ELENA STOOD AT THE SINK washing the lettuce with the tap running as Peter fished for cutlery in the armoire by the door. From the lounge room she heard the sound of Daniel killing zombies on his PlayStation. The dog had wandered into the kitchen a few minutes earlier, drawn in by the aroma of the chicken roasting in the oven, and was sitting patiently by her feet. After their conversation earlier, Elena had tried to ring Peter – once from outside the school, and again when she’d gotten home – but the calls had gone straight to voicemail. She’d left a message, told him to buzz when he got to the gate. When he’d finally turned up, just before seven, his expression was grim, somehow offended. As if keeping all this drama from him was a personal affront. She didn’t know what to say to this. Instead, she took him inside, to the kitchen, and poured him a glass of wine. There, with the competing aromas of caramelised onions, garlic and rosemary, the warmth from the oven, he began to relax. His shoulders dropped and he seemed somewhat appeased.
“You should have told me,” he said, coming back to her side, his back against the bench. “I have a right to know.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “Up to a point.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it’s just … We’re not married anymore, Peej,” she said almost sadly. “It feels like you’re overstepping.”
Peter seemed taken aback, a little stung. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just wish you’d told me so I could help.”
“It wouldn’t be right. I need to sort this out by myself. Work out what’s best for us.”
“You’re in too deep. For a kid that’s not even ––”
“Don’t,” she said sharply. Her hand fluttered up to her face, lingered a moment, then flicked off the tap with a fierce movement. The water shuddered in the pipes. “Just don’t say it.”
He sighed a long sigh, then put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Elena nodded.
They both knew they were on shaky ground. Even after more than a year it was hard to know where to draw the lines, new lines like shifting post-war borders, when what was once acceptable was no longer the case. Whereas once they had told each other everything, now there were omissions and things left unsaid. Up to a point, she had said. It had been, for him, like a slap in the face: the knowledge he was no longer entitled to certain information about her life. That he had, by way of divorce, become an outsider. But there could be no other way. It was purely out of respect – and love that burned in her chest like heartburn – that she hadn’t already changed the subject. And, she reminded herself, she was the one who’d blabbed in the first place. Like opening a closet stuffed to the brim and then being surprised when the contents fell on your head.
“It’s OK,” she said. “I know you’re trying to help. It’s what you always do. But you’re here now, listening. That’s more than enough.”
“Still wish you’d said something sooner. Just given me a bit of a heads-up, you know. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I know. But it all happened so fast, I didn’t think.”
Peter ran his hand through his dark hair. He took a sip of the wine, looked her over, not entirely convinced. “So they didn’t hurt you in any way? Just made some threats?”
She shook her head but couldn’t look at him. She went back to draining the lettuce on a towel by the sink, telling him only some of what they’d said. It was an unlikely story, the sanitised version, and she wondered how much of it he actually bought.
“So he wants his kid back,” he said after a pause. “That’s hardly up to you.”
“I’m sure he knows that. But I don’t think he even wants him back, not really. It’s more about intimidating me, you know, the whole we-know-where-you-live shtick. Terrorising people – that’s his idea of fun.”
“It’s hardly shtick.”
“Of course not. You know what I mean.”
“OK, but still ––. You should’ve gone straight to the police, told them everything.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the boy.”
“You have to call them,” he said again, as though he hadn’t heard. Or wasn’t listening. “As long as you don’t, neither of you are safe.”
“You don’t understand. If Children’s Services find out about this they’ll take Daniel and put him somewhere else. Somewhere worse.”
“They’re going to take him anyway,” he said fiercely. “It’s only a matter of time. You can’t win here.”
She winced. “Keep your voice down. He’ll hear you.”
Peter looked around quickly, then continued in a low hiss. “You can’t protect him like this – they know where you live. And what’s to stop them coming back? Certainly not that fancy new gate out there.”
It was true, of course. They could just come up the fire trail to the back gate where she’d led them the other day, get comfortable on the back steps and wait for her to appear. She might as well have invited them in for brandy and teacake.
“You think that hadn’t occurred to me?” she said bitterly.
“Do it or I will.”
“What are you saying?”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you – either of you. If you don’t make the call I will.”
She held his gaze, needing to be sure he wasn’t bluffing. That it wasn’t just a ploy to spur her into action. But his face was set. She knew that expression well. Once he’d made up his mind nothing could change it. He’d be on the phone the minute her back was turned. It was a natural reaction, she told herself, this outrage. But she hadn’t even told him the half of it. She’d left out the assault on her. Their threat – more of a promise, really – to come back. Well, everything really. She knew she needed to show him she had a plan. Or something which resembled one. It was just that her head was pounding and heavy. As if the events of the past few weeks had caused her brain to overload.
“You have to trust me on this, Peej,” she said eventually. “You think it’s all black and white but it’s not. You have no idea. These aren’t reasonable people. They’re animals and I just have to work out how best to ––”
“All the more reason to get help,” he said, grabbing her by the arm, pulling her towards him. “Even better, just leave. Get out of here, go somewhere safe. We can leave tonight, right now if you like.”
“Peej, stop. Please. Just stop.”
“You have to do something.”
“I know that!”
She pulled away sharply, turning her gaze to the window, and the darkness beyond. Out on the bay a fog horn from a cargo ship sounded with a deep bellow. Elena inhaled deeply, her chest expanding, dry air filling her lungs. She reached for the sound dock on the window ledge, wanting to fill the fraught silence. To buy herself some time to gather her thoughts. Mostly, though, she just wanted to escape reality. If only for a moment or two.
Music wafted from the speakers: Ella Fitzgerald’s “Summertime” – the slow deliberate piano, the lullaby sound, the voice that mesmerised like falling into a trance.
It was a good minute before either of them spoke.
“What a mess,” Peter said finally.
“Yeah.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, the headache now throbbing diamonds of light behind her right eye. She pressed her palms to both eyelids, kept them there a brief moment.
Peter grabbed at the counter with both hands, fingertips pinched white. She could feel his unspoken frustration. It was coming off him in waves.
“I know you think I’m not listening,” she said at length. “But I am. It’s just that I have to fix this myself.”
“So you keep saying.”
“It will be fine,” she murmured, as much to herself as him. “And hard as it is to hear, I need you to back off a little. Just give me some time. To make things right.”
The music lifted up to the ceiling, haunting and utterly beautiful, bouncing off the antique cornices, filling every inch of the room.
“Alright,” Peter said at last.
Perhaps as a peace offering, he poured more wine for them both, pushed a glass towards her.
“Thank you,” she muttered. She took a gulp, felt it burn the back of her throat as it went down. She could feel his gaze on her, watchful. “What?”
“Aren’t you scared?” He sounded calm, even dispassionate, but she could tell he was worried.
“Shit yeah. Anybody would be.”
“So better to move.”
“You’re killing me, Peej. What did I just say?”
“OK, OK.” He held his hands up in mock surrender, giving her a thin smile. “Give you time. Back off. Mind my own business.”
“Please.”
She looked down at the bench. The salad was done. Scattered throughout were cherry tomatoes and slivers of capsicum, chunks of creamy Danish fetta drizzled with vinegar and olive oil. She reached for the cucumber, tossed it haphazardly. It looked beautiful with all the bright fresh ingredients, yet she could hardly remember making it.
“I’ll make the call,” she said tiredly, slowly. “I’ll call them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Peter glanced at her sceptically.
“I will. If you’ll just stop hassling me about it.”
“Good,” he said, pleased. Victorious.
“So much for not overstepping.”
Peter gave her a little shrug, and tried to put an arm around her but she batted him away, upset at his interference; upset at herself for telling him in the first place. Just upset. With everything. She felt the prick of tears, turned away sharply.
And then the boy was standing in the archway, his face a mask of confusion. He was holding the joystick in his hand, the cord trailing back into the lounge room.
“Why are you fighting?” he said.
Elena felt her stomach drop, wondered how long he’d been standing there. “It’s OK, darling. Uncle Peter and I were just talking about grown-up stuff. Go back to your game. Dinner will be ready soon.”
But Daniel didn’t move.
“How about a game? Maybe you can show me how to play,” Peter said too brightly.
He didn’t wait for an answer, already crossing the kitchen with long strides. When he reached the boy he took him by the arm, led him gently from the room.
Daniel shrugged, looking back at Elena.
She gave him a weak smile, felt the pounding in her head.
Dinner began as a quiet affair. The boy stole glances in Peter’s direction when he wasn’t looking, as though suspicious, perhaps waiting for him to explode, to shout and slam his fists on the table – to revert to type, the only type of man he’d ever known. She knew from the downcast eyes, that he was on edge.
Elena pushed the platter of chicken towards him. She’d already carved it roughly, and plunged a serving fork into the shiny golden breast. It stood proudly upright, like a flag hoisted atop a mountain. “I think the man of the house should do the honours. You want to serve everyone, Daniel?”
The boy brightened, slid from his seat, reaching for the fork with both hands. He stuck his tongue out in concentration as he manoeuvred the pieces away from the carcass.
“Look,” said Peter. “He’s got the hang of it already.”
Daniel smiled.
Elena took a roast potato from the terracotta platter and nibbled around its edges. “You need any help?”
He shook his head.
“What about a glass of orange juice?”
He nodded at that, and pulled a leg free, holding it up to Peter who pushed forward his empty plate.
“Well done, mate,” he said.
“Tidy work,” the boy replied.
Elena laughed. They were her own words repeated back at her. She couldn’t help feeling the flush of pride. Daniel gave her a happy little grin, pleased by her reaction. Then he was done. He had worked the chicken to the bone, leaving behind the translucent carcass swimming in pan juices and distended wedges of lemon. They had more than they could eat, golden mounds of banquet proportions.
“There’s no room for the potatoes, love,” Elena said, peeling a thin strip from the breast. She hung it down by her side and felt a wet tongue snatch it away.
Daniel started on a leg, shrugged. “The monster can have them.”
“The monster?” said Peter.
“In the garden.”
“Sorry?”
Elena glanced over at the boy, but couldn’t catch his eye.
“Zombies,” she said quickly. “He meant zombies. Apparently, it’s their favourite food.”
“Right,” Peter chuckled. “I didn’t know that.”
She gave him a little shrug, her heart in her throat. It had been a big thing to get Peter to back down, without introducing imaginary creatures into the mix. Elena turned back to Daniel with her eyebrows raised, throwing him a warning, but he was so engrossed in the chicken he didn’t even look up.
“So how do you kill a zombie?” Peter asked.
The boy twisted the fork in his solitary potato, considered the question. “You shoot them with a ray gun,” he said, as if this were common knowledge.
“But aren’t they already dead?”
Daniel nodded. “Not properly, though.”
“Right. So the ray gun kills them properly?”
“Yup.”
“Ah. I see.” He gave Elena that lovely familiar smile, those sparkling blue eyes.
She smiled back, held his gaze for a moment. Then she looked away. There was no point in getting sentimental. He loved Gerard, had said so the other night on the phone. He’d sounded almost apologetic at how rapidly their relationship had developed, at how this new love had so utterly consumed him. She poured herself some more wine, processing the memory. It made her chest ache and her heart feel under siege. Let it go, she told herself. Just let it go. She caught Peter’s quizzical expression, wondered if she’d said it out loud. Elena dropped her head and worked her way through the golden crust of another potato.
They ate in silence, the only sound their cutlery scraping against the plates. After a while, Elena glanced over at the boy. He appeared to be considering something, his chin jutting towards Peter.
“Uncle Peter,” he said, pausing with a fork in one hand. “Where do I get a ray gun?”
“I don’t know, mate. From the toy shop, I guess.”
“No,” he said impatiently. “A real one.”
“A real one?” Peter glanced at Elena with an expression of mild panic. “Well, I reckon you might have to get in touch with NASA about that. Like getting a template … maybe a prototype or something.”
Daniel looked at him blankly.
She saw Peter’s patient smile, but knew he was out of his depth, the big words displaying his lack of experience with children.
“They’re only pretend, love,” she said gently. “The batteries make them light up and shoot, just like the lightsaber I got you.”
He was shaking his head. “I know that.”
“Of course you do,” she said, chastised. Sometimes she forgot how smart he really was. “Maybe,” she continued, thinking about it, “maybe Uncle Peter’s right – you can write to NASA and ask them to make you one. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
Daniel pursed his lips. “But I can’t wait that long. I need a real one now.”
She was studying him now, intently. It was there on his face, the weight of something. “Daniel ––. Something you want to tell me?”
There was a short pause, the silence between them like a presence.
“For when my dad comes back again,” the boy said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Elena leaned forward. “For when your dad comes back?”
“Yeah.”
“What —. Why?”
“So he can’t hurt us, mama.”
She pulled herself upright, tried to sound casual. “Did he say that … when he came to see you at school?”
There was a longer silence now, as though they were all processing this possibility.
“No. But he’s bad. I know he will.”
Elena pushed her knife and fork together as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite. “You don’t have to worry about him, love. You’re safe with me.”
She realised how lame that sounded.
“Your mum’s right,” Peter chimed in. “You’re safe here – away from him. Nothing to worry about, mate.”
Daniel dipped his head, took another mouthful of chicken. She couldn’t tell if he bought their reassurances, would be surprised if he did. Even she could hear the anxiety in her voice, the uncertainty in her words. But it wasn’t all her, she reasoned. It had been there all along. This fear of what his father could do to him. Long before the day he turned up at the school. Long before she had even come into the picture. It was with Daniel all the time, nothing could change that.
“What about dessert, then?” she said, standing up, clearing the plates, smiling. It made her cheeks ache, this artifice. “We’ve got pavlova and cream.”
The boy nodded absently and wandered back to the couch.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Peter.
She shook her head. “Can you go sit with him – keep him company for a bit? Just don’t mention you-know-who, or ray guns. Anything to do with monsters ... ” Elena paused. “Actually, he’s not that thrilled with school either.”
“So,” Peter said, smiling ruefully, “maybe just stick to zombies, then.”
“You are a delight,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“I do know that.” He smiled, and his face took on a lightness she hadn’t seen all night
She smiled back and began stacking the dinner plates, felt a wash of relief. The evening had worn her down. It still hung between them, all that he had said, her protests, his lack of faith, this situation out of control. But he seemed more relaxed now, even subdued, and she was happy for it. For this late respite.
“I do get it, El,” he said in a soft voice. “Why you’re doing all this. Why you’re fighting so … so hard for him.”
Peter’s compassion threatened to unravel her, and she could only nod.
“You’ve done an amazing job with him,” Peter continued. “You should be proud. He’s an absolute cracker.”
“Yeah, he is,” said Elena, almost in a whisper, unable to share with him her plan to protect the child, the lunacy of it. It was there, though, taking shape in a dark corner of her mind, something so reprehensible she could hardly believe it herself.