howling … He's seven again and he's hearing these very words. And he knows they're real …

‘Mum, I belong to you. Mum! MUM!'

‘Don't cry, Austin.'

‘Oh Mum …'

‘Don't cry. I love you.'

‘You don't fuckin' love me.'

‘I do.'

‘You couldn't leave me if you fuckin' loved me.'

‘Austin, don't …'

‘You should cry. You should cry for the rest of your life.'

‘Austin, listen to me …'

‘It's 'cos I'm bad.'

‘You're not bad.'

‘I am. Mrs Ryan says. But Mum, I'll be good — I'll be so good. Just don't leave me …'

‘Oh Austin …'

‘I hope you get sick and die.'

‘I know it's hard. For me too. But one day when you're grown up you'll understand.'

‘But who will I belong to?'

‘Fuck you. All of ya.'

The young bikie flings wood, hurls rocks. Stones skudder and skid. He doesn't hear the purr of a car rounding the bend and coming to a halt.

Both policemen get out, adjust their hats. The older speaks. ‘What are you up to, Son?'

Silence.

On the rocks by the roadside, geckoes bask. From the marble city beyond, angles and crosses rise.

‘My mum …'

‘What about your mum?'

‘My mum's dead.'

The two men glance at each other, then back to the boy.

‘I'm sorry, Son, but you can't go chucking stones. Someone could get hurt. Okay?'

The younger has blue eyes. Blue eyes, blue hat. He moves towards the car.

‘Hop in,' he says. ‘We'll give you a lift.'

‘I wanna walk.'

The car glides down the road, its occupants silent.

‘Poor kid, I think we should have picked him up.'

‘He needs to be on his own,' replies the driver. ‘Right now he's trying to find something he's lost.'

Right now he is fossicking about in dust and dirt, scattering leaves and twigs. And there it is. He picks it up and wipes it clean. Then he heaves himself onto a flat rock and lights up. He shouldn't have run, not like that. Not yet … The smoke drifts skywards and from somewhere close by a cricket begins to sing …