Seb crouched on the bough of the gum tree, four metres above the ground.
This was one of the most useful trees around. Strong branches, close together. Easy to climb, no nests or beehives. During the day Seb could see through the windows into the living room and all three bedrooms. But now it was night, and the curtains were drawn. He could only see the back deck in the moonlight.
He was frustrated. He’d gotten up before dawn on Friday and skipped school so he could spend the morning riding his e-bike along the highway. He’d chipped the motor to override the speed limiter and packed a spare battery in case the primary went dry halfway up the mountain. This time he hadn’t needed to take any tiles off the roof to break in—he’d stolen his father’s key. The two-storey, three-bedroom mansion was way out in the bush, away from Dad, his teachers, everyone. Seb had expected a weekend in paradise.
But soon after arriving, a car had rumbled up the driveway. Seb had grabbed some food from the fridge and stuffed it into his pack, then opened the ventilation grille in the east bedroom and squeezed through the hole in time to avoid being spotted. He’d hid inside the wall for hours, legs cramping, before there was a noisy argument on the deck about a hot tub. Seb had used the distraction to push open the grille, crawl out of the hole and slip out the front door. It had slammed behind him, but no one had come out to investigate.
He’d optimistically hoped the holiday-makers would only stay for one night, leaving him with the rest of the weekend to hang around, a prince in his own private castle. He came back on Saturday evening to find the lights out, even though it was still early. He’d thought he was in luck, until he’d heard moans from inside. Just now there had been a thunk, followed by a brief scream.
Seb had two options. He could spend another night shivering in his stolen tent, which he’d pitched on a previous visit, in case of this exact scenario. Or he could pedal through the dark for six hours to the townhouse where his furious father would be waiting.
Seb and his father were trapped in a feedback loop. When Dad found out Seb had been skipping school, he’d started driving him to Warrigal High and frog-marching him through the front door each morning. With no freedom during the day, Seb had taken to sneaking out at night with a spray can. So Dad had started dead-locking the doors. That made Seb feel even more trapped, so he started climbing out the window. Dad installed bars. And so on.
He didn’t know how long he could last like this. It had felt romantic and adventurous during the summer, stealing food from open-air markets and lying on soft grass under the stars. Now he was cold, and tired, and hungry. But so what? Maybe it didn’t matter if he starved or froze to death. He remembered Mum shrinking away to nothing in that chemo chair, wearing a bandanna that made her look like a pirate. Smiling at him with her creepy, eyebrowless face. Seb didn’t want to end up like that. The sooner he was gone, the sooner everyone could stop giving him those sad looks.
Visiting his mother in hospital had been hard, so he’d avoided it whenever possible. Now he knew not having visited her was even harder. He tried not to think about it, to live with no regrets. But there wasn’t much to distract him out here.
A scraping sound startled him.
He peered at the deck. One of the men staggered out through the sliding door that led to the east downstairs bedroom. One of his hands kept reaching out to the side, like he was steadying himself on invisible furniture.
Seb glared at the guy, hating him and everything he stood for. People said teenagers were irresponsible, but look at this grown man, so drunk he could barely stand, grinning after a night of crazy sex. Seb wasn’t an idiot: he knew what the groans and grunts he’d overheard meant.
Then again, the guy was fully dressed, in a suit and tie. And there was something weird about his hair—way longer on one side than the other.
The guy reached the hot tub and slowly, determinedly clambered into it. He didn’t even take off his clothes. He had to be very, very drunk.
Apparently not drunk enough, though. The half-submerged man picked up a champagne flute resting on the side of the tub. He peered into it, like it was a crystal ball. Then he looked around for a bottle to fill it with. A puzzled frown crossed his face.
As the guy turned, the dark mass on the side of his head glinted in the moonlight. It wasn’t hair. It was blood.
A chill crept down Seb’s spine. The guy felt around for a bottle, patting the sides of the tub. His hand roamed back and forth, slower and slower. Eventually he stopped moving.
After what felt like a long time, Seb slowly lowered himself down to the next branch, then the next. His shoulders burned. The guy didn’t react, staring at Seb without seeming to see him.
Soon Seb’s nerve broke. He jumped, fell the last metre and a half, and hit the ground with a splash of dead leaves. Then he just ran, hurtling down the trail until he reached the safety of his tent. He crawled inside and lay there, breathing heavily. No sounds pursued him. Did that mean the guy had been unconscious, from alcohol or a head injury, or both?
Seb told himself it wasn’t his problem. Fuck that guy. Fuck everybody.
He lay down on his mat, cocooned himself in his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come.