Bone Song (7 page)

In all this time we’ve been on the run, Mum and I have never had a fight. Sometimes we’ve been so scared that we’ve cried together, sometimes I’ve been so angry that I wanted to smash everything around me and Mum’s calmed me down. She should’ve been at school the day I screamed at Hornsby.

Now we’re fighting, and it’s horrible. It’s all my fault. In one day I brought two dangerous or stupid things into our safe house. I can’t work out what Mum’s madder about, Dobie or the kitten. In fact, I can’t even work out what she’s saying. She’s doped up and crying and the words
are tumbling out in streams like her tears. I hate to resort to alcohol but it’s the only thing that might settle her a bit. I’ve tried talking, hugging (she pushed me away), holding her hand (same) and yelling. So I pour her a glass of wine and watch her chug it down while I make her a peanut butter sandwich to hold her until dinner is ready.

All the time I’m trying to stay calm, but inside I’m getting angry and it’s taking over from the guilt. Why can’t she pull herself together for once? I keep thinking about dragons, what Dobie and I talked about. What was that? Crap to make her feel better? Outsmart a dragon by super tactics? Yeah, right. I can’t even deal with the person I love most in all the world, the one I have to protect.

I need to do something practical. Mum’s bought pork chops that I set to grill before peeling potatoes and finding some peas in the freezer. When I turn around next, Mum is sitting staring into space. She’s run out of steam for now, thank God. I sit down
opposite her at the tiny table and wait. I’m not going to talk first so I link my fingers together and sit staring at them until she cracks. She can’t stand silence between us at any time. She even has to talk to me when I’m in the bathroom.

‘Who is that girl?’

I try to judge her tone but it doesn’t seem angry, more puzzled. ‘She’s from my school, Mum, but she doesn’t live around here.’

‘I can tell. Speaks too nicely. Face like a pincushion though.’ She licks her lips and I fetch her a glass of water. She frowns but drinks some of it.

‘She’s OK. She won’t tell anyone… you know.’

‘Kitten?’

‘I found it by the garbage bins next door. It would’ve been dead by tonight if I’d left it.’ I’m determined not to whine.

‘Keep it.’

‘Huh? You mean it?’ I don’t dare to hope yet.

‘Yep. It’sh little.’ She’s slurring a tiny bit but her eyes are OK.

I turn the chops over and sit down again. ‘I thought I’d call it Midnight.’

‘Good name.’ She smiles but it wobbles off her face again. ‘Midnight flit. That’s what they ushed to call it when you left in the middle of the night to get out of paying rent you owed. That’s what we might have to do.’ She bows her head and I see tears form on her eyelashes.

Now I understand. ‘Have you seen Dad? Mum? Have you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she whispers. ‘No. I don’t think so. But I thought I did. Yesterday. I’ve been feeling, you know…’ She flaps her hand. ‘I know it usually doesn’t mean anything.’

I wait while she drinks more water, my heart thumping under my ribs. I can’t say anything right now.

She takes a deep breath. ‘It’s because the car is out of action. When we have no car, I feel trapped. I saw someone walk past the display window at the front of the office and stop to look in. He… I thought it was him, just for a second. The sun was behind him. When he kept walking, I could see it wasn’t really him at all. It was just some man looking at the display of cards and postcards and stuff. But it gave me a fright. And I’ve been having those dreams again…’

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Is she being paranoid or is it possible it’s him? Oh, anything’s possible, especially that.

‘Mum, how about we eat dinner and you think it all through, then you tell me if you honestly think we’ve got something to worry about. You always think better when you’ve eaten properly.’

She smiles, relieved, then gobbles her dinner down like she hasn’t eaten in a week. Well, we haven’t, not properly. Just toast and soup and eggs. Maybe that’s why my brain can’t do algebra! I need meat. I force some of the pork chop down my throat, one tiny well-chewed mouthful at a time, saving bits for the kitten. The potatoes and peas stick even worse and I have to wash them down with water, but at last I’ve managed it. All I have to do now is not throw up. I look at Mum and she nods.

‘You’re right. The car’s made me imagine things. Bobby said he’d have it fixed by tonight so we’ve got nothing to worry about. Except paying him, of course, but the agency finally gave me what they owed me from that obnoxious florist, so I can give him half tomorrow when he brings it back.’ She beams at me. All is right with the world again, at least for now.

Shall I push my luck? ‘Um, Dobie wanted to know if I’d go to Hillcrest with her tomorrow. Not shopping, we can’t afford
that, just to hang out and stuff. She’s nice, really, even though she looks…’

‘Like the leader of a shoplifting gang.’ Mum’s eyes are twinkling so I know she’s joking. ‘I guess you can go, as long as you’re careful. Eyes in the back of your head, full alert, all that.’

‘It’s second nature by now, Mum.’ How I wish it wasn’t. Even cops freak me out.

‘Hmmm… Anyway, who says you can’t go shopping? At the very least, you’ll have to buy cat food.’ Her eyelids are drooping, a signal the pills are taking over again. I help her to bed, undress her and tuck her in, planting a kiss on her forehead before I turn out the light. At least she ate tonight, which means tomorrow she’ll wake up fairly normal rather than like a zombie.

While I’m washing the dishes, I smell something incredibly foul. Is there rotten food in the fridge I’ve forgotten about? Surely not. Then I realise and go searching. Sure enough, there’s a neat little pile of
poop on the bathroom floor. Midnight’s in the lounge, washing his ears and face. ‘OK, kiddo, cat food
and
a litter tray. I get the message.’ I’m glad he kept that little errand for after Mum went to bed.

All the way home, I can’t stop thinking about Goody and her mum. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live that way, scared all the time, not even able to have a kitten or anything. I always thought Goody was such a suck, doing everything the teachers said, so quiet that she might as well have been part of the furniture. Now I see why. It’d be like being in the Witness Protection programme except there’s no one to protect you, there’s just you and someone who wants to find you and kill you.

My skin crawls and for a moment I think there’s a hand on my shoulder. I spin around in my seat but there’s no one. The
bus is nearly empty, just me and a drunk old man up near the driver, singing. I wait for my second bus, hiding behind the big bushy plants in concrete tubs that line the street. Why do I feel scared? It’s not me who’s being hunted. But it’s after dark, there are guys cruising in cars and this is not a safe part of downtown.

The bus wheezes in to the stop, the doors open with a whoosh. Twenty minutes and I’ll be home; even though Nancy is waiting to scold me for being so late, I don’t mind. That’s normal, so normal that I can’t wait to see her frowning face and hear her giving me what-for.

I sprint up our street, through the side gate and burst into the kitchen, puffing, with a stitch in my side. I’m so unfit. I used to jog, do weight training, the whole thing. Now I’m a blob. I hate that.

‘About time, miss.’ Nancy glares at me, her arms folded.

‘I did call,’ I gasp. ‘It was important. I
wasn’t hanging out anywhere, getting into trouble, I swear.’

‘Your mother has asked me four times already where you are.’

‘I was at a friend’s. Truly, I was.’ I remember my jeans. ‘Look, I had to go to her house to fix my jeans. They’re history, though. I’ll have to throw them out.’ I turn around so she can inspect my bum.

‘How’d you manage that?’ She picks at a thread. ‘Good sewing job.’

‘Um, I jumped off a desk and landed funny. Goody, I mean, Melissa, she sewed it for me.’

‘Didn’t think
you
did it. What d’you mean, jumped off a desk?’ She’s got a glimmer in her eyes and I can’t help reacting.

‘I wasn’t dancing! Or anything like that. I was trying to open a window.’ All the time I was doing physio, hoping and hoping that I’d be able to dance again, Nancy was the
only person who kept me going, dragging me out of bed to do the exercises and buying me dance magazines, anything she could think of. When I called it quits, she still didn’t give up. I think she believes dancing might save my soul if I went back to it; might turn me back into the nice person I used to be. It’s never going to happen.

‘Keep your hair on. I was just wondering.’ She jerks her head sideways. ‘You’d better go and show your face in there, keep your mother happy.’

‘She is last on my list of people to keep happy.’ But I go anyway. Mother is watching television and flicking through a pile of the latest fashion and décor magazines. She glances up, tries to pretend she hasn’t been waiting for me.

‘Where have you been? It’s nearly nine.’

‘At a friend’s house.’

‘Who? Jeannie? Or Anna? I thought you didn’t see them these days.’ She stares
down at a picture of a super-skinny model wearing a simple black sheath.

‘Melissa. She’s from my school.’ I wait for the inquisition.

‘Well, when you go back to Barton, you won’t be able to see her any more.’

‘Why not? Besides, I told you, I’m not going back to Barton.’ Why is she being such a bitch? I don’t understand. What difference does it make to her what I do? Or is this just about winning? Maybe it is. I guess that’s what it’s been about for me, up till now.

‘Then you’ll have to go to boarding school.’ That little cat smile appears and I want to hit her.

‘OK.’ I shrug. ‘If I go to boarding school, we won’t have to look at each other or talk to each other. I’m sure that’ll make you very happy.’

That’s got her. She didn’t expect me to choose boarding school. It was her last resort.

That choc chip muffin was really delicious. I realise I’m starving and head back to the kitchen. Nancy points towards the fridge and I find a covered plate of food that I programme the microwave to reheat. While I wait, my mind zings back to Goody again. I lean against the bench where Nancy is beating up pancake mix for tomorrow’s breakfast.

‘Nancy, have you ever known someone whose husband tried to kill them when they left?’

She gives me a sharp look and beats harder. ‘Why’re you asking a question like that?’

‘I, um, I heard a kid at school talking about it today. And don’t do the Mother thing about what a terrible school it is and I shouldn’t be associating with people like that.’

‘Sounds to me like you’re finding out about the real world. Not that
wife-beating
is just for poor people. Plenty of rich men do it too.’ She lets the batter sit
for a moment to see if air bubbles rise, then gives it a few more stirs. ‘Sometimes the more a man has, the more he thinks his wife is just another thing to own. Then again, poor men with nothing much think they own their wives too. Men just like to own things, I guess.’ She covers the bowl and puts it in the fridge.

‘But why can’t someone leave if they want to? I don’t get it. It’s crazy.’

‘Yep, crazy’s the word.’

The microwave beeps and I fetch my plate, sit down and start eating. It’s a red night tonight, chicken with red peppers, spicy beetroot and carrots.

‘I’ve finished down here. You put your plate in the dishwasher and press the button, all right?’ She waits for me to nod. ‘And you watch yourself with your friend. If her dad’s crazy, you don’t want to get in the way. You can help best by staying out of it.’

I open my mouth to deny it’s anything to do with me, but she’s gone. She means well but I can’t stay out of it. Ignoring what’s happening to Goody and her mum would be like… like pretending Mother is a loving, caring parent. Huh!

In my bedroom I pull out my guitar and play a bit to loosen my fingers up, then I get my notebook and try out the new song I’ve written. I still can’t get the lyrics but the melody is all there. I play it over and over, experimenting and changing little bits until I’m satisfied, then I copy it out neatly again in my old music book from Barton. I must buy a new one. And a new pair of jeans. That reminds me about going shopping with Goody tomorrow. I hope she can come. I really do.

Funny how two days ago I thought she was the biggest loser ever. Now I quite like her. I wonder if she likes me? I’ve got so used to everyone hating me, or treating me like a big pain in the bum, that this all feels a bit strange. I hope she does like me.

Mum is already up when I wake up even though it’s early. Midnight is curled up on the end of my bed in a black ball. The sun angles through the tear in the window blind and creates a streak of light across the green and brown carpet and up the wall. It reminds me of a picture I saw of a hidden lake in the mountains. A few lines of a new poem drift into my head.

‘Lissy, you want croissants? They’re hot.’

Huh? Since when do we have croissants for breakfast? I slide out of bed, trying not to wake the kitten, and stagger into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes. Mum is fixing
coffee so I race back and scribble down what I remember in my notebook.

‘Another poem?’ Mum’s smiling down at me, coffee pot in her hand. ‘One day you’ll have to start sending them out to get published.’

‘I doubt it! They’re not good enough for that. They’re just a hobby.’
That keeps me sane sometimes.
I follow her back and sure enough, there’s a plate of croissants on the table, along with strawberry jam in a little glass bowl. ‘Is it your birthday? Did we win the lottery?’

‘No. I just thought we deserved a treat today.’ She pours coffee into our mugs. ‘Bobby is bringing the car over soon. I saw Mrs Hawkins when I went out to the bakery for these.’

‘You went to the bakery?’ She hardly ever goes out except to work or to do the laundry downstairs. If the machines are broken, I’m the one who has to lug our dirty clothes to the Sudsalot two blocks away.

‘Sure. And I haven’t had any pills today either.’ Her face flushes when she says this and she doesn’t look at me.

I’m not sure what to say but I feel like I should say something. ‘That’s great, Mum.’ How long will it last? Lunchtime? What’s going on? Why is she suddenly all full of smiles? Why is she being brave? Maybe she’s just like me – sick of being paranoid and bad-tempered.

‘When you call your friend about going to the shopping centre, tell her I’ll drive you both. I can pick her up at her house, all right?’ She crunches into her croissant and flakes of pastry fly across the table. Midnight scampers in and looks up at the table hopefully.

I pull two bits off my croissant, feed one to Midnight and chew the other carefully. ‘OK, but… she lives across the other side of town, in Brightwood. She has to catch two buses to get home.’

‘Oh. I just assumed she lived around
here. Brightwood. That’s an expensive part of town. I thought she went to your school.’

‘She does. She wants to. I mean, she could go to a private school but… she just doesn’t want to, that’s all.’

‘I guess I could drive to Brightwood, as long as you navigate.’

‘You don’t have to, Mum, we can catch buses and meet up at Hillcrest. We’ll be fine.’ Please, Mum, just let me do something normal for a change.

‘No, it’ll be good for me to get out and drive around a bit. I’ll test the car out, make sure it’s running OK. You get Dobie’s address when you ring and make a time.’ She looks so happy that I don’t have the heart to say no. I decide to enjoy my croissant and try not to worry about it. Mum frowns when I feed Midnight another piece so I get up and pour some milk into a bowl for him. I sit down and take a bite of my breakfast.

‘Is Dobie her real name?’

‘No, it’s Deborah, but she hates that.’ Mmm, warm, flaky, sweet croissant. Yummy. Stop asking questions, Mum.

We drink our coffee in silence and I relax a little. By the time we clean up, I turn my bed back into a couch and Mum’s handwashed her blouses for work and hung them over the bath, I’m worried about calling Dobie. What if she’s changed her mind? It’s not even ten o’clock, she’s probably still asleep. I jump when someone knocks at the door, but it’s only Bobby with Mum’s car keys in his hand.

‘It was the water pump,’ he says. ‘I found you one in a wrecker’s yard so it didn’t cost as much as I thought.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘No problem.’ He looks embarrassed and grins. ‘You want to come see what I did? I got you a better tyre for that back right too. And I tightened the handbrake.’

‘You’re amazing,’ Mum says. ‘All I have to do now is wash it.’

‘Oh, I did that too. She’s all shined up.’

What is this? Good Neighbour Week? I watch Bobby as he stands back and allows Mum through the door first and it hits me between the eyes. God! Bobby’s hot for Mum! I know Bobby’s divorced and Mrs Hawkins is pleased about it because she didn’t like his wife. Mum’s not divorced though. You’d think another man would be the last thing she’d want. But she was in the bar the other night with that guy from work. That’s what I hate about the pills. They turn her into someone I don’t know, someone I don’t want to know.

I turn on the mobile, take a deep breath and call Dobie.