bacteria. Fear of being robbed. Fear of people looking at me the way they look at homeless people.
Androphobia. I looked that one up.
I would have to find myself a metaphorical duck.
What would you do if you were afraid of spiders and ducks? You’d be stuffed.
9
P IPPIES
Itsy wasn’t always the way she is now. We used to go to the beach house every weekend. She was a sun-soaker, lying with her bikini straps splayed across the towel, shading her eyes and reading a fat paperback. I would sit at the water’s edge with one of my dad’s T-shirts over my swimmers, heavy with water, encrusted in sand. Dad would call me ‘Mackenzie Schnitzel’ when we came inside.
I made mermaid castles by dribbling the wet sand from the tips of my fingers into folds and curlicues. After I made a whole mermaid palace complex I’d call to my mother and she would run over the hot sand on the tips of her toes to look.
If I looked up I would often see Dad sitting on the front deck with his shirt open, drinking a beer.
For lunch we would have hot chips from the surf lifesaving club, eating with our mouths open so we wouldn’t burn our tongues. Mostly Dad would come to eat with us, unless he was with business associates.
Then at the end of the day, when everyone else had already gone home, Itsy and I would chase the waves to catch pippies. I’d laugh at her on her knees digging like a dog. We would collect them in a bucket, vowing to take them home to cook, but we only ever caught a dozen. When we were exhausted we’d tip them out and watch them slip sideways into the wet sand and disappear with a wink.
My mother doesn’t love me because she’s a junkie. Junkies can only love people temporarily. They are emotionally nomadic.
10
D ARKNESS
As the darkness stole the afternoon away I drank three, four, five mugs of tea from river water in the billycan, which was a mistake.
I cooked half the sausages on the wonky grill and ate them with my fingers. I wrapped a potato in foil and threw it into the flames. After what I imagined to be an hour, I took it out again. It was blackened on the outside and raw in the middle, but when it had cooled enough to hold I ate it like an apple.
Despite Wendy and Stefan’s advice, I built the fire until the flames licked up to the height of a man. It was too hot to sit by. For a few minutes I stood at the edge of its heat and felt the darkness press against my back. Then I sat inside the door of my tent and waited.
The fire died down a little and I stretched out on the bedroll in my sleeping bag.
The river is much louder at night. I zip up the front of the tent, listen to the white noise and watch the firelight play across the fabric above me.
A shadow falls between my tent and the fire. I see the shape of a man standing with his hands on his hips. It looks sharp, like the silhouette of open scissor blades. It flickers for a moment and is gone.
All my muscles are rigid, my jaw locks. There is a man out there – a scissor-man. Bethany’s serial killer. I can’t see anything in here. I’m listening, but the sound of the water pushes against my ears and grates inside my head like steel wool.
I kneel in my sleeping bag, my muscles uncoiling like a spring, and slowly unzip the tent flaps. I take a deep breath and then rip them back. There is no man.
I lie still with my heart throbbing in my throat.
After a long time I see a sprite flit over the stones at the edge of the fire. She is tangerine orange, naked – childlike – no bigger than the span of my hand. She has yellow eyes, split up the middle like a cat’s. She flutters a forked tongue at me through sharp, shiny metal teeth like nails.
There is a small boy at the edge of the path, standing underneath a tree. He wears a top hat and white make-up like a mime artist. He wipes tears from his black eyes.
There is a woman pacing where the water laps against the stones. She wrings her hands. She’s wearing a nightdress that clings to her skin.
Androphobia. I looked that one up.
I would have to find myself a metaphorical duck.
What would you do if you were afraid of spiders and ducks? You’d be stuffed.
9
P IPPIES
Itsy wasn’t always the way she is now. We used to go to the beach house every weekend. She was a sun-soaker, lying with her bikini straps splayed across the towel, shading her eyes and reading a fat paperback. I would sit at the water’s edge with one of my dad’s T-shirts over my swimmers, heavy with water, encrusted in sand. Dad would call me ‘Mackenzie Schnitzel’ when we came inside.
I made mermaid castles by dribbling the wet sand from the tips of my fingers into folds and curlicues. After I made a whole mermaid palace complex I’d call to my mother and she would run over the hot sand on the tips of her toes to look.
If I looked up I would often see Dad sitting on the front deck with his shirt open, drinking a beer.
For lunch we would have hot chips from the surf lifesaving club, eating with our mouths open so we wouldn’t burn our tongues. Mostly Dad would come to eat with us, unless he was with business associates.
Then at the end of the day, when everyone else had already gone home, Itsy and I would chase the waves to catch pippies. I’d laugh at her on her knees digging like a dog. We would collect them in a bucket, vowing to take them home to cook, but we only ever caught a dozen. When we were exhausted we’d tip them out and watch them slip sideways into the wet sand and disappear with a wink.
My mother doesn’t love me because she’s a junkie. Junkies can only love people temporarily. They are emotionally nomadic.
10
D ARKNESS
As the darkness stole the afternoon away I drank three, four, five mugs of tea from river water in the billycan, which was a mistake.
I cooked half the sausages on the wonky grill and ate them with my fingers. I wrapped a potato in foil and threw it into the flames. After what I imagined to be an hour, I took it out again. It was blackened on the outside and raw in the middle, but when it had cooled enough to hold I ate it like an apple.
Despite Wendy and Stefan’s advice, I built the fire until the flames licked up to the height of a man. It was too hot to sit by. For a few minutes I stood at the edge of its heat and felt the darkness press against my back. Then I sat inside the door of my tent and waited.
The fire died down a little and I stretched out on the bedroll in my sleeping bag.
The river is much louder at night. I zip up the front of the tent, listen to the white noise and watch the firelight play across the fabric above me.
A shadow falls between my tent and the fire. I see the shape of a man standing with his hands on his hips. It looks sharp, like the silhouette of open scissor blades. It flickers for a moment and is gone.
All my muscles are rigid, my jaw locks. There is a man out there – a scissor-man. Bethany’s serial killer. I can’t see anything in here. I’m listening, but the sound of the water pushes against my ears and grates inside my head like steel wool.
I kneel in my sleeping bag, my muscles uncoiling like a spring, and slowly unzip the tent flaps. I take a deep breath and then rip them back. There is no man.
I lie still with my heart throbbing in my throat.
After a long time I see a sprite flit over the stones at the edge of the fire. She is tangerine orange, naked – childlike – no bigger than the span of my hand. She has yellow eyes, split up the middle like a cat’s. She flutters a forked tongue at me through sharp, shiny metal teeth like nails.
There is a small boy at the edge of the path, standing underneath a tree. He wears a top hat and white make-up like a mime artist. He wipes tears from his black eyes.
There is a woman pacing where the water laps against the stones. She wrings her hands. She’s wearing a nightdress that clings to her skin.
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