The Good Daughter (12 page)

He sits there rocking, realising it’s a process – step one: forget what is normal. Step two: act abnormal … A staircase to climb, too horribly grounded yet.

The dogs are salivating on the other side of the wire. The meat in front of Zach is beginning to defrost. The thin and handsome German short-haired pointer is confused, his nose down on his paws, whining.

There’s the sound of a motorbike. The acceleration and deceleration is made more extreme due to the wind, but there’s no doubt the bike is travelling fast.

Zach takes it as a sign to leave and packs away the meat. He is tightening the drawstrings on his backpack when the bike brakes late and pulls into the driveway. He has no time to hide. He has to flatten himself out among the bracken and saplings.

It’s Aden and Rebecca. They take off their helmets and talk breathlessly above the sound of the motorbike idling. She has on a black leather jacket and navy tracksuit pants. The dogs bark at them from the other side of the gate.

When Rebecca comes forward she is only three metres away. The clink of the gate is bell-like in Zach’s ears. He hears her sniff, and can sense her exhilaration after the ride. He gets an appreciation of her rush of adrenaline, the wind against her face, even the cold ends of her fingers.

Aden rides through the open gate and up to the house. He parks and walks down the driveway to meet Rebecca halfway. The dogs are wary of him. He picks her up and has her wrap her legs around him. He does it easily and naturally, as though she’s no weight at all, as though it’s something all boyfriends do, and yet something Zach would never attempt to do. He would probably stagger embarrassingly under her weight, her legs would wrap too far around his skinny hips, her pelvis pressed against him would seem too personal. Aden walks with her. He hitches her higher, holds her and whispers in her ear. She drops her head to his shoulder. She behaves in a way Zach has never seen her behave before. She is gushing and unsure, while Aden’s hands are all over her, touching everywhere; his fingers slide beneath her bum.

It has to be wrong – someone his age, his size, with her. It looks wrong, like she’s some life-sized doll he has had the good fortune to stumble upon, a sex toy he’s found, and one that’s come to life. From Zach’s vantage point he can see the look in Aden’s eyes. The guy is gloating. She’s easy fun until he’s bored. Doesn’t she see it? Doesn’t she know? Aden puts her down but won’t let her go, won’t stop touching her. Even heading inside the house he has to walk right behind her, his body moulded to hers, his hands firm on her hips.

During all this they haven’t noticed the dogs behaving oddly, sniffing around behind the trailer, down where Zach is. They don’t see that the animals are unsettled, that their ears are pricked, their tails are still, almost as though in disbelief that Rebecca has failed again to notice the intruder … and at a loss as to how to get her attention.

19

For entree Rebecca orders ravioli with prosciutto, mozzarella, and sun-dried tomatoes; for her main she decides on pork medallions with a lemon and thyme sauce, and for dessert she has chocolate and orange tart. Aden doesn’t order from the menu. His dishes come without garnish. They look like pub fare in comparison to Rebecca’s.

Between the entree and main he takes her behind the bar and has her make her own non-alcoholic cocktail. On his instructions, she sugars the rim of the glass, mixes the ingredients in the blender, slices a strawberry and puts it on top. He takes the drink from her and slips in a measure of vodka, stirs it with the straw and tests it before handing it to her.

‘
Purr
fect,’ he says.

For dessert he has vanilla ice-cream and strawberry topping. Rebecca teases him about it.

‘I held off and didn’t have hundreds and thousands,’ he says.

He takes her by the hand into the kitchen and reintroduces her to Marc. The chef’s grey hair is pulled into a high ponytail. It sprouts out of the top of his head like a fountain. ‘I know this girl!’ Marc declares with a wave of his hand. ‘Do not introduce me to girls I already know.’

Aden leads her through to the storeroom and stands her in front of his mother.

‘Here she is,’ he says.

‘I was hoping, Rebecca,’ Kara says, ignoring Aden, ‘you’d do me a favour.’

‘Okay.’

‘Would you hit him for me? I can’t any more, but you can.’

‘Can she call me a naughty boy while she does it?’

Back at the table he brings her coffee and after-dinner mints. He moves his chair around beside hers. They watch the customers leave and the staff clear and reset the tables. He feels for Rebecca’s hand and presses his palm into hers. He leans against her.

His mother is counting the takings by the till, Marc is singing in the kitchen, the staff move like family members through the house. The framed poem above their table reads:

In this short Life

That only lasts an hour

How much – how little – is

Within our power

She has her first puff of a joint on the way home in the car. It feels like her turn to touch him. She pushes her fingers through his hair, kisses him while he drives, and later, in bed, feels how smooth his skin is, the muscles underneath. She lays herself on top of him, sits in the hollow of his lower back, follows the concave of his spine with her fingers, and traces the veins on the backs of his hands. She tells him he feels somehow familiar to her. It’s as though she knows his shoulders, the white, inch-long scar near his hip, his small ears, even the smell of marijuana that clings to him. She can’t help but feel she’s seen before the smoke curling up from his open mouth into his nose, dreamt of herself straddling his thigh … deja vu, the bedroom light shining in her eyes, bringing her hand up to block it, his nicotine-stained fingers on her lips. No surprise to dress for him in her school uniform, to have him sitting on the floor, his back against her bed, looking up at her, touching her while she stands with her feet either side of him, too shy to hold his gaze. Him licking his fingers and putting them inside her, pulling her down onto him, leaning her back, his hand fl at on her stomach and his thumb reaching down and rubbing while he rocks inside her. She feels her control slip the very same moment her enjoyment builds. He speaks softly, asks questions to which she can only answer yes. He tells her how she makes him feel, and how she drives him crazy. His words are plain, spoken in simple sentences, his voice is flat, but the effect is overwhelming. The intensity of her orgasm catches her off guard. She squeezes his hand during it, suddenly afraid, as though love has crept up and stabbed her in the back.

All that she remembered, not as clearly as she’d like: virginity really lost that night, feeling different, realising how deep Aden Claas gets inside her.

20

Not much of a babysitter, Aunt Belinda. Spinster. More like a grandmother than an aunty. No idea what do about his comings and goings, his locked door, his loud music, his refusal to move the sheep as requested, his attitude at the kitchen table.

‘You’re not my mother,’ he says, disgusted by the downy hair on her top lip, the way she shuffles when she walks.

Even going so far – he can hardly believe it himself – as to bring his rifle up to point in her direction, pretending to be checking the scope, lowering it as though unaware she’s been in his line of sight.

He ignores her stunned expression.

‘Zach?’

‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you going out shooting?’

‘I’m not doing the sheep by myself. Get Cummings to come over and do them.’

‘Your father said not to.’

‘Did he?’

‘Would you please put the gun away?’

‘No.’

‘I’m going to have to talk to him.’

‘What about?’

‘About your attitude.’

‘I don’t give a shit if you talk to him about my attitude. He’s my fucking father. What are you gunna say? Zach won’t do as he’s told?’

‘I’ll tell him I don’t think you’re coping.’

‘He knows I’d do something if someone was asking.’ He stares at her. ‘No-one’s asking.’

She shakes her head, all out of words, out there drowning and not a lifeline in sight, and he’s certainly not going to throw her one. It’s a buzz to have someone so elderly and easy to shock in the house.

‘Would you move?’ he says, standing in front of where she is blocking the doorway.

‘Are you going out shooting rabbits?’

‘No, I’m going out shooting people, so you should probably get out of my way.’

‘Please put the gun back. I don’t think —’

He pushes past her.

‘Zach,’ she calls after him, ‘your father’s going to ring and you’re not going to be here. He wants to talk to you. Your mother has been there – in Charlotte’s Pass. He’s going to find her. She’s all right.’

‘Yeah, well, tell him from me she’s better off fucking lost.’

Dole-bludging drug dealers have commitments, or so it seems. Zach lifts the rifle to see Aden standing out by his motorbike. He has the crosshairs levelled on him. The goodbyes are as expected – Aden’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, her fingers looped in his belt, the long pathetic tongue kiss. Does no amount of sex stop their need for this? For Zach, when it feels like one hour alone with her would be enough to settle him, it’s inconceivable that they still want to paw at one another. It’s disgusting, even, as though they’re on heat, gagging for it. He keeps Aden in his sights. He curves his finger around the trigger and mutters
motherfucker
and feels his head empty of any rational thought.

For two days Zach has watched them. He knows the first windy night they went in to the restaurant, took her car, Aden drove and Rebecca wore make-up. Zach was close then, near enough to hear her say she was nervous, she’d only ever eaten out at the pub, and close enough to see Aden’s impatience, hear his clipped answers – probably annoyed he had to feed her in between fucking her. He knew they returned at eleven, Aden in much better spirits, Rebecca clinging to his arm, swaying on her feet. Aden stayed that night. Her bedroom light burned for hours.

Next morning Zach returned to find the front and back doors open, the smells and sounds of a hot breakfast being cooked, Aden befriending the dogs on the back step, scratching them under their ears, slapping the sides of their dusty coats, reading Zach’s mind and saying loudly for Rebecca to hear, ‘These dogs are a disgrace – they need washing.’ Zach had also been able to hear the radio, turned up for the news – no report on the crazed Tri-Love Kiona woman though, that story already becoming old news. He’d heard the murmur of Aden talking in the kitchen, the sliding of plates, the hiss of a hot pan under water; a still, warm day to hear such things, only the crows and magpies a distraction, the smells from the kitchen cancelling out the dogs’ inquisitive behaviour – or were they getting used to him watching from beyond the fence line, a fellow animal they were willing to let skirt the boundaries? He’d got a glimpse of Rebecca passing by the back door in bare feet, shorts and a tank top, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and an afterglow (he maybe imagined it) of sex on her skin – warm, honey colours, new confidence in her step. The day ahead of them, one in which they went off together on the bike, heading for town, self-satisfied, smug in love, the way they took the first corner, leaning into it. The bitter taste of bile in the back of Zach’s throat.

The next day it had been all about Aden marking his territory – pissing on everything, so to speak. He’d put collars on the dogs. With a lot of noise and tangled leads he had taken them out the front gate with Rebecca. They held three dogs each and walked down the road towards the river. Aden had been dressed in a pair of football shorts and sneakers. In the band of his shorts he had stuffed a bar of soap. No shirt, no towel, no need for anything much. The sort of guy who travelled light, the sort of guy who walked in, and then walked out.

It was on this second day, while the dogs were gone, that Zach had opened the side gate and gone into the yard. Step two completed.

The place had felt empty without the animals in it. He’d walked up to Aden’s bike, and stood a moment looking at it, waiting for inspiration. He’d settled in the end with taking a piece of blue metal from the driveway and marking the bike’s paintwork, scratching a deep line down the front panel, a gouge that could not be missed.

The house had been open, so going inside had been made easier. Without her the rooms had smelt stale and the furniture seemed too soiled to touch. There’d been evidence of Aden everywhere – two cups on the table, two packs of cigarettes, the bike helmets, his gloves, his jacket on the back of the chair. Beside the fruit bowl had been his wallet and keys. Zach had walked into her bedroom and stood a moment looking down at the bed. It had been left unmade. A roll of toilet paper had been jammed between the wall and mattress. The chest of drawers had been pulled out to accommodate the downward angle of the mirror.

Back in the kitchen he’d opened Aden’s wallet: cash and a single condom, his licence – date of birth, 23 September 1964. The docket though – Charlotte’s Pass Denim and Leather, a $300 purchase, a handwritten docket, a message scrawled on the back, an exasperated tone –
Yes, Aden, a return policy just for you. Swap only though, no cash
. The date on the docket was the day before the Charlotte’s Pass story broke on the news.