Louis Beside Himself (8 page)

Did she mean me, the invertebrate?

‘Yeah, you,' she said. ‘That was pretty scary, I guess. I'm sorry I got you into all . . .
thet
.'

I laughed without knowing I would. ‘How did you do that? You know, make your voice go all manly and fierce, as if it wasn't yours?'

She grinned. ‘It worked, hey?'

‘It was awesome. For sure that guy— '

‘Jimmy.'

‘Yeah, Jimmy, he would have thought you were with a big angry man, a big angry, infuriated,
irate
man from . . .'

‘New Zealand.'

‘Yes!'

‘I can do most accents.' She smiled, but sadly, as if this wasn't a talent but more like an annoying disease she'd picked up somewhere.

I was burning with questions, but I didn't know where to begin.

‘It's not that hard,' she said, as if reading my mind. ‘One of my stepfathers was an actor. He lived with us longer than most. He used to practise his lines at home, and I just borrowed some. He played a Kiwi gangster. He was a good actor.'

‘Say it again!'

‘
I'll have t' chop ya
.'

I doubled over, cacking myself. It was amazing, her transformation. Amazing, too, that I could laugh.

‘Mum was really happy with that guy,' the burglar went on, ‘so I tried extra hard to show interest in
his
interests, you know? We'd have these conversations at breakfast, for instance, about things like method acting.'

‘What's that?'

‘Like when you're playing a character, you don't just learn your lines, you become the character in real life, dressing like them, eating like them, trying to find similar experiences in your own life to use on stage . . .Oh, it was exhausting. But worth it to see Mum's face light up over her boiled egg, watching us, enjoying how well we were all getting along. Like a real family.' She sighed again. ‘Mum does better when there's a man living with us. She gets lonely on her own. Or at least, when there's just the two of us. But her actor boyfriend fell in love with the leading lady, and moved on.'

‘What did your mother do?'

‘Cried for weeks. Lost her job because she couldn't get it together in the mornings, no matter how many boiled eggs I made her, and no matter how many accents I perfected. That's why I was glad to see Jimmy walk in – at first.'

‘What was
his
interest? I mean, what did he do for a job?'

‘Well, it was hard to tell. He was a man of few words. It made me uneasy— '

‘Me too!' I shuddered. ‘If there's one thing I hate, it's a lack of words. It's my worst thing.'

‘You sure took your time finding them today. Thought I'd have to send out a search party.'

I smiled, weakly. ‘Yeah, you can always count on me in a crisis.'

‘Razor-sharp reflexes, hey?'

I winced. That was too close. My eyes felt hot. ‘But anyway,' I said quickly, ‘you were saying, about Jimmy . . . ?'

Her face turned lugubrious again. ‘He said he worked at a bar – nights, you know, pulling beers, making cocktails. And he always
smelled
like a bar, a real stink, alcohol and fags, but he didn't seem to have regular shifts. Once, I asked him how to make a Rusty Nail – it's a kind of cocktail – and he looked shifty, you know, cornered. Even when Mum begged him to show her how, all set to admire his barman skills, he wouldn't budge. I decided he probably just used to hang out at the bar, drinking with his dodgy friends.' She frowned.

In the pause we heard the gate click open. We looked at each other. The girl's dark eyes grew wide. Adrenalin shot through my chest.

Then the roar of the skateboard and a crack of laughter broke the tension.

‘Lou?' Singo was talking even before he came in through the back door. ‘You should have seen this dunk I did!' His loud voice cut through the tension as he charged into the kitchen. ‘Hullo, who's this?' His face was open and friendly with surprise.

I realised I hadn't even managed to find out my burglar's name.

Singo's eyes narrowed as he took in the head-kicker boots and the girl's wary expression. He'd want a full recount.

Shame washed over me at the memory of my move with the chair. Of being backed up against the window like a car-crash dummy. Of being a mouse instead of a man. All the girl's interesting talk had made me forget for a moment. But now I saw that I'd
never
forget, no matter what happened. It would be a rotting secret inside me.

I just wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep.

‘Cordelia.' The burglar came to my rescue – again.
Cordelia?
I'd never seen anyone who looked less like a Cordelia. Surely a Cordelia should look more fragile, like a person dying of a chest infection in an opera, or a maiden with long golden hair, trapped high up in a tower for much of the eighteenth century?

Singo and Hassan exchanged glances, their eyebrows going all acrobatic.

‘Are you a friend of Rosie's?' asked Hassan.

‘Who?' said Cordelia.

Suddenly Singo began to laugh. ‘Nice hat,' he said, nudging Hassan.

I whipped off the damn beret, and cleared my throat. Hassan smiled at me encouragingly.

‘Look,' I said, ‘Cordelia is . . .'

I was taking a deep breath, searching for another, kinder word for
burglar
– I didn't want to introduce her like that – when the mute thing came back.
It is always possible to tell
the truth
, said Mr Mainprize,
if you do it with kindness and
consideration.
But my words had abandoned me, rushing silently from the room.

Cordelia looked at me. God. I hoped she wasn't going to give a full uncensored description of my cowardly behaviour. Or maybe I deserved it. I hung my head in shame.

‘I broke in,' Cordelia said into the quiet. ‘I was escaping from a bad man, and I, um, sought refuge in this humble abode. Your friend here helped me out.'

‘Geez,' said Singo. ‘Where's the man now?'

He looked at me, but I was looking at Cordelia.
H
UMBLE ABODE
– what interesting words, old-fashioned . . . Cordelia sounded definitely more like her name when she said
abode
.

I caught Singo's eye and felt myself blush. I forgot about abode.

‘The man is gone? You chased him away, Lou?' Hassan was looking at me admiringly. ‘What, you performed the Jericho move, or maybe a dropkick? Ha, like this?' And he chopped the air with his leg.

‘Or you could have jumped up on the table and done a moonsault, you know, with a full-body spin for extra leverage.' Singo leapt about the kitchen, his arms swinging, fists punching. Hassan laughed a bit hysterically.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The red crept up to my eyebrows and I felt as hot as a desert wind in Afghanistan. I couldn't find even one word to explain, excuse or justify. Or lie. Was this going to happen every time a crisis hit me? I looked at them horsing around and tried to smile, shrugging my shoulders as if at the
P
ERPLEXITIES
of life. But all the time I was thinking: imagine if they'd seen me just half-an-hour before, when I'd been as mute and helpless as a prop in a play.

Singo stopped chopping the air, and poured himself and Hassan a glass of water. ‘So, where do you live?' he asked. ‘Shouldn't you be getting back to your parents?'

Cordelia snorted. For the first time, she looked uncomfortable, which was pretty amazing considering everything that had happened. She picked at a hole in her jeans. I was looking for the right words to help her.
A
word.

But Hassan was studying Cordelia. ‘Sometimes even your parents can't help you,' he said gently, as if he knew all about it. He came and sat next to Cordelia. ‘I am Hassan and this is Singo. You are homeless?' he asked softly.

When he put it that way, I remembered a documentary on TV about the Salvation Army, and how they were trying to help young people who were living on the streets because home wasn't safe. I looked at our kitchen table laden with exquisite, half-finished food, the kitchen cupboards with all their clean cups and plates neatly stacked, the fridge humming away, fat and full. I felt sick with sadness. And a kind of guilt.

Cordelia looked up from her jeans. ‘Hassan – you're from where, originally?'

‘Afghanistan.'

‘It's a landlocked country,' I said, ‘with deserts and mountains. And some goats,' I finished lamely.

‘Well, I suppose there are bad guys there too, hey?' She gave that lopsided smile again. Or crooked, perhaps.

Hassan nodded. ‘And many good, also. Like my uncle. He came to find me when there were the bombs, and helped many of us to escape.'

Cordelia shook her head. ‘Jimmy – this guy I was escaping from – he was living with us. My mother's
boyfriend
.' She snorted again, as if in disbelief. ‘It's amazing how mothers can live for so many years and still not learn anything about people.'

The mention of mothers must have reminded Singo about his because he said, ‘If you're living on the streets, how do you wash?'

We all stared at him.

‘I mean, there's a lot of, like, germs out there . . .'

Cordelia nodded. ‘Yeah, it's only been a few days for me, and I've been using the toilets and wash basins at the library. I've still got a card there, luckily, so I can take books out as well. Helps pass the time – boredom is a problem too, you wouldn't think so, but . . .' She trailed off, gazing at the table. ‘Boredom and hunger. Did you know that silverback gorillas in West Africa have to spend twenty out of twenty-four hours a day finding food just to survive? I read that yesterday in
Into the Wild
– glad I'm not a gorilla . . . Is anyone gunna finish those samosas?'

I jumped up. ‘Oh yes, I mean no, of course, you must be so hungry, eat anything you want, the chicken and rice is especially— '

‘And if you want to . . . to, like, wash your hands before eating, the bathroom is just up the hallway,' added Singo.

Cordelia grinned. ‘Okay, thanks.' She hopped up, but staggered a moment, wrapping her bad foot around her other leg.

‘What happened to your foot?' asked Singo.

Cordelia glanced at me, then shrugged. ‘It'll be all right,' she said, and she limped away up the hall.

Quickly, I went to find her a plate and a glass of juice and some cutlery. I kept my back to my friends, hoping they wouldn't ask for more explanations. I just couldn't face it.

She returned with lightning speed. I watched Singo trying to calculate just how thorough her hand-washing had been. In Grade 5 his mother told us that you should be able to sing the whole of ‘Happy Birthday' during the soaping process.

I piled Cordelia's plate with rice and chicken and spinach in caramelised onion and baked tomatoes in their skins, and we sat around the table watching her eat. It was very satisfying.

‘Delicious,
mmm
,' she murmured, her mouth full. ‘Incredible.'

‘And exquisite, too, don't you think?' I suggested.

She nodded. ‘Boy, did I come to the right house.' She put down her fork a moment, looking sheepish. ‘Look, I never would have normally barged in like this. I mean, I'm not a thief or anything.' She took another forkful. ‘It's just that I was incredibly hungry. This is
SO
yummy. Do you eat like this every night?'

Hassan smiled. ‘Often – my uncle is a chef. We are very lucky.'

‘You sure are.' She ate until her plate was clean, then sat back, sighing. ‘I wish
my
mother would take up with a chef – now that would be good. But see, she never seems to choose the good ones. You know, reliable, trustworthy, caring kind of men. Who can cook. Nah, just the useless ones – or worse. Crooks instead of cooks.'

‘So this guy you were running from, he was a . . . a crook?' Singo cracked his knuckles nervously.

‘Jimmy? Yeah, I think so. See, he's only been living with us for a month, so I don't really know much about him. He was never out of bed in the mornings when Mum left for work and I left for school— ' ‘You're still at school?'

‘I
was
– I didn't finish this last term of Year 11. Oh well, I'm certainly not going on to Year 12 now, am I? Anyway, Jimmy didn't seem to do anything during the day, and then went out at night. He was nice to me, sort of, when Mum was around, but otherwise he didn't bother. And then this thing happened . . .'

‘What thing?' we all asked.

‘Well, I came home early from school last week – I had free periods all afternoon, and I wanted to catch up on an essay about this Roman emperor, Caligula, who made his horse a senator.'

‘How would you spell that?' I asked, thinking aloud. It was such an unusual name. ‘With a K or a C?'

‘Oh shut up, Lou,' said Singo.

But Cordelia said, ‘It's Latin, so there's no K. Not many people know that.'

‘Well, it probably wasn't the most important thing about the guy,' said Singo, looking at me
S
ARDONICALLY
.

‘Anyway, I came home and Jimmy was there in Mum's room, going through her drawers. He had everything out on the bed: scarves, stockings, underwear – and a rolled-up wad of cash she keeps for emergencies. He looked startled when he saw me and quick as a flash, he pocketed the cash. I was so angry. He yelled that it was none of my business what he was doing, that Mum and he shared everything, and I was a nosy little . . . whatever. So I said, Well then, you won't mind my telling Mum that you've taken her secret stash. He came up really close to me, so I could smell his rank wino breath, and he grabbed my shoulder, yanking it back. See, I've still got the bruise. He said, you keep your mouth shut or you won't know what hit you, then he flung out of the house and took off in his blue van.'