The Vanishing Moment Page 6

  Arrow snaps her book shut. ‘I know you want to help, but, really, you’re not helping. You’ve got to stop protecting me, rescuing me.’ She stares at her mother with despair.

  ‘I never…I don’t,’ her mother stutters.

  ‘You do! When I didn’t get into the class for gifted children, you made such a fuss the school gave in. It was so embarrassing!’

  ‘But you were gifted…’

  ‘No more than any of the others. Then in Year 10 when I was fighting with Leila Johnson, you phoned her mother, you saw the headmaster, everyone got involved.’

  ‘But she was bullying you…’

  ‘I was handling it. I would have handled it. But you didn’t let me. And whenever I met friends at the shops or the cinemas, you were hovering around, checking up on me. I’m surprised you didn’t have me microchipped!’

  Her mother doesn’t reply. She’s looking so stricken that Arrow nearly reaches over to give her a hug. But she feels too awkward and self-conscious. It’s been ages since they’ve actually touched each other.

  The next morning, Arrow sneaks out of the house while her parents are still in bed. She doesn’t trust her mother not to weep and wail.

  She puts her suitcase in the car, a couple of books, a sleeping bag, her comfy pillow, bottles of water, bags of crisps and chocolate. She doesn’t need a map. She’ll just follow the signs to Wollongong and keep going. She’s glad she doesn’t have a mobile. She doesn’t want her mother ringing her.

  As she backs the car out of the driveway, she makes the mistake of looking up. Her mother is at the window. She’s waving. Arrow waves back, and with a rev of the engine, she’s on her way.

  She doesn’t really know why she wants to go to Shelley Beach. She just feels compelled, simple as that. Maybe it’s because she still doesn’t understand what happened all that time ago, or why.

  She used to walk to school every day with Fergus, Rose and Daisy. But one morning they weren’t waiting by their gate, as usual. Mr Jackson’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, which meant he was still away. But the little blue Barina – their mother’s car – was there.

  Arrow wavered, debating whether to knock on the door. She was scared of confronting Mrs Jackson. But if the children had slept in, she needed to wake them, or they’d get into big trouble at school.

  The front door was unlocked, so Arrow sidled into the house, and tiptoed down the skinny passage to the bedrooms.

  She could feel her heart thumping.

  ‘Fergus. Fergus, are you awake?’

  Her mouth was dry. She was ready to bolt if Mrs Jackson came roaring out at her.

  She’d been in Fergus’s room once before. It was the one at the end.

  She pushed open the door. The room was dark, and curtains still drawn.

  Arrow switched on a light. There they were, the three of them – Fergus, Rose, Daisy – squashed up in his bed. Fast asleep.

  On the bedside table were three smeared drinking glasses. She sniffed appreciatively. Chocolate milk. Lucky things!

  She crept closer, grinning, ready to say, ‘Boo!’

  Then she realised – Rose wasn’t wearing her bunny ears. She never took them off, never.

  And Daisy – she looked crosser than ever. Her fists were bunched as if she was about to punch someone.

  Arrow touched Fergus’s shoulder, shook him gently, prodded his cheek.

  He wasn’t sleeping. He was cold and stiff. Although she’d never seen a dead person before, she knew he was dead. They were all dead.

  As she stumbled backwards, her hands raised in horror, a voice spoke softly.

  ‘I can Interchange, Arrow. Shall I?’

  It wasn’t Mrs Jackson’s voice. And it didn’t come from anywhere – not the door, or a cupboard or a corner of the room. The voice was in her head, tugging at bone and scalp.

  She didn’t understand, didn’t realise what marvel was being offered.

  She ran. She ran blindly, blundering. She ran home screaming and incoherent into the warm, freckled arms of her big, solid mother.

  Even early in the morning, the traffic’s heavy. It takes an hour to squeeze out of the city and onto the freeway. Arrow zooms along, music blaring, past kilometre after kilometre of thick, forested bush and red and yellow sandstone cliffs. She tears open bags of chips with her teeth, wolfs them down, swigs bottled water, gobbles chocolates. She doesn’t intend to stop until she’s at Shelley Beach.

  She has no idea how long she’ll stay there. Perhaps a few days, then go further down the coast. For the first time in ages, she feels optimistic and curious. Great-aunt Maggie would be pleased, her money well spent!

  On the way down Bulli Pass – a sharp, scary descent – Arrow gets stuck behind two enormously long centipede trucks carrying timber. It’s safer to stay behind them in case they lose their brakes – and control. She has little faith in the safety ramps for runaway vehicles.

  In two hours or so, she’ll see her childhood home, the school she used to go to, and the muddle of sad little shops that have probably been transformed all bright and new.

  Will this trip transform her? She knows that’s what her father is hoping. God knows what Mum is hoping. Right now she’ll be phoning her friends, dumping her distress on them, pouring out her anxiety. She never used to be like this. Before the murders, she let Arrow swing as high as she liked, slide down the steepest slippery-dips, climb up trees, clamber over rocks. She didn’t hover and quake, like she does now.

  Poor Mum. I won’t be like her. I won’t.

  Past shabby Dapto, past Shellharbour, past Kiama, through dairy country, past town after town. All around is national park, thickly forested, secretive, mysterious.

  Just before Shelley Beach, she takes the turn-off to Black Rock. This was Fergus’s favourite beach. It’s a place for exploring, not swimming, as there’s hardly any sand, just rocks and thick layers of seashells.

  She stops in the small car park at the top of the road, and walks down the track, past a pristine weatherboard house where an elderly couple are on their hands and knees, weeding the garden beds.

  As she walks by, they look up and smile. ‘You’re lucky, the wind’s dropped,’ the woman says.

  ‘It’s been blowing a gale for days,’ the man adds.

  Arrow nods and smiles back. She’d forgotten how friendly people were around here. On the beach, she picks her way through the rocks and boulders. Fergus was fascinated by these huge, rough stones.

  ‘I know they’ve been thrown up by ancient earthquakes or volcanoes,’ he once told Arrow, ‘but it’s like a giant has just plonked them down, here, there, everywhere.’

  As she wanders along the flat, sandstone rock platform, she keeps an eye out for Permian fossils – plants and small sea creatures – that are lavishly embedded in the rocks and coastal cliffs.

  Fergus used to finger them lovingly, marvelling at their delicacy. ‘They’re like jewels,’ he said. ‘When I grow up I’m going to study them and find out all about them.’

  When I grow up…

  Arrow goes back to the car, and heads for Shelley Beach. She takes the left exit, goes over the railway line, up the hill, turns right. Here and there are still modest houses, but everything else has grown up and out – buildings with roofs like the sails of ships, their wraparound decks suspended on steel poles.

  She recognises very little, except the bowling club. That’s still the same: baby-blue walls, shaved bowling lawn, signs advertising Chinese and Italian food. But the shopping strip is smart, adorned with potted plants, umbrellas, outdoor tables and chairs.

  She cruises past, heading for the caravan parks. As it’s winter, there should be vacancies. But the caravan park that used to be right on the beach no longer exists. It’s been turned into luxury units. The other two parks, less well situated, both have No Vacancy signs.

  Disbelievingly, Arrow parks the car, and goes into one of the offices to check.

  The guy behind the desk laughs at her enquiry. ‘Th
ey’re all permanent residents now.’

  He flaps his hand at the washing lines, the awnings, tubs of vegetables. ‘They’ve got nowhere else to go, poor bastards. Priced out of the market. The only accommodation is at the motel next to the liquor shop. Expensive, though.’ He looks intently at Arrow. ‘No mum and dad, eh?’

  ‘Nope.’

  The motel it is.

  Ten minutes later she’s in a beige-coloured Standard Room, the Superior Room with spa was nearly twice the price. It’s got a double bed, TV, bathroom, table, chair, and wishy-washy pictures of sand and sea.

  She books in for one night only. If she decides to stay in town longer, she’ll have to find something cheaper, perhaps rent a unit, or, shudder, a room in someone’s house.

  She buys a hamburger at the takeaway, devours it, then starts walking. Though many of the houses and buildings have changed, the streets are the same, except that the town actually has one set of traffic lights.

  As she strolls past the school, which still has two temporary classrooms, she feels a twinge of nostalgia. Sometimes she and Fergus used to sneak away from the other kids and eat their sandwiches under a big old gum tree that had a hole in the trunk. When the school bell rang, the possum living in the hole popped its head out. She wonders if it’s still there, or if a new family of possums have made it home.

  She dawdles. Shuffles. Stops. Her old house is only three blocks away. What will she find? Will the new owners have done a great big extension? Removed the old banksia trees? Or has the house been knocked down and replaced with a double-storey glassed extravaganza to make the most of the view?

  Taking a deep breath, she plods on. She can hear the pounding of the sea; overhead a flock of white cockatoos wheel and screech. Not far now.

  She keeps her eyes lowered as she walks. The cracks in the road are like an arterial river system. Only when she’s right outside the house does she dare to look up.

  It’s there. Exactly the same. White-painted boards, peeling a bit. Blue front door. Same old swing hanging from the gum tree. Gate still rusty. A couple of weeds poking out of the gutter.

  As she stands there, staring, the door opens and a girl a bit older than her comes out, holding a mug. She sits on the front step, takes a sip, looks up. ‘Hello?’ she says.

  The girl gets up and walks towards Arrow. She’s tall, strong-looking, with short dark hair. Tears are trickling down her cheeks.

  She wipes her face. ‘Ignore this. I’m having problems with my eyes.’

  ‘I used to live in this house,’ Arrow blurts out. ‘Until I was ten.’

  ‘Really? This is my mother’s holiday home – well, actually, it belongs to my father, but he allows us to use it.’ She gives a bitter little laugh.

  ‘I see you’ve still got the swing,’ Arrow says. ‘I used to spend hours twirling around and around.’

  ‘So did Jas…’ The girl stops abruptly, her face dark.

  Arrow shuffles her feet. ‘Well, I’d better get going.’ She’s already starting to walk away, when the girl calls, ‘Do you want to come in? Have a look around?’

  Arrow turns. ‘Thanks. That’d be great.’

  The girl scrapes open the gate and leads Arrow down the pathway. ‘I’m Marika, by the way.’

  ‘My name’s Arrow.’

  The girl turns, looks at her with interest. ‘It suits you,’ she says.

  Marika ushers Arrow through the door. ‘Feel free to look around. I’ll be in the kitchen.’

  Arrow wanders down the passage, peers at the big room with the bay window that used to be her parents’ room, at the next room, her old room, which now has pale yellow walls, wooden blinds, a built-in cupboard, a single bed with a white doona, a bookcase and a cane chair in the corner.

  She stands in the middle of the room, looking around. The furnishings are so similar to those she used to have that she feels as if she is ten years old again, that this is home, and all is right with the world.

  She must have been there for a long time because when Marika calls out, her voice is careful, tentative.

  ‘Are you okay? I’ve made coffee.’

  ‘Coming.’ Arrow sticks her head into the next room, the spare room, which has a familiar clutter, but doesn’t bother with the bathroom and laundry. She makes her way to the kitchen – and here is a change! The internal wall has been knocked out so that the kitchen, dining room and lounge room is one enormous open space. Light pours in through the windows. Past the sandbank, the sea is a blue rolling mass, frilled with whitecaps.

  ‘This is lovely.’

  Marika looks pleased. ‘My mother’s idea. She didn’t want to feel hemmed in.’

  Spread out on the dining-room table are drawings of a child: a small boy with green eyes, his hair sticking up at the back of his head.

  Arrow peers at them. ‘Cute. I love the hair.’

  Marika doesn’t reply. With one swift movement, she gathers up the pictures and slides them into a large black folder.

  Arrow feels rebuffed, as though she has intruded in some way. She searches for something to say. ‘So you’re an artist?’

  ‘Trying to be. Sculpture’s what I really like.’

  They take their coffee into the garden, which is blooming with grevilleas. Bushes shake with rosellas alighting, plunging. A small blue-tongue lizard pokes its head out of a rock, retreats.

  Marika tells Arrow that she’s taken a few weeks off uni, but she doesn’t say why. Arrow tells her that she’s visiting the town for a few days, but she doesn’t say why. She’s starting to feel shy and constrained. It’s difficult talking to strangers; how much do you confide, how much do you keep back? What do you really have in common?

  Marika walks her to the gate, they say polite goodbyes. Arrow breathes a sigh of relief. There’s no point in making friends with anyone if you’re not going to be around long.

  Now. Seven houses down. Fergus’s house.

  She doesn’t know what to expect. Most likely that it’s been bulldozed or vandalised, windows smashed, doors kicked in, walls defaced with obscenities.

  She makes herself look.

  Long, tangled grass. Weeds nearly as tall as her. Shrubs overgrown and frowsty. A rotten branch fallen on the pathway.

  The house is still there. And it looks untouched. Still sulking, its back to the ocean.

  Arrow stares at it with surprise and relief. It’s like a time warp. Perhaps it benefited from being known as the Haunted House. Even drunken teenagers and yobbos might have felt that it was an evil place, best avoided.

  She’s not nervous. If there are ghosts around, they’ll be the ghosts of her friends. She imagines what it would be like if she felt Rose’s small hand slip into hers. She’d squeeze it tightly, whisper, ‘Call the others. Bring them here.’

  She pushes her way through the grass, walks up the steps to the house and tries the front door. It’s locked. She brushes cobwebs off windows and peers through the grime. Behind one window is a faded ‘For Lease’ sign.

  She walks around the house. The back door is locked, too. The yard that was always messy has been cleaned up a bit. The pile of old car tyres that the children used to bounce on has gone, as has the rusty fridge that was the backyard’s sole adornment. Stranded in the grass, it used to make her think of a giant rotten tooth.

  Slumped on a slab of yellow sandstone that serves as a seat against the back wall, she is assailed by a feeling of desolation. No one is here. No one has been here for a very long time. It feels like the loneliest place on earth.

  Yet if she tries very hard, she can see the children, hear their voices. Rose wants her to teach her how to somersault. Daisy is swinging on the rotary clothesline. Fergus is quiet as usual, but they are comfortable together. When they’ve got a moment to themselves, he’ll tell her about ammonites, those fossils that look like a ram’s horn, or about how insects have been found perfectly preserved in a sticky sap that hardened into glassy yellow amber.

  She starts to feel less alone. The s
un is warm on her face. She rests her head against the wall, and dozes.

  When she wakes up, it is past five, and already the sky is darkening. She looks at the ‘For Lease’ sign again, noting the address of the real estate agent. But by the time she gets back to the shopping centre, the office is shut.

  She finds a restaurant, picks the cheapest thing on the menu (minestrone soup and bread roll) then goes back to the motel. She stretches out on the bed, turns on the TV, turns it off.

  Eventually, she phones home.

  Her mother must’ve been sitting by the telephone, waiting, because she answers after one ring.

  ‘Where are you staying? Are you all right?’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Mum. I’ve got a room at the motel.’

  She tells her mother that she visited their old house. ‘The owners have opened up the back room. It’s lovely and light.’

  For once, her mother doesn’t bombard her with questions. Arrow wonders if her dad has had anything to do with this, or perhaps it was their conversation last night.

  ‘Is Dad around?’

  ‘He’s working late. I’ll tell him you called. Look after yourself, my love.’

  ‘Will do.’

  There’s nothing much to watch on TV, so she reads the Borges story, ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’. It’s a sort of detective story exploring the notion that each decision a person makes leads to a number of different futures.

  Baffled, but delighted, she switches off the light, and fantasises about innumerable Arrows with innumerable futures.

  She dreams that Fergus and his sisters are alive. Fergus has grown tall, lost his boyhood pudginess. He holds Arrow with such sweetness, such love, that when she wakes in the morning, she can still feel his body warm against her.

  15. MARIKA

  After Arrow leaves, Marika drifts about the house, too restless to do anything. The house is quiet, just the constant hum of the fridge for company. Feeling empty, she takes out the drawings of Jasper. She can see now how crude they are, how badly drawn. Only Jasper’s eyes seem alive. They stare accusingly.