Anonymity Jones Page 7

  Then, finally, Emma and Juliet were gone, and Mr Moffat turned to her and smiled. ‘Hey, thanks for hanging around. Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘But such questions!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve been over all of that in class, I’m sure of it. Now then, I want to show you something. In here.’ He gestured towards the door at the back of the art room.

  ‘The darkroom?’

  ‘Yes.’ He gestured again.

  After she went in, he followed her, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch was loud in that little room.

  ‘Now I’m going to have to turn the light off for a minute or two,’ he explained. ‘But it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘OK. Where should I stand so I don’t get in your way?’

  ‘You’re fine if you stay right there. But don’t move around – I don’t want to trip over you.’

  He flicked the light off, and a complete, impenetrable blackness descended, wrapping around her and into her pores. She heard him busy at the bench – a splash of water, some kind of container being opened and re-closed with a rattle of a plastic lid – and she felt the air shifting around her as he moved about the room with confident but careful movements. More of the smell of wood shavings and incense.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Shh.’

  A click, then a quiet ticking, and the sound of patient breathing against a backdrop of steady-trickling water. She imagined stalactites and stalagmites around her, built over aeons of darkness and moisture. Then a tiny bell rang as the timer ended, and with the click of a switch the darkroom returned, bathed in a red light. Her eyes adjusted slowly, trying to reconcile the way all colours had become one or another shade of red or red-grey, and the walls, floor and ceiling were once again angular like they should be, not curved and carved like a limestone cave.

  Mr Moffat smiled. ‘You right there, Blinky?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good.’

  Reaching into the long stainless steel sink with some tongs, he swished around in one of the trays, before drawing out a large piece of photographic paper which he slid into another tray, below the slow stream of water. And after a few seconds he picked the paper up and turned it around. A dreamy station, a homeless man in a stare-down with the viewer.

  ‘Is that the one I liked?’ she asked.

  ‘It is. It’s a bit smaller than the print you saw the other day, but it’s the same picture. You can turn on the proper light now if you like.’

  In the glow from the naked overhead bulb, the colours in the image went from red and red-grey to proper colours – the heritage green of the station entrance, the greys and browns of the footpath and bricks, the wispy red of a ghostly handbag, the dirty yellow of the central subject’s shirt.

  ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t touch it yet. I have to hang it up.’ He pegged a corner of the wet paper to one of the cords spanning the room, and Anonymity took a step closer, tilting her head to one side to look at the photo, this image he’d developed for her. Drops of water gathered and fell from the picture. They hit the concrete floor and ran together, blending into a small, dark puddle.

  ‘You did this for me?’

  ‘You said you liked it. Seriously, it was nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s not nothing. It’s definitely something.’

  ‘Well. Consider it a gift. From a friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Moffat.’

  ‘You can call me Chris. In private.’

  ‘OK. Thank you, Chris.’ Then, in a moment that seemed to suck all the air from her lungs in an instant, like a paper bag used to treat hyperventilation, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. No, she kissed the air beside his cheek, but she felt his short stubble against her face, smelt more of those tight curls of timber and fragrant smoke. His hand went uncertainly to the curve of her shoulder.

  ‘Uh...’ he said.

  She stepped back. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘The door’s shut, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, that’s...’

  ‘When will it be dry? The picture.’

  ‘You can pick it up this afternoon.’

  But she didn’t go back that afternoon. Instead she headed straight home, speaking to no one. She had an early night, and for the first time since Raven had left, Anonymity fell asleep to a fantasy that had her flying nowhere.

  She returned to the art room the following day, for a lesson, slipping into the classroom as casually as she could, moments before the bell went. She took her seat, looked at the desk, saw Chris’s legs and shoes stop beside her stool. ‘You forgot,’ he said, sliding a large envelope in front of her. It made a very faint shuffling sound against the table, like a fine layer of grit had been left on the surface. A business card was stapled to the corner of the envelope, stating his name and phone number and who he was when he wasn’t a teacher: Chris Moff at, photographer and graphic artist.

  ‘Sorry. I had to ... My mum...’ She wondered briefly if he would be able to see her jugular vein pulsing beneath the skin of her neck, or feel the radiant heat from her face, warm against his arm. Whether he could sense her lie.

  ‘I hope you like it.’

  After the lesson, after the bell went, she couldn’t remember a single thing the class had studied. Not the topic, not the context, not even who had contributed to the discussion. But she knew who’d been doing most of the talking.

  And that night, once again, the fantasies. She enjoyed them, then packed them away again, just as she usually did. But for some reason these fantasies refused to fit back in the original packaging.

  That Saturday, Richard picked up Anonymity and Sam in a borrowed car and they took a drive out to the lake. Anonymity and her father walked beside the water, while Sam ran up and down in pursuit of geese and egrets until he had to flop down on the grass, breathless.

  Richard chuckled and blew smoke away from her. ‘Does he still growl at John?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mostly they just ignore each other,’ Anonymity said, slipping her camera from her shoulder and firing off a couple of shots. ‘Hey, guess what John gave me for my birthday.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘A computer. A laptop. It’s brilliant, and designed for doing graphics stuff, so it’s perfect for me.’

  ‘Your birthday isn’t for another three weeks.’

  ‘I know. But he said I needed it now.’

  ‘Maybe he worked out that you’re a Gemini.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘We Geminis are impatient. We need to have stuff now. We’re impulsive. And restless.’

  ‘Well, Dad, while we’re on the topic, I saw what you gave Raven when she went away. A Pisces necklace? Seriously? I mean, you don’t really believe in all that, do you?’

  He snorted. ‘Well, I know I’m always doing impulsive and restless Gemini-like things. Such as sleeping with sales reps, for instance.’ Then he sighed. ‘What a bloody mess.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe any of that zodiac crap, Dad.’

  He slipped his arm around her and squeezed, which made her grin. ‘So don’t believe it; I know I don’t. Although...’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘Our new receptionist at work is a Libran.’

  ‘So shouldn’t she be working in a lee-brary?’

  ‘No, I said she’s a ... Oh, I see what you did,’ he said, chuckling. ‘And the thing is, Felicity is everything Librans are supposed to be.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘She’s attractive, she likes nice things, but she can also be breathtakingly idle and startlingly promiscuous. And she gets fired up by Capricorns, like Greg from the office. You remember Greg, the senior partner?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And when I say fired up...’ He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘Suffice to say, when his wife finds out it’s going to get unsightly.’

  ‘You know what worries me most, Dad? Tha
t you know all this. About the star-signs, I mean.’

  ‘Look, Kellie was always into that bullshit – numbers and stars and planets and miscellaneous nonsense. We’d go for a Sunday morning coffee, and I’d be reading the business and travel section and she’d be updating me on our respective horoscopes.’ He looked at Anonymity and smiled, trying to lift the mood, perhaps. ‘Good times, huh?’

  Late the following morning, Anonymity was reading a magazine in the living room, near the fireplace, while John sat at the dining room table with the Sunday paper. He’d made two coffees, and no horoscopes had been read. Corinne was at the gym with a friend.

  The phone rang and John answered it. He seemed to know the caller, and they chatted for a while. Then the clues began to come together. Is it warm over there, because it’s starting to get cold here. Did you see any tulips? How about windmills? Getting enough sleep, between all the parties? Met anyone fun? How fun? Salacious, pally laughter. Anonymity, having worked out who it was, went to the kitchen where John was leaning against the bench, his ankles crossed and one arm cupping his elbow, chatting to her sister like an old friend.

  She held out her hand, beckoning for the phone, and a quick flicker of disapproval crossed John’s face, like a parent whose child has embarrassed him.

  Unperturbed, she continued to gesture. Raven was, after all, her sister, not his anything. And finally, when he half-turned away, she reached out and snatched the phone from him, leaving the room before she had a chance to even see his response, while Sam watched her go.

  ‘Raven? Is that you?’

  There was a delay on the line of a couple of seconds. ‘Hey, sis! What happened? One minute I was talking to John, and then–’

  ‘Yeah, I saved you. Oh, and Mum’s not here. She’s hitting the Stairmaster with Dawn.’

  ‘Ew, nasty! When will she be back?’

  ‘Dunno. In an hour or so, I guess.’

  ‘That’s OK. I wanted to talk to you anyway.’

  They spoke for five or six minutes, no more. Because of the delay, they wasted a good portion of those precious minutes talking over one another, apologising, and doing it again. It was wasteful and frustrating, and after a halting goodbye and a clumsy hang-up, Anonymity lay face-down across her bed and wept until she had no more tears.

  Then she heard her door slowly open.

  ‘Go away, Sam.’

  But it was John, trying to sound soothing. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Piss off!’

  The bed moved beneath her as he sat on the edge of the mattress. He wasn’t taking the hint.

  ‘I know you’re upset.’

  ‘What gave it away?’ She wiped her eyes furiously, refusing to face him. ‘Didn’t you hear me the first time? Leave me alone!’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, like people do in soap operas, but at that moment, to her surprise, it didn’t feel as corny as she might have expected. ‘I know you miss your sister.’

  ‘That’s really observant. Ever thought of being a counsellor?’

  ‘It’s natural to miss her. You grow up with someone and then one day they’re just gone. And sometimes you wonder whether you’re ever going to even see them again.’

  ‘Thanks so much for that, John. Do you want to kick me again while I’m down?’

  ‘Sorry, but those are the thoughts that come to you. I know.’

  She turned her head, forgetting for the moment to be self-conscious about her crying-face. ‘How would you know what thoughts come to me?’

  ‘Because I’ve been there.’

  ‘Pfft.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘What, your sister left to go overseas?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, my kids. They both went overseas – one to Europe, the other to the States.’

  ‘And did they come back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Greg died, in a bus accident in Spain,’ he said, picking at some fluff on the bedspread.

  Her anger was dissipating, changing form, like a lump of scented wax in a burner. ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, it was pretty rotten. And my daughter Susie didn’t come back either.’

  ‘How long since she went?’

  ‘Eight years. She went to America, got married, talked about coming home, but hasn’t yet, not even for a visit, or to show her husband and kids where she grew up. It’s like she’s ashamed. To be honest, I don’t think she feels like she’s got anything to come back for. Her family and friends, everything is over there now.’

  ‘What about you? You’re not over there.’

  He wiped his eyes, tried to force a grim smile, and mostly failed. ‘That doesn’t seem to be enough to bring her back.’

  ‘Have you been over there to visit her?’

  He attempted another smile. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Complicated how?’

  ‘It won’t work out. Not ever.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, I really am sorry. I’m sorry about your boy who...’

  ‘Died.’

  ‘Right. And your girl who doesn’t come back to see you. And also for snatching the phone before.’

  ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’

  She blew out a long, sighing breath. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. Well, that’s not completely true – I did mean to be rude, but I shouldn’t have been, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Come here.’ And just as he had when he gave her the computer, he spread his arms wide, and she hugged him. She didn’t feel so much drawn to him as obligated.

  ‘Sometimes we say things we don’t mean to hide other feelings,’ he said, the depth of his voice vibrating from his chest into hers.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘We feel one thing and mistake it for something else.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a long pause then, perhaps a few moments longer than she was comfortable with.

  ‘You’re a special kid,’ John said, his quiet voice loud in her ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are. I don’t think you realise it, but you are.’

  ‘Um...’

  She felt his hands slip a little further around her shoulders, pulling her in, making her frown.

  ‘Wait, what are you doing?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he murmured, as if he were comforting a pet that was being euthanised. ‘It’s OK.’

  She tried to straighten up, but his arms were strong.

  ‘No, this is all ... What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said again, and now his right hand was moving towards the front of her body, sliding up towards her breast, while his left slipped down towards the back of her jeans. And his lips, his mouth, and his breath like stale coffee and his rough stubble, and the smell of soap...

  ‘What the hell?’ She twisted, writhed violently, suddenly all elbows and spit, pushing him away and standing back from him, pantingly furious. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He seemed genuinely shocked by her reaction. ‘I thought after what you said...’

  ‘What did I say? What did I say?’

  ‘You said that you felt one thing, but mistook it for something else.’

  ‘No! You said that!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You did! You said–’

  ‘OK, but you agreed.’

  ‘I was talking about missing my sister, and about taking it out on you! Oh my God, you grabbed me! You tried to kiss me! You would have–’

  ‘Oh, now wait a minute!’ He raised his big truckie’s hands. ‘That’s a crazy accusation.’

  ‘Is it? Is it? You had your hands here, and here, and your mouth was all over here.’

  ‘I thought we had ... It felt like a moment.’

  ‘A moment? You thought we were having some kind of

  moment? Jesus!’

  Now his palms were upturned, pleading his innocence. ‘I don’t
know what it was. I’m sorry. I’d never have ... I thought it was something you wanted, that’s all.’

  ‘No. No! Why would I, with you? Oh God, I’m such an idiot! I should have known, after I saw the pictures.’

  ‘What pictures?’ His attention was suddenly locked onto her, his eyes gripping her tightly, more strongly than his hands or arms could have possibly held her.

  ‘No pictures,’ she said, pulling her top down to cover the gap above her jeans. ‘I think you should–’

  ‘ What pictures?’

  ‘Just ... just the ones you took of Raven at the airport. You put six or seven up on Netbook.’

  He relaxed a little, before collecting himself and tensing up once more. ‘What about them?’

  ‘How stupid do you reckon I am? Do you think I couldn’t see how they looked? Photos of me, photos of Raven, and not a single one of Mum.’

  ‘I took dozens of shots that day.’

  ‘I know, and not one of them was of Mum, who is your girlfriend, apparently. They were all of me and my sister.’

  ‘How would you know that? Have you been poking around in my things?’ Under his glare she felt very slight, even waifish.

  ‘I think you should go.’ Still fumbling with the hem of her top, she stepped back to allow him free passage to the door.

  But he didn’t go. ‘I asked you a question. Did you snoop around my stuff? Have you been on my computer?’

  She shook her head. ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You lying little bitch.’ He didn’t shout it – he just said it. Then he raised his hand, ready to hit her, and despite flinching away slightly, Anonymity pulled strength from somewhere within her, from a hardness that occupied her core like the cork in a cricket ball.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said, defiant. ‘Do it, if it’ll make you feel like a man to hit a minor.’ She snarled the last word, and saw it burrow home, saw his nostrils twitch in the smallest discernible way. ‘But if you do, you’d better do it so it doesn’t leave a mark.’

  He lowered his arm, seemingly deflated. ‘Why would I hit a girl? Is that who you think I am?’