Read Online My Brother’s Keeper by Donna Malane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Donna Malane
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falling below me in slow motion. Another kick down. Closer now, I make out a little white moon face, framed in the back window — Falcon. His eyes are wide; his hands are flattened against the glass. His mouth is a big ‘O’.
And then in one of those time jumps that happen in dreams, it’s me in the car. I’m not Falcon. I’m in the front passenger seat. The belt is tight across my chest. I’m wearing a pale blue cotton dress with lace trim on the hem. My knees are the knees of a young girl. Falcon is yelling something at me. He’s yelling in another language, or he’s yelling something I can’t make any sense of. The car is still falling. Lake weed droops past the window. An old supermarket trolley lies on its side in the muddy bed. We’re nearly at the bottom. We’ll stop falling soon. There will be a bump. I wonder if it will hurt. Dying — I wonder if it will hurt. The water is as thick as mushroom soup. As if an un-mute button has been pushed, Falcon yells ‘No!’ as loud as a fire alarm. Over and over he’s yelling it, ‘Nononononono!’ as if it’s one word. His little arms are tight around my neck. I want to remind him to put his seatbelt on. Stupid. The car lands, thud ! A soft landing, a parachute landing. Mud billows up with a whoosh and settles on the window. Pretty soon all thewindows will be covered with it. The door won’t open. I push harder but the weight of the water pushes back. Outside the car everything is soupy but the liquid that dribbles from the tops of the windows is clear. The river bubbles up through the floor. Already my ankles look wobbly and enormous.
Falcon’s screams are right in my ear. He bashes my head with his fists. He’s only little but it hurts. A distorted face appears at the windscreen. A hand brushes away the mud, left, right, left. I try to tell Falcon we’re saved but no words come out. It’s Karen. Her hand is a windscreen wiper. Or maybe she’s waving goodbye. I point to the door and make pulling gestures, but she just looks at me. The car tilts as if hit by a big underwater tsunami. Falcon’s hot face is on my neck. He’s yelling at me.
‘Stop.’ He’s yelling. ‘Stop!’
‘Stop!’ I bolt awake. I’m on the bedroom floor, face down, cheek pressed into the carpet. ‘Stop!’
A man is on top of me, pinning me down. I’m completely naked. His hand is pressed hard on the back of my head, forcing my face into the carpet. His other hand has pinned my wrist to the floor. He is straddled over my arse, knees pressed painfully into my ribcage. His hot face pressed against the back of my head.
‘Stop! Just stop!’
Breathing hard, he gives my cheek a good shove into the carpet for emphasis. Memory and consciousness stutter back. I’m in Auckland. I’m not trapped in a car. I’m not underwater. I stop struggling. Immediately his weight lifts as he scoots backwards off me.
‘What the fuck!’ In the darkened room, he isn’t much morethan a shadow crouched against the far wall, the king-size bed angled between us. The slatted streetlight illuminates his palms, held up in a placatory gesture. There’s a raw patch on the back of my head. My cheek burns.
‘Did you hit me?’ My voice is slurred. I sound drugged. I’m still surfacing.
‘I didn’t hit you,’ he said. ‘I tried to wake you. You just flew at me like a madwoman. Are you nuts or what? You attacked me! Fuck!’
‘Fook.’ A faint Irish lilt. My world returned to normal. Normal, that is, apart from discovering myself naked on the floor with a complete stranger who has just attacked me, or me him — whatever. Given the circumstances, it seemed appropriate to go on the aggressive.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m turning the light on, alright?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
He waited, hands up in surrender, until I’d covered myself with the bed sheet. My cheek smarted. My neck was bruised. My pride wasn’t in such good shape either.
Dark-haired, early thirties, ripped shirt
And then in one of those time jumps that happen in dreams, it’s me in the car. I’m not Falcon. I’m in the front passenger seat. The belt is tight across my chest. I’m wearing a pale blue cotton dress with lace trim on the hem. My knees are the knees of a young girl. Falcon is yelling something at me. He’s yelling in another language, or he’s yelling something I can’t make any sense of. The car is still falling. Lake weed droops past the window. An old supermarket trolley lies on its side in the muddy bed. We’re nearly at the bottom. We’ll stop falling soon. There will be a bump. I wonder if it will hurt. Dying — I wonder if it will hurt. The water is as thick as mushroom soup. As if an un-mute button has been pushed, Falcon yells ‘No!’ as loud as a fire alarm. Over and over he’s yelling it, ‘Nononononono!’ as if it’s one word. His little arms are tight around my neck. I want to remind him to put his seatbelt on. Stupid. The car lands, thud ! A soft landing, a parachute landing. Mud billows up with a whoosh and settles on the window. Pretty soon all thewindows will be covered with it. The door won’t open. I push harder but the weight of the water pushes back. Outside the car everything is soupy but the liquid that dribbles from the tops of the windows is clear. The river bubbles up through the floor. Already my ankles look wobbly and enormous.
Falcon’s screams are right in my ear. He bashes my head with his fists. He’s only little but it hurts. A distorted face appears at the windscreen. A hand brushes away the mud, left, right, left. I try to tell Falcon we’re saved but no words come out. It’s Karen. Her hand is a windscreen wiper. Or maybe she’s waving goodbye. I point to the door and make pulling gestures, but she just looks at me. The car tilts as if hit by a big underwater tsunami. Falcon’s hot face is on my neck. He’s yelling at me.
‘Stop.’ He’s yelling. ‘Stop!’
‘Stop!’ I bolt awake. I’m on the bedroom floor, face down, cheek pressed into the carpet. ‘Stop!’
A man is on top of me, pinning me down. I’m completely naked. His hand is pressed hard on the back of my head, forcing my face into the carpet. His other hand has pinned my wrist to the floor. He is straddled over my arse, knees pressed painfully into my ribcage. His hot face pressed against the back of my head.
‘Stop! Just stop!’
Breathing hard, he gives my cheek a good shove into the carpet for emphasis. Memory and consciousness stutter back. I’m in Auckland. I’m not trapped in a car. I’m not underwater. I stop struggling. Immediately his weight lifts as he scoots backwards off me.
‘What the fuck!’ In the darkened room, he isn’t much morethan a shadow crouched against the far wall, the king-size bed angled between us. The slatted streetlight illuminates his palms, held up in a placatory gesture. There’s a raw patch on the back of my head. My cheek burns.
‘Did you hit me?’ My voice is slurred. I sound drugged. I’m still surfacing.
‘I didn’t hit you,’ he said. ‘I tried to wake you. You just flew at me like a madwoman. Are you nuts or what? You attacked me! Fuck!’
‘Fook.’ A faint Irish lilt. My world returned to normal. Normal, that is, apart from discovering myself naked on the floor with a complete stranger who has just attacked me, or me him — whatever. Given the circumstances, it seemed appropriate to go on the aggressive.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m turning the light on, alright?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
He waited, hands up in surrender, until I’d covered myself with the bed sheet. My cheek smarted. My neck was bruised. My pride wasn’t in such good shape either.
Dark-haired, early thirties, ripped shirt
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