The car was gone. He’d waited, hiding under the bed – the bed, for God’s sake, as if that wouldn’t have been the first place they’d look – for ten minutes after the car’s engine started up. He felt stupid, standing at the window, pulling cobwebs and dustballs out of his hair, now that there weren’t any dodgy-looking blokes peeking inside or lurking in the woods.
Everything looked so calm – a squirrel climbed up the side of a pine tree, a sparrow swooped to the ground and picked up a piece of dried twig. Could he have imagined the whole thing – had some kind of post-traumatic hallucination? Maybe it was a vision – a message from the spirit world, just as his mother’s face had come to him so clearly, voicing such strange and unfamiliar words.
Maybe it was a warning.
Two figures appeared in the window – Jesus! Peter jumped back, heart catching, voice gasping. It was nobody dangerous, though – just Etta and that new boyfriend of hers. Hunkered down, more crouching than standing, they passed like fast-moving shadows, creeping towards the door.
So it must have been real. They must have seen the men, too. They must be scared – like him – must want to come back inside.
The door handle rattled in the kitchen. A fist pounded the glass.
‘Peter?’ The boy’s voice.
Peter held his breath – waiting, thinking.
Seconds passed. A minute. The banging got louder.
‘Come on, man. Give us a break.’
It was odd, this power. He could let them in, or he could keep them locked out. It was entirely up to him. He could force them to go back to that useless wigwam if he wanted, or he could let them into the cabin – his cabin – where there was a telephone, where there was food and water, where you could shutter the windows and lock the doors.
More pounding.
Idiots. Why wouldn’t they stop? Why wouldn’t they just piss off and leave him alone? People might hear them. Fishermen out on the lake, the neighbours the other side of the woods – what was their name? Nussbaum.
The fat guy with the gun. He’d hear the noise and come back. Is that what they wanted?
‘Peter?’ Etta was whining for him too. ‘Could you let us in please?’
He hurried to the kitchen to open the door, not out of kindness or concern, he told himself, not because he was a decent bloke or a caring person. It wasn’t that English sense of fair play, either.
No. He just needed to shut the wankers up.
As soon as the door was open, Etta pushed past him, shoved the Indian boy out of the way, and ran out of the kitchen, through the living room, off to the bedroom. Her face was red – had she been crying again?
Peter looked at Jonah, who seemed pretty messed up too – his face dirty, his hair all tangled. ‘What the hell did you do out there?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jonah stood back, flinching, as if he thought Peter was about to hit him.
‘You know what I mean,’ Peter whispered through clenched teeth. He stepped forward again, his cheeks burning with jealousy and rage.
‘No, I don’t know.’ Jonah had his hands out, playing the innocent.
Peter felt like spitting. ‘Are you taking the piss or something?’
‘The what?’ Jonah pulled a face – still mocking him, still acting dumb.
‘Do you want me to spell it out?’
The Indian boy shook his head.
Well, Peter wouldn’t spell it out. Etta and Jonah. Alone. Laughing. He couldn’t even bear to think about what else they might have been doing.
While Jonah glared at him, his lips curled in contempt, Peter backed away and stumbled through the kitchen doorway into the living room. He looked out the living room windows – his living room windows. Tall pine trees framed the view. The lake looked electric, glowing deep blue – the colour of Etta’s eyes – in the afternoon sun.
Jonah came into the room, stood beside him. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It was a stupid thing to do, I admit that. But I told her I was sorry, OK?’
‘That’s all you could do?’ Peter sputtered. ‘Apologise?’
‘Look, I know what I did wasn’t right, but I explained it to her – I tried to, at least – only she wouldn’t listen.’
‘And can you blame her?’ The anger was welling up inside him again. ‘After all the things she’s been through, for you to go and. . .’
He couldn’t say it. He didn’t even want to think it.
‘OK,’ Jonah sighed. He put his hands up, pretending to surrender, as he backed toward the door to the porch. ‘OK. That’s enough. You win.’
Jonah tapped the door open with his foot, letting the screen slam behind him. He jumped over the rotten, spongy steps, landing gracefully on the lawn. Peter thought about locking the door, refusing to let him come in again. It would serve him right, after what he’d done. Serve him right for spoiling things, for—
There was a noise in the bedroom – a gentle cough, Etta’s footsteps, water running in the bath. Well, Etta was safe, at least. That was the main thing. The men, whoever they were, were gone.
Peter went to the door, looked out at the lake again. A family of ducks skimmed the shoreline, leaving tiny ripples in their wake. Jonah was at the edge of the woods, halfway down the hill. He was hunched over, back bent, digging his fingers into the soil at the base of a huge oak tree. He pulled something out of the earth, held it gently – a small plant, with a cluster of pink and white flowers. He put it to his lips, took a tiny bite before moving further towards the beach. He made it look so natural, Peter thought – pick up a plant, smell it, eat it. That gnawing bitterness in his stomach twisted again. What had he been able to offer? A mouldy sandwich. Two pieces of bruised English fruit.
Halfway down to the lake, Jonah stopped and looked out. Had he seen something, Peter wondered? Had the men come back? Jonah looked around restlessly, as though he weren’t sure where he should go – back to the cabin, down to the lake, into the woods. He inched slowly up the hill, never taking his eyes off the water, never missing a backward step.
A second later, Peter heard what Jonah did – the sound of a boat, like the one from this morning, a clunky engine sputtering close to the shore. He moved towards the door and looked out onto the lake. The sound got louder, but Peter still couldn’t see anything. Where was the bloody thing? Why wasn’t it moving away?
Jonah stepped onto the porch and slipped silently through the door. ‘Fishermen?’ he whispered.
Peter’s heart was still pounding and his throat was dry. He didn’t dare answer, in case his voice cracked, so he just nodded, while he waited, holding his breath.
The engine sounds got smoother, the noise drifted away and, down on the beach, wavelets caused by the boat’s wake lapped against the sand.
‘And those other guys,’ Jonah said, ‘the ones with the shotgun – they were, like, hunters, right?’
Peter grunted something that sounded vaguely like ‘yes’.
‘They sure scared the hell out of Etta.’ Jonah nodded toward the bedroom. ‘She kinda flipped when that car pulled up – got all weird.’
‘She must have thought they were the men she’s running from.’
‘What men?’
‘Her mum’s boyfriend and his gang – you know, the ones who shoved her into their car and. . .’
Jonah’s face went red. Obviously, he didn’t know about the men. That meant Etta hadn’t told him. Suddenly, Peter felt a rush of pride, a swell of self-importance – the biggest loser on the football team had finally scored a goal.
‘You know that’s why she’s here, don’t you?’ Peter didn’t even try to get rid of the nasty, sneering tone in his voice.
‘Woah,’ Jonah said. ‘She got, like, abducted? God, that’s just—’
‘Appalling? Disgusting?’ He knew he sounded like some rent-a-Brit baddy in a cheap Hollywood film, but it was good – for once – to feel so superior.
‘I said I was sorry, OK?’ Jonah put his hands up – for real, this time. Then he turned around, went through the kitchen to the back door.
‘I’m going out to the wigwam for a while,’ he said, sighing. ‘You should lock this place up, just in case those guys come back.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ Peter said.
‘No, seriously, you should—’
‘I said we’ll be all right.’
As Peter followed Jonah through the kitchen, something churned inside him again. What was it this time? Anger? ‘You win,’ Jonah had said. So why didn’t he feel like a winner now, watching Jonah go outside and skulk back to the wigwam?
As he heard the door slam, he picked up the telephone receiver that had been left on the worktop. He listened for a dial tone to make sure it was still working, and carefully put it back in its proper place. Then he crept to the door and waited, counting one, two, three – all the way to ten – before turning the lock. He lifted the curtain and peeked out – at the empty driveway, the scrubby lawn, the scraggy line of trees at the edge of the forest.
He remembered what Etta had said that morning – trying to big him up while he sat on the sand and sobbed like a baby.
Thank you for saving me.
What if she’d seen him when the men came? It was almost funny, thinking back on it. The way he’d dived under the bed as soon as they got out of their car. The way he’d cowered in fear, trying desperately not to wet himself. And what would she think if she saw him now – hiding behind a locked door, twitching the curtains like a terrified old man?
Thank you for saving me.
Ha bloody ha.