Marked (3 page)

But when we stopped at the shop to pick up a couple of frozen dinners, a cyclist rode past. She’d been wheeling her bike uphill from the jetty, but she hopped on and began pedalling when the road levelled off, her head down into the rain.

It was Kat.

A few seconds later the green Ford powered past in a hiss of spray, swerving over the centre-line to leave her plenty of space. Then it slithered around a bend and disappeared.

“Weird,” I muttered.

“Eh?”

I glanced at Dad. Kat must’ve been really hoofing it because we’d only just passed her. Still pounding the pedals into the rain, and no sign of the green Ford. But I hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“Um … it’s a bit weird. That kid on the bike we just passed. She’s in one of my classes.”

“How’s that weird?”

“Well, I sort of bumped into her yesterday at the ferry. She was with an older bloke, her father I suppose, and they were having a row. But he was there today too, waiting … and then he just drove off and left her on her bike. And it’s pissing down. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they’re still having a fight.” He tossed me a devious smile. “Plenty of times I’d have happily left
you
to pedal home in the rain.”

“Yeah, but …” I let it drop. Hadn’t planned to say anything about Kat and Bullyboy. I knew it would make me sound stupid. And anyway, Dad had other things on his mind. Like the car’s leaking hood. He’d been rabbiting on about it. Apparently, authors don’t earn enough to get things like that fixed properly, and the vinyl tape he’d used was peeling off. Nasty cold drips down the back of his neck. And to make matters worse, someone had nicked tonight’s cold chicken from the fridge, so we were both facing a meal of microwaved plastic Chinese. The idea of me biking home in the rain had cheered him up a bit. Even if he
had
been joking.

But it didn’t seem like much of a joke for Kat. What the hell was going on? I’d had it all sorted. Convinced myself that Bullyboy was her father. I mean, who else could he be? A kidnapper? Get real. He had to be her father – and they’d been having an argument. Had to be. And the gun? Had I actually seen a gun? No, of course I hadn’t. Just an overeager imagination. No kidnapping attempt and no gun. Just a rebellious kid and an overbearing parent.

So why had he powered past, leaving her to pedal home in a downpour? It was fine for Dad to joke about sending me out in the rain, but I couldn’t imagine Kat sharing his sense of humour. She’d looked miserable. Bullyboy could easily have stuck her bike in the back of that big Ford. So why hadn’t he? There was another thought too. If Kat was really biking home, then she probably lived pretty close to our cottage. And
that
was an interesting notion. I didn’t want to get caught up in her problems – but I wouldn’t mind getting to know her a bit better.

I didn’t see her the following day. Well, not to talk to. She was in class with me a couple of times, and driving home we passed her on her bike again. But she hadn’t been on the same ferry as me.

She niggled away at my mind. Not so much because of the weird goings on with her father – it was more because she was … not exactly beautiful, but somehow she had me all stirred up inside. I’d only caught glimpses of her face – she always wore her hair down. Even so, the picture I carried in my mind was one of those images you cling to in the dark when you’re waiting to fall asleep. Smooth skin, dark eyes and full lips that were always slightly parted, with a hint of whiteness behind. I’d never seen her smile, but I knew she’d have perfect teeth. And I’d enjoyed the way she moved that day I’d seen her on the jetty.

But if I spent my time daydreaming about Kat, the rest of the town had its mind on other things. The arson attacks had continued, rubbish bins and hedges being set alight every night. Then on Wednesday things began to get even more serious.

A few kids were gathered in an excited little huddle at the school gates. Simon was with them and he turned to me as I approached. “You hear about the fire, Cully?”

I shook my head. “No. Another one?”

“Yeah. A house this time. Completely gutted.”

“Jeez … where?”

“Along the waterfront. Early hours of this morning.”

“Hell. A house? And they reckon it was the firebug?”

“Gotta be. Someone saw a couple of kids slinking away just before it started.”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. My mind was picturing a fire-blackened rubbish bin – the one I’d dropped a chocolate wrapper into a few days ago. It was easy to imagine a couple of no-hopers stuffing it with burning newspaper in the dead of night. A rubbish bin isn’t a house though. Houses are different.
Really
different.

After school I went around by the waterfront on my way to the ferry. Dad would’ve called me a ghoul, but I thought I ought to have a look. And it wasn’t a pretty sight. The whole building had been gutted. Blackened windows, charred timber and gaps in the roof where the fire crew had torn off the corrugated iron to get at the blaze. Someone’s home, but now it was only fit for demolition.

The frontage had been cordoned off and a burnt out car was being dragged from the garage. A crowd had gathered, mostly kids from school, and they were watching as the tow truck workers winched it onto their flat deck. It had been a sports soft-top, an Audi I think, but it was hard to tell. Now it was just a scorched shell.

I didn’t stop for long. I could see Burger there with a couple of other slimeballs, and anyway, it wasn’t worth missing a ferry for. Crossing over the road into the estuary reserve, I carried on towards the wharf. I thought they were dreaming if they reckoned it was arson, but there’s a hell of a difference between firing up a few rubbish bins and torching someone’s home. Everyone was going on about the kids that someone had seen. But they’d been running away. Why would they do that? Surely low-lives like that would stick around to enjoy the fun. They’d be in the crowd, dribbling with excitement.

I stopped suddenly, listening. There was something going on behind the bushes. Gasping … panting. A couple of kids having it off while no one was looking? Didn’t sound like much fun though. More like they were throttling each other. But whatever they were doing wasn’t any of my business. I glanced around and began to move off again towards the ferry. Then I caught a flash of colour in the gap between a couple of flax bushes. It was a girl. A girl in Cooksville High uniform kneeling on the grass. She had her back to me, but she wouldn’t have noticed me anyway. She was puking her heart out. Retching, heaving, spitting, retching again. And groaning.
Definitely
none of my business. Watching someone having a chunder doesn’t rate as a favoured pastime.

Then I realised it was Kat. And that changed everything – my brain cells died and common sense shrivelled to nothing as testosterone surged into power. I pushed my way through the flax.

“You all right?” I’m the kind of twat who’d ask a quadriplegic if they enjoyed dancing.
You all right
? Of course she wasn’t bloody all right. She was clawing at the earth and trying to sick up every meal she’d had for a month. And the one thing she didn’t need was company.
Back off, Cully – let people sort out their own problems
.

But I couldn’t help myself.

I saw her tense at the sound of my voice, and then she retched again. Twisted slightly to one side and lowered her head to the ground.

“Can I help?” The stink of puke was awful, and I took a step backwards.

There was no response for a few moments. She was rocking her body gently back and forth, arms splayed, her forehead on the grass taking her weight. I was losing my nerve. Then she rolled to one side, levered herself up on an elbow and glanced up at me.

“Yes … be a big help if you left me alone,” she muttered, lowering her eyes. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t look okay. She was shivering, and a trickle of drool hung from her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Honestly, I’m fine. Just leave me alone. Go away … please.”

A tiny glimmer of common sense returned.
Quit while you’re ahead
. I turned away, faltering, and then changed my mind. “You’re not okay,” I said, trying to sound staunch. “You look bloody awful. I can’t just walk away and leave you like that. Nobody could.”

She didn’t say anything but her eyes narrowed. Dark slits glaring at me.

“What is it with you?” I asked. Took a deep breath and ploughed ahead, lying through my teeth. “I’m not trying to barge into your business. It’s just … you look like you need help … and I’m the only one around. D’you want some water?” I took the bottle from my bag and held it out. Sir Galahad and a damsel in distress.

She stared at me for a second and then nodded. Held her hand up for the bottle. I watched as she cupped some into one hand and splashed it onto her face. Then she swilled some around in her mouth and spat into the bushes.

I knew I was a cheat, but it was a relief to see those barriers come down. And it felt good – she was letting me into her life. Almost as if she was baring herself before me, sharing things you don’t let everyone see.
Even so – do you really want to share her problems, Cully? Think about it
.

“Thanks.” But still no sign of a smile.

“D’you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head and made as if to offer the water bottle back. Then she had second thoughts. “I’ll get you another one … it’s got my goobies all over it.”

I grinned, casual like. “Doesn’t matter. Keep it.” I squatted down on my haunches, oozing gallantry. “Sure you’re okay now? Something you ate?”

“Yeah. Guess so.” She heaved herself onto her knees and gathered her backpack to her chest. “No … no it wasn’t really.” Her eyes were on me properly now – for the first time, I thought. “It was … it was that meathead. Brian King. Over there.” She nodded in the direction of the fire-gutted house. “He was laughing and joking about it … about the car.” Her bottom lip quivered a little and she swallowed. “Couldn’t stand it.” She swallowed again and lowered her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Not your problem.”

“It’s okay. Anything I can do?”

She shook her head and stood up. Swaying slightly and pale. “No. I’m fine now.” She moved unsteadily over to one of the park benches and sat down, resting her head in her hands. Somehow I didn’t feel excluded so I sat down too, leaving a space between us. She didn’t object, but didn’t say anything either.

“Who did you say?” I wanted to break the silence. “Brian? Who’s he?”

“Brian King. You know, the flesh mountain.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You mean Burger?”

“Yes, Burger. Burger King.” She turned her head, eyeing me. “God’s gift to rugby. Didn’t you try to pick a fight with him the other day?”

“Um … not really.” I felt ridiculously pleased she knew about that, but also a bit embarrassed.

“I dunno what you said to him, but he’s telling everyone he’s going to beat the shit out of you.”

She turned away again, eyes drifting across the water. I wanted to ask her what else she’d heard. Specially about me. But I didn’t. She still looked terrible, breathing heavily, her face drained of colour. So I kept my mouth shut and let her grapple with her own thoughts. It was the first time I’d heard her speak more than about three words, and I realised she was Australian. Not a strong accent – probably Sydney.

We sat together like that for ages. Silence, except for the screeching of gulls. And I could sense Kat gradually getting control of her breathing. Finally, she glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. Be late for work.” She didn’t move though.

“Where do you work?”

“Gelato Heaven.”

“Scooping ice-cream?”

She nodded. “Yes. Couple of days a week.”

That made sense. She’d been heading there when I’d seen her that first time on the ferry. “Shouldn’t you call in sick?” I suggested. “You still look like death.”

“No, I’m fine. And thanks for the water.” But still she didn’t make a move.

Another long pause, and then she muttered something.

“Pardon?”

She didn’t look at me. She was gazing across the estuary – but I didn’t think she was focused on anything. “That car … it was horrible.” She swallowed and her whole body quivered. “My … someone I knew was killed in a car fire. My … dad. It was my dad. A car just like that …”

I wanted to put my arm around her. To comfort her. But I was too chicken.

And then I lost my chance. She was on her feet and moving away quickly, almost breaking into a run, but unsteadily. I wanted to follow her, but her body language told me to stay where I was. She’d blown me away. If her father had died in a car fire, I could understand why she was so upset.

But then, who the hell was Bullyboy?

Jed was waiting to pick me up from the ferry. Lounging against his ute and dragging on a fag that didn’t smell much like tobacco. Dad’s MX-5 was at the dealers in Thames, waiting to have a new hood fitted. One that didn’t dribble cold trickles down his neck when it rained. So for a while we were without wheels of our own.

After a few dark mutterings about the benefits of walking, Dad had relented and agreed to let me hitch a ride with Jed each day. I’d been expecting to ride pillion, but somehow Jed had managed to buckle the front wheel of his motorbike so he was using the battered old ute. A bit different from Dad’s little sports car, but probably more comfortable. Squeezing into the MX-5 was a bit like climbing into a dwarf’s wetsuit. With the dwarf still in it.