My mobile rang in the kitchen as I unlocked the front door. I’d left it on the bench after texting Mum, asking her to meet me at the pool if she finished work before six. I sprinted through the house, but it had rung out by the time I reached it.
Three missed calls. All from Mum. And two text messages.
Don’t cook. Eating out. xx
That could mean one of only two things: celebration or exhaustion. The next text didn’t give me any clues as to which way her day had swung.
Home at 6. xx
I glanced at my watch. It was almost half-past. I’d find out soon enough. My phone beeped. Another text.
On my way. xx
I texted two xx’s back at her and hit Send. I needed to change. My wet Speedos had soaked the crotch of my shorts and had started to chafe on the walk home. I needed to swap them for something soft and dry, pronto, as Hero would say.
I wandered out to the enclosed verandah where I slept, stripping off my shirt and shorts. I hung my togs on the doorknob where they sagged like a pair of sad old-man undies. Please, just let them make it through to the carnival, that’s all that I asked.
Unfamiliar music floated in from next door. Some sort of old-fashioned piano, the kind of thing that court musicians would play for royalty in powdered wigs, white stockings and gold-buckled shoes.
It stopped as soon as I moved towards the window. The day was pulling down its blinds, hardly bothering with twilight at all. It would be dark soon. Another day over. Another day survived.
I shook myself. I had been living way too much inside my own head lately; a side effect of spending too much time on my own.
Normally, missing out on squad training would really knot my hairs. But not today. Talking to Hero had been fun. I was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. Even if he didn’t talk to me at school, we could still hang out at the pool.
I pulled on my old Mr Happy T-shirt. It was tissue-thin and ragged and dated back to the days when I used to make Mum buy me tent-sized T-shirts to hide my blubber. I’d grown twenty centimetres taller since then, but it still hung on me. Most of my T-shirts were the same; I’d worn them out before I’d grown into them.
Like Mr Marquez and his teeth.
The sound of the Getz pulling in under the house bounced me off the bed. Mum was home. I walked into a pair of thongs and headed for the lounge room.
The excited clack of her heels on the internal stairs greeted me like a private code. A bit more tension rolled off my shoulders; she’d had a good day.
‘Hi, honey-bun. How was your day?’ I dipped my forehead so she could plant the compulsory kiss somewhere appropriate. I didn’t do lips, so I had to make sure that she could reach an acceptable alternative.
‘It was OK.’ And for once I wasn’t lying. ‘Where are we eating?’
The theme song for the Lone Ranger, Mum’s signature tune, rang out from her mobile. She raised a single red-tipped nail, mouthed Sorryand answered the call.
‘Hello, Lydia Hoey Hobson speaking.’
The real-estate conversation that followed dragged on long enough for her to change into a pair of silver spiked heels and a white peasant-style dress. She emerged from the bedroom still talking, threading silver hoops through her ears. She crooked a finger at me and grabbed a bottle of red wine from the rack on the hallstand. She was still singing the praises of the dump overlooking the river as I followed her out the front door.
‘If we’re walking, it better be close,’ I warned. ‘I’ve got chafing.’
She winked at me, not drawing breath in her razzle-dazzle sell job. She had perfected the art of talking and listening at the same time, so I kept right on talking, figuring she’d get the gist of it.
‘I saw a couple of good places just up the road. An all-you-can-eat pasta deal for ten dollars a head. Or I could go a foot-long meatball sub if you just want something quick.’
I wasn’t fussy, but I was fanging for something. Swimming would do that to you.
She hung up on some sort of promise, and did a twirl in front of the house next door. ‘So, how do I look?’
‘Like an angel that has lost its wings.’
It was Caleb, swathed in what looked like a knee-length black cape, standing guard at the front gate to his house. My skin prickled, despite the warmth of the evening. He’d been waiting for us.
‘Lydia, Henry–’ He swung the gate open with a rusty creak. His cape parted, revealing a blood-red silk lining that rippled out as he extended one arm towards the path. ‘Welcome to our new home.’
Paper lanterns lined the cobbled path. The open front door was flanked by great standing candelabras, dripping wax in crazy stalactites from outstretched bronzed arms. More candles flickered through the open leadlight windows, casting shadows that capered beyond the casements and into the garden below.
I automatically drew back; no way was I setting foot in that yard. Not when it looked like it had been decorated for some sort of weird ritual. But Mum seemed oblivious to the creepiness of the place. ‘Oh, Caleb, it’s beautiful!’
She handed him the wine and turned her smile up to full volume, its dazzle reflected in Caleb’s face. ‘Come on, Henry.’
Before I could stop her, she had stepped across the threshold and was picking her way along the eerily lit path leading up to the front door.
Caleb turned back to where I stood, rooted to the spot, on the other side of the gate. He said nothing, merely extended his caped arm like a blood-soaked wing, motioning for me to come in.