Subverting the Serial Gaze: Interrogating the Legacies of Intergenerational Violence in Serial Killer Narratives

Emily O’Grady Bachelor of Fine Arts (Honours)

Creative Industries: Creative Writing and Literary Studies Queensland University of Technology

Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

2018

1 Abstract

This thesis subverts, disrupts and reimagines dominant narratives of fictional serial crime through a hybrid research paradigm of creative practice and critical analysis. The creative output of this thesis is an 80,000 word literary novel titled The Yellow House, accompanied by a 20,000 word critical exegesis. In the following, I argue that current fictional iterations of the serial killer literary genre are rigidly conservative, and remain fixed within the safe confines of genre conventions wherein the narrative bears little resemblance to how abject violence and the aftermath of serial crime plays out in real life. The broad framework of genre theory, accompanied by trauma theory, allows for an examination of the serial killer genre to identify the space in which my creative practice—an Australian, literary rendering of serial crime—fits as an extension and subversion of the genre. By reimagining the Australian serial killer narrative, I seek to challenge the reductive serial killer genre, and come to a potential offering of serial homicide that interrogates how the legacies of abject violence can be transmitted across generations. I do this by shifting the focus onto the aftermath of the crime and its numerous victims—in particular, the descendants of serial killers. The Yellow House presents a destabilising fictionalisation of serial crime that disrupts the conventions of the genre in order to contend with the complexity and instability of serial homicide. In this research, I use creative practice to illuminate a more authentic and unconsidered narrative that exists in the aftermath of serial crime.

2 Key Words serial murder, serial killer fiction, serial killer genre, intergenerational trauma, creative writing, Australian fiction

3 Statement of Original Authorship

The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted to meet requirements for an award at this or any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made.

QUT Verified Signature Signature:

Date: 14.06.2018

4 Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the many people who have helped and supported me throughout the writing of this thesis. I would especially like to thank my principal supervision, Sarah Holland-Batt, for her guidance and mentorship over the last few years. Her interest in and engagement with my work has been of great value to this thesis, and my writing practice in general. Thank you to my associate supervisor, Dr Donna Hancox for her help in shaping the exegesis. Thank you also to the QUT Creative Writing Faculty. I am particularly grateful for the assistance of a QUT Emerging Writers Mentorship and Ian See, whose insights shaped the direction of the manuscript. Thank you to Emma Doolan, for her extensive and thoughtful feedback on the manuscript in draft form, and to the postgraduate students I have worked alongside over the past few years.

5 List of Presentation and Publications

2018. “The Yellow House.” Allen & Unwin. ISBN 978 1 76063285 4.

2018. Winner of the Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award for “The Yellow House.”

2018. “The Yellow House.” Extracted in The Australian (April 14, 2018)

2017. “Not An Isolated Incident: Interrogating the Pattern of Male Violence Against Women in Contemporary Australian Crime Fiction.” Paper presented at Captivating Criminality 4. Crime Fiction: Detection, Public and Private, Past and Present. Bath Spa University, UK

6 Contents

Abstract 2 Key Words 3 Statement of Authorship 4 Acknowledgments 5 List of Presentations and Publications 6 Contents 7 Creative Practice: The Yellow House 8 Introduction 211 Definitions 216 Research Question 218 Research Methods 219 Literature Review 221 Textual Analysis Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land 245 An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire 253 Reflections and Conclusions 265 Reference List 276

7

The Yellow House

8 PROLOGUE

Cassie once told me that twins have special powers. He said they can read each other’s thoughts and feel pain in the same spots even if only one of them has been hurt. But that wasn’t true for Wally and me. When Wally tripped in the kitchen and burned his hand on the stovetop I didn’t feel it. When I came off my bike and into the barbed wire surrounding the paddock, Wally laughed like a loon as I hosed the blood off my elbows and knees. I used to send Wally brain messages, secret thoughts I hoped would worm into his mind without using human words anyone could overhear, things I was too embarrassed to say out loud. Later, I realised they never worked—that I was as much a mystery to Wally as he was to me. If we were proper twins, I would’ve been able to latch on to Wally’s brain and know all the things he somehow found out, like magic—all the secret stories he kept from me, just because I was a girl and he liked the feeling of knowing more than I did. Even before I knew anything about Granddad Les—the ugly things he did when he drove trucks up north and back again—Wally and me sometimes dared each other to see how close to the knackery we could get. It was way out in the bottom paddock, and Dad had banned us from going further than the dam. Wally said it was because the whole paddock was haunted. He said he could see ghosts wisping in the grass like sheets blown from the washing line. But even then I knew for sure that was a lie. Our house sat at the edge of the paddock, down a dirt road off the side of the highway. There were no other houses close by, except for the yellow house over the fence. A weatherboard, almost identical to ours except for the colour: the same rickety verandah that looked out over the hilly paddock and the inky mountains on the other side of the highway, the dirt crawl space that rustled like tinsel if you gave the nesting cockies a fright. Les lived in the yellow house before he died, two years before Wally and I were born. When he died, the house became Uncle Dermott’s. Cassie told me that Dermott only came back to town for Les’s funeral, but a few months after me and Wally were born—a few months after the cops searched the paddock— he drove his car into a dam and drowned, still buckled into the driver’s seat. The house sat empty for all that time, until the year we turned eleven. Helena and Tilly moved next door not long after that, and then Ian showed up as well, and before I knew it everything had started to shift and, though I tried, it was

9 impossible to steer things back to how it was. Now, I know that everything was set in stone the moment Les decided to take those girls off the highway, drive them back to the knackery and leave them in the paddock where no one would find what was left of them for years and years. Now, I know everything he did trickled down and created us all, because as it turned out he was the god of all our lives.

10 PART ONE

1.

We watched Helena and Tilly from the verandah for almost three days before any of us spoke to them. Dad told us to stop gawking, but even he sometimes stopped on the stairs and watched as they climbed into the Commodore and rattled towards the highway. They came back with mops and brooms, groceries, paper bags from the bakery. ‘I’ll pop round after they’ve settled in,’ Mum said. ‘Invite them over for tea.’ ‘I don’t want them over here,’ Wally said. We were leaning against the railing, and through the gap in the gums that lined the fence we could see Helena bringing in the washing from the Hills hoist, Tilly reading on the steps. ‘She’s spastic,’ Wally said, jerking his chin towards Helena. ‘Look at the way she’s walking.’ Helena had stopped to prop the basket on her hip. When she set off again I saw she moved strangely, like a waddle. ‘She is not,’ Cassie said. ‘They’re weird,’ Wally said. ‘They’re family,’ Mum said. ‘Your aunt and your cousin.’ ‘If they’re family, then why’ve we never met them?’ Wally asked. ‘Why’ve we never even heard of them?’ Aside from Dad, who gave Helena the key when they got here, it was Cassie who spoke to them first. I spied on them through Dad’s binoculars. Helena and Cassie stood on opposite sides of the fence and talked for nearly ten minutes, but really it was Tilly I was watching, as she trailed around the yard, collecting gumnuts in her skirt, which she’d scooped up into a pouch. When it started to spit a little bit, Helena held out her palm and looked to the sky. She stubbed out her smoke on the fence post and turned back to the yellow house, Tilly following. But Cassie stayed out there for ages, even after he’d slipped Helena’s smoke into his pocket, until the rain started to come in sideways, blowing the paddock stalks to yellow velvet. That night after dinner we sat on the back steps while Mum and Dad watched the cricket. I kept a close eye on the yellow house, but there was no sign of Helena or Tilly. It still felt magical then, like they were special guests who’d been sent to us, to me. Like a gift I didn’t know I wanted until it was right there in front of me waiting to be opened to reveal something extraordinary.

11 The rain had cleared and the sky was deep as a gem. The cicadas were hissing. Cassie had a can of lemon squash and he cracked the tab, took a slurp. ‘Where’d you get that?’ I asked. ‘Bought it,’ Cassie said. ‘Did you buy one for us?’ ‘Nah.’ ‘Give us a sip, then,’ I said, and Cassie handed me the can. I took a mouthful and passed it to Wally. ‘What were you talking about?’ I asked Cassie. ‘What?’ Cassie said. ‘This afternoon. With Helena.’ ‘I dunno,’ Cassie said, taking the can from Wally. ‘Nothing much.’ ‘What did she look like?’ I asked. ‘Up close.’ Wally snorted. ‘Bet she looked even more spastic up close.’ Cassie took a sip, bit down on the rim. ‘I walked down Main Street after school the other week,’ he said, ‘and there were all these prams with babies, and all the mums were real young and kind of sad-looking, kind of feral. And then when you go into the city everyone’s just beautiful.’ ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ I asked. ‘I dunno,’ Cassie said. ‘Just that she doesn’t look like she’s from here. She looks exotic or something.’ Cassie handed me the soft drink, went inside. When I shook the can I could hear the dregs rattling in the bottom. ‘Don’t hog it,’ Wally said, snatching it off me. He tipped the can up and took the last sip, tried to crush the can in his hand, and then under his foot when that didn’t work. He threw the mangle of yellow into the air and batted it into the grass. Under the yard light it shone like a bar of gold.

*

I didn’t have to wait long. It was the first week of school holidays, and on Tuesday afternoon we went to the yellow house. Mum made us root around for our good clothes, though they hardly fit anymore. The sleeves of my dress cut into my arms like rubber bands and the sleeves of Wally’s shirt came halfway up his wrists.

12 ‘Why do we have to go?’ Wally whined, pulling at his collar. ‘They’re family,’ Mum said again, tipping a packet of jam drops into Tupperware. She’d washed her hair that morning, was wearing stockings under her skirt that made her legs a different colour from her arms. Mum never got dressed up for anything, always trackies, or a pair of shorts if she ever went into town with Dad, though he usually did a big shop once a week on his way back from work. ‘Why doesn’t Cassie have to come then?’ said Wally. ‘Why doesn’t Dad have to come?’ As we crossed the yard I could tell Mum was nervous. She kept tugging her skirt to her knees, and when I looked at her face she was smiling at nothing, with too much gums, as though she was just practising. I was nervous too. I knew that when we went through the gate it would be the start of something. Wally was my best friend, but sometimes I thought it would be nice to have a second friend, someone new and different to play with, a girl. The kids at school were strange; Wally and I played by ourselves at lunchtime, always paired up when we did partner work. But with Tilly it would be different because we were related and had parts of the same person in us. I knew that would make things much easier. We went up the verandah steps. There were cobwebs hatched under the roof gutters, cocooned flies glued to the web like sultanas. ‘You got muck on your teeth,’ Wally said to Mum, just as she knocked. ‘Shit,’ Mum said. She peered at her reflection in the window, wiped the bricky lipstick off her teeth with her finger. When Helena opened the door, she leaned in and kissed Mum on the cheek. She held on to Mum’s elbow, which I knew would embarrass Mum because her elbows were dry as scones. Cassie was right; she did look different from the girls with babies you see in town, the teachers at school and the lady at the tuckshop with chicken skin around her neck. Helena had silver rings all up her ears, and her eyelashes were clumped together. After staring at her across the yard, imagining what she looked like up close, it was like seeing someone I’d only ever seen on a video or the TV. But I didn’t care so much about Helena. I peered behind her, looking for Tilly. Helena held the flyscreen open and told us to come in. ‘It’s a bit of a mess still,’ she said. Her voice was deep, and crinkly like aluminium. They hadn’t even been there a week but it was like a completely different house.

13 Dad’d had the window glass replaced a few weeks earlier, hosed down the outside of the house and sprayed the lantana that crept from the edge of the paddock. He didn’t go inside, but he gave me and Wally some Ratsak and a bucket of eucalyptus water, told us to go over and clean the place until it sparkled. We scrubbed the mould off the walls and scooped smoke butts out of the toilet water with a frog net, swept up the ash sprinkled onto the tubes of rolled-up carpet. The house was almost empty: a couple of skivvies folded in the chest of drawers, ugly oil paintings of galahs and ghost gums hanging from the walls—Les’s name signed in cursive at the bottom corners. There was a windcheater dangling from a crocheted coat-hanger in the wardrobe and in the pocket Wally found a red Bic lighter that flicked into a clear blue flame. But now the air seemed cleaner, with a flowery smell I’d never smelled before. The paintings from the walls were gone, dark patches in their places. And there was Tilly up close, belly down on a rug in the lounge, painting her nails. Freckles all up her arms. Her hair was almost the colour of Cheezels, the exact same as Helena’s. ‘Not on the carpet,’ Helena said, glancing towards Tilly. Tilly capped the lid and stood up, loped over to us. ‘Hello, Matilda,’ Mum said, and placed the biscuits on the bench. ‘You were a tiny thing the last time I saw you. You probably don’t remember me.’ She scrunched her nose. ‘It’s Tilly.’ ‘These are your cousins, Tilly,’ Helena said, nodding in our direction. Tilly looked over at us, first at Wally and then at me. I raised my hand and waved, felt like a dummy as soon as I’d done it. We stood around as Helena filled the kettle. As she got out tea things from the cupboards, Mum’s eyes kept flickering over everything. ‘Haven’t been in here in years,’ said Mum, picking up a candle, setting it down again. Wally wandered into the lounge room. He stopped at a small table with photos scattered on the surface. They weren’t in frames yet and were propped against the wall or lying flat. Wally went through each photo one by one, touching Helena and Tilly’s faces with his fingertip. I could feel Tilly watching Wally too, but when I looked at her she’d hunched back over the benchtop, slowly swiping the red polish onto her nails. ‘Must be a bit different from the big smoke,’ Mum said. ‘Bit of a sea change, I suppose.’ ‘Might get a bit dull,’ Mum said. ‘No nightclubs or bars or anything like that. Except for the pub, I suppose. And the Chinese. They do bring-your-own grog.’ The kettle boiled and Helena poured water into the cups. ‘Thanks for letting me

14 stay, Christine,’ Helena said. ‘Well, it is your house,’ Mum said. ‘By the book, I mean.’ ‘I know I should’ve got it taken care of years ago. It must have been a pain for you and Colin to have to deal with. All the upkeep and that.’ ‘It’s worked out well,’ Mum said. ‘With you needing a place to stay. Just a shame it’s taken so long. Would’ve been nice for the twins to know their cousin. Would’ve been nice to get to know you as well. Dermott was so young when he moved away. I feel like there’s a big chunk of his life I just knew nothing about.’ I knew Dermott had died when Tilly was a baby, but nothing else. No one ever told me anything. Helena smiled, took a sip of tea. ‘Well, all my family was in Brisbane,’ she said. ‘And we had the flat. Not a lot of jobs out here either, I’d imagine.’ Mum’s lips went thin. She took a sip as well. ‘This place is a dump,’ Tilly said under her breath. ‘What’d you say, missy?’ Helena said. She grabbed the bottle from Tilly’s hands and screwed on the lid. She turned to me. ‘Why don’t you take Tilly outside,’ she said. ‘Show her around the place.’ It was the first time she’d spoken to me, first time she’d even looked at me properly. I didn’t know what to say. I looked over at Wally, who’d picked up the stereo remote and was pretending to zap it at Tilly’s head. ‘Go on,’ Mum said, smiling too big again. I could feel my heart throbbing as I followed Wally down the stairs. He walked towards the tea-tree by the paddock fence, sat down in the grass. I sat down beside him. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be showing me around?’ Tilly asked, still standing. ‘No,’ Wally said. ‘There’s not really anything to show you,’ I added. Tilly scanned the grass for ant nests, sat down. ‘I like your fingers,’ I said. Tilly looked down at her nails and shrugged. I waited for her to say something back, but she didn’t. ‘How old are you then?’ I asked. ‘Eleven and a half,’ she said. ‘We’re almost eleven,’ I said. ‘I’m older, though, by three minutes. We’re twins.’ ‘Yeah, I know.’ I looked over to the shed, to the two birds skittering on the tin roof. I tried to think of something less boring to say, something that would make her think we were

15 interesting, not just boring bumpkins. ‘You know this house is haunted?’ Wally said to Tilly, before I had a chance to think of something good. As soon as he said it I felt a little spasm of panic in my fingertips. ‘Yeah, right,’ Tilly said. ‘It is,’ Wally said. ‘That’s why no one wanted to live here all this time. Because of the ghosts.’ ‘No one lived here because it’s our house. Mine and Mum’s. Dad left it to us.’ ‘There’s still ghosts, though.’ ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ said Tilly. ‘Everyone knows that’s just kid stuff.’ ‘I’ve seen them.’ ‘You’re just trying to scare me,’ Tilly said. ‘My mum said you were probably going to try and tell me lies.’ ‘I don’t give a toss if you don’t believe me,’ Wally said. ‘But it’s true though, isn’t it, Cub?’ I ignored Wally’s question, tried to send a message to his brain to stop making things difficult, to stop trying to ruin things before they’d even started. ‘What school are you going to go to?’ I asked Tilly. ‘We go to the state school. There’s also the school in the hills, but Dad says that’s not a real school because it’s run by hippie-dippies and you don’t have to do maths if you don’t want to.’ ‘It’s not like I’d be in your class,’ Tilly said, pressing the tip of her ponytail against her lips. ‘I’m older than you guys.’ ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said. ‘And anyway,’ Tilly said, ‘I’m going to the private school. I already have my uniforms.’ Tilly’s shorts were bunched and the skin at the tops of her legs was chicken white. When she saw me looking she tugged the hem of her shorts towards her knees. ‘Why isn’t your other brother here?’ she said. ‘My mum said there’s three of you.’ ‘Mum didn’t make Cassie come,’ I said. ‘She lets him do what he wants. He’s her favourite—even Dad says so.’ ‘Cassie’s a girl’s name,’ Tilly said. ‘It’s short for Cassius,’ Wally told her, ‘and if he heard you say it was a girl’s name you’d be dead meat. One time he beat someone up so bad they were in hospital for a week. They were in a coma and everything.’ I glared at Wally. It wasn’t even a lie anyone would believe. ‘He did not,’ I said.

16 ‘Cassie’s not like that.’ I tried to think of something else to say. I knew we had one chance to make a good impression and I didn’t want to waste it. But the silence felt as deep as the dam, impossible to swim out of. I felt annoyed with myself for not practising with the girls at school. I should’ve been prepared. ‘Well, this is fun,’ Tilly said, rolling her eyes, and I knew she didn’t mean it. Wally smirked at me, turned back to Tilly. ‘Guess what?’ ‘What?’ Tilly asked. ‘I’ve seen your dad’s ghost before.’ ‘Have not,’ Tilly said. ‘Have too,’ Wally said. ‘Right in this spot.’ ‘He didn’t die here,’ Tilly said. ‘Why would his ghost be here if he didn’t die here? That’s not how it works.’ ‘I thought you don’t believe in ghosts.’ ‘I don’t.’ ‘Is that why you have no pictures of him?’ Wally asked. ‘Because he’s dead?’ Tilly looked at the ground, picked up the twig that had fallen into her lap and stabbed it into the grass. ‘Are you crying?’ said Wally. ‘No,’ Tilly said. ‘She’s crying,’ Wally said to me, in a voice like everyone in the world was more stupid than he is, even me. There was a drop of water on Tilly’s nose, which she rubbed away with the back of her hand. ‘Stop staring at me,’ she said, looking up. ‘You keep staring at me. It’s really weird.’ ‘I wasn’t,’ I said, even though I’d started counting the freckles on her face, which were different sizes and made me think of the seed spots on multigrain bread. I hadn’t finished yet, so I kept counting and a second later she got up on her knees. ‘I can’t believe I’m trapped in this dump,’ she said, brushing dirt off her bum. She stormed towards the yellow house. I stared hard at Wally. ‘I bet she’s crying,’ Wally said. ‘Why’d you have to say all that stuff?’ I said. My voice sounded high and whiny. I knew Wally hated when I spoke like that but I couldn’t help it. ‘She’s not going to like us now.’

17 ‘She’s wussy,’ Wally said. ‘I don’t care if she doesn’t like us.’ ‘You didn’t have to lie, though,’ I said. ‘You’ve never seen any ghost and now they’re both going to hate us for nothing.’ ‘She’s dumb,’ said Wally. ‘She’s just a dumb wussy girl.’ A minute later Mum came outside with the jam drops. ‘What did you bloody say to her?’ she said, grabbing my arm and yanking me up. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘She’s just a wuss,’ Wally said. ‘She started crying over nothing.’ Back home, I followed Wally to our room. ‘Stop following me,’ he said. ‘This is my room too.’ I pulled off my dress and changed back into play clothes. There were red marks around my arms where the sleeves had dug in, but I felt like I could breathe again. Wally stripped down and sat on the carpet, pulled out a box from under his bed. We each had one—a cardboard box where we kept our special things. He took a folded photo he’d wedged into the side of his undies. I caught a glimpse as he held it to his face. It was of Helena and Tilly, their heads pressed together, orange hair bright in the sun as though their heads had caught fire. Wally lifted some junk from the box and slipped the photo underneath. ‘Don’t touch,’ he said, shoving the box back under the bed.

*

At dinnertime Mum asked us again what we’d said to make Tilly so upset. Wally told her she just got sooky over nothing. ‘Just try and be civilised, would you,’ Mum said. ‘It’ll be nice for us all to know Dermott’s family. Have someone to spend Easter and Christmas with. Maybe we can all go to the Chinese one night for tea.’ ‘We’ve never gone there before,’ Wally said. ‘Only for takeaway.’ ‘Well, now we can,’ Mum said. ‘That’s what you do with family. Go on special outings together. Isn’t that right, Colin?’ Dad grunted, kept his eyes on the screen. Wally put his head down on the table, cheek pressed into the laminate. ‘I don’t want them here,’ he said, grinding his fork into the table. ‘They’ll ruin everything.’ Mum looked towards the TV, the veins in her throat like straws. ‘Just make a

18 bloody effort, alright?’ I felt my heart glow. I looked at Mum, and for a moment I’d never been more glad that she was my mother. I hoped Wally listened to her more than he listened to me.

*

He must have, because the next morning Wally was on the verandah with the binoculars. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ Wally said. ‘Do you want to come for a swim?’ ‘Nah.’ He lowered the binoculars. ‘Let’s go next door.’ ‘What for?’ ‘Mum said she’ll give us a dollar if we’re nice to her today.’ ‘To who?’ ‘To her,’ Wally said. ‘The girl. Whatever her name is.’ When we got to the yellow house Tilly was sitting under the shrimpy crepe myrtle in the middle of the yard, glittery headphones in her ears. There was a hot wind and dried blossoms had come loose from the branches and settled in her hair. She scratched her foot and ignored us until Wally said, ‘Are you coming swimming or not?’ Tilly took her headphones off. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘We’re going swimming.’ Tilly squinted at us. ‘Where?’ ‘There’s a dam out there,’ Wally said, pointing into the paddock. Tilly paused. ‘How far?’ ‘I dunno,’ Wally said. ‘Maybe,’ she said, untangling her headphones from her hair and putting the Discman down. ‘I’ll go ask Mum.’ She went inside. I was sure Wally had blown it yesterday, and was relieved Tilly hadn’t just told us to rack off. She must have liked me a little bit at least. After a minute Tilly stuck her head out of a window. ‘I’ll just put on my togs,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave without me.’ Wally poked the Discman with his toe. It was metallic blue and covered with fuzzy stickers. It looked expensive. ‘Don’t break it,’ I said.

19 The flyscreen opened. Helena came outside. She was wearing a green dressing- gown that made her look like a mermaid. I’d never seen a colour so beautiful before. I’d never seen a person so beautiful before, even though she wasn’t smiling. She pulled the tie tight around her waist and walked towards us. ‘Pass me that,’ she said, pointing to the Discman. I picked it up and handed it to her. There were black smudges under her eyes and she smelled like overripe fruit that had started to go squishy. ‘I don’t know what you said to Tilly yesterday,’ Helena said, ‘but she was crying her eyes out all night. I don’t want you telling her any more lies about anything, alright?’ ‘We didn’t mean it,’ I said, before Wally could get a word in. Helena opened the Discman lid. The CD was still spinning. ‘Just don’t go putting any nonsense into her head.’ Tilly came through the flyscreen wearing thongs, a towel draped around her neck. ‘Ready,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave your shit out here,’ Helena said, holding up the Discman. ‘You know how much I paid for this? Break it and you’re not getting a new one.’ ‘I was coming back for it,’ Tilly said. ‘Jeez.’ When we got to the paddock gate, Wally pulled up the barbed-wire fence beside it and slid through the gap. He held the rusted wire wide for me and I followed him through. Wally let it fling back into place and walked into the paddock. Tilly stood still. ‘Can’t I just go through the gate?’ she said. ‘It’s broken,’ Wally said, which was a lie. Tilly threw her towel over the fence. I pulled up the barbed wire to let her through. ‘I can do it,’ she said, hooked her fingers next to where my fist held the wire up. We walked in a line, Wally in the lead, along the path that wound through the hills leading to the dam and, past that, the knackery. Sometimes when Wally and me trailed through the golden stalks, the stiff pads of grass bursting from the dirt, I’d try not to think about the cows and pigs, the old racehorses dead and strung, waiting to be mushed into dog food or tallow or fertiliser. Once, when we got as close to the knackery as we ever had, I swore I could smell the tang of blood still crusted to the cracks in the concrete. I was glad we were in a line; it meant we didn’t have to talk and it wouldn’t be weird and too quiet, like yesterday when I couldn’t think of anything special to say. The

20 yellow stalks came up to my shoulders and the sky was so glary I had to shade my eyes with my hand. I could hear Tilly behind me: her panting, her thongs slapping beneath her feet. ‘It wasn’t a lie, just so you know,’ Wally said. ‘The yellow house really is haunted. I see ghosts all the time, don’t I, Cub?’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen any.’ I knew I’d pay later for not taking his side, but I didn’t care. When we passed the knobbly tree near the middle of the paddock Tilly called out from behind me. ‘Gross,’ she said. ‘Look at all this poo.’ I turned around. She’d stopped, was pulling her ankle onto her knee. ‘You should’ve worn proper shoes,’ Wally said. ‘Where are all the cows?’ Tilly asked. ‘And the horses?’ ‘There aren’t any.’ ‘Where’d all this poo come from then?’ ‘I dunno.’ It was flaky, and crumbled off Tilly’s sole. ‘It might be old,’ I said. ‘I thought farms were supposed to have animals.’ ‘It’s not a farm,’ said Wally. ‘We’re not farmers. Do we look like farmers?’ ‘Looks like a farm to me.’ ‘Well, it’s not.’ ‘Okay then,’ Tilly said. ‘Don’t have a cry about it.’ We walked in silence for a minute. Wally picked up a stick and used it like a cane. ‘Hope you don’t get bitten by a snake,’ he said. ‘Are there snakes?’ asked Tilly. ‘Just in the morning, usually,’ I said. ‘Once,’ Wally said, ‘Cub and me were fetching planks of wood from the shed because Cassie was going to build us a cubbyhouse, and when I picked up a piece of wood from the pile, there was this great big brown snake underneath it, which is the second most venomous snake in the world. Cassie came at it with a shovel and sliced its head right off. Its guts were everywhere.’ ‘Its insides looked like raw mince,’ I said. ‘Wally dared me to have a nibble.’ ‘That’s gross,’ Tilly said. ‘I hate snakes.’ ‘Me too,’ I said, even though they were my favourite animal. ‘I hate snakes too.’ When we got to the dam we lay our towels on the red dirt. It was only half full,

21 even though it had rained. Mozzies buzzed on the surface and the water was the colour of Milo. While we swam, I kept my eye on Wally, waiting for him to dunk Tilly under, pretend to drown her, or say something about the ghosts again. But he didn’t say anything, and we swam and swam until our scalps started to burn and Wally decided he was bored of swimming and wanted to go back home to get his dollar. Even then I couldn’t stop grinning from how nice it was just to be floating around in someone else’s orbit for a little while, how nice it was to be put in a brand-new mood just by being in the same place as someone you think is magic. When we got back to the gate I asked Tilly if she wanted to come over. I had to build up all my courage to say it, but before Tilly could answer Wally grabbed my arm and said we had important stuff to do inside. ‘She’s nice,’ I said to Wally as he pulled me towards the house. I looked over my shoulder to wave goodbye to Tilly, but she’d turned back towards the yellow house, was almost at the verandah. ‘Why don’t you like her?’ ‘She’s a girl.’ ‘I’m a girl.’ ‘Well, I don’t like you either.’ When we got inside I raced to have a bath first. I left it full for Wally, and when I went into our room he ducked out past me, a grin stretched on his mouth. He sprinted to the bathroom and slammed the door. I could tell by the look on his face that he’d done something to my stuff. I peeled back my sheets, looked in the toes of all my shoes. I couldn’t see anything different, anything yuck, but I knew it was waiting for me to find.

22 2.

I biked into town with Cassie the next day. For the few months before Christmas holidays started, Cassie had been getting up early on the weekends and disappearing before anyone else was awake, bike and backpack gone. He never told us where he was going and didn’t come back until dinnertime. Once, when Wally and I rode into town for lollies, we saw him standing outside the bakery chewing on a bread roll and reading the signs taped to the inside of the window. He had a line of blood dripping from his nose, staining the bread like jam. When he saw us he skulked across to the other side of the road, even though his bike was chained up by the postbox. That night, when I asked him why he’d ignored us, why he was bleeding, he lied right to my face, said he hadn’t even been in town that day. Since the start of the Christmas holidays he’d been disappearing as well. He never let me tag along, but I begged and begged and finally he said I could come if I shut up about it. On the ride over I told Cassie about Tilly, how we’d gone to the dam the day before, and how Wally had been mostly nice to her, even though he thought she was a bit stupid. ‘You can be friends with whoever you want,’ Cassie said. ‘Not just who Wally lets you be friends with.’ ‘I know that,’ I said. We pulled into Daley Street and stopped on the footpath in front of a small timber house, bluish-white, like teeth. ‘This is it,’ Cassie said. ‘How do you know it’s this one?’ I asked. ‘We drove past one day,’ Cassie said. ‘Ages ago.’ We were outside Mum’s old house. It was close to Main Street, in a cluster of other streets where the houses sat snug before the properties started spreading into the hills. Cassie said the For Sale sign had been taken down months ago but no one had moved in yet, that he’d been coming by every few days to check. He pointed to a window beside the front door. ‘That was Grandma and Granddad’s room, before Granddad moved to the yellow house when Grandma went back to Perth. Mum and Uncle Dermott slept out the back. Their dog is buried right under that tree, Mum told me. I bet you could dig up the bones if you wanted to.’ We had a box of photos that Mum took from the yellow house after Les died.

23 There’s a whole bunch of shots from Daley Street: Mum and Dermott when they were small, grinning at the camera in their baggy undies in the yard, and lots of pictures of greyhounds, people playing cards around kitchen tables. There are a few grainy photos of Les standing on the straw lawn in his ruggers, hands on his hips, staring straight at the camera. Behind him, a couch that had been dragged onto the patio, wickets and trolleys strewn across the yard. Cassie got off his bike. ‘Stay here,’ he said. He crossed the lawn, walked up to the front of the house and peered into the window. He stepped off the patio and onto the grass. ‘I once found a real old watch in the backyard,’ he called back to me. ‘Kind of hidden in the dirt. Might have been Les’s.’ Next door, a very fat woman came out through her flyscreen. She was still in a nightie even though it was nearly afternoon. She was holding a bag of rubbish, but instead of going to the wheelie bin beside the house she stopped on the patio and stared over at us, like she was trying to shoo us away with her eyes. I could hear kids shrieking from inside the house, a television blasting. Cassie didn’t see her and kept walking towards the backyard, but when he noticed the woman he stopped beside the fence, crouched down. ‘Found it,’ he shouted to me, shaking his closed fist in the air. He turned towards the woman and smiled, gave her a wave with his other hand. When he got back to his bike he kept his head down and kicked up the stand. He opened his fist. Nothing fell out. His ears had gone pink, like flaps of ham. He didn’t look back at the woman, who was still watching us from the patio. We jumped on our bikes and pedalled fast down the street.

*

Ian came around for the first time the next week. Cassie had been gone all day, and in the afternoon he and Ian rode up the driveway. I watched from the verandah as they stood at the edge of the paddock, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Ian had a smoke between his fingers and handed it to Cassie. When they came up the stairs Cassie gave me a look but I couldn’t tell what it meant. He’d never brought a friend over before. He tried to walk straight inside, but when Ian saw me he stopped on the verandah. Ian was skinny like a cat with hair shorn close to his skull. He’d taken a packet of corn chips from his backpack and there were

24 cheesy stains around his lips. ‘Hey,’ Ian said. He nodded at me, raised his eyebrows. ‘This is my little sister,’ Cassie said. ‘Want a chip?’ Ian asked. I nodded, and he licked the flavouring off his fingertips, held the bag open towards me. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Her name’s Cub,’ Cassie said. ‘Let’s go to my room.’ ‘Nice to meet you, Cub.’ I put the chip in my mouth. ‘How old are you?’ Ian asked. I looked over at Cassie. I was suspicious. Cassie never talked about friends. He liked to do things alone; if I ever tried to play with him for too long he would get annoyed, tell me to rack off. Not like me. If I had someone to play with all the time I’d be happy forever. ‘Where’ve you been?’ I said to Cassie. ‘None of your business.’ ‘Where’d you find him?’ I nodded towards Ian. Cassie sighed, annoyed with me already. ‘He moved into the house on Daley Street.’ There was something different about the way he spoke, like there was someone talking behind him, making his mouth move. ‘Are you finished your interrogation?’ Ian spurted out a laugh. I turned to Ian. ‘Do you have nits?’ Ian laughed again. ‘What?’ ‘When Wally and me had nits Mum had to shave all our hair off.’ ‘Holy shit,’ Ian said to Cassie. ‘Your sister is creepy.’ ‘I’m not creepy.’ Ian beamed at Cassie. ‘I knew this place would be weird.’ ‘Let’s go to my room,’ Cassie said, grabbing the corner of Ian’s t-shirt. It had a clown face on the front, and I couldn’t tell if the clown was screaming or laughing. As Cassie led him to the back door Ian turned around and smiled at me. There was a tooth missing from the side of his mouth. I felt something wriggle inside my stomach. ‘Don’t follow us,’ Cassie said. ‘You’re not supposed to smoke,’ I said. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want Ian to go inside, to see all our stuff. I didn’t want him to go off with Cassie alone. ‘It makes

25 your lungs fill up with tar and explode.’ They both ignored me this time. I stood on the other side of the flyscreen as Cassie and Ian dumped their backpacks in the hallway. ‘Man,’ Ian said. ‘This whole place is creepy.’

*

When Dad came home from work Ian and Cassie were back on the verandah. They’d put the chip packet in the microwave until it had shrunk to the size of a playing card. Ian was jamming a hole into the top with a pocketknife. I’d tried to watch them in secret all afternoon. I was pretty sure this would be a one-day thing. Soon Cassie would realise that Ian was different to us, that he didn’t belong here, and we’d never see him again. But I wanted to keep an eye on things anyway. I went outside as Dad got out of the truck, came up the stairs. Dad paused at the railing. Something almost invisible flashed across his face and I couldn’t quite catch it. ‘Who’s this then?’ Dad asked, pulling off his boots. There was white paint speckled in his arm hairs, like bird poo. ‘Ian,’ Cassie said. ‘School friend?’ Dad said. ‘I only just moved here,’ Ian said. ‘My dad reckons the public schools in the sticks are shithouse, though. He’s trying to get me into St Marks.’ ‘That right?’ Dad said. ‘What’s he do, then?’ ‘Dad,’ Cassie said, but both Dad and Ian ignored him. ‘He works in sales,’ Ian told Dad. ‘Electronics. He just took over the Clarks on Main Street. He owns about seven of them, all over the state.’ ‘Well then,’ Dad said, picking at his nostril. ‘Dinner soon, Cassie. We don’t have enough for guests.’ When Ian went home, Cassie strung the chip packet onto a piece of fishing wire. ‘Here,’ he said, looping it over my head. ‘You can have this.’ I liked getting presents, and took it as a sign that Cassie had gone back to normal, that he realised Ian wasn’t for us. We had chops for dinner. I wore the chip packet under my shirt, like a secret. The news was on the TV in the lounge room. Every night at six o’clock Dad had to watch the news, and usually he was the only one with his face towards the screen. Mum

26 hated the news. Sometimes when Dad was cranky he said that the entire planet around us could combust and Mum wouldn’t care. There was a news report about a man down south, a footy player who’d been missing for days, and the cops just found his car in the Rustvale National Park. There was no sign of the man, though. He was famous, that’s why he was on the news. I bet no one would care if he was a regular person. Dad was born in Rustvale, and said that when he was a kid he’d hear about people going to the national park and not coming back. ‘He would’ve topped himself,’ Mum said, slicing pumpkin with her knife. ‘That’d be it,’ Dad said. ‘Wasting police resources over a bloody suicide.’ ‘How do you know that’s what he did?’ Cassie asked. ‘SES find dozens of bodies a year like that,’ Dad said. ‘Car abandoned, and they’re dangling by their necks from a tree a few yards away.’ We chewed in silence, and when the ads came on Dad turned back to the table. ‘So how do you know this Ian, then?’ he said to Cassie. ‘I dunno,’ Cassie said. ‘I just met him.’ ‘Where?’ ‘At the park.’ ‘At the park?’ asked Dad. ‘Yeah.’ ‘What, you just saw him and thought you’d say hello?’ ‘Something like that,’ Cassie said. ‘I dunno.’ ‘Speak up, mate,’ Dad said. ‘Can’t hear you when you mumble.’ ‘I guess.’ ‘It’s nice you’ve made a friend, Cass,’ Mum said, smiling. ‘He seems like a nice boy. Very polite when I met him.’ ‘I s’pose.’ ‘And he’s new to town then, is he?’ Cassie sat up straighter. ‘He lives in your old house, Mum. On Daley Street. They just moved in.’ ‘Bit of a coincidence,’ said Dad. His eyes squinted just a fraction. ‘Invite him around for tea one night,’ Mum said. ‘His parents too.’ The news came back on and we stopped talking. There was something strange

27 moving through the air, like Ian had left behind some of his skin dust and it hadn’t quite settled yet. Dad took a sip of his beer and burped. I could smell it from across the table. He picked up his chop and sucked the bone.

28 3.

At the end of January we started back at school. On Monday morning, the first day back, I emptied my bag on the kitchen floor. Pencil shavings sprinkled the lino, and a mouldy sandwich thumped onto the floor, straining through the Glad Wrap. We cobbled together our stationery, and as Cassie made our lunch I peeked into Mum and Dad’s room. Dad had left for work already, but Mum was fast asleep. There were coloured teacups beside her bed in a cluster, as though the table had sprouted mushrooms. ‘Bye, Mum,’ I whispered, and clicked the door shut. When we got to school we chained up our bikes and found our classroom. Our new teacher, Mrs Raymond, was standing at the door, saying hello to the parents who’d dropped off their kids. Dad always said the kids in town were ferals. He said when he first moved here everyone had been respectable, but now they were all on the dole, only renting out here because the land was cheap. He said they popped out babies to get welfare money and then let their kids run wild. All the normal kids who live on the farms travelled an hour to schools in the city, and some of the kids Cassie’s age even went to boarding school and only came home on weekends and holidays. Cassie once asked if he could go there as well, but Dad said it was too expensive and Mum said he’d get lonely, so far from home. We dumped our bags on the port rack and went into the classroom. The first thing I noticed about Mrs Raymond were her fingers, tight gold rings on most of them that made her fingers look sore. Her eyebrows were drawn on with pencil in thin black lines. She’d been Cassie’s teacher as well, and he told us not to tell her he was our brother, told us to be quiet and polite and try to get on her good side. I smiled at her when she looked at us. Wally kept his head down and barged into the room. Mrs Raymond had set nametags on the desks. Wally found his at the back of the room and sat down. I went to sit next to him but someone else’s nametag was at the desk beside his. It must have been a mistake. Wally and me always sat together. ‘Just find yours and switch them if you care so much,’ Wally said. I found my desk at the other side of the room. I switched the nametag, sat down next to Wally and emptied my things into my tidy tray. When the bell rang Mrs Raymond went over the class rules that she’d laminated and tacked to a wall. We went around the room and had to say our names and hobbies and what we did on the holidays. When it was my turn, before I even opened my mouth

29 Mrs Raymond put her hand up to stop me speaking. ‘That’s not where I put you,’ she said. ‘But I always sit next to Wally.’ ‘Stand up,’ she said. ‘We sat next to each other last year,’ I said. ‘I don’t care what you did last year,’ she said. ‘Now stand up.’ Mrs Raymond made a boy across the room switch desks with me, stared at us from the blackboard while we gathered up our things. I could feel everyone else watching me too. Mrs Raymond stood in front of me as I dumped everything into my new tidy tray. Her neck was splotchy and the smell of her made my nose tingle. She picked up a Wizz Fizz from my tray. ‘Did you bring enough for the whole class?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No sweets unless there’s enough to share around,’ she said. ‘It’s bad manners.’ ‘But it’s my little lunch,’ I said. I wanted to tell her it was bad manners to touch people’s things without asking, but I remembered what Cassie had said. She held the Wizz Fizz with pinched fingers, like she was holding something grubby. I’d been saving it from Christmas, a treat for the first day of school. She dropped it in her desk drawer and started handing out a worksheet. I felt prickles behind my eyes but I zapped them away with my mind, like Cassie had taught me to do. ‘We didn’t get to say what we did on our holiday,’ Wally called out, even though we hadn’t done anything. ‘Put your hand up,’ Mrs Raymond said, placing the spare sheets on her desk. Wally raised his hand. ‘We didn’t get to say anything.’ ‘No need,’ Mrs Raymond said. ‘I know who you are.’ We were supposed to peel the nametags from their papers and stick them to the front of our uniforms. I put my nametag at the bottom of my dress, where no one could see it. Wally peeled his off and scrunched it into a sticky ball, pinged it across the room. Wally never cared about getting in trouble.

*

I knew everyone in my class from last year, except for the boy I had to switch desks with. I’d seen him around, but he’d been kept down and was doing year six again because he

30 had a brain the size of a pea. He had scabby lips and a bubbly mole on his ear that was so big it looked stuffed with pus. His name was Brendan and Wally said he was a little bit spastic. At little lunch he followed Wally and me from the port racks to the bubblers. ‘I know you,’ he said, jamming his empty water bottle under a bubbler. I stared at his mole. ‘So what?’ Wally said. ‘Your granddad painted our house,’ Brendan said. ‘My dad kept all the clippings from the paper.’ ‘What clippings?’ I asked. ‘He keeps them in a scrapbook. Hundreds of them. Thousands, I bet.’ I looked at Wally, who was staring at Brendan’s ear as well. ‘What are you on about?’ I said. ‘Dad said to watch out for you two.’ Brendan pointed at me, and then at Wally. ‘He said I’m not allowed to be your friend.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘He said the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ He opened his mouth to keep talking, but Wally stepped towards the bubblers. ‘Shove,’ Wally said, elbowing Brendan in the ribs. ‘Hey!’ Brendan stumbled a bit, grabbed hold of the side of the trough. ‘Get off.’ ‘I said shove.’ Wally flicked Brendan’s mole. ‘Are you a dummy or something?’ Brendan’s water bottle overflowed into the sink. He held on to his ear and looked like he was going to cry, even though he towered over us and Wally was skinny as a twig. Wally bumped Brendan with his hip, and he dropped his water bottle into the bubbler. When he picked it up his hand was shaking. He turned and lurched across the oval. ‘What a wuss,’ Wally said. He wiped the tap with his shirt and leaned in to take a sip. ‘Did you see that thing growing on his ear?’ ‘What was he talking about?’ I asked. ‘What was in the paper?’ I watched Brendan on the oval. He was talking to Mrs Raymond, pointing at us. He was almost as tall as she was. They could have been two grown-ups having a conversation. ‘Who cares?’ Wally said, wiping his mouth on his collar. ‘He’s just a peabrain.’ ‘But why was Les in the papers?’ Wally gave me a look that said he knew something I didn’t. ‘It’s a secret.’

31 ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘You’re not allowed to keep secrets from me.’ ‘Not telling.’ ‘I’ll give you a dollar.’ He smiled, zipped his fingers along his lips, and then fiddled at the corner of his mouth, turning the invisible key and throwing it over his shoulder. ‘I bet you don’t know anything,’ I said. ‘You’re too doughy to have a secret.’ I knew Wally was just trying to make me feel like he was more clever than me, knew he had no idea what Brendan was talking about, but I slapped him on the shoulder anyway and then ran away before he could hit me back. I hid in the girls’ toilets so he couldn’t get me, and when we got back to class Wally had to stand in the corner facing the wall until big lunch, even though it was the first day of school and Wally hadn’t even done anything except flick someone on the ear, which isn’t even that bad. I didn’t talk to Wally for the rest of the afternoon, though.

*

When we got home from school Cassie was asleep on the couch, still in his uniform. Even though Cassie was in year twelve he never did his homework, never talked about what he was going to do when he finished at the end of the year. I always got nervous when Dad nagged him about it. I wanted Cassie to stay at home forever. When we were little Cassie said he wanted to be a spaceman. He had this dinky helmet that he’d made from papier-mâché and pasted with alfoil, and he wore it all the time. Sometimes he made Wally and me come to his room. He’d close the door and put towels over the windows so that the room was dark, and then he’d make us spin him around and around on the rickety desk chair, helmet on, as though he was hurtling through space. But then Dad told Cassie he needed a degree for that kind of job. A degree and a brain the size of a watermelon. Cassie stopped wearing the helmet after that. I pressed my fingers against Cassie’s nostrils until he woke up. He swatted me away, smoothed down his hair and dug at the corners of his eyes. Straight away I asked him what Brendan had meant about Les, what had been in the papers. Even though I knew Wally was lying and that he knew nothing about anything, I still couldn’t stop thinking about what Brendan had said about not being allowed to be our friend. Not that I’d want to be his friend anyway. ‘I dunno,’ he said, turning on the TV.

32 ‘Tell me,’ I said. I yanked Cassie’s arm. ‘Please.’ I knew Cassie would know. Cassie was the only person who told me anything about Les. Before Les died, Cassie went to the yellow house all the time. He said they played snap and knucklebones, and always watched the midday movie while they ate pickled onion sandwiches. Sometimes they went into town afterwards, where Les’s best mate Mal would give Cassie a cold cheerio for free at the butcher. It was only because of Cassie that I knew anything about the day Les died. He was finishing off the McCleary house two storeys up a ladder when something burst in his brain and his limbs turned to custard. Cassie told me that when people die their souls get put into an animal or a plant seed, so maybe Les’s soul was floating somewhere above the paddock, waiting for somewhere to go, for something warm to slip into. Maybe it was only when me and Wally were born that he stopped floating and split in two and we each got half. ‘Get off me,’ Cassie said. ‘Stop being such a pain.’ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask Dad. Or Mum.’ ‘Don’t, Cub,’ Cassie said. ‘It’s none of your business.’ ‘I’m going to ask them right now.’ ‘I’m serious, Cub. Don’t ask them.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Just don’t.’ ‘I won’t if you tell me why.’ Cassie paused. He looked at the screen, and then back at me. ‘Do you remember when you were in year three, and Mum was sick for a real long time? How Dad had to make our dinners and would sometimes have to take her to the big hospital in the city?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. I looked at the carpet. There was a pea on the ground and I squished it with my toe. I didn’t like talking about that. ‘Well, if you ask her, it will make her sick again,’ Cassie said. ‘And it will be all your fault. Do you want Mum to be sick again? Is that what you want?’ ‘No.’ ‘That’s what will happen if you ask her about it,’ Cassie said. He held out his pinkie towards me. ‘Do you promise you won’t?’ ‘Okay,’ I said. We hooked pinkies, shook on it. ‘Don’t listen to Brendan Vaughn,’ Cassie said. ‘Everyone knows he was dropped on his head as a baby.’ I sat down and watched TV with Cassie until dinnertime. When Dad came home

33 I thought I might ask him about Les and the papers. I hadn’t made a pinkie promise not to ask Dad, only Mum. But the show we were watching was a funny one and after a while I forgot all about it and when I remembered again it didn’t seem as important as before.

*

The next afternoon I asked Mum to go over to the yellow house and invite Tilly over. I thought Mum would say no, tell me to do it myself, but she went outside right away and called out to Tilly from over the fence. I felt another glow towards Mum, and in moments like that I felt like she was on my side, even though she’d always liked Cassie a bit more than Wally and me. I gave Tilly the grand tour of our house, asked her how she liked her new school. She shrugged. ‘It’s alright.’ ‘Have you made any friends?’ ‘Yeah,’ Tilly said. ‘Heaps.’ ‘What are their names?’ We were in the kitchen. There was a dead cockie on the lino and I put my foot over it so she couldn’t see it. ‘There’s too many to list,’ Tilly said. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Alright then.’ We went into the lounge room, sat on the carpet with Wally. I was worried about Tilly, about her making too many new friends. If she had a lot of friends at school she might not want to keep playing with us. I didn’t know what the kids at the private school were like, but I knew for sure they’d be a lot better than the ferals at our school. They probably wanted Tilly all to themselves. They probably saw her how I saw her, as a present sent from the universe. But they didn’t deserve her as much as I did. ‘Let’s play knuckles,’ Wally said, standing up. We followed Wally to Cassie’s room. The door was closed, but Wally barged right in. Cassie was lying on the covers, headphones on. He didn’t have a bed, just a mattress in the corner. One day he took apart the frame and dumped the planks outside. The whole thing rotted in the rain and Dad was fuming for days. There were no clothes on the floor, no clutter on the side table. It was as if he’d just moved in, as if he hadn’t already spent seventeen years living there.

34 ‘Give us your knuckles,’ Wally said. ‘What?’ Cassie took his headphones off, leaned up on his elbows. ‘We want to play knuckles,’ Wally told him. Cassie lay back down. ‘Get your own.’ Les had given Cassie the knuckles before he died, in a pouch made of dark green velveteen, with a gold rope tie that frayed like dental floss. Sometimes, when Cassie wasn’t home, I took the pouch from his socks-and-undies drawer and stroked it, held it up to my ear and listened to the bones rattling around. They looked like big teeth with yellow stains, black specks like holes that needed fillings, but I knew there was something magic about them. Sometimes I’d press the smallest knuckle against my lips. I thought that if I put them in my mouth then the magic thing would get transferred over to me. But they only ever felt like metal against the inside of my cheek, not magic at all. ‘You’re too old to play with toys,’ Wally said. ‘They’re not toys,’ Cassie said. ‘They’re antiques. They’re valuable.’ ‘They’re toys,’ Wally said. ‘You’re almost a grown-up and you’re still playing with kid stuff.’ ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. ‘You’re not playing with them. You’ll lose them.’ ‘They’re stupid anyway,’ Wally said. Cassie picked up the pillow from behind his head and chucked it at Wally. Wally picked it up and lobbed it back, darting out the door. Back in the lounge room, Wally turned on the TV. ‘I didn’t want to play dumb knuckles anyway,’ he said. But I knew he thought they were cool. I knew he was just jealous because he’d never been given anything that special before. I bet his entire box of special things didn’t even equal half the amount of specialness as the knuckles.

*

We saw Tilly again the next Saturday for the school fete. We got up early and met her by the letterboxes. ‘Just so you know,’ Wally said, knocking up his kickstand, ‘Cub made us invite you. I didn’t want you to come.’ I got on my bike too. Tilly stared at us. ‘I don’t have a bike,’ she said. Wally blew air out of his mouth. ‘I s’pose we can walk then,’ he said. ‘But it’s pretty far. And don’t whinge to me when your feet start to hurt.’

35 ‘I won’t whinge,’ Tilly said. The oval was already packed by the time we got there. We wandered through the stalls. There was a jumping castle right in the middle, and an animal pen near the toilet block. Yellow chicks zoomed around the sawdust like wind-up toys. ‘That’s the toilets,’ I said to Tilly, pointing across the oval. ‘And that’s our classroom. And that’s where we have assembly. And that’s where we chain up our bikes.’ We stopped at the fishing game, plastic fish at the bottom of a pond. ‘Those fish look dead,’ Wally said. Tilly laughed and I wasn’t sure why. She looked at Wally, put the tip of her plait into her mouth. ‘Fish float when they’re dead,’ I said. The water was glowing from the plastic pool and the tarp covering the stall. I felt like we’d gone into an underwater cave and a shiver went up my back. While Wally lined up to have a go I stuck my hand in the water. It was cold and my fingers tingled, as though my hand was growing very fat. ‘Count how long I can hold my breath for,’ I called over to Wally. I kneeled down at the side of the pool and stuck my head in the water, puffed up my cheeks and held my breath. I opened my eyes. The fish looked giant so close to my face. Just when my head started to spin I felt something kick me on the back. I sat up and Wally was behind me, knee still pressed to my spine. ‘What’d you do that for?’ I asked. I hoped Tilly had been watching. I knew no one could hold their breath as long as I could, knew she’d be impressed. But she was outside the stall, arms crossed. Two girls had wandered over. I didn’t recognise them, but most of the time the kids at school all blurred together, all looked the same to me. They were both wearing denim skirts, matching pink shirts with silver glitter on the front in the shape of love hearts, red arrows piercing the centres. Both of their faces were round and blank as eggs. I wiped my face on my shirt, my hair dripping down my face. The girls glanced at each other and started to giggle. ‘What are you laughing at?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ they said, at the same time. They stopped laughing, looked over at Tilly. ‘Is she your friend?’ one of them asked. Tilly seemed surprised they’d spoken to her. She unfolded her arms, unslouched her back. ‘No,’ Tilly said. She rolled her eyes, didn’t look at me. ‘She’s my little cousin.’

36 Wally grabbed my arm. ‘Why do you always have to be so weird?’ he said, yanking me up, pulling me away from the stall. I looked around for Tilly. She was trailing behind us but wouldn’t look at me. I felt my cheeks burn even though my face was still wet with cold water. ‘How many seconds was it?’ I asked, turning back to Wally. ‘Everyone was staring at you,’ Wally said. ‘Did you even count? I could have broken my record and you didn’t even count.’

*

We bought snow cones and went to the cake stall. There were dozens of fruitcakes and lamingtons and vanilla slices in clear plastic tied with ribbons. Wally went straight to the toffees wrapped in cellophane and counted out three. Mrs Raymond was standing behind the foldout table with a parent. She was wearing plastic gloves that gave her milky goblin hands. When Mrs Raymond saw us she acted like she didn’t know who we were, didn’t even smile. She served heaps of people before us even when it was our turn. The girl next to us paid for her sweets and headed back to the oval, leaving her coin purse on the counter. ‘Take that,’ Wally whispered to Tilly. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘That’s stealing.’ ‘Don’t be a wuss,’ Wally said. ‘It’s finders keepers.’ ‘Why don’t you do it then?’ Tilly asked. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. The purse was small and black, and had diamantés stuck to the front in the shape of a butterfly. I looked around to make sure no one was watching me and then covered it with my hand and slipped it into my pocket, like I’d seen Wally do before. I’d never stolen anything. I felt a jolt go down my legs, as though I could suddenly run very fast if I wanted to. I looked over at Tilly but she still wouldn’t meet my eye. Mrs Raymond hadn’t served us, so Wally stood up on his tippy-toes, reached over the table and dumped his toffees in front of her, clicked his fingers. She finally looked over. ‘And what did you contribute to the stall, Wally?’ Mrs Raymond asked, even though she knew the answer was nothing. Yesterday she’d written everyone’s names on a paper with what they’d brought and beside our names it was blank. ‘Our mum doesn’t like baking,’ I said.

37 ‘Is that so?’ Mrs Raymond glanced behind me. ‘Is she here?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘She has other things to do. She’s a very important lady.’ Mrs Raymond put the toffees in a plastic bag and Wally stuck out the five-dollar note he’d pinched from Dad’s wallet. She took the note and held it up to her face like she was checking it wasn’t play money before digging around in her bumbag for some change. ‘Old cow,’ Wally said under his breath. We were across the oval when I realised I’d left my snow cone on the table. I went back by myself. There was no one waiting to be served, and Mrs Raymond was talking to the parent, in whispers like they were best friends. I stared straight at her and she must have felt me looking because she glanced down at me. I hadn’t heard what she was saying but I just knew she was talking about us because, when she saw me looking, her face switched from sneaky to embarrassed, which made me feel embarrassed too, and then she put her goblin hand up near her hair as though to hide her face from me.

*

‘Here,’ I said, tossing Wally the coin purse. We were up on the hill. He opened the zip and turned the purse inside out. ‘Oh poo,’ he said. It was empty except for a photo of a cat and a star sign cut out from a glossy magazine. He threw them into the grass. I reached for the star sign, but it jerked away in the wind. Wally unwrapped a toffee, sucked on the side. Tilly held out her hand. ‘Give me mine then,’ she said. ‘Get your own,’ Wally said. ‘But you got three,’ Tilly said. ‘One for each of us.’ ‘I never said I was getting one for you,’ Wally said. I turned to Tilly. ‘Just so you know,’ I said, ‘I’m not weird. I was just timing my breathing.’ ‘What?’ Tilly asked. ‘My record’s forty-three seconds. I bet those stupid girls can’t even do half that.’ Tilly shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’ ‘Wally times me in the bath. I bet I can hold my breath longer than anyone in both of our schools combined.’

38 ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’ I wanted to pinch myself. I thought she’d be impressed but she definitely wasn’t and I didn’t understand why, because I knew being able to hold your breath for forty- three seconds was very impressive. ‘Look,’ Wally said. He pointed to the bottom of the oval where Brendan was entering the animal pen. ‘I can see his mole from here.’ Brendan was wearing his school trackies, which bunched at his joggers. He was the oldest kid in there by heaps. We watched him play with the animals, scattering his bag of seed on the sawdust instead of feeding it straight to the animals like you were supposed to do. He chased a lamb around the pen, picked up a chick and held it to his face. ‘What a weirdo,’ Wally said. Brendan went to the exit of the pen and headed towards the toilet block. A second later Wally got up. ‘I need to pee,’ he said. Wally never used the school toilets, but he wrapped his sucked toffee back into its patty pan. ‘Well, I don’t need to go to the toilet,’ Tilly said. ‘You weren’t invited,’ said Wally. ‘Come on, Cub.’ Normally I would have died to have Tilly all to myself, but I didn’t like the way she’d looked at me at the fishpond. It was the way the kids at school looked at me. I bet she’d been talking to people from school without me knowing. I bet they’d told her all sorts of lies about me. I followed Wally as he barged through the crowd. We got to the toilet block just as Brendan was stepping through the door. I walked towards the girls’ entrance, but Wally told me to come in with him. ‘I need to pee as well,’ I said. ‘Pee after,’ Wally said. ‘Brendan needs to pay. He keeps dobbing on me. I’m sick of getting into trouble over nothing.’ ‘He’ll just dob again and then you’ll get into more trouble.’ ‘No, I won’t,’ Wally said. ‘It’s not school time. That’s the law. You can only get in trouble if it’s during school time.’ ‘I’m not allowed in the boys’ toilets.’ ‘Don’t be a wuss,’ Wally said. ‘You look like a boy, anyway.’ I tucked my hair behind my ears. In a few more months it would be long enough for a ponytail, but I knew Mum would cut if off before it got to that point. She never let

39 me have long hair, would never let me have a ponytail, said it made me look too scruffy and I’d get nits again. Wally grabbed my arm and pulled me into the block. It smelled feral. I held my nose. Brendan was standing in front of a urinal, and when he heard us he whipped around. He looked at Wally and then popped his bug-eyes out at me. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here,’ Brendan said. His hands fiddled in front of his trackies. ‘I’m not peeing in front of a girl.’ ‘I’m not watching,’ I said. I stared at the permanent marker scribbles on the wall next to the mirror. ‘Get out of here!’ Brendan shouted. His fists were clenched, like hard rocks. ‘You’re a girl. You’re not supposed to be in here.’ ‘Shut up,’ Wally said. He turned and closed the metal door, pulled across the bolt. He reached into his pocket and took out a red pocketknife. It was exactly the same as the one Ian had used to poke the hole in the chip packet. He unfolded the knife, grabbed my wrist and took a step towards Brendan. ‘What are you doing?’ Brendan said, backing towards the wall. He put his rock fists up near his face. ‘Get away from me.’ His face was scrunched. I could see the gummy earwax rimming his earhole, bright as a crayon. ‘Just shut up,’ Wally said. Brendan squeezed his eyes shut. A squealing noise escaped from his lips. ‘My dad told me all about loony Les chopping up all those ladies,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told him that you’re loonies too, so if you chop me up he’ll know it was you, and he’ll be after the both of you.’ Wally loosened his grip on my wrist. He sniffed, curled up his lip. ‘Yuck,’ he said. I took a step back. There was a spread of wet blooming on the front of Brendan’s pants. His legs were shivering. ‘Come grab his hands, Cub,’ Wally said. I didn’t want to touch him. I wanted to run outside, but I knew Wally would be angry if I left him. Knew he wouldn’t talk to me for days, which was the worst thing. Brendan lunged sideways, tried to dart into a cubicle. Water dripped down from the sink, where a clogged drain was over- flowing, making a mucky puddle on the tiles. He slipped on the water, arms outstretched, as though grasping for something to cling on to, before he slammed onto his stomach. His chin bone cracked on the tiles. Brendan squirmed onto his back. His face had a green colour to it. There was blood coming from

40 his chin, his mouth. Wally peered over Brendan, knife pointed at the bulge where he’d pissed himself. He brought the knife higher, up to Brendan’s ear. ‘If you tell anyone, then I will chop you up,’ Wally said. He pressed the tip of the blade to the mole. ‘I know how to do it. I’ve had special training.’ Wally stood up straight. He grabbed my wrist again, pulled me to the entrance, where he opened the bolt and led us outside. He looked around to see if anyone was coming, then put the knife back into his pocket. ‘That’ll show him,’ Wally said. He blinked three times in a row, shook his head as though he had water in his ears. Brendan started to cry inside the toilet, thin wheezing coming through the door and cracked louvres. I shook Wally’s hand off me. There were finger marks on my skin, like squished raspberries. I could smell the pee and the boys’ toilet smell and felt like spewing. I didn’t know what was making me feel sick—the smell or Wally trying to make everyone think we were mental, or what Brendan had said about Les, what Cassie had told me not to ask Dad and Mum about. I was sick of everyone knowing more than I did, sick of everyone treating me like I was a dumb girl. I headed towards the oval. Wally called after me but I didn’t turn around. I walked straight past Tilly, didn’t even look at her either. I walked to the gate and then walked all the way home.

*

Our bikes were by the letterbox, their wheels touching as though they were friends talking in a secret bike language. Wally’s wheels were speckled with coloured spokes, just like mine. I picked his off one by one, ran onto the road and threw them into the scrub on the other side. I wheeled my bike under the house. Cassie and Ian were on the verandah, sitting up on the railing, looking out over the paddock. I was surprised to see Ian. He hadn’t been over since the first time, and Cassie hadn’t mentioned him. I didn’t want to talk to Ian, didn’t want Ian to talk to me, but if I didn’t find out what Brendan kept banging on about I was going to die. ‘You have to tell me,’ I called to Cassie from the bottom of the stairs. I put on a serious voice, like I was an adult who needed to sort out business. ‘Tell you what?’ Cassie asked. I paused, looked over at Ian. ‘It’s private,’ I said.

41 ‘Later, Cub.’ ‘No. Now.’ Ian smiled. His eyes went squinty. ‘This about Les?’ ‘No,’ Cassie said, before I could get a word in. ‘It’s not about anything. Just rack off, Cub.’ ‘So he knows as well?’ I said. I felt my adult voice slipping away. ‘Why does everyone know except me?’ I knew I sounded whiny but I couldn’t help it. ‘Leave it, Cub,’ said Cassie. ‘I’m not telling you.’ ‘I can’t believe you don’t know,’ Ian said. ‘Don’t you communicate in this family?’ I turned to Ian. ‘You tell me then,’ I said. ‘Sure you want to know?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’ Ian looked at Cassie, then back at me. ‘Your granddad was a monster,’ he said. Cassie pressed his palms to his eyes. ‘Don’t, Ian.’ ‘When he was a truckie he took women off the highway, locked them in the trailer and then brought them out to the knackery,’ Ian said. ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Why did he take them there?’ ‘To kill them.’ I paused for a moment, felt something swirl in my head. I didn’t want to believe him, but couldn’t understand why he’d make up something so awful. ‘Why would he do that?’ ‘Why does anyone do anything?’ I looked at Cassie. ‘Is that true?’ I said. Cassie shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I guess.’ ‘Well, who were they then?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t their families notice they were gone?’ Ian smiled, stared at me too hard. ‘Hitchers. Whores. Sluts. Anyone really. He wasn’t picky.’ I took a step back, down onto the grass. My legs had moved without my brain telling them to. ‘How’d he kill them then?’ ‘Go inside, Cub,’ Cassie said. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Stop bossing me around. I’m not a little kid.’ Ian looked at Cassie, turned back to me. He was smiling, as though he was

42 unwrapping a present. ‘He put them in the digesters. Boiled them right down and buried what was left in the paddock.’ In my mind I pictured corned beef. Cooked meat. I tried to shake it out of my brain. ‘He did not,’ I said. ‘That’s disgusting.’ ‘Why would I lie?’ Ian said. He turned back to Cassie. ‘How many chicks did he get? Officially.’ Cassie looked as though he’d given up. ‘You probably know more than I do,’ he said. ‘If you were to guess.’ Cassie rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘The cops said five. Could be more.’ ‘And they were all buried out here?’ Ian nodded towards the paddock. ‘You know all of this already, Ian,’ Cassie said. I stared at him but he wouldn’t look at me. ‘I told my mum that he used to live in our house before he moved out here but she didn’t believe me,’ Ian said. ‘She would’ve lost her shit if she did.’ ‘That was before he did anything, though,’ Cassie said. ‘How do you know?’ Ian said. ‘There could be heaps of others. No way of knowing, really. The cops don’t even know the names of some of the ones they found.’ ‘I just don’t reckon.’ ‘I still can’t believe you actually knew him,’ Ian said to Cassie. ‘That you, like, talked to him and shit.’ ‘I hardly even remember him.’ ‘Yeah, but still,’ Ian said. ‘It’s pretty sick.’ Cassie leaned over in his chair, elbows on his knees. ‘I saw this thing on TV the other day,’ he said, ‘about this man in America who shot all these people out of the blue, like in a church or something, and when they did the autopsy they found this tumour in his brain, pushing against his brain cells, and that’s what made him do it. That’s what turned him mental.’ ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Ian said, not really listening. My stomach made a noise. They were talking like I wasn’t even there. Talking about awful things in a normal way. My skin felt very warm, and I could feel my snow cone churning with the eggs I’d had for breakfast. I chewed on my tongue. It felt like a rag that had been stuffed into my mouth.

43 ‘You right, Cub?’ Cassie said. ‘Yeah,’ I said, trying to make my face normal. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ ‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad about this,’ he said. ‘Mum doesn’t like to talk about it. She’ll get upset. Remember what I told you, about how it’ll make her sick again?’ ‘You didn’t tell me.’ I pointed at Ian. ‘He did.’ ‘Just try and forget about it, alright?’ Cassie said. ‘It was a long time ago.’ He looked down, snapped the rubber band around his wrist. ‘Nothing to do with any of us.’ I looked out into the paddock. The grass had turned to seed. Another awful thought came to me. ‘Does that mean Wally does see ghosts?’ I asked. ‘No,’ Cassie replied. ‘That’s just Wally being stupid.’ Cassie turned back to Ian. ‘You shouldn’t have told her,’ he said in a low voice. Ian shrugged. ‘She would’ve found out eventually.’ ‘How do you even know all this?’ I asked. Ian smiled, shook his head at me like I was stupid. ‘Everyone knows.’ I could feel a funny taste in my mouth, like I’d licked the ground. I scratched an itch on my eyebrow. There was a hair sticking out funny, so I yanked it out with my fingernails. It felt good, that prick of hurt. Cassie and Ian started talking again, but I couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to hear any more.

*

When Wally got home from the fete he came into our room. I’d closed the curtain and the room was stuffy. I was sweating through my shirt. He looked at me on the bed and gave me a poke on the knee, and when I didn’t say hello he pulled out his toffees and gave me one. ‘Someone nicked the spokes off my bike,’ he said. ‘Good,’ I said. I tried to ignore him, but after a minute I couldn’t hold it in any longer and turned to face him, propping myself up on my elbows. ‘Ian told me why Brendan’s been saying those things,’ I whispered, though no one could hear us anyway. ‘He said that Les used to take girls to the knackery where he boiled them up. He said he buried them in the paddock and no one knew they were there for years and years. No one even bothered to look for them, probably.’ Wally stared at me, didn’t speak. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ I said.

44 Wally shrugged, kicked his shoes off. ‘Cassie said it’s a secret. He said we’re not allowed to talk about it.’ I was sure Wally had been fibbing about knowing anything, felt a rush of something flame over me. ‘I can’t believe Cassie told you and not me,’ I said, lying back down. ‘He didn’t tell me,’ Wally said. ‘Dad told me.’ ‘What? Why didn’t he tell me?’ I asked, even though I wished no one had told me anything. I wished I could go back to before Ian started hanging around, before Helena and Tilly showed up. I wished I could take this out of my brain and bury it in the dirt. ‘You’re a girl,’ Wally said. ‘You’re not supposed to know this stuff. Boys only.’ He kicked his foot towards me, stuck his stinky sock in my face. ‘At least Brendan won’t dob on me anymore,’ he said. ‘Can’t believe he pissed himself.’ I rolled over, turned my back to him. I grabbed my pillow and hugged it to my chest. Ian said those girls were left out there for ages, that the cops didn’t even know who some of them were. I hoped that if I disappeared, Mum and Dad, Cassie and Wally would want to know where I’d gone. I hoped they wouldn’t just leave me out there to melt away in the ground until I’d disappeared for good.

45 4.

Mum invited Helena and Tilly over for dinner the next weekend. I hadn’t seen Tilly since the fete, and all week I’d had a sticky feeling that I didn’t know what to do with. When I looked out into the paddock I felt like I was looking at something ugly, instead of the same boring patch of dirt I’d looked at every day of my life. It was the same feeling I’d had when Mum was properly crook. But this time I couldn’t make Mum a hot Milo or give her a head massage to make the feeling go away for a bit. This time it was deep inside me, as though I’d be stuck with it forever. We were having a roast for tea. Mum spent all afternoon peeling and chopping vegetables. She made Wally and me have a bath, wash our hair. I went first, and when I came out of the bath the water was milky, shampoo foam floating on the surface like frog eggs. ‘You better not have pissed in it,’ Wally said, stepping out of his undies. I got sweaty again right away, stood in front of the fan in the kitchen while Mum set down a tablecloth. ‘Put some clothes on, Cub,’ Mum said. ‘For goodness’ sake.’ ‘It’s too hot for clothes,’ I said. ‘You’re getting too old to be running around in the nude with all your bits showing.’ ‘I don’t care,’ I said—if Wally didn’t have to wear a shirt then I shouldn’t have to either—but I got dressed anyway. Mum had taken the fancy glasses from a box in the cupboard, and when Helena and Tilly arrived she’d already poured wine into all the adults’ glasses. I looked into a glass and there was a drowned fruit fly skimming the top. I reached in to scrape it out with my fingernail. ‘Don’t be foul,’ Mum said, swatting my hand as she headed towards the door. I left the fly where it was, hoped it wasn’t Helena’s glass. Before dinner me and Wally and Tilly watched TV. I peeled my sunburn while Mum and Dad and Helena stood around in the kitchen. Mum had set out crackers and a salmon dip that looked as if it had already been eaten and spewed up again. ‘We should go swimming tomorrow,’ Tilly said. ‘Nah,’ I said. There was no way I was going out into the paddock. ‘Why not?’

46 ‘I’m sick of swimming.’ Cassie came in from the verandah. ‘Do you want a soft drink, Tilly?’ he asked. ‘Yes, please,’ Tilly said. ‘What about us?’ asked Wally. ‘You have legs,’ Cassie said, and headed into the kitchen. When he came back he handed Tilly a glass of creaming soda. Mum had made Dad buy soft drink especially for tonight, two whole bottles. Tilly looked at the red fizz. ‘Don’t you have Pepsi?’ she said. ‘Dad doesn’t buy Pepsi,’ I said. ‘He says it’s more expensive.’ The kitchen table was too small for all of us, so Dad dragged a foldout table from under the house, tacked it at the end of the big table for me and Wally and Tilly to sit at. I can’t remember ever having anyone over to eat before, and it felt weird, like we were all acting, putting on a show. There weren’t enough plates so Wally and me had to eat from cereal bowls. It was hard to cut and everything slid up the sides. A piece of lamb fat flew out of my bowl and splatted onto the lino. ‘You did that on purpose,’ Tilly said. ‘Did not,’ I said. I could feel Mum glaring at me and shut my mouth. ‘This is real special,’ Helena said. ‘Haven’t had a roast in ages.’ ‘This lot are picky with their food,’ Mum said. ‘Most nights it’s toasted sandwiches.’ She had a line of red above her top lip from the wine, like the rash you get from blowing your nose too much. I felt embarrassed all of a sudden, wished she would wipe her mouth. ‘How are you finding the house then?’ Dad said to Helena. ‘Everything working as it should?’ ‘It’s fine,’ Helena said. ‘It’s not forever.’ ‘Perfectly good house,’ Dad said, nodding and cutting into his potato. ‘And what about a job? Got anything lined up?’ ‘Not yet,’ Helena replied. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask around town. Centrelink should keep us going for a while, though. Not having to pay rent is a real blessing. I just need to find something before Tilly’s school fees are due.’ ‘Not sure why you’re bothering to send her to that school when it’s so far away,’ Mum said. ‘Nothing wrong with the public in town. If it was good enough for Dermott and me it’s good enough for this lot. She could ride her bike in with the twins.’ ‘Well, she’s already started.’ Helena turned to Tilly, smiled. ‘Making new friends,

47 aren’t you, Til?’ ‘But if you’re short of money,’ Mum said, ‘surely a private school isn’t the smartest idea.’ Dad cleared his throat. ‘Always easy enough to get bar work,’ he said. ‘Maybe not around here, but if you’re willing to drive a bit. You done that sort of thing before?’ ‘It’s hard to be on my feet for too long,’ Helena said. ‘Right, right,’ Dad said. ‘How’d the leg end up healing?’ Helena hadn’t stopped smiling, but now there was a strange twist to it. ‘Could’ve been worse,’ she said. ‘Too right,’ Dad said. ‘You’re damn lucky, I reckon. The both of you.’ He nodded towards Tilly. Helena cut a piece of lamb and the knife scraped against the plate. ‘Dermott used to pull beers at the Connolly,’ Mum said. ‘Until he’d saved enough for a car. His old Cortina. God, I remember that piece of junk. Rattled like death when he first brought it home. He was proud as punch, though. Fixed it up himself. A real good mechanic, he was.’ ‘Really?’ Tilly said, glancing at Helena. ‘Would’ve been,’ Helena said. ‘If he was able to sort himself out.’ Mum kept talking as though no one else had spoken. ‘Probably pinched a fair bit out of the pub till to afford that car, knowing Dermott,’ she said. ‘I took some pictures from the day he bought it. We made a bit of a day of it. I’ll have a poke around for them after dinner. Would you like to see pictures of your dad, Tilly?’ I don’t think I’d ever heard Mum talk so much in my whole life. Tilly nodded. Helena reached over, gave Tilly’s shoulder a squeeze, but Tilly bunched her shoulders up to her ears, shrugged her off. ‘Well, if you hear of any work going,’ Helena said. ‘Not sure we’d be the best contacts,’ Dad said. ‘We’re not exactly popular around here, as you could probably gather.’ ‘We don’t plan on sticking around for long,’ Helena said. ‘I’ve got a cousin in Sydney who can get me a job, help us sort out a place to live. Once we sell the place. Our half of the paddock.’ ‘Good luck there,’ Dad said. ‘You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone interested.’ ‘Because of the dead people?’ Wally asked. ‘Is that why no one will buy it?’ The air went thin, as though everyone had taken a breath at exactly the same

48 time. ‘Shut up, Wally,’ Cassie said quietly. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Wally said. I’d forgotten about it for a second, felt the rotten feeling begin to churn in my arms and legs again. I kept shooting Wally sneaky brain messages for him to shut his mouth. ‘Eat your dinner, Wally,’ Dad said. He spoke in a normal voice, but by the way he was glaring I knew Wally would be up for a smack later on. ‘But it’s yuck,’ Wally said, poking his meat with his knife. ‘I hate lamb. It tastes like poo.’ ‘Who’s dead?’ Tilly asked. Helena stood up, put her napkin on the table. ‘We’d better be off then,’ she said. There was still a potato and most of her meat on her plate. ‘Already?’ Mum said. ‘I got fruit salad and custard for dessert. Dermott’s favourite. Would you like that, Tilly?’ ‘No,’ said Helena. ‘We’ll go, I think.’ ‘Come on, now,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t be a party-pooper.’ She reached for the wine and topped up Helena’s glass. ‘Tilly’s had a big day.’ ‘She can have a kip in Cub’s bed.’ ‘Just let them leave, Mum,’ said Cassie. ‘She doesn’t want to stay.’ ‘Watch how you talk to your mother, hey,’ Dad said, ruffling Cassie’s hair even though his eyes were sharp. Cassie got up and took his glass to the couch, turned on the TV. ‘Thanks for dinner,’ Helena said, running her hands down her dress. ‘Haven’t had a roast in ages.’ ‘Could at least wait until after dessert,’ Mum said. ‘Seeing as I went to the trouble. You’ve hardly been here an hour.’ Helena had already grabbed her keys off the table, but paused, turned back to Mum and Dad. ‘Can I have a word, actually?’ she said. ‘In private.’ She looked at Tilly. ‘Go wait outside,’ she said. ‘Why?’ Tilly asked. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’ Tilly got out of her chair. She went outside, didn’t say goodbye.

49 Helena stood there for a moment. She looked at Wally and me. ‘Maybe you two can go to your rooms,’ she said. ‘Right,’ Dad said, standing up. ‘Off to your room.’ ‘But I’m not finished,’ said Wally. ‘Do as you’re told,’ Dad said. Wally and I peeled up from our chairs, trudged into the hallway. ‘Just going to the loo,’ I said, once Wally was on his bed. I nipped back towards the kitchen, stood against the wall and peered around the corner. They were still gathered around the table, Dad and Helena standing, Mum in her chair. ‘I’ve already told you Tilly knows nothing about what went on here,’ Helena said. ‘And if your kids can’t stop bringing it up then she won’t be able to come over here anymore.’ ‘That’s just kids being kids,’ Dad said. ‘They’ve heard rumours, but nothing more. They’re just not interested.’ ‘I’d say they’re bloody interested,’ Helena said. ‘Les is one thing, but I don’t want Tilly to find out what her father did. What he was trying to do.’ ‘It was an accident, for God’s sake,’ Mum said. ‘I thought you would’ve seen sense by now.’ ‘You weren’t in the car, were you?’ ‘I don’t mean to upset you, love,’ Mum said. ‘But he was my brother, and I know he wouldn’t do something like that. It was an accident. A terrible accident.’ Helena took a deep breath, pinched her fingers to the bridge of her nose. ‘Well, how about you just teach your kids some manners, then.’ Helena looked my way and I darted around the corner. I heard the rattling of keys, the flyscreen opening, clacking shut. I peered around the corner again. Mum opened the fridge, took out a tin of fruit salad and a carton of custard and set them on the table. She came into the hall and went into her room, didn’t even seem to see me. I didn’t understand what they were talking about. All I knew was that there was no way I was going to tell Tilly about Les. She’d never want to play with us again if she knew what we were really like, who we had inside of us. What kind of person our bones were made from. I crept back into the kitchen, stood next to Dad and climbed onto the bench. He’d flicked on the porch light and we watched Helena and Tilly cross the grass. The

50 kitchen seemed peaceful. I was glad everyone was gone. ‘Does she have a bung leg?’ I asked. ‘Is that why she hobbles like that?’ ‘She was in an accident,’ Dad said. ‘The one that killed your uncle.’ He took a swig of beer, swallowed it down. ‘The kids at school haven’t said anything to you, have they? ‘About what?’ About your granddad,’ Dad said. ‘Anything like that?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘What about Wally? He said anything? You know how much he fibs.’ I shook my head. ‘A lot of rumours fly around here,’ Dad said. ‘Best to ignore them.’ ‘Okay,’ I said. I made my face go blank, like he was talking about something boring and I didn’t care. ‘People around here like a bit of a chinwag about all sorts of thing. A lot of things get said.’ I nodded. It made me feel like a grown-up, telling a half-lie like that. Telling a lie without even saying anything. Telling a lie by just nodding my head.

*

For as long as I could remember, once or twice a year strange people with licence plates from Victoria or New South Wales would drive up to the yellow house. Even though Dad had taken the street sign down, the cars would pull onto the side of the road and the people would poke around the yellow house for a while, rattling the doorhandle and pressing their faces up to the windows. They’d traipse across the grass like they owned the place, peel under the barbed wire and disappear into the paddock. ‘Bloody pests,’ Dad would say. He’d stand by their car waiting for them to come back, with a shovel or spade over his shoulder and a heat glowing off him that was thick as stew. When they trudged back in, they always slowed down when they saw him leaning against their boot, their walks going stiff just a bit. Dad would follow them onto the road, watch until they pulled back onto the highway, until they were gone. Whenever I asked Dad who they were, what they were doing here, he’d say they were just dropkicks mooching about, but then he’d be in a bad mood all night. The last time I heard a car turn off the highway was right before Helena and Tilly

51 moved in. I’d just had a bath and was in my nightie, but I raced to the driveway. I stood at the side of the road as the car revved towards me, mousy fumes spooling from the exhaust. The car slowed as it passed me, and then rolled to a stop outside the chewed-up gate at the front of the yellow house. Though the sun was close to setting, the road cooked my feet as I walked towards the car. When I reached the letterbox the door clicked open and the driver stuck his head out, turned to face me. ‘This it?’ he asked. He was only a few years older than Cassie, his hair black as crow feathers. He had a piercing in his eyebrow and his cheeks were rubbly with dents. I didn’t say anything. ‘Hey, you deaf?’ he said. ‘This the farm? The knackery? We’ve been driving for hours.’ I heard a giggle come from inside the car. A girl. ‘It’s not a farm,’ I said. ‘What?’ he said. ‘There’s no animals.’ He stuck his head back in the car and the door slammed shut. I stayed where I was, and after a minute the engine choked and the car crawled forward, screeched into a U-turn and sped off back towards the highway. I went inside, told Dad what had happened. ‘Why would they want to go to the knackery?’ I said. He was watching TV, didn’t look away from the screen. I hopped up and down, repeated the question. Dad turned to me. ‘Because it was your grandfather’s, and your grandfather was a well-known man.’ ‘Well known for what?’ I said. ‘The paintings?’ ‘What paintings?’ ‘There’s all these paintings on the walls at the yellow house, with his name on the bottom.’ Dad took a sip of beer, rubbed his nose. ‘It’s like with the Queen of England,’ he said. ‘People travel from all over to see where she lives, even if she’s not there.’ ‘Why, though?’ I asked. ‘Why?’ Dad repeated. He took another sip. ‘Because people are idiots.’ It wasn’t until after the dinner that I realised why those people were really coming to the yellow house.

52 *

Even though the next day was a school day Tilly and Helena had gone somewhere early and it definitely wasn’t school. They had carried bags and towels and plastic bags of food out to the car and were dressed in bright, summery clothes, so I knew they were going somewhere special. I was jealous that they could just hoon off somewhere for a different life. No one would ever take me away on a special trip. I waved to Tilly from the fence but she mustn’t have seen me. Even though I knew Tilly had a secret bad spot in her as well, I needed something to distract me, needed something good to focus my mind on. Needed some of her good to rub off on me. Dad was still at work when Cassie and Ian got home that afternoon. I watched Cassie slip into Mum and Dad’s room and nick the small, bronze key from Dad’s beside table. It was tied onto a blue thread and Cassie hung it around his neck. ‘You can’t just go in there,’ I said. ‘Shut up, Cub.’ ‘You can’t just go into someone’s house while they’re not there,’ I said. ‘What if Helena and Tilly come home? You’ll be sprung.’ ‘Mind your own business.’ ‘Don’t do it, Cass,’ I said. ‘Dad will be mad if you let a stranger in.’ ‘Ian’s not a stranger,’ Cassie said. I peeled a bit of skin from the side of my thumb with my teeth. ‘Well, I’m coming too, then.’ ‘No, you’re not.’ ‘I’ll dob.’ ‘See if I care,’ said Cassie. But when I followed them across the lawn Cassie didn’t tell me to get lost again. When we reached the back door Cassie fumbled with the key, couldn’t get it to fit into the lock. His hands were all wobbly. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘Let me,’ Ian said. He took the key, jammed it in the lock and opened the door, easy. He turned around and grinned at Cassie. I wanted to poke my fingers into his stupid mouth, all the way into his throat until he spewed up his insides. I stood in the doorway and they barely seemed to notice I was still there. Ian wandered through the kitchen and then the lounge room. He stroked the peeling wallpaper as though it were fur. He tapped on the walls and, when the floorboard

53 creaked, he stamped down as though he were listening for the empty, echoing space of a secret room. I followed him and Cassie into Helena’s room. Ian lay down on the thin mattress. ‘So this was Les’s room?’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ Cassie said. There were honey-coloured perfumes and sparkly jewellery on the bedside table. The room smelled like flowers and, beneath that, warm sweat. Ian heaved his body up and down and the springs squeaked. He lay there for ages with his eyes closed, breathing deep so that his breath whistled through his nose. Finally he sat up and looked around the room. ‘Can I take something?’ ‘Yeah, if you want,’ said Cassie. ‘Why would you want to take something?’ I asked. ‘Souvenir,’ Ian said. ‘You can’t just take something,’ I said. ‘This isn’t your house.’ Ian gazed around the room. There was a loose nail poking from the floorboard at the corner of the room. Ian got up, squatted on the floor and yanked out the nail. ‘I could sell this,’ he said, holding it up to the light. ‘There’d be weirdos out there who’d pay a mint for this shit.’ ‘What, for a nail?’ ‘You don’t get it,’ Ian said. ‘This place is pretty much historical. You should do tours—you’d earn a fortune.’ He stood up, ran his fingers along the wallpaper again. ‘Where’d your Dad find the hair?’ Ian asked. ‘The ponytails.’ Cassie pointed to the wardrobe. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘They were in a locked box, though. Dad had to smash it open with a hoe.’ ‘Shit.’ ‘I was there, you know,’ Cassie said. ‘When he opened the box.’ ‘What’d they look like?’ ‘I dunno. Weird,’ Cassie said. ‘I didn’t know what I was looking at. I thought they were little rats or something.’ Ian opened the wardrobe, but it was only filled with Helena’s dresses, a jumble of shoes at the bottom. ‘I can’t believe he went to the cops,’ Ian said. ‘Where’s his loyalty?’ ‘He didn’t know what it meant at the time,’ Cassie said.

54 ‘You’re right,’ Ian said. ‘These guys are fucking sly. They look like normal blokes, but inside they’re fucking psychos.’ ‘He wasn’t a psycho,’ Cassie said. Ian let out a laugh. ‘If that helps you sleep at night.’ I didn’t know that Dad had been the one to go to the cops. I wondered what the ponytails looked like, what colours they were. How many of them there were in the box. I felt dizzy, went into the toilet. There was a bloody wad in the bin, like what I’d seen in the girls’ toilets at schools. I wondered if it was Tilly’s. I kneeled down in front of the toilet, but nothing came up. I pulled out three eyebrow hairs one by one, sprinkled them into the water. The skin under my eyebrow stung, but it made me feel better. Gave me something else to concentrate on. I kept pulling until I felt less dizzy, until everything around me started to feel less rotten. Cassie and Ian were still in Helena’s room so I went and found Tilly’s. She didn’t have a bed, just a mattress on the ground, like Cassie, but otherwise it looked exactly how I thought it would, though somehow even more perfect. There was a fluffy purple blanket on the bed that still had the clean shop smell. Three stuffed polar bears sat on the blanket, as well as a diary with her name on the cover, written in whiteout and then coloured over with rainbow texta. I tried to open the diary but it was locked shut. I lay down on her bed, closed my eyes. I pretended that I was Tilly, sleeping on my bed in my lovely room. I got under the blanket and imagined it was morning. I yawned, rubbed my eyes and then climbed out of bed. I crossed my arms over myself like Tilly did, leaned hard on one foot. I opened her cupboard and looked through her things. There was a t-shirt with a rainbow on the front and I took off my overalls and put it on. It was so short I could see my bellybutton. I had an outie that I didn’t like to look at, and I poked it back in. Next to her bed was a box with a jumble of make-up and stickers and pens. I picked out a lip gloss, opened it. It smelled like grapes. I took the wand and smeared it over my lips, looked in the mirror. I half expected to look like a new girl, but I didn’t look like Tilly at all. I just looked like myself with goo on my face. There was something different about me, though. I didn’t look right. I leaned into the mirror and searched my face. There was a patch missing from my eyebrow, the skin beneath red and itchy-looking. I licked my finger and tried to smooth down my eyebrow but it didn’t work. I found a brown texta in the box and coloured it in. We stayed in the yellow house for almost an hour. I kept my ears open for Helena’s car, but Ian and Cassie didn’t seem to care.

55 ‘We should go, Cass,’ I said. ‘So go,’ Cassie said. His hair was growing long and he flicked it out of his face. ‘No one asked you to come.’ Ian wanted to see downstairs, so Cassie took him outside and down to the crawl space. It was just a stretch of dirt, with a few dead rats that had turned white and crunchy. Cassie said Les had kept all his tools and work things down here, but Dad took all the painting stuff so he could keep the business going on his own, and later the cops had taken the rest of it. ‘Where are the dungeons and shit?’ Ian said. ‘He didn’t do anything here,’ Cassie said. ‘I know.’ Ian ran his hand along the nail hooks sticking out of the stilts. ‘Do you reckon it’s haunted?’ ‘I don’t believe in that shit,’ Cassie said. ‘Wally saw a woman standing in the middle of the paddock,’ I blurted out. ‘She had no clothes on and her eyes looked like black holes, as if her eyes had been gouged out. Wally reckons she was a ghost.’ I wanted to scare him enough to make him want to leave and not come back. ‘Bullshit,’ Ian said, kicking at a rat skeleton that was near his foot. Its insides were hollowed out, an empty shell. ‘This is so fucking cool.’

*

Ian was gone by the time Dad got home from work. Wheel of Fortune had just started. Cassie and I were on the couch, Wally sprawled on the carpet. I could hear the sound of Dad pissing into the toilet bowl, and a minute later he came into the lounge. He stood next to the couch, gave me a scratch on the head. After a second he leaned over Cassie and grabbed his neck, so quick it made all of us jump. ‘What the hell is this?’ Dad said, yanking at the key around his neck. Cassie tried to pull away but Dad grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. He pulled the thread up over Cassie’s head and shook the key in front of his face. ‘What the hell are you doing with this?’ ‘Nothing,’ Cassie said. ‘Nothing, my arse.’ ‘Ian wanted to see it. We were only there for a minute.’

56 ‘See what exactly?’ ‘See where Granddad lived,’ Cassie said. ‘Christ’s sake, Cassie.’ He let go of his shirt. ‘You can’t just break into someone’s house.’ ‘I wasn’t breaking in,’ Cassie said. ‘We used the key.’ ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ ‘It’s not that big a deal.’ ‘I knew that little shit was sniffing around like a dog,’ Dad said. ‘He finds this sort of thing amusing, does he? What did he think he was going to find, hey?’ ‘I asked him if he wanted to go see it. He probably only said yes ’cause I asked him.’ ‘Sometimes I wonder if you have air for brains,’ said Dad, whacking Cassie on the side of the head. ‘Absolutely hopeless.’ ‘It was dumb,’ Cassie said, sinking into the couch. ‘Sorry.’ ‘More than dumb.’ Dad put his hands on his hips and looked at the TV. His nose was dotted with sweat. Cassie stared down, his shoulders hunched around his ears. ‘I don’t want to see that’s shit’s face around here again, alright?’ Dad said finally. He looked over to Wally and me. At some point I’d slid to the floor but didn’t remember doing it. ‘So you’ve had a yarn to this one, I suppose.’ Dad jerked his thumb towards me. ‘Yarn about what?’ Cassie said. Dad struck Cassie on the side of the face again. ‘Don’t treat me like an imbecile. You bloody well know what.’ ‘She already knew,’ Cassie said. I could see tears prickling in his eyes but he held them back. ‘Some kid at school was hassling them.’ Cassie gulped his spit down. ‘It’s not like it’s a big secret. Everyone knows. Everyone at school knows.’ Dad walked into the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. The top clattered as he pinged it into the sink. He came back into the lounge. ‘Get out of my sight,’ he said, grabbing the remote from between the couch pillows. Cassie stood up and went into the kitchen. ‘Bloody all of you,’ Dad said. I crawled off the carpet and followed Cassie. I felt a twisting in my guts. Dad changed the channel to the races, turned the volume up as high as it went. Later, when Wally and me were in bed, Dad came and stood in our doorway.

57 We’d been in there for ages, but he must have seen our open eyes glowing in the dark and known we were awake. ‘You’re not to talk to your cousin about your grandfather,’ Dad said. ‘Either of you.’ He spoke quietly, and then paused. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to talk about.’ His shadow moved away from the door and his heavy steps trudged down the hallway. I leaned up on my elbow towards Wally, but he’d rolled away and was facing the wall, pretending to be asleep.

*

After Dad told Cassie that Ian couldn’t come over anymore I thought he would disappear. But he started coming over more and more, except they didn’t stay on the verandah or go into Cassie’s room. Every afternoon they disappeared into the paddock, snuck out there when Dad wasn’t home. He had no idea Ian was still hanging around. They hid their bikes in the paddock grass out of sight and I just knew they were going to the knackery. ‘I wonder what they do out there,’ I said to Wally, watching Cassie and Ian stamp out into the paddock. The grass was so tall that only their shoulders and heads poked out of the stalks. Wally didn’t look up from the TV screen. The next afternoon Tilly came over, said she wanted a swim but she didn’t want to go alone. Since I found out about what Les had done in the paddock, I thought I’d never go out there ever again. But if I said no to Tilly she might stop coming over, so I said yes, pretended to be happy about it. I tried my best to act normal for the whole swim. Tried not to touch the bottom in case there was anything gross down there that the cops hadn’t found. When we got back from the dam Ian and Cassie were on the verandah. Dad wasn’t home, and they had a can of beer each, the stuff that Dad drank and kept in cartons under the house. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking that,’ I said as we came up the stairs. ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ Wally said to Ian. ‘Did someone hit you?’ The top of Ian’s left cheek was bruised purple. Ian put his hand to his face, taking it down just as quick. He took a swig of beer, ignored Wally’s question.

58 ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I said to Ian. ‘Who made you the Ian police?’ he said. I made a move to go inside but then Ian turned to Tilly, looked her up and down. ‘Who’s this then?’ he asked. ‘This is Tilly,’ Cassie said. ‘She lives next door.’ ‘Next door, hey?’ Ian said. ‘She your little girlfriend, mate?’ He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke towards Wally. ‘No,’ Wally said, putting his fingers into his mouth and pretending to spew. ‘That’s gross.’ ‘She’s our cousin,’ I said. ‘Ah,’ Ian said. ‘Is that right?’ He looked from me to Cassie and then back to Tilly. ‘Cassie mentioned you. Said you were pretty.’ Cassie stood up. ‘I’m going to piss.’ After the toilet door slammed shut, Ian turned back to Tilly. ‘Why don’t you come sit on my lap, sweetheart,’ he said. Tilly blushed and looked down at the ground. She crossed her arms over her chest. Ian turned his head towards Wally, but kept his eyes on Tilly. ‘Doesn’t she speak?’ he said. ‘Yeah,’ said Wally. ‘You a mute, are you?’ he asked Tilly. ‘No,’ Tilly said quietly. ‘What was that, love?’ Ian cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘No,’ Tilly said louder, raising her head. When Cassie came back he handed Ian another beer, pulled up his fly before sitting down. He almost missed the chair when he went to sit, steadying himself on Ian’s shoulder. ‘What are you talking about?’ Cassie said. ‘Just getting to know the newest member of the clan.’ Ian turned back to Tilly. ‘How old are you?’ he said. ‘I’m nearly twelve.’ ‘And you live at Les’s then?’ ‘What?’ Next door,’ Ian said. ‘In your granddad’s house.’ Tilly nodded. ‘How’d you like that?’

59 ‘It’s alright.’ ‘Doesn’t creep you out?’ Ian glanced next door. ‘Don’t get a bit scared at night? Need to sleep in Mummy’s bed?’ Tilly looked at Cassie. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why would I?’ ‘No reason,’ Ian said. He took a sip of beer. ‘Can I come over?’ ‘What, now?’ ‘Yeah,’ Ian said. ‘What for?’ Tilly asked. ‘Never mind,’ Ian said, batting his hand in front of his face, swatting away a thought. ‘Once was enough.’ I felt lumps in my throat. If Tilly found out I’d been into her room without her knowing she’d think I was weird for sure. ‘Why don’t you all go watch TV?’ Cassie said to me. ‘Watch a video or something.’ Okay,’ I said. I grabbed Tilly’s wrist, wanted to get her away from Ian right away, but she pinged her hand away as though I’d electrocuted her. ‘They can stay,’ Ian said. ‘You want to stay, don’t you?’ Ian asked Tilly. Tilly shrugged. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t do what I wanted her to, why she wanted to stay out here. ‘You know, your Grandpa Les used to live in my house as well, before he moved out here.’ He took a drag of the smoke. ‘His birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it, Cass? April seventeenth. We should have a celebration. What do you say, Tilly?’ Tilly’s eyes flickered to Cassie’s. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Okay.’ ‘Jesus,’ Ian said, letting out a laugh. ‘I was joking. What kind of a sicko are you?’ He smiled, gave Tilly a wink, but she still looked as though someone had pulled her pants down. ‘I’m only playing with you. Don’t think a celebration would go down too well with your folks.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Tilly asked. ‘Ian,’ Cassie said. ‘Just forget it.’ ‘Oh shit,’ Ian said. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘I forgot it was supposed to be a big secret still.’ ‘What is?’ Tilly insisted. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about.’ Ian smiled, looked Tilly up and down. ‘Your Grandpa Les,’ he said, ‘fucked whores and boiled them up.’

60 ‘Jesus Christ, Ian,’ Cassie sighed, pressing his palms to his eyeballs. ‘Shut up, would you?’ ‘That’s disgusting,’ Tilly said, wrinkling her nose. ‘There’s no way that’s true. How do you even know that?’ ‘Everyone knows,’ Ian said, draining his beer and throwing it out into the yard. ‘Ask anyone. Ask them.’ He pointed to Wally and me. Ian had a crinkly smile on his face, his eyes on Tilly, who was blushing all over. Cassie didn’t even do anything. He just slouched in his chair, sipped his beer, as though this was Ian’s house and not ours. As though Ian was in control of everything that went on. After a second Ian slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Well, I’ve done my day’s damage,’ he said. ‘Lovely to meet you, sweets.’ He grabbed Tilly’s hand and kissed the back of it with his wet lips. He reached over to slap Cassie’s hand, but Cassie stayed slumped in his chair, didn’t look Ian in the face. ‘See you,’ he muttered. He waited until Ian was gone before standing up. He went down the stairs and picked up the beer cans from the grass. ‘Tilly?’ I said. ‘I hate you,’ she mumbled. She was staring down but I could see wet tracks on her cheeks. ‘What did I do?’ I asked. ‘I hate you all and I hate living here.’ She ran past Cassie, ran over to the yellow house. It wasn’t until Tilly had slipped through the flyscreen that my anger bubbled, and then just as quickly was whisked away. My body felt drained. I kept grasping for something special and good and it kept getting yanked from me. Every time I got close, something else got in the way. I felt tears but they were stuck behind my eyes, burning. I pulled at the skin of my eyebrow until it started to burn as well. I watched Cassie walk over to the bin, cans in his arms. He buried them deep in the rubbish where Dad wouldn’t find them, hiding the evidence of Ian again.

*

That night Helena came over. She banged on the back door, and Dad shuffled over from the couch. He turned the verandah light on. I followed him, stood in the hallway. ‘You promised me, Colin,’ Helena said, when Dad opened the door. ‘You promised me those kids of yours were gonna keep their lips zipped.’

61 Dad was shirtless, in his boxers. ‘What are you banging on about?’ he said. ‘Tilly’s bloody hysterical,’ Helena said. She looked behind Dad, straight at me. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ She jabbed her finger at me. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I said. ‘Christ’s sake, Helena,’ Dad said. ‘You’re drunk. Just go home. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ Dad closed the door and turned off the verandah light. He went back to the couch. I heard a clanging from the verandah, and the next morning a chair was broken in the yard, its legs snapped and sprawled out at funny angles. I thought we’d be in big trouble, but Dad didn’t come into our room again, didn’t say any more about it.

62 5.

I’d been trying to grow my hair into a girl haircut for ages, but every few months Mum gave us trims on the verandah and I’d be back to where I started. I was the only girl at school with short hair, and kept hoping that Mum would forget, would leave it for just that little bit longer so I didn’t look so different from everyone else. For weeks after, I’d find clumps of hair in the grass, or stiffened like fur between the floorboards. Cassie didn’t like Mum’s haircuts, did his own in front of the bathroom mirror. He always tried to look neat, ironing his school clothes when they were only a tiny bit wrinkled, and putting sticky tape around the ends of his shoelaces when the plastic started to split and the lace frayed. His haircuts looked alright most of the time—almost as good as when Mum did it—but whenever he stuffed up and cut out a big chunk by accident he wore a beanie for weeks until the hair grew out a bit. But around the time Ian started coming over Cassie stopped cutting his hair altogether. Refused to let Mum near it. He didn’t wash it either and it grew into golden cocoons. If it was hot, he tied it back with a rubber band, but the rest of the time it hung straight down his neck with his ears poking out like white mice. I thought it looked beautiful. ‘You look like a bloody girl,’ Dad said. ‘Like a bloody fairy.’ It was like that with everything Cassie did. When he came home with a bottle of black nail polish from the cheap shop, Dad noticed his painted nails at dinner. He stared at Cassie’s fingers for a second, and then scraped his chair against the lino, went and sat in front of the TV. ‘You should take that off,’ I whispered to Cassie. ‘I like it,’ Cassie said, webbing out his fingers. ‘But Ian doesn’t even do that to his fingernails.’ ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Cassie said. The next day Cassie didn’t come home from school. After dinner Dad waited for him on the verandah, only came inside to get beer from the fridge. When he needed to piss he did it over the railing. When I heard Cassie’s bike come up the driveway I crept into the bathroom to spy. He dumped his bike in the grass and walked up the steps. ‘Come here a second, mate,’ Dad said. He didn’t sound mad, but there was something in his voice that was even worse than that. ‘Sit,’ he said, nodding towards the

63 beanbag next to him. ‘Sit down.’ Cassie walked over to Dad, sat down and hugged his knees in front of him. If I were Cassie I would have run. Even from here I could tell something wasn’t right. Dad picked up Mum’s hair scissors from the table, set them in his lap. He was leaning in close to Cassie and I couldn’t hear what he was saying. After a minute Cassie got up from the beanbag and turned to go inside. Dad shot up as well, scissors in his hands. He grabbed Cassie by the arm and pulled him back. Cassie tried to squirm away and for second I thought he was going to push Dad, hit him. But then Dad pressed the scissors to Cassie’s chest, and Cassie’s arms drooped to his sides like they were stuffed with wool and not muscle and bone. Dad grabbed Cassie around the neck with his whole arm. Cassie was floppy, as though he’d been given an injection, and Dad turned him around, pushed him onto his knees. He held the scissors to the back of his neck and hacked through the hair, just above the elastic, three or four chops before it came completely off. The ponytail fell to the floor. ‘Night, Cassie,’ Dad said. Cassie picked up the ponytail, got to his feet and went through the flyscreen. As he walked past the bathroom I slipped off the toilet tank. The plastic creaked. Cassie stopped in the doorway. He turned and faced me, holding the ponytail to his chest. His hair hung around his face and he looked like a little boy, but then his face twisted up and he lunged into the bathroom. He grabbed my arms and pulled me up from the ground. ‘Get out,’ he said, shoving me into the hallway. I thought he was going to slam the door, but right before he did he seemed to change his mind, closing it very quietly instead.

*

‘Where’s your hair?’ Wally said the next morning. ‘I cut it,’ said Cassie, tucking his hair behind his ears. It was neater than how Dad had done it. Cassie must have tidied it up in front of the mirror. ‘Well, good,’ Wally said. ‘You looked like a girl.’ ‘Is that why Dad cut it off?’ I asked. ‘Because boys are supposed to have short hair and girls are supposed to have long hair?’ ‘Then why do you have short hair?’ Wally said to me. ‘Is it ’cause you’re a boy?’ ‘Shut up, Wally,’ I said.

64 When Wally went to get dressed I asked Cassie again why he let Dad chop his hair off. Dad never got mad at Mum for giving me a boy haircut, so I knew it wasn’t just that Dad wanted us all to look normal. ‘I asked him to,’ Cassie said. ‘You did not.’ ‘Stop being so nosy.’ ‘Can I have it?’ I said. ‘Wally said that you can sell human hair to make wigs. You can get heaps of money for it. Hundreds even.’ Cassie didn’t answer. He put on his beanie and went outside, got on his bike and rode away.

*

When Cassie got home that afternoon he went straight into his room. I was lying in the lounge room doing my homework, and after a second Cassie stormed out, kicked the pen out of my hand and the book across the room, missed my face by centimetres. ‘Where is it?’ he hissed. ‘What?’ I replied. He grabbed me by the wrist. ‘Ow,’ I said, trying to dig my nails into the backs of his hands. ‘Where is it?’ he said again. His teeth near my face looked slimy up close. He tackled me to the ground and sat on my stomach, pressed my wrists to the carpet, up around my shoulders. I tried to wriggle but I could only move my legs so I bashed them into the carpet until I could feel bruises swell on my heels. I thought I was going to piss myself. Cassie hawked up his spit and dangled a long gob of it over my face. I didn’t know what he was talking about, went back in my brain to see if I’d taken something I shouldn’t have. Nothing. ‘I don’t have it. I don’t have anything,’ I said, squirming my head closer to the carpet to get away from the dangle of spit. ‘Get off.’ The spit was right above my eyes. I closed them tight, knew what was coming, but a second later I heard a sucking sound and Cassie rolled off me. I opened my eyes. Cassie was hunched on the carpet, but then he stood up and charged into my and Wally’s room. I followed him, stood in the doorway as he opened drawers, scattering socks and undies onto the ground. I was scared he was going to go for me again, but I couldn’t look away. He opened the cupboards and riffled through my things. He stripped my

65 sheets and quilt off my mattress, looked under my bed and then under Wally’s. He pulled out Wally’s special box and tipped it upside down so that all his things spread across the ground: his collection of one-cent pieces, a few knick-knacks he’d pinched from kids at school, wallets and purses, the picture of Helena and Tilly. The ponytail. It had flung across the room and was against the wall, like a clumpy dead animal. Cassie snatched the hair and pushed past me. I followed him to the verandah. Ian was waiting by the clothesline and when Cassie crossed the yard they both hopped on their bikes and rode towards the paddock gate. Dust swirled under their tyres and I could smell the churned dirt from where I stood. They opened the gate, wheeled their bikes into the paddock, and then set off into the paddock on foot. I thought I knew why Cassie was so upset. I’d have given anything to have long, lovely hair, and if someone took it away from me I’d be furious too. But I’d never seen Cassie like that before. As I watched Ian and Cassie disappear into the grass I wondered what was out in the paddock, in the knackery, that made them want to go out there nearly every day. I went back to our room, remade my bed and stuffed everything back into their drawers. I sat on the carpet and gathered all Wally’s things back in his box, placed it under his bed, lined it up so that it was in the exact same spot as before. I didn’t want anyone to know Cassie was being weird. Didn’t want anyone to know that something strange was happening to his brain.

*

The next morning I woke early and put on my joggers and a jumper. Wally was still asleep so I crept from our room. I passed Cassie’s door and tapped it open. He was asleep on his mattress, his sheets perfectly tucked. Outside, the sun was only just rising, and the air was so foggy I couldn’t see the mountains in the distance that were usually dark blue and smooth as glass. I crossed the yard and set out into the paddock. The grass was frosty, and slippery beneath the soles of my joggers; the cold and the smell of eucalyptus was so strong it stung my nose as though the air was made of vapour rub. I followed the path of pale, flattened grass until I reached the dam, and when the track disappeared I trod carefully and whipped through the grass with my hands, ripping up snatches with my fists. The knackery was at the bottom of the hill. It was the size of a small house, painted pale pink like the colour of marshmallows, and as I got close to it I

66 started to get that sick feeling in my stomach. The mist had started to clear, the sun becoming buttery, but still I couldn’t help turning around to see if anyone was following me, though I knew I was all alone. I walked through the wooden sheds, so eaten away I could see straight through to their insides, like ribs. Their sheet-metal roofs were rusty and dented, and they were filled with crumbling bricks and scraps of aluminium, prickly pear and a spidery rash of lantana that twisted through the junk left to rust in the rain. I stood at the front of the knackery and looked up. It had no windows, and the pink paint was cracked and streaked with rain stains and runny bird poo. The air felt rotten, like the drained blood had seeped into the earth and was steaming upwards like a pudding. I’d never got this close before and, now that I knew what else it had been used for, I felt a gushing in my guts I tried to ignore. The padlock had been cut open and was dangling from the catch. I pulled on the doors and stepped inside. The air was still, and colder than outside. I blinked, waited a few seconds to get used to the dark. The room looked bigger from the inside, shadowy and dank. It was different to what I expected; I thought it would be full of awful contraptions, but it was bare, blank. On the wall were hooks, but no tools, and there were a few empty crates stacked against the walls. Swinging from the rafters were heavy- looking pulleys, and the cement floor had a drainage system that flowed into a big pit in the middle of the room. But mostly there was just a lot of space. A lot of nothing. Cassie and Ian’s junk was squished into one corner, as though they didn’t want to take up space. There was a foam mattress against the wall, yellow and fingerpicked like honeycomb. Empty beer cans lined the wall like trophies and matches littered the cement, scorched almost up to their ends like tiny burnt branches. A magazine was splayed open on the mattress. I picked it up and on the cover was a woman up on her knees. She was wearing a tiny red bikini, holding her hands up around her chest, mouth wet-looking. I didn’t need to open it to know what would be inside. I’d once found a magazine like this in Dad’s cupboard, the pages crinkled, folded over to fit in a wedge between the ledger books he’d kept from school. There was a shoebox at the end of the mattress. I crouched down and lifted the lid. The bottom was lined with newspaper, and there were three skulls in the corner of the box; birds, or maybe foxes, small as baby fists, the tops crushed open to make holes. Cassie’s nubby ponytail poked out of one of the cracked tops. I stroked it with my fingers, felt one of the dreadlocks hidden in the scruff of hair. It was as soft as a

67 silkworm egg and felt strange, like I was touching the hair of something dead. I pulled the ponytail out through the hole and brushed it against my face. The hair was cool and smelled nothing like Cassie. It was as though the knackery had sucked away the good human smell, left it with nothing but cement and smoke and the feeling of cold. I put the ponytail back into the skull and closed the lid, made sure everything was where they’d left it. I backed out of the knackery slowly. I felt like I was intruding, like I’d seen the inside of something I wasn’t supposed to see. I knew that Cassie coming out here wasn’t right. It was bad that he wanted to be here, bad that this felt like his own special space. I’d thought I knew everything about Cassie, but it was like I’d seen some part of him that was supposed to stay hidden, like seeing the negative of a photo, a sausage out of its casing.

68 6.

The next Saturday I was hanging out washing when Ian rode up the driveway. I hadn’t said anything to Cassie about what I’d seen in the knackery. I decided to wait, to think of some way of keeping Cassie from going out there again. ‘Hey,’ Ian said, circling around the clothesline. Only Dad was awake, reading the paper in the kitchen. I knew he could see us from the window. ‘Cassie’s not here,’ I said. Ian pulled up next to me, looked towards the house. ‘’Course he’s here,’ he said. ‘Where else would he be?’ I shrugged, reached for a peg. ‘I’ll just go wait inside for him then,’ he said, climbing off his bike. ‘No,’ I said, seeing Dad through the window. ‘I’ll go wake him up.’ ‘You said he wasn’t here.’ ‘Well, he might be back by now.’ I left Ian on the grass, made sure he wasn’t following me inside, and then went into Cassie’s room, grabbed his toes through the quilt. ‘Ian’s here,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to tell him to rack off?’ Cassie pressed his palms to his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. He opened the drawer next to him, stood up to pull on his jeans. His spine looked like a line of Tic Tacs as he bent over. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. ‘Why do you and Ian go out there?’ I asked. ‘Where?’ Cassie said, pulling up his fly, acting dumb. ‘The knackery. It’s horrible out there. All those awful things that Les did. What do you do there?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ He opened another drawer, grabbed a flanno from the top of the pile. ‘You and Ian. You always go out there. To the knackery.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I’ve seen you.’ ‘Then you’re seeing things. You might need to get your head checked.’ I didn’t understand why he was lying. I’d seen them go out there every afternoon, seen all their weird stuff: the ponytail and the skulls and the magazine. I stood in the doorway while he fished out some socks from the drawer, laying a matching pair on the

69 bed. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, pulling on his flanno. ‘What?’ I replied. ‘It’s weird to watch people getting changed.’ ‘You’re weird.’ When Cassie was dressed he came out of his room with his backpack over his shoulders and tried to sneak over to the door. ‘Where are you off to?’ Dad put down the paper. Cassie stopped, turned around. ‘It’s the weekend,’ he said. ‘I didn’t ask you what day it is.’ ‘I’m going for a swim.’ ‘With who?’ Dad asked. ‘Just me,’ Cassie said. ‘Bit cold, isn’t it?’ ‘Not really.’ Dad looked out the window, nodded towards the clothesline. ‘Well, look who’s here.’ I glanced out the window. Ian was holding on to a line of wire, pulling down so the clothesline tilted. ‘He’s not coming in to say hello, then?’ Cassie looked as though Dad was playing a trick on him. ‘You said Ian couldn’t come over anymore.’ ‘So what’s he doing here then?’ ‘I told you,’ Cassie said. ‘We’re going for a swim. He’s not coming inside.’ ‘I want to go for a swim,’ I said. Cassie hated swimming; I knew they weren’t going to the dam. I wanted to see what they did out there, what weird boy things went on in the knackery. ‘You can go later,’ Dad said. ‘With Wally.’ ‘I don’t want to go with Wally,’ I said. ‘Please, can I come, Cassie?’ ‘I don’t want to babysit you.’ ‘I’m not going to drown,’ I said. ‘I just want a swim.’ The flyscreen opened and Ian appeared in the hallway. ‘What’s taking you so long?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Cassie. ‘Let’s go.’ Dad stared at Ian, and then at Cassie. ‘Take Cub with you,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘Take your sister for a swim.’

70 ‘No way,’ Cassie said. ‘You can’t stop me,’ I said to Cassie. ‘It’s a free country.’ Ian smiled, rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. ‘What?’ Cassie said. ‘No way is she coming with us.’ Dad picked up his paper. ‘Cub goes, or you don’t go at all.’ He turned to me. ‘Make sure you keep your singlet on.’ I followed Ian and Cassie down the stairs. ‘Where’s your bathing suit?’ Ian asked, looking back at me, smirk on his face. ‘I left them in a plastic bag and they got mouldy. Dad said I can’t get a new pair until my birthday.’ ‘What then?’ Ian said. ‘You’re going to skinny-dip?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s gross.’ ‘We can ditch her,’ Cassie said to Ian. ‘After a while.’ ‘No, you can’t,’ I said. ‘And don’t talk about me like I’m not here.’ Ian turned around again and winked at me. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said. Cassie and Ian started walking so fast I gave up on jogging to keep up, let myself fall behind. I knew the way to the knackery, but that’s not where they went. When I came over the hill Cassie and Ian had stopped at the dam, were sitting on the scabby grass a few yards back from the water. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘What does it look like?’ Cassie said. ‘Why have you stopped here?’ ‘You wanted to go for a swim,’ Cassie said. ‘So swim.’ I felt stupid. Of course they wouldn’t take me to the knackery. I looked back towards the house. I didn’t even feel like a swim, but it was a long way back and I was hot from the walk, so I pulled off my boots and my shirt and leggings, until I was down to my undies and singlet. I thought about what Mum had said before dinner the other night about my bits. I could feel eyes on me, but when I looked up Cassie and Ian weren’t looking. I slid into the water quickly anyway. The silt was slimy against the soles of my feet as I pressed against the side of the dam. I ducked my head under and held my breath. I counted in my head, almost thirty seconds. When I came up for air Cassie had pulled a bag of wine from his backpack. He and Ian were sitting cross-legged and were passing it between them, opening their mouths like baby birds as they tilted their heads and poured the wine in.

71 ‘You nicked that,’ I called out. ‘So what?’ Cassie said. ‘You’ll get in trouble.’ ‘Dad won’t notice.’ ‘Yeah, he will,’ I said. ‘You can go to prison for drinking when you’re not eighteen yet.’ ‘Who told you that?’ Cassie said. I shrugged and swam to the side of the dam. ‘Give me some then.’ ‘No way,’ Cassie said. ‘You’re a kid. You’ll go to prison.’ ‘So will you,’ I said. ‘Don’t be such a pussy,’ Ian said, shoving Cassie’s shoulder. ‘Just give her some.’ ‘I’m not a pussy,’ said Cassie. ‘I just don’t want to waste any on her.’ ‘There’s enough for all of us,’ Ian said. Cassie gave me a look and I scrambled onto the grass. ‘Open your mouth,’ he said. I kneeled next to him and put my face next to his chest. He pressed the nozzle and wine filled my mouth. It tasted sour, and was warm as bathwater. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and Cassie shoved me away from him. I didn’t even like the taste, but I opened my mouth for more. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘We should get her drunk,’ Ian said. ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. ‘It’ll be fun. Drunk kids are fucking hilarious.’ ‘Why waste it on her?’ ‘Come on.’ Ian picked up the cask. ‘Come have a squirt.’ Cassie scratched his ankle. Ian stared at me. ‘We won’t tell on you.’ ‘I don’t want any more,’ I said. Cassie took the cask from Ian and poured it into his own mouth. I could feel Ian looking at me still so I crawled across the dirt and slipped back into the water. I wondered if he was looking at me the way he looked at the girls in the magazine. After a few minutes I heard the buzz of an engine. I paddled to the bank and watched the hills. Cassie froze, silver wine bag a flashing torch in his hands. A few seconds later Dad’s truck appeared at the top of the hill. ‘Shit,’ Cassie said, stuffing the cask into his backpack. At first I thought

72 something terrible must’ve happened, but when Dad stopped beside the dam and got out of the truck he was smiling. He was wearing togs, a towel over his shoulders, and strips of blue zinc on his nose and cheeks. His belly and chest were white, but his legs and arms were brownish-pink, as though they’d been screwed on from another person. ‘Too cold for you boys?’ Dad called out, slamming the door. ‘What are you doing?’ Cassie asked. ‘Felt like a dip,’ Dad said. He put his towel down on the grass. Dad had never come to the dam before; I’d never seen him swim in my life. Cassie said that they used to swim in the dam all the time in summer, him and Mum and Dad, but stopped when Wally and me came along. Dad kicked off his scuffs, threw down his towel and sat down at the dam’s edge before getting in. ‘Chilly,’ he said, bunching up his shoulders. He waded slowly, like he was moving through mud, until the water sucked him in. I swished around in the water as Dad did a few laps. Cassie and Ian looked at each other and then at the ground, as if to stop themselves from laughing, even though they’d both looked dead scared when they first saw the truck come over the hill. Dad swam for half an hour, doing breaststroke like a giant frog, floating on his back. Sometimes I splashed him and he would splash me back. I tried to have fun but it was hard when I felt like I was waiting for some sort of explosion. When Dad got out I stayed in the water. He dried himself off and then sat down on his towel. ‘Well then,’ he said, blowing his nose onto the grass. ‘That was refreshing.’ Ian kept looking towards the ground with a smirk on his face. Cassie stared into space. ‘Home time, I think,’ Dad said. ‘No point staying out here if none of you are swimming.’ ‘She’s swimming,’ Ian said, pointing at me. ‘I can see that,’ said Dad, ‘but I think she’s about done.’ I dunked my head under one last time and climbed out of the water, moving behind Dad so Ian couldn’t watch me. I shook my arms and legs and pulled on my clothes even though I was still dripping. Ian shot Cassie a look and they stood up, grabbed their backpacks and shuffled towards the truck. We drove home in silence, except for Dad occasionally spurting out a line from a song that was playing in his head. He was happier than I’d seen him in ages, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. I sat in the front and when I turned around

73 Cassie and Ian were both staring out their windows. When we got to the house Dad cut the engine and turned around. ‘I’m going to need you to help me with the fence,’ he said to Cassie. ‘Once I’m decent.’ ‘Can’t the twins do it?’ Cassie said. ‘I’m asking you, mate.’ ‘I’m busy.’ ‘You didn’t look too busy before,’ Dad said. ‘Didn’t look like you were busy doing anything.’ ‘I’ve got plans,’ Cassie said. ‘You’ve got new plans now.’ When we got out of the car Dad went up the verandah steps and Cassie turned towards Ian. ‘You can hang out in my room if you want,’ he said, standing close to Ian’s ear so I could hardly hear him. ‘Then we can head to the knackery afterwards. Dad’s just being a dick. He’ll be over it in an hour.’ ‘Nah,’ Ian said, rubbing his nose with his hand. ‘I’m gonna go home. See you tomorrow maybe.’ He picked up his bike and pedalled towards the driveway. I tried not to let Cassie see how big my smile was. I watched Dad and Cassie working on the fence facing the road, replacing the planks that had snapped in half or were leaning onto the ground, even though they’d been like that for as long as I could remember and Dad had never cared before. Cassie mostly just stood around looking sulky. When he did uproot a plank or wind a line of wire around the wood he did it with floppy hands and didn’t try very hard at all, so that Dad kept making him do the same thing over and over. When Cassie took too long to get the wires untangled Dad yelled at him and threw the rotting plank of wood that he’d just uprooted. It nearly hit Cassie’s head, and Cassie chucked the hammer way out into the yard. It landed with a thunk that even I could hear, like a heavy bird dropping from the sky. He stormed inside and shut himself in his room. Dad finished the fence himself, whistling as he worked. When he was done he sat on the verandah with a beer as the sun hit his zinc-striped face, which was frozen into a small smile, happy as anything.

*

74 I hadn’t seen Tilly for almost a week after Ian told her about Les. I waved if I saw her in the yard, but she never seemed to see me. She must have been trying to stay away from Ian. Must have got that same feeling about him as I did. I didn’t like Cassie being alone with Ian, got this feeling in my guts whenever they snuck off to the knackery. I needed to stop them from going out there, needed to get Ian to rack off for good. I saw my chance on Wednesday after school. I was getting my school bag from the verandah when I heard voices coming from Cassie’s room. I hadn’t even been spying on purpose. I peeped through his window. Ian was there. They were sitting on Cassie’s bed, the knuckles spread between them. ‘And he gave them to you?’ Ian said, picking up a knuckle. ‘Yeah,’ Cassie said. ‘For my birthday.’ ‘Where’d he get them?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Cassie said. ‘He probably had them since he was a kid. They look pretty old.’ ‘What kind of knuckles are they?’ ‘What?’ ‘What animal did they come from?’ ‘I don’t know. Pig maybe,’ Cassie said. I could tell he’d never thought about them belonging to an actual animal before. ‘Do you reckon they’re human?’ ‘That’s sick,’ Cassie said, putting a knuckle onto the backs of his fingers and flicking it into the air. ‘They’re too big, anyway.’ Ian held one up to his eye, and then put it under his nose and sniffed. He rolled it around in his palm like he was trying to warm it up. Cassie took the knuckles from Ian, put them into the pouch and then back into the drawer. ‘I’m going to piss,’ he said, rolling off the bed. Once he’d left the room Ian lay back on the bed and rubbed his head. He stared at the ceiling, and when the bathroom door slammed shut, he sat up and opened Cassie’s sock drawer. He took out the knuckle pouch and then opened his backpack beside the bed. He pulled out his school jumper, put the knuckles at the bottom of the bag and stuffed the jumper back on top. When the toilet flushed he scrambled back onto the bed, lay still. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been waiting and waiting for something like this and it had happened without me even looking for it.

75 A few minutes after Ian went home, Cassie came into the lounge room. ‘Have you seen Wally?’ he asked, yanking at the quilt I had over my legs. Before I could answer he charged into my and Wally’s room. ‘Did you take my knuckles?’ Cassie demanded. ‘No,’ Wally said. ‘Give them back.’ ‘I don’t have your stupid knuckles.’ Wally threw his pillow at Cassie, hitting him in the face. ‘Get lost.’ ‘Ian took them,’ I called out from the couch. ‘When you went to the loo he put them in his bag. I saw him.’ Cassie looked at me like I was telling a lie, but then he charged down the hallway, went outside and got on his bike. He came back an hour later. I followed him into his room. ‘Did you get them back?’ I asked. ‘I told you it was Ian. He’s a thief. He’s a bad egg.’ Cassie was much calmer than when he left. He took the knuckle pouch out of his bag, and instead of hiding them in the drawer he opened his cupboard and dug them into a tin of marbles. I went to bed that night feeling like I’d won a long race. It was all over. Cassie had realised that Ian was rotten and everything would go back to normal. But when Ian came around the next day it was as if nothing had happened. I watched them cycle into the paddock, leaving their bikes behind the gate. I didn’t understand. If someone ever stole anything important from me like that, there was no way I’d be their friend. I’d never talk to them again for as long as I lived.

76

7.

A few days later, Wally and me were about to go into town for lollies when Mum told us to invite Tilly to go with us. ‘No way,’ Wally said. ‘I thought you had a nice time at the fete,’ Mum said. ‘She’s probably lonely all by herself in that house, with no brothers or sisters. No one to play with. Not like you lot.’ When Mum left the room Cassie pulled his velcro wallet out of his back pocket, held out a five-dollar note. ‘You don’t have to hang around with her all day,’ he said. Wally reached for the money but Cassie didn’t let go. ‘Share it,’ he said, making Wally look him in the eye and nod before he let go of the money. Wally bent down and slipped the money into his sock. I don’t know why Cassie didn’t give the money to me to look after when he knows Wally’s a thief. Probably because he’s a boy. Cassie looked out the window, reached his hand under his shirt to scratch his belly. ‘Just be nice to her, alright?’ he said. We walked across the yard and came to a stop a few metres from the yellow house. Neither of us wanted to go up the steps. I was nervous that Tilly did hate me, and remembered how cross Helena was when she found out what Ian had told Tilly. But after a second Tilly appeared behind the flyscreen. ‘We’re going for lollies and Cassie told us we have to invite you,’ Wally said, staring at the grass. ‘He did?’ Tilly said. Helena must have been close, because Tilly turned her face and said something in a whisper, looked back at us. ‘Do you have any money?’ Wally said. Tilly said something else behind the door. ‘So do you wanna come or not?’ Wally said. ‘We don’t have all day.’ Tilly’s lip drooped a bit and I could see her bottom row of teeth were all crowded in together, like there were too many of them and they were shoving each other to share the space. Tilly disappeared from inside the door, and when she came back she had a bag over her shoulder. It was black plastic with purple love hearts patterned all over it. She’d put something on her lips to make them pink and sticky. We headed towards the road. ‘Don’t think I’m going to kiss you,’ Wally said, squinting at Tilly’s lips.

77 ‘What?’ Tilly said. ‘If that’s why you’ve put all that stuff on your mouth,’ Wally said. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered, because I’m not going to kiss you.’ ‘We’re related,’ Tilly said. ‘You can’t kiss someone you’re related to.’ ‘Yeah, well, just stay a metre away from me at all times.’ ‘There’s no way I’d want to kiss you anyway,’ Tilly said. ‘I like someone else.’ ‘Good,’ Wally said. There was a pause, before Wally turned and stepped onto the road. I tried to change the subject, asked Tilly whether she had a very best friend at school yet. ‘Everyone there’s gross,’ Tilly said. ‘Not like at my old school. And that wasn’t even a private school.’ She’d said she’d made heaps of friends a few weeks ago, so I wondered what had happened. She tucked her hair behind her ears, pushed her shoulders back. Something in her voice changed. ‘Heaps of people want to be my friend, though,’ she said. When we got to Main Street, Tilly stopped on the footpath. ‘Mum said it wasn’t true. What Ian said about Granddad. She said that if you say otherwise you’re just playing a trick on me.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said, before Wally could get in first. ‘Ian lies a lot. He makes things up all the time.’ Tilly nodded. ‘That’s what Mum said. She said he was just tricking me because that’s what immature boys do. She said Ian’s probably never had a girlfriend and doesn’t know how to speak to girls.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Ian’s pretty weird. I don’t know why Cassie’s friends with him.’ ‘So you’re sure it’s not true then?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Cross my heart.’ ‘Wally?’ Tilly said. ‘Yeah,’ Wally said. ‘It’s not true.’ I sent Wally a thankyou brain message, and one to Helena for thinking of the lie. The buzzer sounded when we went into the corner shop. The man who worked there was reading a magazine on a stool behind the counter. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his belly hung over his ruggers. He never said hello to us, but never got mad at us for taking too long to choose what we wanted. We didn’t go to the big shop on the middle of Main Street anymore. Once when we were paying for our lollies the woman

78 who worked there thought Wally had nicked some money from the counter. We have pictures of her in photo albums, of her and Mum in Girl Guide uniforms. She grabbed Wally’s hands and tried to prise his fists open. Wally spat on her neck, and as we ran out of the shop he grabbed the bucket filled with flower bunches by the door and emptied it on the street, grinding the petals into the brick path. But Wally hadn’t even taken anything—not that time, anyway. The lollies were lined up next to the counter in cloudy containers with their prices written on the lids in permanent marker. Once we’d picked our lollies Wally turned to Tilly. ‘How much money did you bring?’ Tilly took a coin purse out of her bag and emptied it onto the counter. It was all silver, mostly ten-cent pieces and not that many of them. Wally touched each coin with his index finger, slowly mouthing the numbers under his breath as he counted. Halfway through he lost count and had to start again. ‘Is that it?’ Wally said once he’d finished. He looked annoyed. ‘I thought you were rich. You go to a fancy school.’ He pushed the coins towards the man behind the counter, who added them up with his finger the same way Wally had. Wally reached into his sock and pulled out the note. ‘This was for emergencies,’ he said to Tilly. ‘In case we needed medicine or to call the cops.’ We took the short cut back through the park. Tilly sucked on a jawbreaker, shifting it to one side of her cheek. When we passed the skate ramp we saw a few of the dropkicks gathered under the big tree in the middle of the park. They were a few years older than Cassie, and some even older than that. Proper grown-ups. They were all drinking from cans or paper bags. They were scrawny as skeletons. ‘Who are they?’ Tilly asked. ‘Dad says they’re all druggies,’ Wally said quietly. He was scared they’d hear him. A few months ago, when we were wheeling our bikes up the highway, some of them egged us out of a car. One of the eggs hit Wally on the neck and he got a bruise that swelled up like a bite right away. He had to hose off in the yard and have two baths before he could get the egg smell off him. ‘They look pretty weird,’ Tilly said. ‘They egged us once,’ I told her. Tilly stopped on the grass and turned towards the skate ramp. She took a step towards them. They didn’t notice us, and Tilly took the jawbreaker out of her mouth. ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

79 Tilly narrowed her eyes like she was concentrating hard, and then she threw the jawbreaker right at them. She missed, and it landed in the grass a few metres in front of the tree. The one who had stringy hair tied back and pants that came halfway down his bum turned to us. He looked at the jawbreaker and gave us the finger, then flopped back onto the grass. ‘Let’s go,’ Wally said. He clutched his paper bag of lollies under his arm as though it was an important parcel, didn’t slow down until we were back on the road. ‘That was so cool,’ Tilly said. She was puffing and her neck was splotchy. She looked like a piglet. ‘They could have bashed us, you know,’ I said. ‘They once threw an egg at us, for no reason. Just because they wanted to throw an egg at someone, probably.’ ‘I heard you the first time,’ Tilly said. She didn’t look at me when she said it, but there was something mean in her voice that I didn’t understand. If she thought Ian was lying about Les then there was nothing strange about us, and she has no reason not to want to be my friend. When we reached the driveway, Wally slipped his soggy lollipop stick into the letterbox slot and turned to Tilly. ‘You can come to the dam with us tomorrow, if you want,’ he said, looking at the ground, at Tilly’s feet, which were caked in orange dust. She smiled and I could see her teeth clashing together. I looked away before she could tell me to stop staring.

*

The next Thursday afternoon Ian came home with Cassie after school. They looked liked they’d just run a race; their faces were red and they kept looking at each other and laughing, but laughing in a strange, nervous way, giggling like girls. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked. I was in the yard, but they ignored me and went out into the paddock. When Cassie got back he wandered around the house before dinner. He wasn’t laughing anymore. I watched him from the couch as he looked in the fridge, in the pantry, and then the fridge again, before coming into the lounge where Wally and I were watching a video. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ said Cassie.

80 ‘You’re being weird,’ I said. ‘Did you and Ian have a fight?’ ‘Piss off,’ Cassie mumbled. He stood there for a moment longer, staring at the screen, before going into the bathroom. He was in there for ages, and when I went to use the loo after him the mirror had fogged up and the wooden walls were sweating. He’d written his name onto the mirror in bubble letters. We had casserole for dinner, the news on while we ate, and before the first ad had even come on Cassie got up and put his nearly full plate next to the sink. ‘Didn’t you like it?’ Mum asked. ‘I’m not hungry,’ Cassie said. ‘You should eat your dinner, love,’ Mum said. ‘Look how skinny you are.’ Dad sipped his beer, not taking his eyes off the TV, but I could tell he was paying close attention to Cassie. There was something off about him; something wasn’t right and Dad could tell. An hour later Cassie came out of his room and went into the bathroom. I could hear him heaving all the way from the kitchen. I pressed my ear to the bathroom door, scrammed to my room when the toilet flushed. Once he’d gone to bed I went into the toilet. There were bright yellow chunks skimming the water even though I’d heard him flush twice. The whole room smelled like sour cream. ‘Are you sick?’ I said, going into his room. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s spew in the toilet.’ ‘Wasn’t me,’ said Cassie. ‘It was probably Wally. Probably sick from all those lollies he eats.’ ‘But I heard you,’ I said. ‘Just leave us alone, would you?’ He chucked a pillow at my head. ‘Why are you so obsessed with everything I do? You’re so weird sometimes.’ ‘So you admit it,’ I said. ‘It was you.’ ‘Just rack off, alright? And shut the door behind you.’

*

I watched Cassie closely the next day. If he wasn’t going to tell me what was wrong, I was going to have to find out myself. I bet that he and Ian had had a fight, and that was

81 why Cassie was acting so strangely. I hoped so, anyway. Ian didn’t come over that afternoon, and Cassie was still in a sooky mood. As long as Ian had racked off, I didn’t care how sad Cassie was. He could be sad forever, I didn’t care, as long as Ian was gone. But that night the phone rang. I knew it had something to do with Cassie right away, because Cassie jumped a mile and then slunk off to his room and locked the door. I pretended to watch TV. When Dad hung up he kept his hand pressed to the phone on the wall for a minute, and then went to the fridge and opened another beer. He sat down at the kitchen table and drank his beer in gulps. When Mum finished her bath, Dad called her name and she shuffled into the kitchen. She was wearing her woolly slippers and the nightie me and Cassie and Wally had given her for her birthday the year before. They spoke quietly to each other and I concentrated hard to hear but the TV was too loud. Mum held one hand to her throat and other towards the fridge, like she was searching for something to grip on to. Dad called for Cassie. I tried to turn down the volume but Wally snatched the remote from my hand and turned it up even louder. I moved to the couch, peeked over the back. ‘What?’ Cassie said, stopping in the doorway. His skin looked wet. ‘What’s wrong?’ Dad took a sip of his beer. ‘What’s this about you interfering with a girl?’ Cassie froze. ‘What girl?’ he said. ‘You know what I’m talking about. What you and your little friend did in the school toilets.’ ‘We didn’t do anything,’ Cassie said. ‘She’s making it up.’ ‘Why would anyone make up a thing like that?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Cassie said. ‘She’s a freak.’ ‘How do you know what I’m talking about if you didn’t bloody do anything?’ Dad stood up. ‘Get your story straight, for Christ’s sake.’ ‘Cassie,’ Mum said. The muscles in her neck stuck out and I could tell she was about to cry. ‘They might be going to the police.’ ‘I didn’t do anything.’ Dad slammed down his beer. ‘Don’t you lie to your mother,’ he said. ‘I’m not lying,’ said Cassie. ‘She’s making it up.’ ‘Do you take us for idiots?’ Dad said. ‘You know it’s a crime, what you’ve done? People have gone to prison for far bloody less. Did you think about that?’

82 ‘I didn’t know doing nothing was a crime.’ ‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Dad said. ‘You need to grow a backbone—you’re weak as piss. Weak as piss and a bloody pervert.’ ‘I’m not a pervert.’ ‘Trying to impress your new friend, are you? Is that it?’ ‘This is bullshit,’ Cassie said. ‘I didn’t do anything. I’m not trying to impress anyone.’ ‘Jesus Christ, your grandfather would be proud, wouldn’t he?’ Mum strode over to Dad in two steps, slapped him hard on the cheek. I didn’t see it coming and probably got just as much of a fright as Dad. Mum’s hand was shaking, and she reached over and touched Cassie’s arm. ‘If he said he didn’t do anything, he didn’t do anything,’ Mum said to Dad. ‘It’s just a silly girl making up stories.’ Dad pressed his hand to his cheek, opened and closed his mouth. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘You are unbelievable.’ ‘This is bullshit,’ Cassie said again. ‘Don’t swear at your mother,’ Dad snapped. ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. ‘What’d you say to me?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Go to your room,’ Dad said. ‘I can’t stand the sight of you.’ Cassie stormed to his room, slammed the door so hard it rattled the frame. Dad chucked his empty can into the sink. ‘You don’t have to be so hard on him,’ Mum said, her arms holding her stomach. ‘Jesus Christ, Christine, there’s a girl who’s making a pretty serious accusation.’ Mum stood in front of the sink, turned on the tap. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ ‘Can you hear yourself?’ Dad said. ‘Did you listen to anything I told you? What the principal said?’ ‘I know my own son,’ Mum said. ‘I know he wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ ‘I don’t think you bloody know your children very well at all.’ ‘He’s just a boy,’ Mum said. ‘I think you forget that sometimes.’ Dad just shook his head. I went to Cassie’s room but the door was locked again. I slipped a note under the

83 door, asking him what had happened, why he was in trouble. By the time I went to bed he hadn’t slipped anything back.

*

The next morning Dad was dressed in a shirt and tie. He had gel in his hair, which was combed back from his face and slicked over his bald patch, shiny as a tomato. When Mum had finished washing her hair she came to the kitchen. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Mum said to Cassie, her wet hair curling like noodles. ‘Sometimes girls make up nasty things to get attention. It’ll all be cleared up soon.’ Wally padded out of our room, still in his pyjamas. ‘Why are you all dressed up?’ he said to Mum. ‘I’m not dressed up,’ Mum said. ‘Yeah you are,’ said Wally. ‘Look at your face. Are you going somewhere nice? Can I come too?’ ‘To a meeting at Cassie’s school,’ Mum said. ‘Someone’s told a nasty lie about your brother.’ ‘What kind of lie?’ Wally asked. ‘Shut up, Wally,’ Cassie said. ‘It’s a free country.’ Wally opened the pantry to get his Wheaties. ‘I’m allowed to ask questions.’ ‘Just a nasty lie,’ Mum said. I wanted to ask Cassie what really happened, but he was still acting weird and I knew he wouldn’t tell me. Mum stood up and took Cassie’s plate of eggs to the sink. ‘Comb your hair, Cassie,’ she said. ‘We’ll get a bakery treat after the meeting. Have the rest of the day off, hey?’ Cassie nodded, smoothed down his hair with his palms.

*

I couldn’t wait to get home that afternoon, to find out what had happened at the meeting. I didn’t even go over to Tilly’s to see if she wanted to play. This seemed more important, more interesting. I was dying to know what the secret was, but when I got

84 home everyone acted like nothing had happened. It was as though I’d invented the whole thing in my head. Dad hardly spoke to Cassie for days. He wasn’t in trouble, but he wasn’t not in trouble either. Every time I asked Dad or Cassie what had happened at the meeting, what the meeting was about in the first place, they would tell me to stop being a busybody. Eventually I just stopped asking altogether. I kept my ears pricked, though, listening for clues, and I didn’t have to wait long, because on Wednesday Ian’s parents came over. Ian hadn’t been around since the phone call from Cassie’s school. Mum knew they were coming. She wore her brick-coloured lipstick and told Dad to buy a packet of biscuits from the shops. I don’t think I’d imagined Ian having parents before I saw them standing in the kitchen. Ian’s dad was wearing shiny black shoes and a name badge attached with a magnet to the front of his polo shirt. The skin around his chin was shaved smooth. It made me think of pigskin, tight and pink. Ian’s mum was wearing a pink skirt and a cardigan that matched, gold earrings that looked like wrapped chocolates. I wondered how someone as greasy as Ian could have come from people so clean. Everyone shook hands and then went into the lounge room while Mum stayed in the kitchen. I sat at the table and watched Mum as she made cups of tea, chewing my pen so that it looked as though I was concentrating hard on my homework. They talked about boring stuff at first, about how warm it was, and Ian’s dad’s business, and how Mum used to live in Ian’s family’s house on Daley Street when she was a girl. Mum went on and on about how she and Dermott used to dig swimming pools in the backyard, and then how it rained for days one summer and the pool got infested with toads. How their dog ate one of them, poisoned its insides. They gave the dog a funeral and buried it beneath the zigzag wattle. ‘If we’d known the house’s history we probably wouldn’t have bought it in the first place,’ Ian’s mum said with a half-laugh. ‘What history?’ Mum asked. Ian’s parents looked at each other. They must have passed a mental message back and forth, like I did with Wally, because Ian’s dad put down the teacup that looked miniature in his man hands. ‘Well,’ he said, clearing his throat and looking at Ian’s mum, even though he talking to Mum and Dad. ‘We’re not here for social reasons unfortunately. Best sort out what to do about the boys, we thought.’ He cleared his throat again.

85 ‘The girl said she was lying,’ Mum said. ‘If that’s what you’re talking about.’ ‘Now, we know none if it’s true,’ Ian’s dad said, holding his hands up. ‘Ian made that clear. But he’s been having a bit of trouble adjusting to the move, and we think it’s best if we establish some boundaries for the boys.’ ‘I second that,’ said Dad. ‘Ian’s had a hard time fitting in at school,’ Ian’s dad said. ‘Maybe if he got the chance to make some new friends . . .’ ‘Some new friends his own age,’ Ian’s mum said, cupping her palm under her jam drop to catch the crumbs. ‘In his own grade.’ ‘There’s a year between them,’ Mum said. ‘It’s hardly an age gap.’ ‘Two years, actually,’ Ian’s mum said. ‘Ian skipped a grade. He was a clever boy, when he was younger.’ ‘Well, I hardly think Cassie’s stopping Ian from having friends,’ Mum said. ‘And it’s nice that the boys get along so well.’ ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ Ian’s dad said, raising his hands again. ‘We don’t want to stop them being mates.’ Ian’s mum took a sip of tea and her hand wobbled as she raised it to her mouth. ‘We just don’t want Ian being led astray.’ ‘Led astray?’ Dad said. ‘Cassie would never have done a thing like this before your boy came along and started putting ideas in his head.’ ‘Now hold on a minute,’ Ian’s dad said. ‘I think we all know why Ian’s taken such an interest in Cassie,’ Dad said, ‘and quite frankly I’ve had a gutful of him coming round here like we live in some sort of zoo.’ ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t raise your voice at me, mate,’ Ian’s dad said. ‘Oh, piss off, mate,’ said Dad. ‘For God’s sake, Colin,’ Mum said. She sounded furious. ‘Why can’t you just accept that Cassie’s finally made a friend?’ I didn’t hear any more because Cassie appeared out of nowhere and told me to rack off to my room. ‘Shh,’ I said, taking my pen out of my mouth. ‘Go to your fucking room.’ Cassie grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me into the hall from the kitchen. I stood against the wall. My mouth tasted funny. When I looked into the mirror my pen had leaked all over my lips, as though I were dribbling

86 blue blood.

*

On Saturday morning Cassie was already waiting for Ian on the verandah with his backpack. Dad was down at the pub watching the races, which he sometimes did on Saturday mornings when it was quiet. Ian and Cassie hadn’t seen each other for almost a week, not since Dad and Mum had the meeting at school. ‘What are you doing today?’ I asked Cassie. Cassie was staring into space. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Is Ian coming over?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘So you’re still friends then?’ ‘Yeah,’ Cassie said. ‘So what?’ ‘So nothing,’ I said. ‘It was just a question.’ I sat down next to Cassie, wrapped my arms around my knees. ‘I thought Ian’s mum and dad said you can’t be friends anymore.’ ‘It’s my life,’ Cassie said. ‘I can do what want.’ When Ian came up the driveway Cassie got up without saying goodbye. I watched as they jangled the gate open and headed into the paddock together. I waited until their heads became specks in the distance, then pulled on my boots and went into the paddock after them. The fog had cleared and the ground was crispy. I could smell the gums and the wheaty grass, dry in my nose. I stamped along the path. Cockatoos squawked from the knobbly gums that jutted from the paddock. I slowed down when I wound to the top of the hill, looking down at the knackery and, beyond that, gushes of mustardy-yellow fields that sprawled to the mountains. Ian and Cassie were slinking around the door, small as dolls. I waited until they went inside before heading down the hill. I don’t know what I was hoping to see. I’d given up on getting Cassie to stop going to the knackery. I didn’t know how to make anyone do what I wanted. There were too many things I didn’t understand, too many things that people wouldn’t let me in on. It was the feeling of the secret world again, like there was so much I wasn’t allowed to be a part of. When Ian told me about Les I felt like I’d crossed over, but lately everything was going fuzzy again.

87 The doors were open. Cassie and Ian were on the mattress, their backs pressed against the wall. The collection of bottles had grown and they’d blu-tacked pictures on the walls: patterns done in black and blue biro, and lead-pencil drawings that were all smudgy and shaded in. On the ground around me, spreading out into the paddock, were bronze shards of broken bottles shattered on the rocks. I got that familiar prickle under my skin, tried to block out what Les had done out here, tried to block out the throb in my head that said it was bad to be anywhere near here, bad for Cassie to be here. I stepped away from the door. There was a crow on the roof, still on the tin, but when I raised my hand it flew away. I waited for something to happen. Cassie and Ian’s voices were a murmur I couldn’t make out, but when they stopped talking I held my breath so they couldn’t hear me. The smell of smoke wafted through the timber. I pressed my ear to the gap in the wall. ‘I would’ve been so pissed if I got in shit for it,’ Cassie said after a while. ‘I didn’t even do anything.’ Ian let out a wet snort. ‘Standing guard is a big job,’ he said. ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ ‘Whatever,’ Cassie said. ‘We got lucky, though,’ Ian said. ‘You must have scared the shit out of her to make her change her story.’ ‘She was pretty scared of me in the first place,’ Cassie said. ‘Everyone is.’ ‘Stupid slut,’ Ian said. ‘She was gagging for it.’ My head swam and my legs began to throb. I squatted down on the grass and pressed my palms into the ground to keep my balance. I was still at the edge of something, seeing things through a murky window, and I couldn’t quite make out what was on the other side even though there were shapes and sounds and light. I reached up and with one hand picked furiously at my eyebrow with my fingernails until I could feel the skin swell; a smooth, calm patch when I stroked my finger there. After a minute I stood up, my legs wobbly. A sliver of glass had sliced into my other palm and welled up with crystals of blood right away. I hadn’t even felt it. I wiped my palm against the side of the pink wall, walked back up the hill.

88 8.

The next Monday after dinner Cassie told Dad he was quitting school for good. ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Dad. He started to laugh. ‘Who’d give you a bloody job?’ ‘I’m old enough,’ Cassie said. ‘You didn’t finish school so why should I have to?’ ‘You can do what you bloody well like,’ Dad said. ‘But don’t think for a minute anyone around here is going to give you work.’ Cassie looked down at his plate and took a breath through his nose. ‘I just don’t think school is for me. I think I’d be more useful in the real world.’ I could tell he’d practised what he was going to say, probably wrote it down and rehearsed it in the mirror. ‘You know I couldn’t find work for nearly a year after the twins were born?’ Dad said. ‘I had more jobs than I could keep up with until word got out about Les.’ ‘I know,’ Cassie said quietly. ‘You know the number of jobs your mother has applied for over the years? Never been given a single interview—not one.’ Cassie seemed to worm inside his skin. ‘You know this will upset your mother, don’t you?’ Dad said. Cassie shrugged, didn’t say anything. ‘No, you don’t. Because you only think about yourself. Always have.’ ‘Ian said I could maybe get a job at his dad’s shop.’ Dad nodded slowly, stood up and went to the sink. He picked up a tin cup and filled it with water. ‘I wouldn’t count on that, mate.’ Cassie sat there for a moment, head down, with his eyes almost closed, like he was trying to remember the rest of his speech. Dad gulped the water. It made a wet, painful sound in his throat as though he was swallowing a goldfish.

*

Cassie didn’t seem to try that hard to find a job. He spent the next days sitting around at home watching TV. Sometimes he’d go and meet Ian after school, or they’d set out to the knackery for a few hours, but most of the time he just slobbed around inside in his trackies. I hated seeing him like that. There was a girl at school, Jocelyn, whose Dad had died the year before. I’d overheard Jocelyn telling her friend that he stopped going to

89 work and lay around all day in bed doing nothing, and then one day her mum came home and he was dead, just like that. I didn’t want that to happen to Cassie; I needed to figure out some way to make him feel better. One afternoon when Wally and me got home from school he was lying on the couch. I sat down next to him. He moved his legs so I could fit beside him, but stayed staring at the screen. ‘Stop watching me,’ he said after a while. His face was puffy, a crusty cold sore on his top lip. ‘Have you been crying?’ I asked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You have,’ I said. ‘Give me your hand.’ ‘What? No, Cub. Just piss off, would you.’ I grabbed his hand anyway. His arm went rubbery and he didn’t fight me. At lunchtime that day I’d watched two girls from grade seven as they ate their lunch in the shelter shed near Wally and me. One of the girls had taken the other girl’s arm and told this story about a snake and a tiger and an ant and an elephant going on a picnic. Every time the girl said the name of an animal in the story, she did something different to the girl’s arm, from the wrist to the elbow crease. She slithered her fingernails along the skin for the snake, pinched for the ant. For the tiger she jabbed her nails along the arm, and when she talked about the elephant she thumped her fist hard along the girl’s skin. ‘And then when they got to the picnic, they realised they’d dropped the strawberry jam,’ I said to Cassie, running my finger along the soft part of his arm that had turned red as sunburn, red as jam. Cassie looked at his arm and pressed down on the hot skin. He looked at me and smiled but he didn’t offer to do it back to me, which was the whole point. ‘You do it back to me now,’ I said. ‘Nah,’ Cassie said. ‘It’s easy,’ I said, holding out my arm. ‘Go on.’ ‘Don’t you have homework or something?’ I took my arm back, turned towards the TV. I tried to think of some other way to put him in a good mood, but I didn’t have any lollies, couldn’t think of any funny jokes. When the news came on Cassie patted me on the shoulder, got up from the couch. He seemed a little bit happier, a little less sick- looking, but when I went to the bathroom later there were bits of spew in the toilet water

90 again.

*

At dinner Dad asked Cassie when he was going to start paying rent. ‘I’m not paying for your food if you’re sitting around on your arse all day,’ Dad said. ‘Your dad saw a sign in the bakery window today,’ Mum said to Cassie. ‘Looking for someone on Saturday mornings. Maybe you could pop in tomorrow?’ ‘I was hoping for something full time,’ Cassie said. ‘So I can save up.’ ‘Save up for what?’ I asked. ‘Go overseas,’ he said. ‘Go to Europe, maybe.’ ‘Why would you do that? Why would you want to go there?’ What I really meant was: why would you want to leave us? No one noticed I’d spoken. ‘They’ll give you plenty of hours when you show them how hard you can work,’ Mum said. ‘I thought I’d try the meatworks maybe,’ Cassie said, picking at a bit of dirt under his nail. Dad snorted and then pulled at a bit of gristle between his teeth, set it down at the side of his plate. It looked like a tiny organ from a mouse or a baby bird. Mum put down her fork and smiled at Cassie like she was talking to an idiot. ‘You’re not working there, Cass,’ she said. ‘They hire anyone so it’s easy to get a job,’ Cassie said. ‘And it won’t be for forever. Just until I save up.’ ‘I don’t want you surrounded by criminals,’ Mum said. ‘They’ll turn you filthy.’ But the next day Dad took Cassie to the big abattoir up north. ‘I know a bloke who works there,’ Dad said. ‘Gary Druid. Played footy with his brother. He’s been in and out of prison for half his life. He’ll be able to give you a tour of the place.’ They were hardly gone an hour. When they got home Cassie stormed into the house, the flyscreen bouncing behind him. He’d dressed in one of Dad’s old painting jumpsuits, like he was playing dress-ups, and pulled at the buttons until the top was down and flapped around his waist. At first I thought that he and Dad’d had a fight, but when Dad came inside a minute later he was chuckling. ‘I’m not working there,’ Cassie said to Dad. ‘You can’t make me work there.’

91 ‘He passed out, can you believe it,’ Dad said to Mum. ‘One sight of a carcass and he was horizontal on the floor.’

*

After a week Cassie still hadn’t found work, hadn’t bothered looking. Mum kept nagging him about the job at the bakery, but by the weekend there was a new girl with a berry- coloured birthmark covering her whole right arm serving at the counter and the sign in the window was gone. Ian came around the next Friday afternoon, waited on the verandah while Cassie fixed his bike chain in the yard. Dad was already home from work, but Ian and Cassie didn’t seem to care. He was watching the races, and I could hear the commentator through the kitchen window as I sifted through Mum’s vegetable patch. Mum didn’t garden anymore and mostly everything was dead. There was a slug slimed onto a leaf, a green cherry tomato as small as a pea. I walked up the stairs, passed Ian and climbed up on the verandah railing. I watched Ian from the corner of my eyes. I knew Ian was the reason Cassie was so upset. If it wasn’t for Ian, whatever had happened with that girl in the toilets wouldn’t have happened and Cassie would be fine. I needed to figure out how to make Cassie hate him as much as I hated him. After a few minutes, Ian looked over at me. ‘What?’ he said, mouth full of chips. I didn’t say anything, turned to watch Cassie, who was crouched next to his bike. ‘I can feel you staring at me,’ Ian said. ‘It’s creepy.’ ‘I wasn’t staring,’ I said. ‘Yeah, right.’ I jumped down from the railing and sat on the chair beside him. I sat cross- legged and the soles of my feet were black with dirt. ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ he asked. ‘What?’ I said. I hovered my hand in front of my face, trying to hide it. I didn’t want him looking at me too closely. ‘Your eyebrow,’ he said. ‘It’s all scabby.’ I shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ I said, felt my cheeks go red. Now that I was right up close to him I didn’t know what to do; it was like my brain was wrapped in sticky tape and I couldn’t think properly. ‘Can I have a chip?’ I asked, just to say something. He held the

92 chips towards me. When I put my hand into the bag he held my wrist through the foil, trapped my hand in the packet. He pulled on my wrist, yanked me closer to him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘A chip,’ I said. ‘I just want a chip.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re staring at me. I don’t like it.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to make my voice sound soft and nice. ‘Stop staring at me, alright?’ I let my hand go limp and didn’t say anything. He was breathing loudly through his mouth and I could smell his bready chip breath, could feel it on my face like a layer of grease. He gripped my wrist tighter, until it began to hurt. He put his hand on my knee, which made my wrist hurt less because all I could think about was his hand touching my skin and what it was doing there. I didn’t move. I looked down at his hand as it squeezed my knee tight. My body froze, my throat closed up. His hand felt greasy like his breath. Cassie shouted from the lawn. ‘Finally,’ he said, and everything snapped back into place. I pulled my hand out of the chip packet, wiped my fingers on my shorts. Cassie turned his bike the right way up and Ian let go of my knee. I could feel Ian watching my hands and I placed them in my lap and tried to make them look normal and like I didn’t care. My wrist ached and I chewed the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying. Ian stood up and walked down the steps to Cassie. There was no mark on my wrist or on my knee, but the tips of my fingers were yellow from the chips. I licked them but the yellow didn’t come off. I didn’t know why Ian had done that, why he’d touched me like that, but I knew if I told Cassie he wouldn’t believe me or wouldn’t care. That was the worst bit. Ian stayed in the yard as Cassie went inside to get his backpack, and then under the house to where Dad kept his extra beer. As they headed off into the paddock I could hear Dad get up from the couch and pad into the bathroom. He left the door open, didn’t flush, and instead of going back to the couch he came out to the verandah. I picked at the railing and pretended to be staring at nothing, but Ian and Cassie were at the paddock fence, unhooking the latch and opening the gate. Dad was staring at Cassie and Ian, but I recognised the look on his face. Once they were into the paddock he had a long, slow sip before placing his hand on top of my head. ‘Where are they going, Cub?’ he said, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear him.

93 I paused. I didn’t care if Cassie thought I was a dobber. I wanted him to get in trouble, wanted Ian to get in trouble. ‘The knackery,’ I said. ‘They go out there all the time. I’ve seen them.’ Dad nodded slowly. I expected an explosion, but he didn’t get mad then. His hand was light on my head, and I imagined him pressing down and pushing me through the floorboards, to where the things that slipped through the cracks disappeared, to where our cut hair had gathered like a warm blanket in the dirt.

*

By dinnertime Cassie still wasn’t back from the paddock. I knew Dad was furious in his quiet way. He made us wait nearly half an hour before he let us eat. Even though Mum hadn’t dished up a plate for Cassie, Dad got one out of the cupboard, piled it up with sausages and vegies and set it down at Cassie’s place at the table. I was so hungry I took a nibble of my sausage when I thought Dad wasn’t paying attention. ‘Wait for your brother,’ Dad said, sliding my plate out of reach. Mum said he was being silly and started eating anyway, but Dad slammed his hand onto the table and Mum’s wrists jumped. She put her knife and fork back on her plate, clasped her hands under her chin as though praying. By the time Dad let us eat the food had gone cold and Mum had to zap everyone’s plates in the microwave. After dinner Dad stayed put at the table. He scraped the last of his mash onto his fork, wiped his plate with his finger and licked his finger clean. He scraped back his chair, took the keys from the bench and went out into the yard. No one noticed him leave, no one but me seemed to notice how angry he was, and I stood in the doorway as he put on his boots and walked down the stairs, got into the truck. As he reversed there was a scraping sound underneath the tyres, and when he reached the gate he left the engine running. Headlights flushed the paddock as he opened the gates. His body was hunched as he dragged the fence forward, surrounded by a wash of golden dust that made him glow like an angel. When the truck was far enough into the paddock that I couldn’t see it or hear it anymore I turned on the verandah light. Cassie’s bike was twisted in the grass. My plan was working. Soon Ian would be gone and Cassie would be back and everything would stand still for a while. Something big was happening and I was the

94 cause of it. I felt like I was the centre of the universe, like a sparkling, important star. I sat on the verandah and waited, and after a while Mum came outside looking for Dad. Her hair was wet and clung to her face. ‘He’s out there,’ I said, pointing forward. I watched Mum’s eyes and they didn’t flicker. ‘What’s he doing out there, hey?’ she said, rubbing the ends of her hair between the towel. Her voice was a chirp and she spoke as though she wasn’t really after an answer. ‘Cassie went out to the knackery with Ian,’ I said. I felt a throb of satisfaction pass through me like a current. ‘Ian’s obsessed with Granddad. That’s the only reason he’s friends with Cassie. They go out to the knackery and do all sorts of weird stuff.’ Mum didn’t reply, but when I looked down her toes were curled like snails over the edge of the stairs. I closed my eyes, and after a minute I sensed Mum disappear from beside me. I kept my eyes closed, listened for footsteps or the engine rumbling in the distance, for a light to sweep the front of my eyelids like a torch. I was bored and getting nervous. I hadn’t thought it would take this long for Dad to tell Ian to rack off, to bring Cassie home. I heard it eventually, though, the engine coming in from way out in the paddock. It wasn’t until I was hit by light that I opened my eyes. The truck pulled through the gate. I stood up on the stairs, leaned against the railing. Before the truck had even come to a stop the passenger door flung open and Cassie jumped out. He fell onto his knees and scrambled up, headed back towards the paddock. Before he got very far Dad was out of the truck as well. He grabbed Cassie by the arm, tripping him back down in the dirt. ‘You could have killed him!’ Cassie screamed. Dad hadn’t turned off the engine, and the two of them were lit up. Cassie stood up and pushed past Dad to get around him, but Dad slammed Cassie against the bonnet. ‘How dare you bloody go out there!’ Dad said, shouting as well, with a finger prodding at Cassie’s chest. ‘How dare you bloody take that boy out there! If you go anywhere near that place again I’ll break both your fucking arms.’ Dad turned like he was going to walk away, but then he got right up in Cassie’s face again. ‘You’re a disgrace, you are,’ he said. ‘Just like your grandfather. You bring shame to this family.’ Cassie went still but he didn’t back down. Even though Cassie was taller than Dad, Dad was much stronger, thick as meat. ‘You’re no longer welcome in this house,

95 you hear me?’ Dad said. ‘You’re filth. Utter filth.’ Dad turned towards the house, hands on his hips, legs spread wide. He looked up at the verandah, where I was crouched in the shadows, and then slowly walked to the back of the truck. He picked up a shovel from the tray, weighed it in his hands. He tapped the blade in the dirt and then swished it in front of him like a sword. He let out a roar from deep inside his guts and charged towards Cassie. He lifted the shovel over his shoulder and swung. If Dad hadn’t stopped himself, Cassie would have had his head sliced in two, his brain pulped to mash. But Dad threw the shovel into the grass. It clanged like a bell on a rock. He picked up Cassie’s backpack from the ground and threw it at him, and then leaned into the driver’s seat, grabbed the keys from the ignition. The air went dark, silent, like the end of a movie. Dad appeared at the bottom of the verandah and came up the steps. He stopped before he reached the door, right beside me. I crouched down tighter and tried to disappear into my skin. I was scared, didn’t want to get in the path of anything. I prayed that Dad hadn’t seen me, but before I knew it he’d unwrapped my arms from around my knees and pulled me up. ‘Is Cassie alright?’ I asked. ‘You’re a good girl, Cub,’ he said. I felt wobbly in my legs, like my muscles were melting. There was blood on his shirt, blood on his knuckles, silvery oil in the dark. He grabbed the back of my neck and steered me inside. I stood in the doorway as he locked the door behind us. He crouched down and untied his laces, and then lined his boots up next to the door. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen Dad this mad before, and could feel a twitch in my throat, like a little mouse pushing at the skin, trying to burrow out. I wandered into my room. I wanted to talk to Wally, but he was asleep, had his pillow over his face like he was trying to suffocate himself. I didn’t know how he could have slept through all that noise and light and yelling. I sat at the side of his bed, pressed my palms against the pillow, but he didn’t wake up. ‘Wally?’ I said. I threw the pillow to the ground and bent my face down next to his to make sure he was still breathing. I could feel dry breath against my cheek. His mouth smelled feral, like something was rotting in there. I knew something large and terrible had happened but I couldn’t quite feel it yet. I went back into the kitchen. Everyone was in bed and the house was dark. Mum’s rings were next to the sink, and along the benchtop were bloodied tissues, bunched up in tufty

96 balls. I looked out the window. Cassie hadn’t moved from the yard. I could have just unlocked the door, let him in, but I was glad he was stuck out there, glad he was learning his lesson. It served him right. He’d picked up his backpack and gathered the things that had fallen in the dirt. He was just standing there looking towards the paddock, the silver wisps of clouds streaking the navy sky. There was a full moon. Cassie once told me that on the full moon people go mental but I don’t think that’s true. Even though Dad went a bit mental that night, I think people can just go weird for no reason at all—at least, not a reason as stupid as how big the moon is.

*

Cassie was gone the next morning. I went into his room and it looked exactly as it always did, but when I opened a drawer it was nearly empty, except for some ripped undies and an odd sock. I opened his cupboard and took down his tin of marbles, reached my hand in, but the pouch of knuckles wasn’t there. I went to the bathroom. His toothbrush was still in the mug with the others under the sink, its bristles flattened down. There was gritty toothpaste crusted to the handle. I picked it up and pulled off a bristle, poked it into the back of my hand. We didn’t talk about Cassie all day, and even Wally could tell not to ask Mum and Dad questions. A pang of guilt needled at my chest. I felt sick wondering where Cassie had gone, when he would be back. Whether he was alright. That night Mum left the verandah light on and moths zapped around the bulb. Her face was grey, and the skin around her fingernails was raw-looking, pink as salmon, as though her fingers had been shredded by fish teeth. *

I was sitting on the verandah on Monday afternoon when Cassie hurried from the paddock and across the yard. Wally and me had gone into town with Tilly for lollies and I’d just had a bath, sweaty from the walk. ‘Hi, Cub,’ he said. The side of his head had a purple bruise swelling all along the cheek but the rest of his face was pale as eggs. My chest cracked open. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life, but just as quickly I felt a rush of panic, a terrible feeling of how different everything had suddenly become. How the big thing I’d hoped would make everything better had made

97 things much worse. ‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked. ‘Don’t sound so happy to see me,’ he said. ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I am happy.’ ‘Get me some food, would you?’ He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘I’m starving.’ ‘Where’ve you been?’ ‘I’ll tell you in a sec,’ he said. ‘But I’m real hungry, Cub. Please.’ ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Anything. Go on, then.’ He pushed my knee a bit too hard. I went inside, took a packet of Saos out of the cupboard and returned to the verandah. Cassie wolfed down the packet in a minute, hardly even chewed. ‘Get me something else,’ he said, mouth still full. ‘And something to drink.’ I went back to the kitchen and smeared some peanut paste on a piece of bread, took a bottle of tomato juice from the fridge. ‘What are you doing with that food?’ Wally asked from in front of the TV. ‘Eating it,’ I said. ‘You’re going to turn into a blob,’ he said. ‘Like Mrs Raymond.’ He looked back to the screen, but a second later he stood up and headed towards the kitchen. ‘I’m having more too, then,’ he said. ‘If you are.’ ‘So where’ve you been?’ I asked as Cassie folded the bread into his mouth. He was still on the grass below the verandah, and nodded to the paddock. ‘Out there?’ I said. ‘Doing what?’ ‘Camping,’ he said. ‘I’m on holidays.’ He chugged down the tomato juice, licked peanut paste off his knuckle. ‘Where’s Ian?’ I asked. ‘Is he out there too?’ ‘Nah.’ ‘Where is he?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘What did Dad do to him? His hands were all bloody.’ ‘Nearly killed him,’ Cassie said. ‘Yeah, but Ian probably deserved it.’ Cassie took another swig of juice. ‘Dad’ll turn on you too, just wait,’ he said. ‘He hates that we’ve got Les’s blood in us. Fucking hates it.’ Cassie pulled on his nose, rested his chin on the floorboard next to my feet.

98 ‘Listen,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I need you to get me a few things.’ ‘What kind of things?’ I asked. ‘Just things.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Just do it, Cub,’ he said. ‘It’s your fault all this has happened. I know you’re the one who told Dad I was out in the knackery.’ ‘I didn’t.’ ‘Ian could have died, Cub, and it would have been your fault. You have to help me.’ I knew it was my fault, and I felt shame wash over me, shame that I’d turned on Cassie like that. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to tell.’ ‘So you’ll help me?’ he said. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Especially not Dad.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘You can’t even tell Wally. He can’t keep a secret like you can. Do you promise?’ I nodded. I would do anything to make it up to Cassie, to get him to like me again. If Cassie thought I couldn’t be trusted, thought I was a fibber like Wally, I would probably die. ‘Here,’ he said, and he handed me a shiny rock from his backpack. It was metal grey and smooth and cold, like a rock from the moon. I rubbed it under my thumb pad until it started to go warm. It felt like it was full of powers from the ground.

*

Each afternoon for the next week I stuffed food and water into my backpack, snuck out into the paddock. I’d been nicking money from Dad’s wallet, coins mostly, and the secret money that Mum kept in envelopes in one of her shoeboxes. I hoped she wasn’t saving it for something important because I took nearly all of it. Some days Cassie asked me to bring him something special, like his toothbrush or nail clippers, a roll of toilet paper, but mostly it was just water and food and, most importantly, the money. He’d see me coming down from the top of the hill and walk up to meet me. He smelled rank after a few days, and his cheeks and chin were covered with coppery fuzz. I’d try to talk to him about things, or tell him that he should wait a few more days and then say sorry to Dad and ask if he could come home again, but he’d just pull on his nose and tell me to go back home because Wally would start asking questions if I was

99 gone too long. Sometimes he’d get angry if I tried to stay any longer. If I asked to come and sit outside the knackery with him for a while, he’d tell me to rack off and stop being such a pain, but then he’d make me promise to come back the next day with more food, more money. A week after Dad kicked Cassie out I was filling up a bottle in the sink when Wally snuck up behind me, asked me where I was going. ‘Nowhere,’ I said. ‘You’re lying. You’ve been sneaking off somewhere.’ ‘I’m going for a walk.’ ‘A walk where?’ ‘Just a walk,’ I said. ‘Now leave me alone.’ ‘Not till you tell me where you’re going.’ I ignored him and put the bottle in my backpack. He reached for it and tried to yank it from my hand. The strap ripped and everything scattered on the floor, all my school stuff and the leftover party pies from last night’s dinner. A half-bar of soap skidded across the floor and went under the table. ‘What’d you do that for, you stupid idiot?’ I said, and went to whack him on the side of the head. He tried to duck, but slipped on a soggy pie and fell forward into the table. The side of his head hit the corner, and when he stood up straight he had a gash, swelling pink. He touched his hand to his head, and then looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. ‘You dumb slag,’ he said, blood trickling into his eyebrow. ‘It was an accident,’ I said. ‘You fat, dumb slag.’ He spat the words out, stared at me hard in the face like he meant it. Like he really thought I was a fat slag. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Wally wiped his fingers on a tea towel, sniffed them and wiped them again. ‘You’re lucky that didn’t get me on the temple,’ he said. ‘If that got me on the temple I’d be dead.’ I picked up the party pies that weren’t squished, put them in my bag and headed out to the paddock. I didn’t have time to worry about Wally; Cassie was waiting for me. Wally followed me outside, watched from the verandah as I went through the gate, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his skull even though he hadn’t even hit his head that hard and there was hardly any blood at all. I didn’t care if he dobbed on me. I decided to stay out

100 in the paddock with Cassie forever. There was room in the knackery, and I could sneak back home and fetch my things when Dad and Wally weren’t home. We could live there together, and Wally would think I’d wandered off and died and then he’d be sorry. When I got to the top of the hill I couldn’t see Cassie coming up to meet me like usual. He wasn’t waiting in the grass in the shade of the gums either. I walked slowly down the hill, hoping he’d appear from around the side of the knackery so I wouldn’t have to get any closer. Back at the house, staying at the knackery had seemed like a good idea, but when I got close to it I started to feel my insides curling together. At the bottom of the hill I stopped, called Cassie’s name. No answer. He was probably asleep. I pounded on the wall, hoping he’d wake up so I wouldn’t have to go inside and get him. ‘Cassie!’ I shouted. ‘I’m here!’ I went to the door, waited another minute for him to come out. I called again, fiddled with the latch before closing my eyes and pushing the door open. ‘Cassie?’ I could smell something metal, the smell of dirty skin. I opened my eyes but there was no Cassie, no sign of him. The only thing left was the mattress, a torn sheet and a mangy pillow streaked the colour of rust. The broken bottles were gone; all the weird things Cassie and Ian had collected, gone. There was a stain on the wall—blood, a pulpy smear of it. It looked like jam, but when I touched my finger to it, it was hard as dry sap. I stepped outside, shut the door and closed the latch. I headed back to the house. A few steps up the hill I started to feel floppy and my backpack became heavy, wrenching my shoulders from my sockets. I felt a stab of anger at Cassie, at Ian. At Dad for making Cassie leave and at Mum for not caring enough to do anything about it. I crouched down and took the pies out of my backpack. I turned around and threw them at the knackery, one by one. They hit the wall with dull thuds, like punches. The pastry shells slid and fell to the ground. Where the pies had split, the mince slimed out of the pastry, oily brown drips on the pink walls. It gave me a good feeling to see that food muck spewed on the walls, to ruin something. I imagined an army of ants festering over the sparkling piles of jellied mince, rats licking the greasy shells clean. Cassie was gone and I felt something inside me lift.

101 PART TWO

9.

After a few days it was as though Cassie had never existed. No one spoke about him; no one seemed to wonder where he’d gone, and after not even a week Wally tried to claim Cassie’s room as his own. He started hauling Cassie’s things into the hallway. The junk made a maze on the carpet: soft cardboard boxes, Cassie’s trackies and winter fleeces, his school uniform a crumpled body. ‘You can’t just move into someone’s room,’ I said, picking up one of Cassie’s school shirts, the tie still attached. ‘It’s not like he’s here to use it,’ said Wally. ‘Why should he get his own room when he doesn’t even live here?’ ‘He still lives here,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m sick of sharing a room with you,’ Wally said, dumping a jumble of shoes onto the carpet. ‘You smell like fish.’ Wally shuffled in and out of Cassie’s room, emptying drawers onto the floor. I tried to get in his way but he’d just shove me off, so I stared at him harder, until my eyeballs felt like lumps in my head. I sniffed my arm, but I just smelled like skin. I didn’t even like fish. When Mum came out of her room her face was puffy. She had a cold and the skin around her nose was dry and pink. Since the night Dad found out about Cassie and Ian and the knackery, Mum had turned into a zombie. She hardly spoke to Dad, and Dad skulked around the house in near silence too. The knuckles on his left hand were scabbed lamb chop brown but I knew not to ask. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mum shouted, yanking Wally’s arm. ‘You think he’d appreciate you messing up all his things, hey?’ Wally looked as though he didn’t know what he was getting in trouble for, making his brain work hard to try to figure it out. ‘Hey?’ Mum repeated, shaking his arm, trying to rattle something out of it. Usually Dad was the one who got mad at us. I’d never heard her shout like that before.

102 ‘You deaf or something?’ Mum let go of Wally’s wrist, fixed her nightie, which had slipped down off her shoulder. She went into the bathroom without shutting the door. I followed her, was drawn to the sound of her voice, which I hadn’t heard for what seemed like ages, something warm pulling me forward. She sat down on the toilet. The plastic seat squeaked and her undies gathered around her ankles like cuffs. She blew her nose with a square of toilet paper, dropped it into the toilet between her legs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I felt stung, and for just a moment, everything depended on Mum not getting infected by whatever it was that seemed to be suckling her skin, her brain. She looked up at me, her eyes dark. ‘Please cheer up,’ I said. ‘Cassie will be back soon.’ I had another urge to go to her, curl up on the ground at her feet. But Mum opened her mouth, leaned the back of her head against the wall. ‘You children,’ she said, pointing her finger at me, ‘have caused me nothing but pain.’ And just like that the magnets reversed. I made my face go blank, backed out of the bathroom. That afternoon Wally moved Cassie’s things back to where they belonged. The door stayed shut after that.

*

I waited for Cassie to come home. For months I waited. Each afternoon I sat on the verandah, listening for him to trudge up the driveway. I knew it was my fault he was gone. I never should have told Dad that Cassie and Ian were in the knackery, never should have given Cassie all that money. It was exactly how Cassie said it would be; I would do something stupid and Mum would get sick again and the only person to blame for it would be me. Because Dad and Mum were in their own worlds I was the only one who noticed Wally stopped brushing his teeth. I’d remind him every day, squeeze a strip of toothpaste on his brush and leave it by the sink. I’d try to breathe through my mouth when I went near him, but sometimes that was worse because then I could taste the pong on my tongue like a piece of rotten meat.

103 When the dental van came to school Wally’s turn went for ages. Most kids took fifteen minutes, but Wally was gone for double that. When he came back to class I went over to him, asked him why he took so long, but he put his head down on the desk and didn’t lift it up until the bell rang. At home, he pulled a piece of paper from his backpack and stuck it to the fridge. Dad found it after dinner. ‘What’s this about?’ he said, holding up the crumpled paper. ‘I don’t know,’ Wally said, shrugging. ‘Come here,’ Dad said. ‘Open your mouth.’ He moved Wally under the kitchen light and held open his jaw with his hand. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Dad said as he poked his finger around Wally’s spitty gums, shiny as the kidneys Dad ate for breakfast every Sunday. ‘This is going to cost a bloody fortune.’ I stood on my tiptoes and tried to have a look in as well but Wally pressed his palm into my face and kicked me in the shins. Before bed Dad stood in the doorway in his boxers, watching Wally brush his teeth. ‘It hurts,’ Wally said, his mouth frothing. ‘Should have thought of that before you left your teeth to rot in your head,’ said Dad. The toothpaste dribbled down Wally’s chin. His eyes started to water and he let out a cat moan from his throat. ‘Keep going,’ Dad said. ‘But it hurts,’ Wally said, holding his head back to keep the toothpaste in. ‘I don’t bloody care if it hurts.’ Wally’s eyes went dull. He stared right at Dad, opened his mouth wide. The toothpaste dribbled down his shirt and onto the floor. It was streaky pink from his bloody gums. Wally let the toothbrush fall from his fist, clattering on the tiles. ‘Little shit,’ Dad said. He bopped Wally on the back of the head, but Wally didn’t bother ducking, didn’t seem to care. ‘Clean that muck up.’ Wally spat the rest of the toothpaste into the sink, licked his teeth like he was licking sores. I crouched down and wiped up the toothpaste with a wad of toilet paper. When Wally was having a piss I went into our room and found Wally’s teeth in a Ziploc bag underneath his pillow. They were small and gristly as dried-up corn kernels, rattled when I held them close to my ear. I put them back and went to sleep, but the next morning I found them floating in the toilet bowl, the Ziploc bag bobbing on the surface. I scooped the teeth up with the frog catcher, rinsed them in the sink. I wrapped them in a tissue and slipped them into Wally’s special box for him to find when he wasn’t acting

104 so mental.

*

Dad brought the kitten home the next week. We’d never had a pet before. Other than snakes, I didn’t like animals, didn’t like their little legs and ears, like half-humans. They probably thought all sorts of awful things about me, probably said all sorts of terrible things in a secret language I couldn’t understand. ‘I used to have a cat,’ Dad said. ‘Trixie, her name was. Soft as a bunny rabbit.’ He crouched down and closed his hand into a fist, held it out towards the kitten. She took a few soft steps towards Dad’s fist. Her pink nose was like a boiled lolly, and she bumped it onto Dad’s knuckles. Before she could dart away Dad swept up the kitten and held her to his face. ‘You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?’ he said. The kitten chewed his hand with fishbone teeth. I imagined Dad opening his mouth wide and sticking her whole head in there. She was small enough to fit. ‘Who’s it for?’ I asked. ‘For all of you,’ Dad said. ‘For you and Wally and your mother.’ ‘But why?’ ‘Can’t I do something nice for my family?’ Dad said. ‘You’re turning into Cassie. Always seeing the bad in things.’ I couldn’t wait to show Tilly the kitten, but something didn’t feel quite right. ‘You can’t just replace Cassie with an animal,’ I said. Dad ignored me, held the kitten out to Mum. ‘How about it, Chris?’ Dad said. ‘Something to cheer you up.’ Dad named her Mango, and she liked him the best out of all of us. When Dad watched TV she would knead her paws in his lap before curling up in a little puffball, and at night she slept in the cocoon of his elbow. When he came home from work, Mango recognised Dad’s footsteps coming up the back steps and followed him around the house and yard as he pottered about before dinner. A few days after Dad brought Mango home he came into our room while me and Wally were in bed. I pretended to be asleep, and he walked over to Wally. He had something bulky in his arms: Mango. He put her down on Wally’s bed, stroked her so she didn’t run away.

105 ‘You awake?’ Dad half-whispered to Wally. There was a silence, and then Wally moaned. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice croaky with sleep. ‘How’re your teeth?’ Wally waited a few seconds before answering. ‘They’re alright.’ Dad took a step back, turning to the door. ‘Give Mango a cuddle,’ he said, ‘if they start to hurt.’ At least someone knew how to feel bad about something. At least someone knew to do something good to make up for whatever terrible thing they’d done.

*

Cassie called that weekend, as the sun was dipping behind the mountains, the sky on the horizon orange as an apricot. I didn’t know it at the time, but he’d been calling all afternoon, hanging up when Dad picked up. It was only when Wally answered that he stayed on the line. Wally stared into space, said ‘okay’ over and over until Cassie asked for Mum. I missed Cassie, but I was surprised by how quickly I’d got used to him being gone. It was like he’d vanished into thin air, and even though Mum was going a bit weird again, everything felt calmer. It was a relief not to have to watch what Cassie did all the time, not to have to worry about what Ian was doing to Cassie. I liked not feeling as if my blood was fizzing under my skin. I still wanted to talk to Cassie, though. I tugged at the cord, tried to grab the phone from Mum’s hand, but she kept turning her back to me. When she finally said goodbye I stretched the cord into the bathroom and closed the door. I’d never spoken to Cassie on the phone before. His voice sounded deeper, and I couldn’t tell if that was just the way the phone made him sound or if something inside him had changed. I hardly had a chance to say anything, as he rambled on about where he was staying in town, his new job at the Connolly. He said he sometimes got to call out the winners of the raffle and make sure the milk jug at the tea table was full. He said aside from the dance on Saturday nights people mainly came for the five-dollar lunch special on weekdays, the back room with pokies that you have more luck winning on than at the other pub in town, according to the crusty men he served at the bar. Cassie stopped talking. I could hear him breathing through the phone.

106 ‘We got a cat,’ I said. ‘Mango.’ ‘What, to replace me?’ Cassie said. ‘That’s what I said!’ I didn’t know what else to say to him; I didn’t think he’d be interested in anything I’d been doing. I thought of telling him about Wally’s teeth, how his jaw had swelled up like a pumpkin after the second dentist visit when they yanked nearly everything else out. ‘He won’t talk to me,’ Cassie said. His voice sounded muffled, wool in his throat. ‘Who?’ I said. ‘Ian. He won’t talk to me.’ I didn’t want to think about Ian. It was like he was a disease we’d finally got rid of, and just having him back in my brain might make the germs spread, could make everyone sick again. ‘Well, maybe you can make some new friends now,’ I said. ‘Ian wasn’t that great.’ Cassie didn’t say anything. ‘I can be your friend,’ I said. ‘If you want.’ But Cassie didn’t say anything to that either.

*

I saw Cassie for the first time a week later, as we were crossing through the park, past the skate ramp where all the scabby dropkicks loafed around in clumps. Tilly pointed him out, and at first I didn’t believe her. Tilly and Wally always said they saw Cassie in all sorts of places—out of car windows, or walking down Main Street—but every time I’d turn around it wouldn’t be him; it would look nothing like him. I knew they were tricking me, that they did it just to get me excited, and they’d laugh when I’d chase after the car or start to run down the street. Except this time it was him. He was sitting on the grass with his back pressed against a tree, his same chunky boots folded beneath him, flashes of ankle-thin calves, white as icing. ‘Let’s go over,’ I said. ‘No way,’ Wally said. ‘He doesn’t want to see us.’ ‘He looks different,’ said Tilly, wrinkling her nose. ‘He looks kind of feral.’

107 ‘No, he doesn’t,’ I said. ‘He looks fine.’ When Cassie saw us he scrambled up off the grass. If he was so happy to see us, then why hadn’t he made the effort before? He did look different, did look a bit feral. He was even skinnier than when he left, his shirt flapping around him like extra skin. ‘How’s Christine?’ Cassie asked, wiping his hands on his pants. His fingernails were long and as thin as paper. ‘Why’re you calling her that?’ I said. ‘Well, that’s her name, isn’t it?’ said Cassie. ‘So how is she?’ ‘She’s alright,’ I said, shrugging. I felt shy all of a sudden, had forgotten how to talk to him in a normal way. ‘Good,’ Cassie said, nodding, distracted. He looked up at the sky, which was creamy, like blue food dye whisked through milk. ‘Hey,’ he said, as though he’d suddenly remembered something important, as though something had dropped from the milky sky and into his brain. He reached into his baggy pockets and pulled out a fistful of Ghost Drops. ‘Here.’ He stuffed them in my hands, his own tongue stained lizard blue. I looked down at the Ghost Drops. Some of them were just wrappers, the lolly already sucked away. Something about those empty wrappers made me want to cry. ‘When are you coming home?’ I blurted out. ‘Just tell Dad you’re sorry and he’ll let you come back, I bet. I bet he’s not even that mad anymore.’ Cassie paused. ‘I work at the Connolly now,’ he said, as though that were an answer. ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘You already told me on the phone.’ ‘And I bought a car,’ he said. ‘Got my licence and everything.’ Cassie scratched at his neck. A spot of blood appeared but he didn’t notice. ‘Come down to the Connolly sometime,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a fizzy drink, on the house.’ I looked over at Wally, who was staring at the dropkicks. He hadn’t said anything the whole time. ‘Have you talked to Ian?’ I asked. ‘Nah,’ Cassie said. ‘You were right. He’s not a good guy.’ ‘So come home then,’ I said. ‘I’m free now,’ Cassie said. ‘Don’t have the brute breathing down my neck every minute.’ ‘What about Mum?’ I asked. ‘What about her? You said she was fine.’

108 ‘Well, she’s not fine,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ I didn’t want to remind him that what he predicted had come true; that Mum was going bad because of my digging around, because of my dobbing. If I’d just left things as they were then everyone would be happy. I tried to change the subject. ‘You could come for a visit,’ I said. ‘Come and see Mango. I hate cats but I like this one.’ Cassie looked over his shoulder. The dropkicks were huddled in a circle, like cattle. They didn’t seem to realise he’d left.

*

It was hard to notice at first. Mum seemed to get skinnier, more wispy-looking. One afternoon I was watching TV for nearly ten minutes and didn’t even realise she’d been sitting there on the couch behind me the whole time. But while Mum got quieter, Dad got louder. A few days after we saw Cassie in the park Dad stormed inside after work, stomping out of his splotchy boots, kicking one hard against the wall. He went straight to the fridge for a beer, grey socks bunched around his ankles in elephant wrinkles, and clattered the bottle top in the sink, a warning bell. I was doing my homework and he didn’t seem to see me at the table. ‘Tea not on then?’ Dad called out. ‘Not yet,’ Mum said from the couch, her voice slow and flat, as though speaking was too much effort. ‘Hey?’ Dad said. ‘I said I haven’t planned anything.’ ‘Well, are you bloody going to?’ Mum got up—blanket wrapped around her shoulders—and padded into the kitchen. She took a loaf of bread from the freezer and tossed it on the bench. ‘Make a toastie if you’re hungry,’ she said, heading back to the couch. ‘You’re a grown man; surely you can manage to make yourself a sandwich.’ Dad grabbed the bread bag. ‘What bloody use are you if can’t even sort yourself out to prepare a meal?’ he barked. ‘Sitting around on your arse all day while I slave away to put food on the table.’ Mum didn’t even look up. ‘No use, Colin,’ she said, not worrying about winding

109 Dad up even more, not worrying about anything. ‘No use at all.’ I stayed quiet, tried to stay out of the way. Without Cassie here, it was as though Dad’s anger was pinging every way possible, and you never knew when it might land on you. Dad stood with his hands on his hips. Picked up the bread and put it down again. He went over to the couch, pressed his hand on Mum’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I just can’t help it.’ Mum grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Her voice cut through the drone. ‘Well, neither can I.’

*

The next day Dad came out of the shower smelling like Minties. Wally and I had just come in from the dam, and we dumped our grainy towels on the verandah. Warm light shone in through the window and we drank water straight from the tap. Dad took a beer out of the fridge. His hair was wet and combed back with gel, and he had his dress pants on, tips of his unbuckled belt flapping. ‘Get dressed, you lot,’ Dad said. ‘Why?’ Wally said. ‘We’re going out for tea.’ ‘The Chinese?’ Wally said, eyes widening. ‘To the pub,’ Dad said. ‘Why?’ ‘Do I need a reason to take my family out for a nice meal?’ Wally and I scrambled to get changed. We dressed in our good clothes and raced into the kitchen, didn’t even care that they fit weirdly, didn’t care they made us look like big dorks. Mum was sitting at the table. She was drinking a glass of yellow wine and wearing a shirt with white lace around the neck. She had strips of rag bowed in her hair, her brick-coloured lipstick on. ‘You smell real nice,’ I said to Mum, my insides unwinding like rope for the first time in ages. We would see Cassie at the Connolly, and he would say sorry to Dad and Dad would forgive him and then Cassie would come back. He could be back home tomorrow, if everything went well. It all seemed so easy. On the drive Dad told us he and Mum had their wedding reception in one of the

110 function rooms at the Connolly, used to go there every Saturday for tea after they got married. ‘Maybe we can start the tradition again,’ he said, squeezing Mum’s thigh. ‘That’d be nice,’ Mum said. ‘What do you two reckon?’ She turned around to face us. Her gold bag was resting in her lap. The material was like fish scales and she grasped the strap hard. She never asked us what we thought. Wally bounced in his seat. It looked as though his face was about to burst open like a ripe piece of fruit. When we got inside we all peered over at the bar. Cassie wasn’t there but it didn’t even matter. ‘Must have the night off,’ Mum said. We sat at a table in the corner while Dad ordered our meals at the counter. ‘Well, this is nice,’ Mum said, craning her neck to look at what was going on behind her. There were dozens of people already sprawled around tables, talking and laughing, with paper baskets of pale yellow chips, icy colas sweating on the plastic tablecloths. It was like a party; families mostly, and younger kids I recognised from school. Babies strapped into high chairs, and old men with fat guts milling around with pots of beer glued to their hands. Along the walls were the daily specials, and signed footy jerseys in frames. Grey pieces of chewed gum wormed into the carpet like birthmarks. The smell of smoke and stale beer made my insides feel warm as a bath. I felt like we were a normal family, going out for dinner, as though we did this every weekend. ‘Hasn’t changed a bit,’ Mum said. When Dad came back with drinks Mum picked up her purse. ‘Might go have a flutter,’ she said, pushing back her chair. She took her wineglass and disappeared into the pokies section. Dad stayed where he was, drinking his beer and watching the footy game playing on a TV next to the bar. I felt giddy. ‘Do you think Mum’s going to win?’ I asked. ‘Hey?’ said Dad, distracted. ‘On the pokies?’ ‘Don’t know, mate.’ ‘Can I have some money, so I can play too?’ ‘You’re too young for that,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not.’ ‘You have to be of age,’ Dad said. ‘It’s the law.’ I tapped the face of Dad’s watch to hear the click, dragged my finger through a

111 puddle of condensation on the table. I could tell I was annoying him but I couldn’t keep still. ‘Why don’t you go play in the games room?’ Dad said, not looking away from the screen. ‘With the other kids.’ I looked towards the room across from the pokies. There were kids spewing out of it, their voices shrieking through the door. There must have been a ball pit because there were pocked, coloured balls knocking around the entrance. I knew already it would be full of kids from school and there was no way I wanted to play with them. ‘Nah,’ I said, chewing on my straw. ‘Looks pretty crowded.’ When Mum came back she had a big grin on her face, teeth sparkling like cough drops. ‘Look,’ she said, fanning out a wad of twenties. After we’d eaten Wally went to the loo. He’d ordered nuggets and was shifting the leftovers from his pockets into paper towels to save for later. The staff had started to push the tables against the walls in the dining area, stack the chairs, and had turned on the red and green and yellow disco lights on the wall by the mounted Keno TVs. Adults swarmed against the bar, loud and squawky as galahs. Some were already swaying to the song that played over the speakers even though the fluorescent lights were still switched on. We stood by the toilets, pressed against the wall. ‘Let’s stay for a bit,’ Mum said to Dad, raising her voice over the music. ‘Spend my winnings.’ ‘You sure about that, Christine?’ Dad said. Mum gave me twenty dollars from her purse to go and buy chocolates from the vending machine. She took hold of Dad’s arm and moved to the centre of the room. When Wally came out of the bathroom he leaned against the wall next to me. ‘What are they doing?’ he said. ‘What does it look like?’ I wanted him to shut up so I could enjoy it. The lights had dimmed and the coloured globes twinkled on the walls like stars. Mum and Dad were looking at each other, grinning and shuffling back and forth with their hands up around their middles like stiff kangaroo claws. When the song changed Mum threw up her hands and clapped them together. Dad pressed his face into her hair as though he was smelling it, and then twirled her around. I felt like I was seeing things in slow motion. Mum looked beautiful, shimmery from the sweat on her forehead and the disco lights as her skirt swished around her knees. I forgot about the twenty-dollar note in my hand. I forgot about

112 everything. But it didn’t last long. After another minute a woman appeared next to Mum. She had a squashed face, was holding a full pot of beer in her fist even though no one else had drinks on the dance floor. She wasn’t dancing, though. Flailing arms bumped her back, sloshing golden beer over the sides of her glass. She didn’t seem to care about losing her drink. I watched Mum turn to her and smile. She didn’t stop dancing, but maybe she should have, because without saying a word the woman wrinkled her mouth into a prune and spat right in her face. Mum’s arms fell to her sides, her smile collapsing like half-cooked cake. She touched her hand to her face and then looked at her fingers. The circle around Mum and Dad seemed to swell bigger and bigger, until I couldn’t see them anymore. After a minute Mum appeared from the crowd. She passed Wally and me by the wall and went straight to the exit, bag clutched to her stomach, as though the gold metal was protecting her guts like armour. I avoided Wally’s eye and we followed Dad out to the car park, got into the back seat without a word. ‘Why’d that woman spit on you?’ Wally asked, as Dad swung onto the street. ‘Shut up, Wally,’ I said between my teeth. Even though I wanted to know as well, I knew this would be one of those things we’d all ignore. Another thing we weren’t allowed to talk about. Dad switched on the radio to a talkback station, turned it up loud. As we pulled onto the highway Mum took the envelope from her bag, counted her money, licking the tip of her finger with the tip of her tongue. I hoped the money would make her forget about the woman, hoped the one good thing would erase all the bad things. Wally pulled a greasy paper towel out of his pocket and ate nuggets on the back seat. When we reached the turn-off Wally leaned down and had a quiet spew between his feet. No one heard him but me. When Dad stopped the car Mum went to unbuckle her seatbelt, but Dad grabbed her fingers, wouldn’t let her get out. ‘Go inside,’ he said to Wally and me. ‘I need to talk to your mother.’ ‘But the house is locked.’ He took the keys out of the ignition, handed them to me. He hadn’t let go of Mum’s hand. Wally took the keys from me and we went up to the house. Wally went inside but I stayed on the verandah, watching the car. After a minute Mum got out, came up to the verandah. Dad followed right behind her. No one was crying, no one was angry, and I

113 knew Dad must have sorted it out, said something to make Mum feel better. Mum was clutching the gold purse tight to her chest again and they went inside without looking at me, went inside without a word.

*

All week Wally and I talked about going to the pub again. We decided what we were going to order: schnitzel instead of nuggets; lemon, lime and bitters instead of post-mix cola. We agreed to go into the games room, just to see what it was like. I made Wally pinkie promise so he wouldn’t chicken out at the last minute. It felt good to have something to look forward to. I tried to forget about last Saturday. If I put it out of my mind it was like it didn’t happen. Maybe Mum would forget about it too, and we would go to the Connolly every Saturday like normal people and have fun and no one would look at us funny or spit in our faces. We went to the dam on Saturday afternoon, and as we were scrambling out of the water Tilly asked if she could come over and see Mango. ‘Nah,’ Wally said. ‘We’re going to the Connolly.’ He draped the towel over his shoulders, lips pale and blue as chalk. ‘We went there last week.’ ‘You’ve told me about a hundred times already,’ Tilly said. ‘You’re just jealous that you don’t get to go out for tea.’ Tilly ignored him. ‘Did you see Cassie last time?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I said, slipping on my scuffs, tops of my feet burned pink. ‘But he’ll probably be there tonight.’ ‘Mum and me used to go out all the time before we moved here. Mum hates cooking. She says it’s for housewives.’ ‘Well, it’s family only,’ Wally said, ‘so you’re not invited.’ I’d been worried that Tilly was starting to like Wally more than me, so I tried to hide my smile. Sometimes I wished it could just be Tilly and me together, but Wally would never let that happen, even though he only liked Tilly a tiny bit more than what he had at the start. ‘I didn’t ask to be invited,’ Tilly said. ‘Well, good.’ Tilly wrapped her towel around her waist, scratched her calf with her toenails. Her nose was sunburned too, pink as an Iced VoVo. ‘Tell Cassie I said hello. If you see him.’

114 Back at home we got dressed over our togs. We brushed our hair and our teeth, then sat on the verandah and waited for Dad to come outside with the car keys and his good shirt on, hair slick as Vaseline, for Mum to put her lipstick on, the smell of lavender to steam from the bathroom. ‘Where are they?’ Wally asked, pulling on his socks. There were holes in the toes, as though they’d been chewed through. I went inside to see. Dad was in the lounge room, drinking a beer on the couch. He was in a skivvy, wasn’t even dressed yet. ‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked. Dad paused. ‘She’s crook.’ I started to get anxious. By this time last week Mum and Dad were ready to go. If we didn’t leave soon we might not get a table or they might run out of schnitzels. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. I looked at the clock on the microwave. The numbers glowed green. It was nearly six. Dad turned up the volume; a race was about to begin, the greyhounds packed into the starting box. A crack sounded and I watched the dogs bolt onto the track. The stuffed rabbit whizzed around the course, grey and soggy- looking. Dad yelped and leaned towards the screen, hands grasping the air. ‘Get me another, would you?’ he said when the race finished, holding up his empty can. I went into the kitchen. The sun exploded through the tropical-printed curtains that hung over the windows and made the walls underwater green. I saw the packet of sausages defrosting on the bench, the potatoes washed and peeled in the sink. Dinner. I felt my face grow warm, pulled a hair from my eyebrow to stop myself from crying. Outside, the whole paddock was golden, the sun sinking into a grassy haze. I stared at the sun until my eyes began to prickle. ‘What’s taking you so long?’ Dad called from the lounge room. I heard the floorboards creak as he stood up and lumbered into the kitchen. I grabbed one of the slimy potato bulbs and rolled it on the table. ‘I don’t want sausages,’ I said to Dad. ‘Well, that’s what we’re having,’ Dad said, opening the fridge. ‘I hate sausages.’ ‘That’s news to me.’ My face burned and my eyes went blurry. My throat felt as though it was growing mould. ‘Christ’s sake,’ Dad said. ‘What’s wrong with you now?’

115 ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Always bloody sooking, you lot are.’ I wiped my eyes on my sleeves and went to find Mum. She was under the covers, even though it was still light outside. ‘Why aren’t you ready yet?’ ‘Ready for what?’ Mum said. ‘For dinner,’ I said. ‘Last week you said we were going to the Connolly every Saturday from now on until forever. You promised. Wally and me are ready. Why aren’t you?’ ‘I promised no such thing.’ I pulled the cover off her. ‘Yes, you did. Now go get ready.’ ‘Not now, Cub. I have a headache.’ ‘Have some water then.’ She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. ‘Stop going on at me.’ I felt my knuckles tighten. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t see how important this was. ‘You’re always ruining everything,’ I said. ‘Just what am I ruining, then? Hey?’ ‘Why can’t you be a normal mum? Why can’t you take us places and drive us to school and make our lunch? It’s because of you that no one at school likes us. Everyone thinks we’re weird.’ Mum didn’t say anything. I waited for her to yell at me, but she didn’t. She just pulled the covers up to her chin and lay there. Like she didn’t care at all. ‘No wonder Cassie hated living here. He hated living with you.’ I felt a twinkle of nerves go up my arms but, still, she just lay there like a log. I kept going, couldn’t stop myself. ‘No wonder that woman spat on you. You deserved it. If I were her I would’ve spat on you too.’ I didn’t wait for a reaction, just ran into our room and flopped on my bed. I took off my good clothes so that I was just in my togs. They were still damp and made me feel slippery, like I was coated in seaweed. Wally was on his bed, back in his normal clothes. He must have figured it out already. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘I’m not crying.’ I bunched my fists and punched them into the quilt. ‘Yes, you are.’ Wally’s lip twitched up, just a fraction, as though things were ticking over in his brain. After a while Dad called out that dinner was ready. The smell of sausages frying on the stove made me starving, but I stayed in my room all night.

116

*

I didn’t talk to Mum for the rest of the weekend, which wasn’t hard because she barely left her room, but on Monday when we got home from school, I could tell something was different as soon as Wally and me put our bikes under the house. The radio was on and Mum was fussing about in the kitchen, doing the washing-up that had piled high in the sink like towers. Her hair was helmeted to her head but she’d scraped it off her face and into a rubber band. I ignored her, walked down the hallway. Cassie’s bedroom door was wide open. No one had been in there for months, and I could smell the staleness of it when I got to the door. Cassie was sitting at the end of his mattress, his sheet in a twisted ball beside him. Mould crept up the walls like grey bruises, dust bunnies fluffing under the bed in wisps. I’d been in a bad mood all weekend but I felt it slip away. ‘You’re back,’ I said. ‘Yep,’ Cassie said. ‘For good?’ Cassie shrugged, turned his back to me. He didn’t seem happy to see me, not like at the park. I stood in the doorway while Cassie riffled through his rubbish bags and started putting things away. I took his place on his mattress as he went through his cupboard, taking out old shirts, sniffing them and then trying them on before folding them neatly back in their spots. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’d got even skinnier, his collarbones jutting. He laid his work uniforms on the mattress and smoothed out the lint-covered pants. He hung the pants and shirts in the cupboard, took his work shoes out of a plastic bag and lined them up next to the door. He took out a tin of shoe polish and a scrubbing brush with tarry black bristles, placed them both in a drawer.

*

Dad thought Mum would be less sad if Cassie came home. That’s what Cassie said, anyway. He said that on Sunday Dad was waiting for him in the car park when he finished work, said he’d give him one hundred dollars if he came home. And Mum was happier, for a little while at least. She wanted to have something special for dinner to celebrate and, even though it was a Monday night, Dad and Wally drove into town and

117 got takeaway from the Chinese. Dad brought us back a pair of wooden chopsticks each, wrapped in stiff white paper. We all used forks, though, except for Dad. All through dinner he fumbled with his chopsticks, trying to scoop up fried rice that would fall back onto the plate or shoot onto the tablecloth. We were all done long before he’d finished. ‘Just enjoying my meal,’ Dad said, sticks scratching the bottom of his plate like fingernails. ‘Savouring the taste.’ When he went to eat the glossy pieces of honey chicken he stabbed them through their dripping middles, using the chopstick as a spear. After dinner we all read out our fortune cookies and everyone’s fortunes were lucky. Only good, golden things ahead. I collected the thin strips of waxy paper everyone left scattered on the table and put them in an empty marmalade jar. I put that on the windowsill between our beds: a good luck charm.

*

For that first week everyone hung around Cassie as though he was a prince. When Cassie was at work Wally slipped into his room and left lollies on his pillow. Mum kept asking him questions about his job and who he’d been working with, where he’d been living and who he’d been living with. She acted like he’d just been on some long holiday somewhere doing something exotic instead of being a few kilometres down the road, where she could have gone and talked to him at any time if she’d really wanted to. But I knew Mum would never go into town alone, not even for Cassie. I felt like we’d gone back in time. Like everything with Ian was a rotten dream and we’d all woken up at the same time. I liked just sitting there and looking at Cassie as he ate biscuits over the sink or watched TV. Whenever he caught me staring he’d smile and go back to whatever he was doing, never acted bothered that I kept doing it. He never called me weird for staring, not like Wally. He looked different from before, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I probably spent hours those first few weeks, just watching him and trying to figure out what the different thing was.

118 10.

While Cassie was away Helena had got a job as a receptionist at O’Neill’s Real Estate on Main Street. Every morning she drove Tilly all the way to school before going to work, and picked her up at the end of the day. One morning when Wally and me went to leave for school Helena and Tilly were still in their car next to the clothesline. As we wheeled our bikes towards the driveway Helena opened the car door and came over. She smoothed down her skirt, waved at us like she was trying to get our attention, even though it was pretty obvious we’d been staring at her the whole time. ‘Is your dad here?’ Helena asked. ‘Or your mum?’ ‘No,’ Wally said, clicking his gears, even though Mum was right inside. Helena looked to the road and then back at her car. ‘Shit,’ she said, pressing her palm to her forehead. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ The flyscreen opened and Cassie came onto the verandah. He must have been watching from his window. ‘Piece of shit car won’t start,’ Helena called up at Cassie. He held onto the post above his head and his ribs poked though his skin like ladder rungs. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Cassie asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Helena. ‘I don’t know a thing about cars.’ Cassie took a sip of tomato juice, placed his glass on the railing. ‘I can drive you,’ he said, ‘if you want.’ Helena smiled, clasped her fists together. ‘Lifesaver,’ she said. ‘And Tilly as well? I know it’s far, but I can pay you.’ ‘I’m heading out that way anyway,’ Cassie said, even though he didn’t start work until dinnertime and usually sat around all day doing nothing, had no reason to go anywhere. ‘Just let me get my keys.’ Tilly had moved to the yellow house steps and Helena waved her over. Her school bag was strapped to her back like a turtle shell, shiny pins attached to her collar. When Cassie came back he’d put on a t-shirt and his boots. He lit a smoke, and peeled the tarp from his car. The tarp was weighted to the ground with bricks. He stacked the bricks against the fence and folded the tarp onto the grass, taking his time. He licked his finger and rubbed a smudge on the car roof. ‘Hop in,’ Cassie said finally, opening the back and passenger doors. Tilly stared at the ground as she headed towards the car. ‘Hi, Cassie,’ she

119 mumbled as she got into the back seat. Once they were down the driveway Wally knocked up his kickstand and threw his leg over the seat. He rode over the tarp that had unfolded and was blowing around the yard. ‘We should have asked for a lift as well,’ I said as Cassie pulled into the street. Wally’s skin was lit up blue, like a Smurf. There was a wind and the tarp rose into the air, slow as a cloud, and then sailed down again, swallowing Wally behind the plastic.

*

That Friday Mum and Dad drove to the city for the funeral of one of Dad’s cousins. They hardly ever went into the city, hardly ever went that far out of town, except when Dad had a job in a town nearby, which were easier for him to get than around here, where people would rather paint their own houses instead of having Dad do it. Cassie told me that Les and Dad used to paint all the houses and buildings in town. They had a business together and Cassie would peel the dried paint from the hairs on their arms and legs. But no one wanted their houses painted by Dad anymore. ‘It’ll be like a little holiday,’ Mum said, as she wiped out her toiletries bag with toilet paper. She’d lined up all her things next to the sink—her toothbrush and roll-on deodorant, a small gold can of hairspray—and now she arranged them into the puffy pink bag. Dad put his hand on Mum’s shoulder and smiled, a sad smile, and I couldn’t tell if he was sad about having a dead cousin or sad about Mum thinking that going to a funeral would be a holiday. Tilly came over after school. She hung around the kitchen while Cassie cooked our dinner, Mango whipping around her legs. She stirred the spaghetti for him, got out the bowls from the cupboard. I sat at the table and pretended to do my homework. I wasn’t quite used to Cassie and the different thing. I watched him, looking for clues. ‘Thanks for driving me to school the other day,’ Tilly said. ‘No worries,’ Cassie said. ‘Mum said you saved her life.’ ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Tilly lifted out a strand of spaghetti from the pan, nibbled off the end. ‘Did you cook?’ Tilly asked. ‘When you moved out?’ I wondered why Tilly was asking Cassie so many questions.

120 ‘Nah,’ Cassie said. ‘Takeaways mostly.’ ‘Who’d you live with?’ ‘A guy who works at the pub,’ said Cassie. ‘The one who got me the job.’ ‘I can’t wait to move out. I can’t wait till I’m eighteen so I can drive and do whatever I want.’ ‘It’s alright,’ Cassie said. ‘Not as good as being a real little kid, though.’ ‘Are you glad to be back?’ Tilly asked. ‘Mostly.’ ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ Tilly said. ‘Mum too.’ There was a pen stain on the pocket of her chequered school shirt, like a tiny blue swimming pool against her chest. ‘Did she say that?’ Cassie asked. The foam had started to rise above the pot. Cassie turned off the gas. ‘Yeah,’ Tilly said. ‘She said you remind her of someone from home.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Dad maybe,’ she said. ‘You kind of look like him.’ ‘Really?’ Cassie said. ‘Mum’s never told me that.’ He smiled, picked up the jar of bottled sauce. He twisted the top, his knuckles turning white.

*

It was still light outside when Ian came up the driveway. We were on the verandah playing Uno. Mango was stretched on her back on the floorboards, Tilly rubbing her belly, but she darted inside when Ian parked next to the clothesline, slammed the car door shut. He strode across the yard like it was something he did every day, like he’d gone back in time, was coming home. He was wearing jeans, and a work shirt tucked into his belt. His face looked fatter than what I remembered, as though he had somehow sucked away all of Cassie’s fat and sewn it into himself, left Cassie with none. My stomach dropped. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I said to Cassie under my breath. ‘I thought you weren’t friends anymore.’ Cassie ignored me. When Ian reached the verandah he climbed the stairs two at a time. ‘G’day,’ he said. He still had his shorn head, and the hole in the side of his mouth when his lips

121 curled back into a smile. Cassie stood up and they slapped their hands together. Ian pulled up a chair that was upturned near the stairs and sat down with his legs spread wide, hands on his knees. His nails were trimmed to moon slivers. It was as though Ian didn’t even notice the three of us kids were there, like we were garden gnomes. As Ian talked Cassie nodded along, holding his hands in his lap. I tried to catch Cassie’s eye but he wouldn’t catch mine. I watched Ian’s mouth as he spoke. His lips were red as a cheerio and made a wet sound when he said certain words. ‘This old idiot tried to return a CD player, right?’ Ian said. ‘Didn’t even have a receipt.’ ‘What’d you do?’ Cassie said. ‘Told him to bugger off,’ Ian said. ‘Thought he was gonna have a fit. Or piss himself.’ He kept talking at Cassie, ignoring the rest of us, but then his head quickly turned and he was looking right at me. I didn’t have a chance to look away. Ian paused, smiled. ‘How’s little Cub been?’ he said. ‘Still up to your creepy ways?’ ‘Leave her alone,’ Cassie said. ‘Just kidding,’ Ian said, squatting up from the chair and reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a lighter and a pack of smokes. Cassie went to the kitchen. Ian leaned back in his chair, smiling and blowing smoke towards us. I don’t know why I didn’t just get up and go inside. There was nothing keeping me there. I didn’t want him talking to Cassie but it was like I couldn’t look away. I was trying to work out how Ian and Cassie fit together. Why he kept coming back. Cassie came through the flyscreen, handed Ian a beer. ‘Cheers, mate,’ Ian said. He dangled his smoke in his fingers and chugged the beer down. ‘Reckon Dad’ll give me the assistant manager job soon, now that Stevo’s gone back to Brisbane.’ ‘He wants me to go back to school, though. No fucking way.’ ‘Shit,’ Cassie said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll tell you what, there’s no way I’m going to be told what to do by a pack of knobs who don’t know shit about the real world. Fucking pansies, the lot of them.’ They drank their beers quickly, and when Cassie went to use the loo, Ian turned to Tilly. ‘I remember you,’ he said.

122 ‘Hi,’ Tilly said. ‘You look different from last time.’ Tilly’s arms wrapped around her chest. ‘Different how?’ ‘You look older.’ ‘Well, I am older.’ Ian laughed, snorted. ‘This one has a sense of humour, Cubby,’ Ian said, jabbing his finger towards Tilly. ‘You could learn a few things from this one.’ I saw something flicker at the edge of the fence but nothing appeared from the grass. Cassie came back onto the verandah. He and Ian looked out to the paddock, sipped their beers at exactly the same time, like a mirror reflection. ‘Gotta go,’ Ian said, skolling the last of his beer, lobbing it into the yard. ‘Dad wants his car back, and I’m meeting Chantelle at the servo at seven.’ ‘Chantelle, hey?’ Cassie said. Ian winked at Cassie and then stood up. ‘Get off your arse and give me a cuddle,’ he said, grabbing Cassie’s shirtsleeve and yanking him up with him. Cassie stood stiff as Ian pulled him into a hug, his hand resting on the top of Cassie’s head. ‘I’ve missed you, mate,’ Ian said into Cassie’s ear. ‘Really missed you. I’m glad we’ve sorted shit out.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Cassie. He waited until Ian let go and then took a step back. ‘Yeah, me too.’ ‘What’s wrong?’ Ian said. Cassie glanced towards us. ‘Nothing.’ ‘They don’t know what we’re talking about,’ Ian said. ‘Look at their faces. You don’t know what we’re talking about, do you?’ I stared at my feet. I didn’t know what they were talking about, and for the first time I didn’t care. I wasn’t angry at Cassie, just tired. I didn’t understand why he let Ian come round even after he’d realised what an egg he was. If Cassie was stupid enough to want to be friends with an egg then that was his problem. Ian thumped down the stairs and crossed the yard, stopped near the clothesline and pissed into the bushes, even though he was in plain view of all of us. I bet he wanted us to see. He got into his car, reversed towards the paddock and swung the car around, beeping his horn as he vanished down the driveway.

*

123 Cassie started picking Tilly up from school every afternoon. Helena paid him when she remembered, when she had the money. Cassie never asked for it though, and sometimes Helena went for weeks without giving him anything. But Cassie didn’t care. He said he had nothing else to do, and that Tilly had told him she was having a hard time making friends because she was the only ginger at her school and that we should all try and be nicer to her. I hated that Tilly was spending all that time alone with Cassie. I hardly ever saw either of them since he’d been back. Some afternoons they’d pull into the driveway sucking on slushies they’d got from the servo on the drive home. One afternoon Tilly and Cassie didn’t get home until late. Cassie didn’t tell me what they’d been doing even though I tried to bug it out of him, but the next day Tilly told us that she and Cassie had driven by the Clarks to see Ian. They drove Ian home, and Cassie showed Tilly where Dermott and Mum’s room had been, where they buried their dog in the yard after it ate a toad. When I asked Tilly what the house looked like on the inside she said everything was neat and tidy, like a hospital. When she went to use the toilet she’d opened the cabinet under the sink, and it was full of boxes of tissues, dozens of them. ‘Ian’s not that bad,’ Tilly said, winding up her yoyo. ‘I don’t know why you hate him so much.’ I didn’t understand how he had slurped Tilly in too, and so quickly. ‘I don’t hate him,’ I said. ‘You do too,’ Tilly said. ‘Ian told me your whole family hates him. Everyone except Cassie.’ ‘What would you know?’ I said. ‘You’ve hardly ever spoken to him. You don’t know him.’ Even after all this time I still wanted Tilly to like me the best. Or at least, I didn’t want her to like anyone else more than she liked me. Especially not Cassie. Especially not Ian. ‘What did you talk about then?’ I asked. ‘What?’ Tilly said. ‘To Ian?’ ‘I dunno,’ Tilly said. ‘Lots of stuff. He’s really interesting. Both of them are. Maybe if you were older they’d let you hang out with them too.’ ‘You’re only eight months older than us,’ I said. I wrapped the string of my yoyo

124 around my finger until the tip was fat as a thimble. Wally came into the kitchen. He must have been listening from the couch. ‘He doesn’t even like you.’ ‘Who?’ said Tilly, her yoyo smacking the lino. ‘Cassie,’ Wally said. ‘He’s only picking you up because your mum’s paying him.’ Tilly threaded her finger through the hole in the string and held the yoyo in her palm. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I’m not dumb.’ ‘Don’t think for a minute it’s because he likes you.’ I sent Wally a brain message, a little glow of love. I tried not to let Tilly see the smirk on my face.

*

On the afternoon of Tilly’s birthday I got out my pencil tin and made her a card. I’d been thinking about what Cassie had said, about Tilly not having any friends at school. If she still hadn’t made friends then she never would. I still had a chance to sneak in, to trick her into thinking I was wonderful. I drew a birthday cake on the front and coloured it in, and then went over the filled-in colour with glitter, wrote ‘Happy Birthday’ in bubble letters on the front, a special message inside. As I was putting on my shoes Cassie pulled into the driveway. ‘What’s that?’ Cassie said as he came up the stairs. ‘It’s for Tilly,’ I said. ‘For her birthday.’ ‘I’ll sign it then,’ he said. ‘No,’ I said, ‘make your own.’ ‘Let me sign it.’ He grabbed the card off me, took a pen from the table. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But don’t take up too much space.’ I took the card and trudged over to the yellow house. ‘Happy birthday,’ I said when Tilly opened the door. I hid the card behind my back. She was in her school uniform, her skirt low on her hips, the button undone and the waistband rolled. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘What’d you get?’ Tilly shrugged. ‘I haven’t had presents yet. Not till Mum gets home.’ I whipped the card around. ‘This is for you,’ I said. Tilly took the card. She glanced at the front but didn’t even look inside. ‘Thanks,’

125 she said. ‘Cassie only signed the card. He didn’t even help make it. He probably didn’t even remember it was your birthday.’ It was only then that Tilly opened the card, her eyes tracking over the note. She smiled, looked past me to our house. ‘Can I come over?’ she asked.

*

Cassie was in the kitchen. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said. ‘Thanks,’ Tilly said, standing in the doorway. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’ ‘Nah,’ Cassie said. ‘Doing something special?’ ‘Me and Mum are going out for dinner,’ said Tilly. ‘Sounds nice.’ ‘Mum said I could bring someone, a friend from school, if I wanted.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ Cassie said, filling up a glass of water in the sink. ‘Who’d you ask? Did Katie ask you to sit with her again?’ ‘Yes, but I didn’t invite her,’ Tilly said. I wondered who Katie was, how Cassie knew who she was, why he cared. Tilly pressed her finger on a speck of glitter on the table. ‘Do you want to come?’ Cassie turned around, headed to the fridge. ‘I’ve got plans with Ian tonight.’ ‘He can come too,’ Tilly said. ‘I don’t think that’s what your Mum meant.’ ‘It’s my birthday dinner,’ Tilly said. ‘I can invite whoever I like.’ Cassie closed the fridge and wiped his mouth. He looked over at me. ‘What about Cub?’ Cassie said. ‘I’m sure she’d like to go.’ I looked up at Tilly, waiting for her to ask. I’d known the birthday card would work. But then I saw Tilly’s face and realised it was useless. I was useless. ‘No,’ Tilly said finally. She looked back at Cassie. ‘I didn’t ask her. I asked you. You and Ian.’ Cassie scratched his elbow. He looked out into the paddock, his eyes squinting as though it was too bright. ‘Check with your Mum first,’ he said. He wouldn’t look at me. He could have said no, if he’d wanted to. I didn’t say anything, just went into my room and shut the door. I got out my pencils and paper and made Tilly a new birthday card. Except this one didn’t have cake

126 and glitter on the front. I drew a picture of Tilly, fat and ugly, and wrote horrible things I’d never say out loud. It felt good to write such awful things, and I felt myself becoming lighter as I drew scribbles over her eyes, hair sprouting out of her nose and ears. I signed my name and put it in my special box, knew better than to give it to her even though I wanted to.

127 11.

The first few days of Christmas holidays dragged. Wally and I went to the dam, or made slime out of cornflour and food colouring. We opened all the windows and dragged the fan into the kitchen, but we’d still drip sweat onto the table and into the bowls of green paste as we mulched the water and flour with our hands. When Cassie was home Tilly followed him around the house, asking him what time he’d be back from work. Sometimes she’d come to the dam with us, or play Uno on the verandah, but when Cassie was around it was as if a switch flicked inside her and she became a different person, like she felt she was being watched on a screen, a big light shining over her. ‘I can’t believe you’re making slime,’ she said one day, poking her finger in a blob of green. ‘I used to make that in grade three.’ ‘Don’t you have any friends?’ Wally said. ‘Is that why you’re always here?’ ‘I have friends,’ Tilly said. ‘Who?’ said Wally. ‘Name one.’ ‘You don’t have friends either. You two are just here together all the time like a pair of freaks.’ ‘Knew it.’ ‘Knew what?’ ‘That you couldn’t name even one friend. I bet you’re the biggest loser in school.’ ‘You’re so dumb,’ Tilly said, rolling her eyes. ‘Give me some of that.’ She reached over to the bowl in the middle of the table, sunk her fingers into the goo. When Cassie bought us a totem tennis set as an early Christmas present we played in the afternoons when it cooled down. He said he got it from the shops, but the metal coil at the top was all rusted and the string connecting the tennis ball to the pole had started to wear away. Sometimes Cassie would play against himself, slamming the ball so hard that if it came back around and got him on the arm it left a bruise. I’d lie on the grass when Wally and Tilly played together, listening to the tennis ball hammering against the plastic bats. Wally only liked to play Tilly so he could beat her, but whenever he missed the ball a few times in a row he yelled at Tilly, accused her of cheating. He’d throw the bat into the paddock and storm into the house. Tilly was better at it than any of us. She said she used to play proper tennis at her old school, that she was even better than the kids who’d been playing since they were born. ‘I had a whole box of trophies at home,’ Tilly said, untangling the rope that had

128 twirled around the pole. ‘But there wasn’t enough room in the car to bring them.’ I propped myself up on my elbows. ‘What’d you do with them?’ I asked. If I had a trophy it would be the first thing I’d take if I moved away. ‘We just left it all there,’ Tilly said. ‘In the flat. We didn’t have time to give it to someone to look after.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Mum wanted to leave right away. She didn’t want Darren knowing where we’d gone.’ ‘Who’s Darren?’ ‘Mum’s boyfriend.’ She whacked the ball hard. ‘I bet he took the trophies and pretended they were his. I bet he’s never won anything in his life.’ I lay back down, closing my eyes. I didn’t like thinking about Tilly’s secret other life; what she did before she got here. I liked to think she’d been planted here especially. That there was nothing from before.

*

The week before Christmas Mum went over to the yellow house and invited Helena and Tilly over for Christmas lunch. Mum was nervous, putting her hair up and then down, over and over again. They hadn’t been here for dinner since the first time, but sometimes Helena and Mum waved hello from across the fence, and whenever Dad washed his truck in the yard he dragged the hose closer to spray the gumnuts and bird poo from the Commodore’s roof. But it wasn’t how Mum said it would be. We never went out to the Chinese for tea, never went on holidays together. When Helena and Tilly arrived, Mum set out a plate of crackers and cabana and cubes of yellow cheese. We had presents, and right before we ate we pulled bonbons and put our paper crowns on our heads. It was too sticky for hot food, and I tried not to move too much so the vinyl chair didn’t peel away the skin on the back of my thighs. Mum cooked a roast chicken, the meat sweating as well. All through lunch Wally kept sneaking sips of Dad’s beer, going to the fridge and putting his head under the cask nozzle and filling up his mouth without anyone noticing or caring. By the time Helena and Tilly went home Wally probably had drunk as much as Dad. ‘Well, that was nice,’ Mum said as she gathered streamers from the party poppers.

129 They dangled from the light bulb like colourful worms. And it was nice. No one had got mad at anyone. Wally didn’t say anything stupid. It was like a normal family Christmas that you see on TV, where everyone is happy and everyone gets along. After lunch I wanted to go to the dam but Wally was too loopy to get himself organised. I’d tell him to go put his togs on but he kept going to the fridge and sneaking more sips. I’d given up, was collecting the streamers from the kitchen, when Wally grabbed me around my middle, tried to pull me to the ground. Wally hadn’t made me wrestle him in months. ‘Leave me alone,’ I said, wriggling out of his grip. ‘It’s too hot.’ Wally was wearing socks and slipped on the lino, landing on the floor. He grabbed my leg, yanked it hard. ‘Get off,’ I said. I grabbed a scruff of his hair and pulled him along the floor. I’d been trying to hurt him but he started giggling, so I kept dragging him around the kitchen. I forgot that I was annoyed at him, giggling as well. His shirt rose up and I could hear his skin sticking and squeaking against the floor. Every time he giggled like that he smacked the back of his head against the lino, which made him laugh harder even though it must have rattled his brain. Ian came over later in the afternoon. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even care that he was trying to barge in on our Christmas. As Wally and I played snap on the steps Ian came up the driveway and gave Cassie a six-pack of beer. They drank it on the verandah, even though it would have been warm by the time Cassie unwrapped it. ‘Does your old man know I’m here?’ Ian asked. The red tip of the cigarette poking from his mouth looked like a planet against the navy sky. ‘It’s fine,’ Cassie said. ‘He’s not going to do anything.’ ‘How’d you know?’ I said. ‘Shut up, Cub,’ Cassie said. He turned back to Ian. ‘I told him you were coming over. He didn’t even look up from the TV. And, anyway, this is my house too. I can have whoever I want over. I’m not a kid.’ When it got dark Helena came out of the yellow house. Even from a distance you could tell she was dressed up in something that sparkled, heels making her wobble more than normal. She drove off down the highway, and a few minutes later Tilly appeared at the bottom of the steps.

130 ‘This is for you,’ she said, handing Cassie a tiny present she’d tucked in her palm. Cassie picked the sticky tape off and the scrap of snowman wrapping paper fell into his lap. He held the present up to the light. It was a bracelet made of black and green wooden beads, threaded onto a piece of elastic. ‘Cool,’ Cassie said. ‘Thanks, Tilly.’ ‘I made it myself,’ Tilly said. ‘Why didn’t you give it to him before?’ asked Wally. ‘I don’t know,’ Tilly said. ‘I forgot.’ ‘Yeah, right,’ Wally said, trying to swipe the beer from Ian’s hand. Ian raised it into the air with a smirk twisting his mouth, as though Wally was a dog he was teasing. ‘I bet you just didn’t want your mum to see you got Cassie a special present.’ ‘It’s to say thank you,’ said Tilly. ‘For picking me up from school.’ ‘Where’s my present then?’ Ian said, tapping his smoke into an empty beer can on the table, and raising his can further away from Wally’s fingers. Tilly looked up at the gold can hovering in the air so she didn’t have to look into anyone’s face. Her neck was prickled pink. ‘Where’d your mum go?’ Cassie said to Tilly. Tilly shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘She have a boyfriend?’ Ian asked. ‘Why do you want to know?’ Tilly replied. ‘It’s not me who wants to know,’ Ian said.

*

Later that night, Wally, Tilly and me decided to play spotlight in the yard. The torch batteries were flat so I searched the junk drawers in the kitchen for a new set. While I looked, Wally opened the fridge and took out the roast chicken that was nearly picked clean from lunch. He put it on the bench and began ripping stringy strips from the bones, pushing them into his mouth. Only the gross bits were left. ‘Let’s see if the boys want to play,’ Tilly said. ‘It’ll be better with more people.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘They won’t want to.’ Just because we were having an alright time together didn’t mean I wanted to play with Ian. I didn’t understand why Tilly liked him all of a sudden. Even Wally had started getting used to him. ‘Yeah, they will,’ said Tilly. ‘I bet you I can convince them.’

131 ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Do what you like.’ Wally took the torch out of my hands and walked onto the verandah. Ian and Cassie were sitting in the dark and the air was grey with smoke. Wally flicked on the torch and shone it into Cassie’s eye. ‘Come and play with us,’ Tilly said. ‘Nah,’ Cassie said, raising his arms to shield himself from the light. ‘It’ll be better with more people,’ Tilly said, grabbing Cassie’s arm and yanking it. ‘Please.’ ‘Get that out of my eye, would you,’ Cassie said to Wally, who flicked the torch on and off, then shone it at Ian, who didn’t even flinch. ‘Come on,’ Ian said, standing up and taking the torch from Wally. He turned to Cassie and shone the beam in his face again. ‘Where’s your Christmas spirit?’ ‘Fine,’ Cassie said. Tilly let go of his arm and he drained the last of his beer. ‘Just for a bit, though.’ ‘Do you know how to play?’ Tilly said to Ian. ‘Of course I know how to play,’ Ian said, pelting his beer can into the yard. ‘Do I look like an idiot?’

*

Tilly was It first. She put her hands over her eyes at the bottom of the steps and counted out loud to fifty. There were no car sounds from the highway and her voice echoed in the air, wobbled like a calf. We decided the boundary would be our yard and the yellow house yard as well. No crossing into the paddock, no going beyond the fence. When it was Wally’s turn I raced next door and hid in the crawl space under the yellow house stairs. I crouched in the dirt, pressed my face to the slats and looked out at the yard. I heard nothing for ages, saw no torchlight. After a while I felt footsteps thud towards me. Everyone should have found a spot by then, so I thought it must’ve been Wally, except the footsteps didn’t shuffle the way Wally’s did. Whoever it was stopped outside the crawl space, right next to my head. I felt my pulse throb in my throat, like it was going to burst out of my neck. The steps thudded away and I kept waiting. My legs were stiff from crouching but I didn’t want to make a sound in case Wally had crept up on me. After a while I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t see anyone in the yard, so I circled the yellow house.

132 I trailed my fingers along the side of the walls and my fingertips were dirty as dog paws by the time I’d done a lap. I walked towards the fence and looked over to our house, and then out to the paddock. The grass was still as a painting, the stalks silver and glowing. I couldn’t see where the ground dipped to the hill, and it stretched out for ages until it blurred to black. It made me dizzy, the invisible point where the ground bled to sky. I headed back towards the house. The light from the window was foamy blue and Ian was sitting at the top of the steps. I stayed on the grass, called out to him, ‘Did Wally find you?’ ‘Nah,’ Ian said. ‘I gave up.’ ‘Where are the others?’ I asked, looking around. ‘Is Wally back?’ ‘Dunno,’ Ian said, taking a sip of beer. I looked around the yard, but we were alone. ‘What are you doing over there?’ Ian said. ‘What?’ ‘Why don’t you come sit over here?’ he said, patting the space on the stair next to him. ‘I’ll give you a sip.’ No way was I going to sit next to Ian, not after last time. ‘I’m alright over here,’ I said. ‘Come on,’ Ian said. He held his can up. ‘I won’t bite.’ I shook my head but I don’t think he saw me. ‘Just a sip.’ I looked around for Cassie. ‘Don’t want a sip,’ I said. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Ian. ‘Just trying to be nice.’ I sat down in the grass where I’d been standing and hugged my knees to my chest. The air felt soupy in my throat. After a minute I heard the sound of footsteps crunching. Cassie appeared at the top of the driveway. ‘Where is he?’ I said, scrambling up. ‘Didn’t Wally find you?’ Cassie asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I waited for ages.’ Cassie looked around the yard, cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Wally,’ he called out. ‘We’re not playing anymore.’ ‘What are you panicking for?’ Ian said. ‘I’m not panicking.’

133 I knew Wally wouldn’t just disappear like that, especially not at night, especially not by himself. He was a bigger wuss than all of us combined. We wandered around the yard, calling Wally’s name. I checked all the usual hiding places in the shed and under the house but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. Cassie went inside to see if he’d given up and snuck inside to bed, and I went down the driveway, all the way to the front gate. In the distance, across the grass, a shadow moved, but it was only a fox’s tail whipping under the fence. I wound through the shrubs sprouting from the grass. When I walked past a big one close to the fence I heard rustling in its leaves. ‘Wally?’ I said. I pulled the branches apart and there was Tilly, squatting in the bush where there was a clearing big enough to fit into if you curled yourself up really tight. ‘It’s just you,’ I said, flinging the branches back. ‘Did I win?’ Tilly said, crawling out of the bush. ‘Have you seen Wally?’ I asked. ‘No.’ ‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘Gone where?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He’s just gone.’ I turned and hurried back to the house, Tilly thudding along to keep up with me. The sound of her breathing made me want to bop her in the face to shut her up. ‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘No,’ I said, walking even faster. ‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘Calm down.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sick of you hanging around all the time. None of us like you. Cassie’s only nice to you because he feels sorry for you.’ I was surprised that came out of my mouth. It was like someone else was inside my body speaking for me, but I didn’t care. I could feel Tilly fall behind me, the scuff of her shoes hitting the dirt. When we got back to the house Cassie was at the edge of the paddock with Ian. He told us he was going to go down the highway, told me and Tilly to search the yard again. ‘It’s too dark,’ Tilly said. ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘Go home then,’ Cassie said. He turned and headed towards the driveway. Tilly looked as though she’d been struck across the face. Her eyes glossed with

134 tears and her mouth hung open, bottom teeth a row of polished stones. ‘You heard him,’ I said. ‘Just rack off.’ I turned and walked through the yard to the yellow house, didn’t wait to see what Tilly did next. Everything was as it was before, quiet and still and shadowy. I walked around the entire fence line. There was nowhere to hide. I called Wally’s name. It echoed into the trees. When I got back to the house Cassie was coming up from the driveway. He dragged open the paddock gate and we stood at the edge of the track. I trailed my hands along the top of the grass and it pricked my skin. Cassie clasped his hands to the back of his neck. ‘He’ll turn up,’ I said, though I didn’t really believe it. I had a terrible feeling; a twin connection telling me something had gone wrong. ‘Yeah, well, if something happens to him Dad’ll find some way to blame me.’ I felt sick in my guts. I knew there was nothing but dirt out there, but Wally was scared of the paddock, of the knackery, and I didn’t think he’d go out there by himself, especially at night and for so long. ‘Idiot,’ Cassie said. He walked up the track a bit. ‘What an idiot.’ We waited at the edge of the paddock for what felt like ages. I sat down in the grass again. I felt tired all of a sudden, my legs like bricks, and I lay down in the dirt. I imagined Wally face down in the dam, or wedged under the wheels of a truck. Cassie said that people get zapped into the sky all the time, especially in places like this, where there’s lots of land and space and not many people. That the Martians zoom down on open fields, snatch up whoever is down there alone. When I heard something moving along the path, crunching the dry dirt, I stood up and looked into the paddock. A few seconds later I saw shapes coming towards us. As they got closer they stopped being shadows and their faces and clothes and bodies became clear. Ian was gripping Wally by the shoulder, steering him along the path. I let out a big breath and I bet Cassie did the same. When they got closer to us I could see Wally’s arms and legs were covered in feather scratches and his hands and his face were streaky. He wasn’t wearing shoes and his socks were crusted with dirt. Tilly trailed behind them. Her ponytail was loose, and she had her arms crossed in front of her chest, looking at the ground. Something was off. Why had Tilly gone into the paddock? I took a photo in my brain, evidence for later. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Cassie said to Ian, shoving him away from Wally.

135 ‘What’d you do?’ ‘Piss off,’ Ian said. ‘He was all the way at the knackery, spewing his guts up. I didn’t do anything.’ ‘What were you doing out there?’ I said to Wally. Wally barely opened his mouth, mumbled something that I couldn’t hear. He pointed at Ian. ‘Where’s the torch, Wally?’ I said. ‘Where are your shoes?’ Wally looked down at his hands, opening and closing his fists. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. His face was white and there were lumps of sick all down his chin. ‘Thanks,’ Cassie said to Ian. ‘Thanks for getting him.’ Wally wandered past us into the yard. ‘I’m going now,’ he said, pointing to the house. ‘I’m going inside.’ Cassie looked back out into the paddock and Ian pulled out his smokes from his pocket. They wandered over to the gate as Wally thudded up the stairs. I looked at Tilly. She was still clutching her elbows, shrunken in on herself like a prune. ‘What were you doing out there?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ she said. She reached up to brush the hair out of her eyes and her fingers trembled. Then she saw me looking and clasped her hands together like she was holding something, hiding something. ‘I thought you went home,’ I said. ‘I was looking for Wally.’ She looked pale as a seed. I just knew she was lying. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said. ‘Did you go to the knackery too?’ ‘Just leave me alone, alright?’ she said. ‘You’re a little kid. You don’t know anything.’ ‘Fine then,’ I said. Tilly kicked at a rock by her foot, looked out to the paddock. There was a smear of blood between her legs. I’d seen older girls at school with blood on their skirts, knew what it meant. ‘Tilly’s bleeding,’ I said, loud enough so Cassie could hear. I pointed between her legs, scrunched up my nose. ‘Do you have your period or something?’ Tilly glanced down, looked over to Ian. ‘See?’ I said, glad to have embarrassed her. ‘I do know things.’ Cassie walked over to us. ‘Are you alright?’ he said to Tilly. He went to put his

136 hand on her shoulder, but it hovered in the air for a second, fell by his side. ‘I’m fine.’ She squeezed her legs together, her hands hovering around the front of her shorts. ‘You shouldn’t have gone out there alone. Your mum would kill me if she knew I let you go out there by yourself.’ ‘I wasn’t alone,’ she said, shrugging. Cassie took a step back. I couldn’t see his eyes, but his shoulders went tense. He turned to Ian. ‘What did you do?’ he said. ‘Hey?’ Ian said. ‘She’s bleeding,’ said Cassie. Ian shrugged. ‘You heard Cub,’ he said. ‘She’s on her rag. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?’ ‘Did something happen?’ Cassie asked Tilly. ‘In the paddock?’ ‘Fuck off, Cassie,’ Ian said. ‘Nothing happened,’ Tilly said. Cassie grabbed Tilly by the wrist. ‘Tell me.’ Tilly yanked her hand away, took a step back. ‘Why don’t you just run off and tell Mum about it, then? I know you’re completely obsessed with her.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Cassie said. ‘It’s so obvious. But she thinks you’re a little kid. She doesn’t even like you.’ Tilly stood there for a moment longer. She’d seemed brave at first, yelling at Cassie like that, but then she seemed to deflate. She looked over at Ian, and then she turned and ran. I got that feeling creeping up my legs, entering my blood through my skin, of something happening over my head, something I didn’t understand. What Tilly had said about Cassie being obsessed with Helena, her bleeding, and why Cassie was so mad at Ian for bringing Wally home. Cassie looked over at Ian, scratched his foot at the ground. My gaze shifted to Ian, and he came into bright focus. Ian’s eyes glowed but there was no expression on his face; it was blank as a spoon. He looked right at me, but through me, as though he was looking through glass, like I was made of glass and he couldn’t even see me standing there.

137 12.

When Wally woke up the next day his sheets were as filthy as he was, mucky with dirt and grass from his clothes. I was half asleep, and watched him lean up on his pillows and chug a glass of water next to his bed. He hadn’t changed into his pyjamas, and he reached his hands under his t-shirt, behind his back. When he got up he was slow, shrivelled, like he was trying to take up no space in the world. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. He ignored me. I got out of bed and followed him into the bathroom. ‘You look dead or something.’ He peeled off his shirt, turned around so he could see his back in the mirror. I let out a little yelp, clamped my hand over my mouth. It looked like he’d been mauled by something wild. There were welts down his spine, bruises made up of tiny purple and red dots. Some of them had started to blister and burst, clear yellow pus weeping onto the skin like sap. Wally touched one of the wet flaps of skin and then stuck his fingers under his nose and sniffed. ‘What happened?’ I said. I went to touch one of the sores but he flinched and sat down on the floor. ‘Did Ian do that?’ ‘No,’ Wally said. ‘I bet he did. Tell me what happened in the paddock. What happened to Tilly? She was bleeding all down her legs. Cassie thinks that Ian did something to her.’ I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, and was more than sure something had happened. Cassie wouldn’t accuse Ian over nothing, and there’s no way Tilly would have gone into the paddock alone either. ‘Don’t remember.’ ‘Why are you bleeding then?’ Wally turned his face to me, stared in an awful way. ‘Because of you.’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘What did I do?’ ‘Yesterday,’ he said. ‘You were dragging me around in the kitchen. This is because of you.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. I remembered the sound of screeching against the lino, but Wally had been laughing. I was surprised that I could make such a bad mark without even

138 realising. ‘Go away,’ he said, jabbing his hand out to try and hit me on the leg even though I was standing across the tiles. ‘Just ping off and leave me alone.’ I felt a wave of heat move through my insides, felt furious all of a sudden—not just at Wally for trying to make me feel guilty and keeping me out of things again, but at everything, at everyone. I lunged across the room. Wally was still on the ground and I tried to reach his back so I could whack his sores. I wanted to scratch off the sticky scabs and make them bleed again. ‘Get away,’ he said, thrashing his legs and kicking me in the stomach. ‘Get away, you dumb slag.’ I ran into our room and locked the door. I tried to think of something to do to his stuff, but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think of anything good. I spat in the glass of water next to his bed, ripped off a fingernail and left it in his shoe.

*

I stayed away from Wally all day, but the next morning he woke me up again as he climbed out of bed. It wasn’t even daytime yet, and the tip of the sun had turned the air TV blue. He usually woke up early to watch cartoons, so I didn’t pay attention to where he was going, what he was doing. But when I got up to pee Wally was standing by the sink. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Normally I wouldn’t care about peeing in front of him, but I was still annoyed that he was mad at me. ‘I can’t get the smell off,’ he said, holding his hands under the tap. His voice was small. ‘Come smell them.’ ‘I don’t want to smell your stinky hands,’ I said. Wally left the water running and shoved his wet hands in front of my face. I sniffed them, then shrugged. ‘They smell like soap,’ I said. He put his fingers under his nose again and breathed in, went back over to the sink. He picked up the bar of yellow soap from the dish on the bench and started rubbing the soap into his hands and wrists until they were slippery. I kept catching Wally sniffing his hands. When we watched TV they’d rise to his face, magnets getting pulled towards his nose. He went through a whole bottle of detergent, and his hands were pink and wrinkled as prawns for days. He said they

139 smelled like chicken, and no matter how hard he scrubbed them, he couldn’t get the meat smell off his skin. He said the longer he left it the worse the smell got, like he was rotting away from the inside.

*

Tilly didn’t come over again after Christmas. I watched the yellow house; she barely left it. I wondered what she was doing inside all day. They didn’t even have a TV. Whenever I saw Tilly in the yard I’d wave, but she wouldn’t wave back. She must’ve been angry with me still for telling her to rack off, for saying all those mean things. I started to feel strange, as though something else had changed without me realising. Like a stone the size of a pinhead was grinding a hole at the bottom of my stomach. It had been dry for most of the holidays but then it started to rain. It sounded like pellets falling on the tin roof. Most afternoons ended with a storm, lavender streaks across the sky that left branches scattered along the lawn, slick black leaves covering the verandah floorboards like slugs. I’d go to the dam when the rain cleared, when the air was still thick as soup. I didn’t bother asking Wally if he wanted to come with me. He was still sulking, so I trudged into the paddock alone. The ground around the dam was all mud, sucked me in up to my ankles. I’d float on my back and watch the sky, the clouds that turned heavy and dark as they slurped up water. When I came out of the dam I’d be streaked with silt and my legs would itch as though there were bugs in the water, burrowed under my skin. Cassie didn’t work much after Christmas. He lounged around at home, sleeping for most of the day and then coming out of his room to pick over the fridge in the afternoon. When he did work it was mostly night shifts, and some nights after he finished he and Ian would go out together, to the pub or to someone’s house for a party, and Cassie would come home the next morning with a greasy bag of takeaway, slick paper carry bag like a special parcel. He’d be in a cranky mood for the entire day, his skin filmy, fluey. On New Year’s Eve Cassie got dressed to go out. I watched from the bathroom door as he got ready. He’d had a shower and his shirt was crisp, the white collar stiff. He’d ironed it especially. ‘Whose party is it?’ I said to Cassie. He’d nicked Dad’s gel and was slicking back his hair. The mirror was fogged and he’d rubbed a face-sized circle in the middle of it.

140 ‘Dunno,’ Cassie said. ‘Someone Ian knows.’ ‘So you’re going with Ian then?’ ‘Yeah. So what?’ ‘You were mad at Ian at Christmas.’ ‘No, I wasn’t.’ I picked up the tub of gel and dipped my finger into the goo. ‘Did Ian do something bad?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean?’ I shrugged, wiped the gel under my nose to make a moustache. ‘I dunno.’ ‘Stop acting like a five-year-old,’ Cassie said, snatching the gel off me. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about or piss off.’ ‘He did something to Tilly,’ I said, ‘out in the paddock.’ Cassie paused, looked at me in the mirror. ‘Did she say something to you?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did Wally say something to you?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘But he’s being weird. He’s been acting strange since Christmas.’ Cassie ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Wally’s always weird.’ ‘But Tilly doesn’t come over anymore. She doesn’t like us. Because of what Ian did.’ I left out the part about her being mad at me as well. ‘I know Ian can be a bit of a boofhead sometimes,’ Cassie said, ‘but you can’t just make up lies about people because you don’t like them.’ ‘I’m not lying,’ I said. ‘You’re the one who was angry with him.’ ‘You’re just imagining things,’ Cassie said. ‘You’re just making things up ’cause you’re bored.’ ‘I’m not bored,’ I said. ‘You’re a little kid, Cub,’ Cassie said. ‘Nothing happened. I asked Ian and he said nothing happened. Just leave us alone, alright?’ He turned back to the mirror, smoothed down a clump of hair near his ear. He’d used too much gel. The smell of it was like medicine. I decided to confront Ian about Christmas night, ask him what had happened when he and Tilly and Wally were out in the paddock. I knew he’d lie at first, but I also knew I could crack him. I could be the one to solve the mystery. The truth would come out and Cassie would tell Ian he didn’t want to be friends anymore, and Tilly would start coming round again, would want to be friends with me instead of Ian and Cassie. She’d

141 choose me. Everything would be as it should. Ian was coming to pick up Cassie. I waited for him in the kitchen, planned what I was going to say to him in my head. When he arrived Cassie went outside to meet him on the verandah. I waited a few minutes, and then looked around for a reason to go out to them. I took a packet of peanuts from the cupboard, opened the flyscreen.‘Mum said you might want some food,’ I said. ‘She told me to bring this out to you.’ Ian turned on his chair to face me. He was as dressed up as Cassie; ironed shirt, silver chain wired around his neck, hair gelled to spikes. I couldn’t see his eyes; he was wearing sunglasses even though the sun had nearly set: gleaming lenses the same shape as the blackened, slanted eyes of a cartoon Martian. Ian put down his beer, took the peanuts off me. I felt myself freeze, forgot what I was going to say. Ian kept talking. He was telling Cassie his dad had given the assistant manager job to some girl who was dumb as bricks, could barely even work a cash register and knew next to nothing about electronics. They didn’t even seem to care that I was right there listening. ‘It’s all bullshit,’ Ian said. ‘I bet he just wanted me out of the way so he could root the dumb slut.’ ‘What’s she look like?’ Cassie asked. ‘Face like a dog,’ Ian said. ‘Acts like she’s hot shit but she’s ugly as.’ ‘Yeah, right,’ Cassie said, taking a sip. ‘I don’t give a crap,’ Ian said. ‘I never wanted the job anyway.’ ‘What are you gonna do?’ ‘I dunno,’ Ian said, turning the rum bottle around and reading the label. ‘Anything going at the pub?’ ‘Might be,’ Cassie said. Ian took a big sip. I could see his knuckles tighten around the glass. ‘It’s all bullshit,’ he said.

*

I told myself it wasn’t important; maybe it was all in my head. Wally and Tilly were fine, and Cassie was happy again. Mum was okay now that Cassie was home, and even Dad just let Cassie go about his business, wasn’t on his back all the time. Didn’t even mind that Ian was coming over again, as long as he stayed outside. I left Cassie and Ian on the

142 verandah, went into the lounge room. Mum had made cobloaf and she and Dad drank Irish cream from tiny green glasses as we waited for the fireworks on telly. I’d never stayed up until midnight before. I could hear Ian and Cassie from the couch. They didn’t make any move to go to the party, just stayed there yelling and cackling until midnight. After the fireworks I went to the verandah, stood in the doorway. ‘Nothing happened,’ I said. Cassie snorted a laughed, his eyelids droopy. ‘What?’ ‘I thought something exciting would happen at midnight. But nothing happened.’ ‘Welcome to the new year, Cubby,’ Ian said, raising his glass in the air like a sword. He reached over and clinked it against my knee. Cassie shrugged. I could see his smudged fingerprints on his glass. Cola slick above his lip. ‘Come here,’ Ian said. ‘Come hang with us.’ He grabbed my thigh, pulled me towards him and swung his arm around my shoulders. His skin was damp and smelled sugary, as though the cola was sweating out of him. Cassie watched us, a dopey smile on his face as though he was watching a funny movie he wasn’t paying any attention to, didn’t really care about. I tried to squirm out of Ian’s grasp, his rubbery fingers tight around my arm. I waited until they went slack, waited until he lost interest, and left. I got into bed and tried to go to sleep. Ian and Cassie were loud but I couldn’t hear what they were saying; it was all a jumble, animal noises and not the sound of humans. A glass smashed, and there was a rumbling as a table was dragged along the floorboards. After a while Dad shouted something from his room, banged against the wall, and when Ian and Cassie didn’t take any notice the floorboards creaked under Dad’s feet as he got out of bed and made his way to the verandah. I slipped out of bed too, went to the bathroom to watch. I undid the window latch and cracked it open. Dad was standing at the back door. He was wearing his boxers, bare legs smooth and brown as a table’s. I didn’t think he’d seen Ian properly since the night in the knackery. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen, but Dad just spoke as though Ian wasn’t even there. ‘I thought you’d be out tonight,’ Dad said. Cassie shrugged, dug his finger into the corner of his eye. ‘Would’ve been a shit party,’ said Ian, stubbing out his smoke on the top of a tinny. ‘Bunch of dickheads.’ ‘Well, keep it down, would you,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve got things on in the morning. Can’t sleep with all your yahooing.’

143 ‘We’re just having a drink,’ Cassie said. ‘It’s not a big deal.’ ‘Just keep it down, alright?’ As he opened the flyscreen, Ian pinged a bottle top onto the floor at Dad’s feet. ‘Nice shorties,’ he said, sniggering. Cassie made his strange nose snort. Dad stopped, turning around. ‘What did you just say, mate?’ he said to Ian. ‘Nothing, Dad,’ Cassie said. ‘Was I talking to you?’ Dad stood there for a second and then walked slowly towards the pair of them. The flyscreen slammed behind him. He stopped next to Ian, lurching over him, hands flexed at his sides. But then he just squatted down, picked up the carton of beers in the esky at Ian’s feet. ‘Oi,’ Ian said. ‘We’re drinking those.’ Dad grabbed Ian by the jaw. He leaned his face in, as though he was going to give him a kiss him on the lips. ‘Stop pinching my bloody beer,’ Dad said slowly. ‘Do you take me for a moron?’ He let go, turned back to the door with the beer under his arm. When he’d taken a few steps his body jerked and he buckled downwards. ‘Shit,’ he said, grabbing his ankle and then lifting his foot onto his knee. He fingered his foot, looked down at the floor. ‘Christ’s sake,’ he said. As he hobbled over to the back door, I heard Ian laugh. Dad disappeared from sight and slammed the back door, the keys rattling as he locked it behind him. A second later the bathroom light switched on. Dad towered in the doorway. ‘What are you doing up there?’ he said, squinting into the light. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Stickybeaking,’ Dad said. ‘Bad habit, that is.’ ‘I was just going to the loo.’ I climbed down from the toilet seat, slipped past him into the hallway. There were dribbles of blood leading into the bathroom, dark as ants. I stood at the door as Dad opened the cupboard and took out the first-aid kit, full of tubs of finger-mucked Vicks, rusted tweezers and food-stained slings. He opened a beer and took a long gulp, and then sat down on the edge of the bathtub under the light that buzzed, can at his feet.

*

The next morning the key was still wedged into the back door. I unlocked it and went onto the verandah. There were cans strewn along the floorboards, yellow chip sprinkles

144 on the tables, their metallic packets wedged under bottles. Ian was curled in a ball at the corner of the verandah. His mouth was open and his shirtsleeve was clouded with drool. Cassie must have come inside through a window and brought Ian a pillow from his bed. Instead of putting it under his head, Ian was hugging it tight to his chest. One of his eyelids was open a fraction, like he could see me even though his brain was fast asleep. I thought about prising the pillow from his grip, holding it against his face and pressing down. Wally used to do that to me sometimes—only tricking, though. But I wouldn’t be tricking. I kneeled down, grabbed the corner of the pillow. I gave it a yank, but Ian was holding on tight, as though he knew already what I wanted to do to him.

13.

145 After Lunch on Tuesday I wheeled my bike from under the house. I’d decided to surprise Cassie at the Connolly. He’d been strange with me for days, avoiding me since I’d asked him about what Ian had done to Tilly. He knew I was on to Ian. He was just like Wally, ignoring me and trying to make me believe I was nothing but a big pain. If I did something nice like surprise him, maybe then he’d remember what a good person I was, what a good sister. When I got to the pub there were a few men sitting at the bar, a few more spread over tables near the TV that was tuned to the dog races. Their necks were rashy as their heads tilted back to watch the TV in silence, Adam’s apples like little fists bobbing in their throats. They’d all finished their lunches, plates licked clean, except for the thin shreds of carrot and sprigs of parsley, the colourless knots of sucked-on gristle. There was only one man behind the bar and it wasn’t Cassie. His beard was patchy, bits missing along his cheek, like a crusty dog. I stood up on the railing so I could see over the beer taps. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, trying to make my voice sound polite. ‘Hey?’ the man said, distracted by the screen ‘Will Cassie be back soon?’ I asked. ‘Who?’ he said after a few seconds, barely glancing my way. ‘Cassie,’ I said. ‘Cassius. He’s working today.’ ‘In there.’ He pointed to the kitchen across from the bar. ‘And tell him to come out here and do his bloody job.’ I climbed down from the railing and went over to the kitchen. The lino was a cheesy-yellow, sinks opposite the cooktops. A big, silver fridge was in the far end of the room, humming with electricity. Cassie was alone. He was standing over the sink, hair tied back in a rubber band, pouring the wet dregs from a metal pot into a plastic bag lining the bin. Cassie must have sensed me standing there because he looked over his shoulder. He was wearing a blue-and-black-striped apron over his uniform, thin plastic gloves on his hands. He sunk the pot into the water. ‘Told you not to come,’ Cassie said. ‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘Why are you in here cleaning?’ Cassie pulled the pot out of the water and took a grey wad of steel wool from the bench. He scrubbed the bottom of the pan and the sound of it was like the sound of sparks. I could see his shoulders rising and bunching around his neck, the row of beady

146 bones on his back that pocked against his shirt. ‘Just piss off home,’ Cassie said. ‘I’m busy.’ I could tell that was all he was going to say to me. I thought he’d be happy to see me, thought he’d be proud to show off his job that he talked about all the time. But I’d caught him out in a lie. I’d be embarrassed too, if I were him. The kitchen smelled like grease and toilet cleaner. I could taste it in my mouth, a slick on my tongue. Clean and dirty at the same time. I tried to think of something awful to say, something to kick him in the guts with, but I couldn’t come up with anything good. ‘The man at the bar said to do your bloody job,’ I told him. I went back into the dining room, stood by the bar. That was the one good thing about being a girl who looked like a boy; you could become invisible if you wanted to. The man serving was cleaning a glass with a Chux, rubbing the same spot of glass over and over while he stared at the screen. After a minute Cassie came out from the kitchen. He walked straight past me, went over to the men at the tables and started clearing their lunch plates. They mostly ignored him as he rattled around, kept their eyes glued to the screen, shifting back in their chairs as Cassie leaned over them to grab their mucky napkins. One of the men lifted his hand, swept it across his plate. The knife skittered across the table. As Cassie reached over to pick up the knife, the man grabbed Cassie’s wrist. He had grey stubble that looked sharp as tacks, and his hands were muscly, as though if he squeezed hard enough Cassie’s fingers would burst right off. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the man said. The rest of the table went still, watched from the corners of their eyes. ‘I’m clearing,’ Cassie said, staring at his wrists. ‘Speak up.’ ‘I’m just clearing plates.’ ‘What are you doing with that knife, hey?’ the man said. His eyes were steel, and even though he spoke quietly his voice sliced through the room. ‘Not again, Baz,’ one of the other men said, not looking away from the screen. ‘Just leave him be.’ ‘Thought they’d got rid of you.’ ‘They moved me to the kitchen.’ Cassie didn’t try to get his hand away. His shoulders slumped and I could see the knife shaking in his other hand. ‘I’m just clearing

147 the table,’ Cassie said. ‘I’m just doing my job.’ ‘You have his eyes, you know,’ the man said. ‘Les’s baby blues. Bet that helps you get all the girls, doesn’t it?’ ‘No,’ Cassie said. ‘How’s your mother, then?’ ‘She’s fine.’ ‘Heard she was down this way a couple of months ago. Surprised she has the nerve to show her face around here, after all those filthy secrets she kept.’ ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cassie said. ‘Oh, I think you do.’ ‘She didn’t know anything.’ ‘Didn’t she?’ The man leaned in closer to Cassie, yanked his wrist closer. ‘You’re an expert on the matter, are you just?’ ‘No,’ said Cassie. ‘You tell your slut mother Barry Leary said hello.’ Cassie stared at his wrist, didn’t look up. ‘You know who I am?’ the man said. Cassie nodded. ‘Who am I?’ ‘Barry Leary.’ ‘Smart-arse,’ the man said, letting go of Cassie’s wrist. ‘Get out of here.’ He wafted his hand in the air, like the queen. ‘Can’t stand the sight of you.’ ‘Wasn’t trying to be a smart-arse,’ Cassie said. He put the knife with the stack of cutlery and continued clearing the table. A few of the men laughed as his shaking hands made the plates clank together, but then one of them shushed the table for the start of a new race. The man called Barry didn’t watch the screen. He stared at Cassie as he finished clearing the tables, watched him the whole time so that Cassie must have felt the steely eyes on him like spotlights heating him up, until he walked back towards the kitchen with the plates stacked in his arms. Barry leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. I stood by the door but Cassie moved right past me into the kitchen, let the plates sink into the dishwater like ships.

148 *

When I got home I told Wally about what I’d seen at the Connolly, but he didn’t care at all. He was moulding tiny animals out of the rainbow clay he’d bought from the cheap shop with his Christmas money. He’d gone without me the day before, even though he hated going into town alone. He’d made a turtle and a duck and a purple elephant that he’d put on the windowsill. They looked as good as anything you could buy from the shops, which was annoying because Wally didn’t even like drawing and painting. He didn’t even have to practise; they were good from the start. When he ignored me I tried to grab the clay out of his hand, but he opened his mouth wide to bite me on the arm and I gave up, lay down on my bed. When Cassie got home I didn’t get up to meet him. I heard him open the fridge, the clattering of knives and forks, the beeping of the microwave. After a while he came into our room. He was holding a plastic bag, the handle twisted around his fingers like string. ‘Got you something, Cub,’ he said, tipping the plastic bag upside down on my bed. It was full of Ghost Drops. ‘Not fair,’ Wally said, reaching over and grabbing a lolly. Cassie stared at the walls and the shelves as though our room was filled with interesting things. He wandered around the room, running his fingers along the clay animals on the windowsill. ‘This is pretty good,’ Cassie said, picking up the turtle. ‘Did you do this?’ he asked me. ‘Why did you lie?’ I said. ‘Lie about what?’ ‘Stop pretending to be stupid,’ I said. ‘You lied about your job. You’re a cleaner. You don’t work behind the bar. You’re always telling lies. Keeping secrets.’ ‘I didn’t lie,’ he said. ‘I used to work behind the bar, but then they put me in the kitchen.’ ‘Why?’ ‘They just did.’ ‘Who was that man?’ I said. ‘What man?’ I rolled my eyes. ‘The man who said those things about Mum.’

149 ‘No one,’ Cassie said. ‘Just someone Granddad used to know.’ ‘Was he mad at you?’ ‘Sort of.’ ‘Why?’ I said. ‘What did you do?’ ‘I didn’t do anything.’ ‘Then why was he mad at you?’ ‘Just leave it, Cub.’ ‘Tell me, or I’ll tell Dad.’ ‘Just shut up, alright,’ Cassie shouted. It came out of nowhere. He grabbed me by my hair, yanked my head upwards to face him. ‘Just shut up about it.’ I was sure he was going to hit me, but he let go, sat down at the end of Wally’s bed and rubbed his hands on his knees. I made my face go blank. I could feel prickles behind my eyes but I concentrated hard and kept them in. I looked over at Wally. He was still hunched over his animals, like he hadn’t even heard Cassie shout at me. Before, I would have thought maybe he’d gone deaf for a second, but I know he was just choosing what to care about and he didn’t care much about what happened to me. I took a Ghost Drop, unwrapped the lolly. ‘You’re a liar,’ I said to Cassie. I didn’t care if he yelled at me again, didn’t care if he pulled my hair, ripped my whole scalp off. I pressed the hard red ball into my hand until it hurt, until it made a sugar tattoo on my palm.

*

I decided not to care about a lot of things. I didn’t care when Ian came over the next day. He and Cassie could do what they liked. I was done with Cassie and Ian, and Wally as well. They were dumb boys who didn’t know anything. I didn’t move from the verandah when they came up the stairs. I could sit where I liked. They couldn’t scare me off anymore. Couldn’t take up all the space and leave me with none. ‘You know,’ Ian said, poking Mango with his foot, ‘cats can tell what people are really like deep down, and that’s why Mango likes your dad. Because he doesn’t have feral blood like the rest of you.’ ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. He shoved Ian’s shoulder, even though he was smiling. Ian was prodding Mango’s middle with his feet as she was trying to pounce on his shoelaces.

150 ‘Dad’s just the one that feeds her. It’s an animal. They don’t think anything.’ ‘She likes him because she thinks he’s her mother,’ I said. ‘That’s what Dad said.’ ‘I used to have a cat,’ Ian said. ‘It was my job to feed him but I always forgot. He was a little shit. Used to piss all over my room. Marking his territory or some shit.’ ‘What happened to him?’ I asked. ‘Died.’ ‘How’d he die?’ ‘Mum found him,’ Ian said, smirking at Cassie. ‘Said there were birds pecking his eyes, ants crawling into his gums.’ ‘How’d he die though?’ I said again. I didn’t know anything about cat diseases. Didn’t know if there were animals that could swoop from the sky, stalk out of the paddock and snatch Mango away from me. ‘Cassie saw it,’ Ian said. ‘Didn’t you, Cass?’ Cassie shrugged, brought his smoke to his mouth. Ian pressed his feet onto Mango’s tiny paws, which were white, as though she was wearing socks. When Ian raised his feet Mango wriggled free. I scooped her up as she tried to run inside, pressed her close to my chest. Mango didn’t like me all that much. She never followed me around, never slunk around my feet looking for scratches like she did with Dad. He said I had to be more gentle with her, but I knew cats dragged their kittens around by the scruffs of their neck with their teeth, so I was just trying to make her feel as though she hadn’t suddenly been taken away from her mother and dumped with a house full of humans she didn’t know.

*

Wally didn’t care about Mango. He only cared about his clay animals. He’d only had the clay for a week but had made dozens of them now and spent over an hour on each, making sure they were perfect. ‘What are you going to do with them all?’ I asked him. Wally shrugged and ripped off a hunk of clay from the stick. ‘Are you going to sell them?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘Can I make one?’ Wally ignored me at first, and then moved the box of clay to the edge of the bed.

151 ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste any, though. It’s expensive.’ I decided to make a fox, like the ones that had started skulking around the paddock more and more. Dad said foxes were pests, that they ate birds and possums and baby cows, and that they should be culled, but I knew if we had a pet fox it would love me the most out of all of us. My hands didn’t seem to work properly, not like Wally’s. I couldn’t shape the fiddly bits. When I was finished it didn’t look anything like a fox or any kind of animal. The skin wasn’t smooth and the head was too big. The tail fell off when I put it on the windowsill. Wally looked up from the green, half-formed thing in his hands. A frog. Even before it was finished it looked one hundred times better than mine. He took the fox from the windowsill, picked off the yellow clay that I’d used for the eyes and the ears. ‘You didn’t even try,’ he said, rolling up the fox’s body. ‘This is too dry now.’ He held up the ball. ‘It’s ruined.’ ‘Sorry,’ I said, even though I wasn’t. It was hot and I was bored, but I was sick of swimming by myself. Cassie didn’t get home until after two the night before and was still asleep. I’d stayed awake until he got back, and my eyeballs felt dry from being open for so long, staring at the ceiling, out the window. Every time Cassie was with Ian I got that wriggly feeling deep inside me, even though I tried to block it out. Cassie was an adult; he could do what he liked. I was sick of being the one to worry, but I couldn’t help it. No matter how many times I told myself that Ian and Cassie could do what they wanted I still felt like the walls were getting smaller when Cassie and Ian were alone together. But at least they weren’t going to the knackery anymore. I stood on the verandah, looked over to the yellow house. It was drizzling, and the air smelled like charcoal. I knew Helena was at work; Tilly would be all alone. I went back to our room. ‘Let’s go next door,’ I said to Wally. ‘I’m busy,’ Wally said. ‘You’re so boring.’ Wally didn’t look up from the clay, rolled a blob of green between his fingers ‘And your animals are rubbish,’ I said. ‘They don’t even look like animals.’ I was bored, but I also wanted to see how angry Tilly was. I wanted to snoop around her house, look at her things. I bundled Mango into a jumper, held her head close to my chest as I walked next

152 door. ‘We’re going on an adventure,’ I said to Mango. I blew into her pink ear and then nibbled it just a bit. It was so thin that if I pressed down any harder my teeth would have sliced right through, like I was biting a dried apricot. She wriggled but I held her tighter so she couldn’t get away. When I got to the yellow house I looked through the kitchen window before I knocked on the door. I was nervous, but glad I had Mango with me, like I wasn’t so alone. When Tilly heard me knock she peered at me through the kitchen window, the same way I’d looked in. She opened the door. She was wearing togs with pink and yellow hibiscuses on them. There were clusters of orange freckles on the tops of her shoulders. I wanted to lean forward and see if I could blow them away. She looked at Mango burrowed under my chin and then looked over my shoulder. I checked her face for signs of hate, but I couldn’t tell either way. I thought about saying sorry. ‘I brought Mango over,’ I said instead. ‘Thought you might miss her.’ Tilly stroked Mango’s head and Mango sniffed Tilly’s skin with her lolly nose. Tilly picked up Mango’s front paw. ‘Let me hold her,’ she said. I unwrapped Mango from the jumper and passed her to Tilly. She flipped her on her back like she was cradling a baby. ‘Hi, Mango,’ she said. Tilly smiled, just a bit, as though she was trying to hide it from me. ‘Have you been swimming?’ I said. ‘Just in the bath,’ Tilly said. ‘You smell like a flower.’ Tilly gave me a look. ‘You shouldn’t say stuff like that to people,’ she said. ‘They’ll think you’re weird.’ She leaned her face forward so that Mango’s whiskers were brushing against her cheek and her nose. ‘Do you want to come inside?’ she asked. I knew she was only asking me in so she could play with Mango but I didn’t care. I tried hard not to look at anything too closely in case she noticed and thought I was having a stickybeak and told me to go home. ‘Your room’s cool,’ I said. I tried to make my eyes look wide, as though I was seeing everything for the first time, as though I hadn’t already lain in her bed, tried on all her nice things. ‘Thanks,’ Tilly said. ‘Where’s your mum?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer. ‘At work.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Duh.’ Tilly put Mango on the floor. I sat in the inflatable chair that hadn’t been there

153 the last time. It must have been a Christmas present. Tilly went into the kitchen and got a slice of ham from the fridge. We ripped the ham into pieces and fed them to Mango one by one, trying to make her do tricks. But she ate all the ham without learning anything and then licked both of our fingers clean. ‘She’s so cute,’ Tilly said. ‘I wish I had one.’ ‘You should ask your mum,’ I said. ‘Then they could play together. They could be brother and sister.’ ‘She’d say no. She says we can’t get a pet if we’re not staying here much longer.’ I pretended she hadn’t said that. ‘You could get one and hide her in here. Or we could keep her at our house. My dad wouldn’t mind. He loves Mango.’ ‘Maybe,’ Tilly said. I grabbed one of Mango’s paws and squeezed it so that her claws poked out of her fur like pieces of plastic. ‘We should paint her nails,’ said Tilly, stroking one of the claws. ‘Alright,’ I said. Tilly left the room, and when she came back she was carrying a bunch of different-coloured nail polishes. She dumped the bottles on the ground, and then lined them up in a row, straightening them so we could read the names on the labels. ‘What colour?’ she said. I picked out a purple one, the colour of a bruise. The label said it was Midnight Plum. I put Mango in my lap and held her paws while Tilly unscrewed the nail polish. Mango didn’t seem to like it and hissed for a bit, and then whipped her head around to nip at my arm, her eyes wide as buttons. I held her tighter, and Tilly jabbed the brush at the claws quickly. Most of the nail polish ended up on Mango’s fur. ‘I’m hungry,’ Tilly said. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Leave her in here,’ Tilly said. ‘Mum will be mad if she wees all over the house.’ I scooped up Mango and put her on the blanket. I gave her a few pats, touched the tip of her nose with mine, and slipped the nail polish in my pocket, quickly so that Tilly couldn’t see. She closed the door when I came out of the room. I could hear Mango meowing, her sock paw poking out from under the door. In the kitchen, Tilly opened the cupboard and pulled out a bag of Shapes. ‘What flavour do you want?’ she said, riffling through the bag. ‘I want pizza but there’s only one of those left.’

154 I put my hand in the bag and took out the first packet my fingers touched. Tilly looked at the flavour I’d chosen. ‘Good,’ Tilly said. ‘I hate cheese and bacon.’ We ate the Shapes standing up in the kitchen, chewing and not talking. I leaned against the stove and pressed my foot against the black burn on the floor, big strips of lino peeling away. When Tilly was done she licked the tip of her finger and pressed it to the corner of the packet to get all the red and yellow specks of flavour. ‘You should probably go,’ Tilly said. ‘Don’t you want to keep playing with Mango?’ ‘Mum will be home soon.’ ‘So?’ Tilly paused. ‘She doesn’t want you or Wally over here.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I only let you in because Mum’s at work,’ she said. ‘She thinks you’re both rough as guts.’ I felt tears rush behind my eyes. ‘I’m not rough,’ I said. Tilly shrugged. ‘Well, that’s just what my mum says.’ I ran my tongue over the mush stuck in the grooves of my back teeth. ‘Is that why you don’t come over anymore?’ I asked. Tilly shrugged again. ‘I thought it was because of Ian,’ I said. ‘What happened at Christmas.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I know Ian did something. At first I thought the blood was because of something else, but now I know. I know he did something, like what he did with the girl in the school toilets.’ I didn’t even realise I’d connected the two things in my brain until I’d said it out loud. I hadn’t thought about what I’d overheard in the knackery for months. Tilly stared at me for just a second, but then her eyes went out of focus, her face blank. Something invisible had passed between us and I knew for sure she was never going to be my friend. I looked around the lounge room, at all the strange furniture and knick-knacks. They didn’t belong here with us. I suddenly felt sick, as though I was very far away from my own house and not just across the fence. I wanted to go home. I wanted to pinch myself very hard. I walked to her room.

155 ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, her face and voice back to normal. I turned around. ‘Mango,’ I said. ‘Oh, yeah.’ Tilly followed me to the hallway. She opened her bedroom door and when Mango scampered out I grabbed her. I glanced into Tilly’s room for one last look. Mango had pulled the blanket off the bed, and the inflatable chair was covered with scratches. It was slowly deflating into the carpet.

*

In the kitchen, Cassie was sitting at the table. I’d hardly spoken to him since he’d pulled my hair and yelled at me. He hadn’t even said sorry, but I was getting tired of trying to remember to ignore him. He didn’t seem to see me until I sat down next to him. He glanced up and then back at his food, took a mouthful of spaghetti. I took the bottle of Midnight Plum out of my pocket, unscrewed the lid. ‘Where’d you get that?’ Cassie asked. ‘Tilly gave it to me.’ ‘When?’ ‘Just then,’ I said. ‘It’s called Midnight Plum.’ I started painting my nails. The first hand was neat, but when I tried to do the thumb of my left hand, it felt like the muscles in my fingers had melted. My hand wobbled and the polish smeared onto the peeled flaps of skin on the sides of my nail. ‘Here,’ said Cassie. He put down his fork and took the nail polish from across the table. He held my hand in front of him, dipped the brush into the polish and slowly ran it along the nail of my index finger. ‘The second hand is always the hardest,’ he said, as though he was giving me an important piece of advice. For a second it was as though the old Cassie was back. He finished my nails and blew on my hands. His breath was warm and wet. I fanned my fingers out on the table and looked at my nails. The ones Cassie had done were even messier than my thumb. ‘Your worms are getting cold,’ I said. I put my hands under the table, but he kept staring at the place where my hands had been, like he was trying to magic them back again. ‘What are you looking at?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Are you alright?’ ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

156 ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I had this weird dream last night,’ he said, taking another mouthful of spaghetti. ‘What about?’ ‘I was driving along the highway when I felt something go underneath the wheel. I hit something—a roo, I thought—so I stopped the car and got out and looked at the road in front of me.’ ‘What was it?’ I asked. ‘What did you hit?’ ‘There was nothing there.’ Cassie put his fork down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But when I got back into the car there was this girl in the back seat. Her skin looked real bad, and I reached out to touch her, and when I did the skin was so thin it just peeled away, until there was this hole where her bellybutton should’ve been. A mouse started burrowing out of it. Just the one at first, but then another and another, until there were dozens of them, just streaming out of this dark black hole, running up her chest and then up into her mouth which was wide open, just going back inside her again.’ Cassie picked up his fork. I didn’t know what to say. I felt sick that something so awful could come out of his brain. Cassie once told me it’s bad luck to tell people your dreams, but I bet that was just something he’d made up, another lie. I tried to remember my dreams from the night before but I couldn’t. I never remembered my dreams. Maybe I didn’t have any. Maybe my brain died when I slept. ‘Do you ever feel like something bad’s going to happen?’ Cassie said. And I said no, because I didn’t realise it at the time, but the rot in my stomach, the little pin that rubbed away at my insides was that feeling he was talking about. ‘I think I’m getting sick,’ Cassie said. ‘I feel real crook.’ Cassie got up, went outside. I watched him from the kitchen window. He stood on the verandah and lit a smoke, put on his shoes and walked across the yard. He stood by the gate for a while, squatting down and pulling out weeds that were growing along the fence posts. It started to spit again. He turned towards the yellow house, took a few steps towards it, but then climbed over the gate and wandered into the paddock. I went into my and Wally’s room. Wally was still on his bed, finishing off a snail. I sat on the ground and watched him. ‘Stop looking at me,’ he said after a minute. His fingers were quick as bees as he moulded the clay in his palms. I wondered whether it was coming from his hands or from his brain, whether he didn’t even have to

157 think about it, if it just poured out of him like magic. ‘I said stop it.’ He put down his clay and untucked his foot to kick me away. ‘Did you have any strange dreams last night?’ I said, grabbing his foot. ‘No,’ Wally said. He jerked his foot, trying to kick me in the face. He let his foot go slack and looked down at my hands, which were clasped around his ankle. ‘What’s on your fingers?’ He was staring at the nail polish. ‘What does it look like?’ I said. Wally leaned in closer, curled up his lip. ‘Looks like your hands are dead,’ he said.

*

Ian came over later that night. He beeped the horn and waited for Cassie at the top of the driveway, then they crunched off into the mist. I fell asleep while Wally was still hunched over his animals and the headlights woke me up hours later, a sparkling yellow light that exploded through the window. I listened as Cassie thumped up the verandah and went into the bathroom. The toilet flushed and I could hear him gargling into the sink before his bedroom door clicked shut. The light from outside didn’t disappear though, not for ages, and everything was still and bright until the sound of tyres scraped over the gravel and the light faded out and became dark again as Ian’s car slunk off down the driveway for what I hoped would be the last time, like I hoped every time.

*

Dad noticed Mango was missing the next day, when she didn’t paw at his face in the morning asking to be fed. He walked around the house shaking a box of cat biscuits shaped like little fish, and then stood on the verandah calling her name and making noises with his tongue and his teeth. ‘Well,’ Dad said, putting the biscuits back into the cupboard. I went on the verandah and called for Mango, but I knew if she didn’t come for Dad she wouldn’t come for me. Dad said she’d probably turn up, that she might have gone out into the yard last night or early this morning and found a grasshopper or a mouse to eat, and would come back when she was hungry again. But she didn’t turn up that day, or the next. Dad stood on the verandah with Mango’s biscuits, made the sound with his tongue and teeth.

158 ‘Where do you think she is?’ I asked. ‘Do you think she’s got lost?’ Dad yanked on his nose. ‘Dunno, mate.’ ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ ‘Best to put it out of your head. She was just an animal. No use getting upset over an animal.’ ‘Who knows?’ said Mum, trying to sound cheerful. ‘She might wander home.’ ‘No use in hoping that,’ Dad said, turning back towards the house. ‘Little thing won’t survive out there for that long.’ Dad was right. Mango didn’t wander back home again, not that day or the day after. ‘Tilly has her,’ I said to Wally as he flossed his teeth in front of the sink. ‘She’s taken her.’ Wally pulled the floss from his mouth, inspected the string. ‘Taken who?’ I went outside, crossed the yard. Helena’s car was in the driveway but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if she thought I was rough as guts. I wasn’t wearing shoes, and gumnuts and spindly twigs ground into my feet, but I didn’t stop until I reached the back door. I jiggled the handle and it wasn’t locked so I opened it wide and headed straight to Tilly’s room. Her door was open a crack and I pushed on it. Tilly was sitting on her bed. She looked up from her notebook, pushed her headphones around her neck. ‘Where’s Mango?’ I said. ‘What?’ ‘You took her, you stupid idiot.’ I picked up the blanket scrunched on the mattress and shook it. All the books and clothes and textas flew from the blanket in a wave, landed on the mattress and the floor. A container of glitter spilled open, shimmering the carpet mermaid purple. I opened the cupboard and rummaged through her boxes and drawers, yanking on the dresses that were hanging from a plastic rod. The rod was thin as a twig and snapped, tumbling everything down from the coat-hangers and onto the cupboard floor. ‘I didn’t take anything,’ Tilly said, standing up. ‘She’s not yours,’ I said. ‘Where’ve you hidden her?’ ‘You’re nuts,’ Tilly said. ‘Get out of my room.’ ‘I know you’re just jealous ’cause you don’t have a cat. Doesn’t mean you can just steal someone else’s. Just because you think you’re better than me doesn’t mean you can be horrible all the time. Whatever Ian did, it’s not my fault. It’s your fault, for sucking up

159 to Ian and Cassie all the time. Your fault for always hanging around like a bad smell.’ Tilly came towards me and tried to close the cupboard. I nudged her away with my elbow but she wouldn’t budge. I lifted my hand and scratched my fingers down her arm. I hissed at her, just like Mango would. She jumped back as if she’d been stung. I was surprised by how deep the scratches were, how sharp my nails were. As Tilly moved across the room and leaned against the wall, Helena appeared in the doorway. ‘She scratched me, Mum,’ Tilly whined, crouching down on the mattress. ‘She tried to kill me.’ ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Helena said, looking at the mountain of clothes lumped on the cupboard floor, at Tilly, now crying, her face ugly and slimy. I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought she was special, beautiful. ‘She stole Mango,’ I said. I looked down at my hands and saw the polish on my fingers. I bunched them into fists to hide my nails. ‘I think it’s time for you to leave,’ Helena said. ‘But she has my cat,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t have anything,’ Helena said. ‘You need to go now.’ I took a breath, felt my face start to burn. Of course Tilly didn’t have Mango. I was embarrassed, knew I’d made an idiot of myself. I felt like I was going to spew, could feel vinegar in my throat. I didn’t know why I’d done that. It was like something had snapped in my brain, everything gushing out of me. It didn’t even feel better, though, to have all those rotten feelings out in the world instead of boiling under my skin. I felt worse than I ever had. I walked out of Tilly’s bedroom and into the hallway, didn’t look either of them in the eye. When I got to the kitchen, there was Wally, standing on the other side of the back door. The flyscreen was closed and his outline was fuzzy. Helena pushed past me, flung open the door. ‘What’s going on?’ I heard Tilly say. She’d crept out of her room and stood in the hallway. Her face had puffed up. The scratches on her arm were swollen and white. ‘Mum, make them leave.’ I looked up at Helena. The teeth at the sides of her mouth were yellow and pointy, like fangs, and before I knew what had happened Wally stepped inside and the flyscreen banged shut, trapping us in. He opened his mouth, sucked up all his spit and hawked it. It landed on Helena’s chin, a frothy puddle.

160 Helena paused for just a second, and then raised her arm and slapped Wally hard across the face. ‘Get out,’ Helena said, holding the flyscreen wide. ‘Fucking animals.’ My heart was beating like a rabbit’s. I wanted to get out of there, but Wally didn’t turn towards the door. He ignored Helena and looked in Tilly’s direction, but when he spoke to her his eyes were at her feet and he said it slowly, calmly. ‘When your dad drove into the dam he was trying to kill you. And if we’re rotten then you’re ten times more rotten than us. At least out parents haven’t tried to murder us. At least our mum isn’t a cripple slut.’ Tilly had that dumb look on her face that Wally hated and for a second I thought he was going to go across the room and spit on her as well. ‘And there’s a ghost,’ Wally said, ‘standing right there in the corner, looking at you.’ He pointed to the stove, where the black burn was. ‘It’s going to try and kill you. It’s going to strangle you when you’re sleeping, and then chop your hair off, and boil you up and bury you in the paddock. Just like Les did.’ Wally turned and sprinted out the door. I didn’t wait to see Helena’s reaction, just followed right behind him. I felt my legs buzzing, like I was going to shoot off into the sky. We ran down the stairs and didn’t slow down until we’d reached our yard. We stopped under the clothesline. There were dozens of wooden pegs on the line like little birds. Wally did a handstand in the grass, got back on his feet and crossed the yard. He kept touching his hand to his cheek, checking it was still there. I felt excited, as though we’d just done something brave and grown up. I thought about what Wally had said about Dermott, and remembered what Helena had said about him at dinner all those months ago. I didn’t understand at the time, but I knew that what Wally had said wasn’t a lie. Helena and Tilly weren’t magic; they were just like us. They were rotten, just like us. I felt my body swell. I felt like Wally and I were connected for the first time in a long time, like I had a silver thread going from my fingertips into his. ‘Did you really see a ghost then?’ I said. ‘No,’ Wally said. ‘Why’d you say it?’ Wally shrugged, touched his hand to his face. I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just said it.’ I could see Wally’s eyes start to shine, but when I looked right at him he turned away from me. ‘I just said it to scare her.’

*

161

Alone on my bed, my fizzy mood faded. Helena would come over and then we’d be in big trouble. After dinner I told Cassie what had happened at the yellow house, what Wally had said about Dermott. When I’d got it all out Cassie took a long drag of his cigarette. I thought he’d be mad, but all he did was blow smoke into the air, shrug like he didn’t even care. ‘So it’s true then?’ I said. ‘What Uncle Dermott did?’ ‘Yeah.’ He went to butt out his smoke on the railing but it fell from his fingers and dropped over the side of the verandah. ‘Why would he do that? Why would he do that on purpose?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Cassie said. ‘He went a bit weird after he found out about what Les had done. Was probably a bit weird before that as well. I don’t know. Mum reckons it was an accident. Maybe it was.’ ‘How did Wally know?’ I said. ‘Wally just finds things out,’ Cassie said. ‘He just knows things.’ I leaned over the railing, watched the red tip glow until it snuffed out in the grass.

*

All afternoon I waited for Helena to come and tell on us to Mum and Dad, but she never did; she never even came out of the house, even when the wind blew and sounded like the sea, and a rickety gum fell flat across our yard and made the ground shake for a second as though it was going to crack right open. I’d started to feel a bit bad about what I’d done, what Wally had done, but not bad enough to say sorry, not bad enough to properly care. They deserved it. They’d been swanning around like princesses since they got here, acting like they were special when really they were pretenders. I couldn’t stop watching the house, though, watching to see what they would do. After a while the lights in the windows switched off and the house went invisible in the dark, like there was no house there at all, like it had been sucked into the sky. ‘Where’s little kitty?’ Ian said, later that night on the verandah. I was lying on the floorboards. Cassie had told me to rack off but I didn’t want to move. ‘She’s been eaten by a fox,’ I said. ‘Shit,’ Ian said, laughed.

162 ‘It’s not funny.’ ‘It’s a bit funny.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not.’ Cassie told Ian what had happened, how Mango had gone missing and how I’d scratched up Tilly’s arm, and then what Helena had said to us in the kitchen, about us being animals. He didn’t mention what Wally had said to Tilly about Uncle Dermott. I don’t think Ian knew about that; it was the only thing Cassie was keeping from him. ‘Well, she’s right, isn’t she?’ Ian said. ‘Right about what?’ I said. ‘You’re all a bit mental.’ ‘Are not.’ Ian nodded towards the yellow house. ‘Too bad you’re related,’ he said to Cassie. ‘She’s pretty hot for a cripple.’ ‘Piss off,’ Cassie said. Ian said that I should get revenge, do something to the yellow house that night. ‘Don’t give her ideas,’ said Cassie. ‘Especially not now. Not now that she’s like this.’ ‘What am I like?’ I said. ‘I’m not like anything.’ ‘Don’t be such a pussy,’ Ian said. ‘She needs to stand up for herself.’ ‘Like what?’ I said. ‘What should I do?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Ian said. ‘Chuck shit on the walls. Chuck guts on the walls.’ I didn’t want to chuck anything on the walls, and Cassie said that would make things worse for Wally and me, that he’d try to talk to Helena tomorrow and tell her we were sorry. ‘I’m not sorry,’ I said. ‘At least pretend you’re sorry then,’ Cassie said. ‘But I’m not.’ ‘Just pretend.’

*

‘What are you going to say to her?’ I asked Cassie the next morning. ‘I don’t know,’ Cassie said as he buttoned up his shirt. He’d had a shower and smelled like Lynx. He brushed his teeth, gargled minty Listerine. ‘Make sure she doesn’t tell on us to Mum and Dad,’ I said.

163 ‘I can’t make her do anything,’ Cassie said. ‘I’m just going to tell her you’re a pair of boofheads.’ I stood at the fence as Cassie walked across the yard. He seemed nervous, stumbled over a washing basket under the clothesline. I heard him swear, turn the basket the right way up. He stopped by a mess of scraggly flowers, yanked one from the grass. He went up the steps and stood by the door for a while before knocking. A minute later Helena opened the door. I thought maybe he’d go inside, that Helena would invite him in and he’d be able to explain things properly. But Helena shut the door. Cassie stood there for a second, then turned and thumped down the stairs, stormed across the yard. He kicked the washing basket and it blasted into the sky. When he got to the gate I could see his face was red, sweaty. The flower crumpled like a dirty tissue in his hand. He didn’t even look at me. ‘What happened?’ I said. Cassie muttered something under his breath. ‘What did she say?’ ‘What a fucking slut,’ Cassie said. ‘What a fucking user.’ Cassie walked past me and into the yard. He brushed past a shrubby tree and pulled off a branch, snapped it in two. ‘Tell me what she said.’ I jogged behind him as he strode to his car. ‘Is she going to dob?’ ‘Get lost, Cub,’ he said. I caught onto his shirtsleeve, tried to make him stop and listen to me. He turned around with the stick still in his hand. It struck me hard across my face, nearly got me in the eye. I felt my cheek burn and took a step back from him, my hands shielding my face. He dropped the stick, and for a second I thought he was going to say sorry, but he fumbled into his car and screeched down the driveway, disappeared in a cloud of brown dust. It sucked into my lungs and I could feel dirt clinging to my insides.

*

The next day was the last day of holidays. I headed to the dam with my towel around my neck, thongs slapping the dirt. I was glad summer was over, glad I could finally get away from everyone. We’d have a new teacher this year, so Mrs Raymond wouldn’t be picking on us all the time. Maybe there’d even be a new person starting in our class, someone who knew nothing about me and Wally, nothing about Les. A new friend to take the

164 place of Tilly, to be the person Tilly was supposed to be. I made a list in my head of what I needed for school the next day. I’d have to find my uniform and clean out my bag. I still had some stationery left over from last year, but I would scrounge around the kitchen for anything else. I’d got a new packet of textas for Christmas. I was saving them for school and hadn’t even opened them yet. Last year someone had gone through my tidy tray at lunchtime, taken all the nice colours and left the ugly greens and browns. I was sure it was Brendan, but when I looked through his school bag they weren’t in there, and Mrs Raymond caught me and called me a thief and I had to stand in the corner for the rest of the afternoon. This year I would hide my textas where no one could find them. Closer to the dam I could see something on the path ahead of me, a brownish lump in the grass. The air was glary, and there was a bad smell wafting, like when no one washes out a pan of eggs for a few days and the kitchen stinks right up. I got closer to the lump; the smell got worse, boiled in my mouth. I squinted, but it wasn’t until I was right close to it that I could see what it was, who it was: a paw stretched out like it was waving hello, a floppy sausage of a tail, scabby and raw. The fur socks were round and white, but where Mango’s head should have been, there was nothing. I couldn’t stop staring at the mash of reddish brown slime slicked into the fur around her neck, that blank space. I tasted vomit in my mouth. I crouched down, prodded her with my finger, pulled my finger back. She wasn’t soft, but hard and very still. I took a breath, picked her up by her front paws and held her to my chest. Her fur felt crusty but she was light as a cob of corn, like her organs had been taken out of her and replaced with wool. I held Mango close to me, headed back to the house. Hot tears started leaking from my eyes. I could taste vomit still, but hugged Mango tighter, pressed my nose to her back. I could feel the rotten smell of her seeping into my clothes, into my skin but I didn’t care. She was cold and should have been warm. I took Mango into the lounge room, stood next to the couch until Dad looked up from the screen. He put his beer down but his face went stiff. He didn’t look sad, but there was a strange expression on his face and I didn’t know what it meant. ‘Where was she?’ he said. ‘In the paddock,’ I said. I felt my chin wobble but tried not to cry again. ‘Where in the paddock?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Near the dam.’

165 Dad stood up, took Mango from my arms. ‘Was it a fox?’ I said. Dad didn’t say anything. He took Mango outside and laid her on the top step. I followed him down the stairs and into the shed, where he took a shovel from the wall. ‘Can we have a funeral?’ I said. ‘It’s just an animal, Cub,’ Dad said. ‘Last year for show-and-tell Rachel brought in her pet mice, but the next week she said they died and that she’d had a funeral for them. They buried them in toilet rolls.’ ‘Who’s Rachel?’ Dad asked. ‘Girl from school.’ Dad walked to the edge of the paddock and began to dig. The sound of metal clanging off rocks rang in my ears. I stood back, and when he’d dug a kitten-sized hole he rested the shovel against the fence post, turned and walked back to the verandah. He went inside, came back a minute later with a pillowcase. He crouched on the stairs, picked up Mango and held her towards me. ‘Say your goodbyes now,’ Dad said. I scratched Mango just above her tail. ‘Bye, Mango,’ I said. Dad slipped Mango in the pillowcase, folding the material over like a little parcel. He walked back towards the paddock then paused. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said, his back towards me. ‘You shouldn’t have had to see her like this.’ When he reached the edge of the paddock he placed the parcel in the hole. He used the shovel to fill it in, to smother Mango with dirt, and then he smoothed the dirt over with his shoe so you couldn’t even tell anything was different, couldn’t even tell that right under the dirt was Mango packaged up in a pillowcase. He walked back into the house. He didn’t look at me. I wanted to ask Dad how long it would take for Mango to disappear into bones. Cassie once told me that when people get put in coffins they decompose straight away, turn into dirt. I wondered how long it would take for Mango’s bones to turn into dirt, or whether bones just stay bones forever. We learned about dinosaurs at school and their bones didn’t turn into dirt, which is how we know that dinosaurs were here in the first place—because of the bones. But I didn’t ask, because I didn’t think I could stand it if Dad looked through me like I was a cloud of dust again.

*

166

When we got to school the next morning, none of the other kids said hello to Wally or me. It was like we had a bubble around us making us invisible, as though we didn’t exist. I hadn’t really cared before. Before, I had Wally and Cassie, but now everything was different. I thought about what Cassie had said about Les, about Wally and I getting half of his soul each. At the time I thought it was a good thing, because Cassie had loved Les, but now I knew it was a terrible thing to have someone like that trapped inside you. I saw Brendan by the bubblers. His shorts were low on his hips, and I could see a jellyroll oozing over the elastic. I don’t know why, but I waved at him from across the grass. He tugged up his pants, looked at me, then turned away. We went to the classroom, stood outside the door and waited for the bell while the other kids ran around on the oval, chittered like birds as they put their bags away. After a minute a lady walked towards us from the office. When she got to the door she stopped and smiled at us, told us she was a new teacher. ‘What are your names?’ she asked. When she spoke she sounded kind of fancy, not like how Mum and Mrs Raymond and the tuckshop ladies spoke, and even though her glasses were magnifying her eyes and her skin was a bit spotty, I thought she looked beautiful. I felt shy all of a sudden, couldn’t get my mouth to make words. I tried to smile back but I’m not sure if that’s what it looked like. She smiled again, didn’t make me answer. We followed her into the classroom. There were no nametags on the desk, so I sat in the front row and waited for the bell to ring. I watched the kids as they piled in, but no one was new. Brendan barged into the classroom but I didn’t wave again. Wally went to the other side of the room. He sat on a chair and put his head on his desk while everyone else started peeling off the plastic from the workbooks left on each desk. I thought maybe Wally hadn’t noticed I’d sat down, so I waved and pointed to the desk next to mine. I knew he’d seen me but he didn’t get up. After a while Maddy came and sat at the next desk. It was the only seat left. She didn’t say hello or ask me how my holiday was, what I got for Christmas. She’d been in our class every year since year one and once asked me if I was Wally’s brother, just because I was the only girl in shorts. Wally and I had shared Cassie’s hand-me-downs until Wally nicked me a dress from lost property. I stared at her hand as she wrote her name on the inside of her new books, over and over. I knew that the next day all

167 Maddy’s books would be covered with clear contact, pictures of horses and flowers cut from magazines glued to the cardboard, because that’s what she’d done last year. There was a bite mark on the web between her thumb and finger, like a set of teeth, and when she saw me staring she put her hands under the table. ‘You should write your name on your books and all your stuff,’ Maddy said, without looking at me. ‘Otherwise someone will steal them. That happened to me last year, so now I write my name on everything.’ I stared down at the zip lock bag filled with my stationery. Some of the pens had had plastic tags with other people’s names on them which I’d scratched off with a pair of scissors. I wasn’t going to let Wally nick anything this year. Wasn’t going to let us be rough anymore. When the bell for little lunch rang I took my time putting my books away. I waited until Wally had gone outside and then followed Maddy to the bag rack. ‘Do you want to play handball?’ I asked. Maddy turned around. Her nose wrinkled just a bit. ‘With you?’ she said. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Handball’s for boys,’ she said. ‘I’m playing Chinese whispers with my friends.’ ‘Can I play?’ I said. Maddy reached into her lunchbox, took out a Roll-Up. ‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but just because we have to sit together doesn’t mean we have to be friends.’ ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘I’m not stupid.’ ‘My friends think you’re weird,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t want you coming to play with us without me asking them first.’ ‘Then we can play together,’ I said. ‘Just you and me. I have some lollies we can share.’ Maddy blew on her hair that had whipped in front of her face, and for a second I was sure she was going to say yes. But then she turned and ran towards the oval. When she was far enough away I opened her bag. There was an old bandaid on the ground, and I pinched it between my fingers and put it in her lunchbox, on top of her sandwich, her tropical popper. I thought about stabbing her popper so it sogged up her sandwich but I couldn’t find anything sharp enough.

*

168 At lunchtime I made Wally come to the library. I didn’t want to see Maddy and those girls on the oval. It wasn’t a real library, with cushy armchairs and rows of books stacked high on shelves. It was in a demountable on the oval, with metal cases on wheels parked around the walls, foldout tables and plastic chairs in the middle of the room. It was only Wally and me, and a pair of girls from year five who were playing Connect Four in the corner. They ate their lunch as they played, and then threw their sandwich crusts in the bin even though they were covered with jam. I thought about going to the bin and taking the crusts when they weren’t looking, but I didn’t want them to think I was weird as well. The girls whispered to each other, but not in a mean way, not like they were whispering about us. When I caught one of their eyes they quickly looked away, but sometimes they smiled. I liked them being there, as though they were warm lamps glowing in the corner. Wally and me didn’t play a board game. They all had important pieces missing and I knew Wally would sulk when he lost, or get mad at me for cheating, which I only did sometimes, when I needed a win to make me feel better about things. Wally leafed through the picture books, tracing the drawings he liked onto pieces of paper the library lady gave him from the photocopier. I couldn’t read or draw very well, so I coloured in the half-finished drawings that Wally crumpled into little balls when he made a mistake. All through lunch I could hear screaming from the oval. Sometimes a ball pounded the tin roof, or someone would come past and bang on the window, pull faces and press their noses into snubs against the glass. When the library lady went to the toilet Wally waited a second and then went over to her desk. He opened her bag and found her purse. He took out some silver coins, and then a packet of Lifesavers. Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t let Wally nick things anymore, I ate the lolly anyway. I asked the girls if they wanted one, but they shook their heads, looking scared, as though the door was about to open any second and they’d get in trouble even though they weren’t the ones nicking things. ‘There’s not enough for them, anyway,’ Wally said. I smiled at the girls but they’d already turned back to their game. When the library lady came back the girls didn’t dob on us, and she never asked us about the money, or maybe she was so rich she didn’t notice any was missing.

*

169 When we got home from school Mum and Dad were watching cricket. I sat down on the carpet next to the fan, which did nothing except blow warm air around the room. When the ads came on Dad asked how school was, and I told him that Wally and I played board games in the library at lunchtime with two girls from grade five, and that the library lady gave us all a lolly from her bag, just us. ‘That was good of her,’ Dad said. He reached over and lifted a strand of my hair. ‘Come here,’ he said. I moved forward, and he leaned into my scalp and sniffed. ‘You need to wash your hair, love,’ Dad said. ‘It’s filthy as mud.’ I moved back across the carpet. ‘I just washed it a few days ago,’ I said, even though I couldn’t even remember the last time. I made a note to wash it that night. Only rough people had dirty hair. Dad turned back to the screen. He let out a yelp and stood up, hovered over the couch for a second as something exciting happened in the match. I didn’t know what any of it meant, all those men dressed like polar bears, even though they must be sweating buckets. Mum blew her nose into a few squares of toilet paper. There was a streak of blood in her snot. It made me think of Mango, her crusty, bloody fur. She folded the toilet paper into her sleeve, yelped at the screen as well.

*

Later that afternoon, Helena’s car rumbled down the drive. We were still watching cricket, and Mum lifted her head. Since Christmas, Mum had been visiting the yellow house a few afternoons a week. She’d put on a good shirt and brush her hair, and take some slices of cake wrapped in serviettes. But she was never gone for long. Sometimes I’d watch them from the verandah. Helena never asked Mum inside, and she never came over here, never brought us cake wrapped in serviettes. Mum never said anything about what me and Wally had done at the yellow house. Helena mustn’t have told her how rough we were. Mum got up from the couch and went outside. I followed, and we watched Helena and Tilly go up the stairs and slam the door behind them. ‘What are you looking at?’ I said. Mum took the toilet paper from her sleeve and blew her nose again. ‘Go peel some spuds for dinner,’ she said. She ducked inside, came back a second later with a

170 container of jam drops. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, waving me away with her hand. ‘What are you waiting for?’ She took off her slippers and put on Cassie’s thongs that were by the door, crossed the lawn and went up to the yellow house verandah. I watched her knock on the door and take a step back. We’d seen them go in just a minute ago, but Helena didn’t come to the door, even after Mum knocked again and called out. Mum looked through the window and tapped on the glass, and then tried the door again, rattling its handle. She stood there for ages, knocking and then tapping and then knocking again. Finally, she gave up, turned and walked across the verandah, down the stairs. She tripped on the bottom step and lost a thong in the grass. She didn’t even bother putting it on again, even though it wasn’t her thong to lose. When she got close to our verandah I scrammed into the kitchen and took a bag of spuds out of the cupboard, dumping them in the sink. I started peeling one, but it was knobbly as an elbow, and hard to get the knife around the lumpy edges. Mum came into the kitchen. She slammed the jam drops down on the table, took one of Cassie’s beers out of the fridge. I heard her sucking on the bottle, and I tried to be small and still and concentrated hard on the spud skins. ‘Why don’t you and Wally play with Tilly anymore?’ Mum asked. She stood next to me, looked at me properly, like she was suspicious of me, like she was trying to see if she could read a secret on my face. I shrugged, looked down at her feet. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I don’t understand why you couldn’t have tried to get along with her,’ Mum said. ‘I did try.’ ‘I bet Wally was a right pain to her.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘He was nice.’ ‘Well, what then?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think we had a fight.’ ‘About what?’ I was starting to get nervous; maybe she did know something and was trying to worm it out of me. ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘And whose fault was it?’ Mum said. ‘Wally’s, I bet.’ ‘No, not Wally’s,’ I said. ‘It was Tilly’s fault. She’s just not very nice.’ ‘Well, sometimes we have to put up with people who aren’t nice,’ Mum said. ‘That’s just life.’ I kept peeling the spuds, hoping the conversation was over. I hated when Mum was like this: picking at me, trying to get me to admit to something, so she could have

171 someone to blame for whatever was wrong with her. I heard her put the beer down, and a second later she was right next to me. She grabbed the knife and spud off me, held them both to my face. ‘Bloody useless, you are,’ she said. She told me to look, but the spud was too close to my face, a brown blur. ‘Covered with eyes,’ she said. ‘You see that?’ She shouldered me away, so that she was in front of the sink. She turned on the tap and started peeling the spud as though she was skinning an animal.

*

The next Monday, when I was doing my homework on the verandah, a car I didn’t recognise turned off the highway. Miss Williams didn’t give us much homework, but I wanted mine to be perfect so that she thought I was one of the smart kids. I put down my pencil and watched the car roll into the driveway of the yellow house and slow to a stop. I stood up and leaned over the railing so that I could get a better look. One of the backs door opened. Tilly scrambled out, and a second later the front passenger door opened as well. A strange girl got out too. She was wearing the same uniform as Tilly, hat on her head. Tilly opened the boot, swung her bag onto her shoulders, and then slammed it shut. They stood by the boot for a second. They looked like two little dolls from so far away, in their stupid little hats. The girl must have said something funny, because Tilly laughed and the strange girl laughed along with her. As the car pulled away Tilly stood on the grass and waved her hand over her head. It beeped its horn as it went through the gate, and Tilly kept waving, even when it had disappeared towards the highway. I went and found Wally, told him what I’d seen, but he didn’t seem to care. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to know who she is?’ I asked. ‘Nope.’ ‘They’re probably in the same class.’ Wally didn’t say anything. I kicked him on the leg but he didn’t kick back. I grabbed the remote and changed the channel, and then ran out of the room, hiding the remote in the bathroom. I didn’t understand how Tilly had made a friend when Wally and me had been at the same school for years and years and no one had ever offered to drop us home before. There was nothing special about Tilly. She had a loony granddad

172 as well, a dad who was almost as bad. It didn’t make any sense. It was like none of that stuff stuck to her, not like it seemed to stick to us. I went outside and started ripping out the weeds nestled in the ground near the fence, creeping around the wood. They scratched my hands, made them itch like poison. A cockatoo landed on the clothesline and let out a squawk. It gave me a fright, like I’d been caught snooping, and I stood and threw the weeds over the fence. A second later another bird landed on the wire. They started squawking together, or maybe at each other, and another three or four swooped down from the sky and the trees and joined the other birds. It was loud as screams, shooting up and bouncing off the trees, their sharp beaks opening up to the sky.

*

I came out of my room when Cassie got home from work. Everyone else was asleep. He took some leftover casserole out of the fridge, scraped it onto a plate and heated it in the microwave. ‘Are you going out tonight?’ I said. ‘Nup,’ Cassie replied. ‘What’s Ian doing?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘Is he coming over?’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘Is Ian your best friend?’ I asked. The microwave beeped. Cassie took out a fork from the drawer. ‘What’s with all the questions?’ he said. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They’re just questions.’ ‘Well, who’s your best friend?’ ‘I don’t know. Wally, I s’pose.’ I asked him if he’d had any more bad dreams and he looked at me like I was an idiot, like he had never even told me about the girl and the mice in the first place. I thought he’d been telling me something special and important, but maybe he’d already forgotten about it. It probably wasn’t important at all. Cassie took his dinner and went into his room. After a minute I knocked on the door, but he didn’t answer. I tried turning the knob but the door was locked.

173

*

When I got home from school the next day, Mum was on the verandah. She had a cup of tea in one hand and a smoke in the other. I’d never seen her smoke before. I thought about the blood in her snot the other day. I knew blood was a bad sign. ‘Are you smoking?’ I asked. Mum blew out her breath. ‘What does it look like?’ There was something mean in her voice that gave me a little prick. ‘Smoking gives you cancer,’ I said. ‘At school they showed us a picture of a person’s liver that was sliced open and filled with tar.’ Cassie smoked too, but with Mum it was different. It was like the smoke could poison her with just one puff. She looked worse already. ‘Lots of things give you cancer.’ ‘Tongue cancer as well,’ I said. ‘They’ll chop your tongue off. Imagine not having a tongue. You wouldn’t be able to talk.’ I was trying to be funny to lift her mood but Mum didn’t laugh. She tapped her cigarette into a can of beer. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ she said. ‘I can do whatever I like in my own house without a bloody interrogation.’ I thought about telling her it could also make your fingers turn black and fall off, but decided not to. I leaned against the railing. There was a mole on the side of her face that looked bumpier and browner than it had been before. It looked like a tiny planet. ‘Just leave us alone, would you?’ Mum said. I didn’t understand why she was like this. Cassie was home. Everything was fine. Why couldn’t she just snap out of it and stop being in awful moods for no reason? Her hand went to her face and picked at the planet. I could feel the smoke in my lungs, could feel my liver turning black.

174 14.

The next few weeks of term flew by. Every afternoon when I got home from school I spent ages on my homework, made sure my handwriting was perfect. I decided I was going to be the best in the class, so I could go to a school far away where no one knew me, where no one thought I was strange or that my blood was rotten, where I didn’t have Wally acting like I was a fungus when, really, he was the fungus. I borrowed books from the library at lunchtime, and every night after dinner I sat on my bed and tried to learn properly instead of watching TV, which Miss Williams said rotted your brain. The strange girl dropped Tilly home a few more times. They even had a sleepover one weekend, but I didn’t care. Wally had started sleeping on the couch because he said he couldn’t stand to share a room with me anymore, but I didn’t care about that either. Cassie said he’d help me with my reading on Thursday afternoon. I’d been begging him all week, and finally he said he’d do it if I stopped being a pain. After school I got my books and pencils ready and waited at the kitchen table. But he didn’t come home, not for dinner and not for ages after that. I did my reading myself, and then lay in bed, waiting for the sound of Cassie’s boots to creak up the back steps. I wasn’t going to get up and say hello to him. I wasn’t going to talk to him for all of Friday even if he said sorry. But when the headlights finally lit up the outside, Cassie didn’t come up the stairs. Instead the paddock gate groaned open and, a minute later, the car engine spluttered and then growled. I got out of bed, tiptoed to the verandah. Cassie had turned the headlights off, but I could see his car creeping through the open gate and into the paddock like a monster. It bumped over the uneven ground until I couldn’t see it anymore, and the sound of the engine faded into the night sky sounds and everything was quiet again. I’d thought Cassie was done with doing weird stuff. That he and Ian went a bit stupid again over the holidays, but that they’d got sick of acting like puzzles. I waited on the verandah for him to come back from whatever dumb thing he was doing out there, and eventually his car appeared from deep in the grass. He hadn’t been gone long, and he drove through the gate, parked next to the clothesline and turned off the engine. My eyes had got used to the dark, and I saw him get out of the car, look into the back seat, cupping his hands around his eyes like binoculars. He went to the boot and opened it. He didn’t take anything out or put anything in, just held it open for a second before

175 clunking it shut. When he came up the stairs I didn’t think he could see me. I was crouched in a dark corner where the roof made a nothing space. But when he got to the door he whipped around even though I’d been quiet as dust. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ he said. ‘What were you doing out there?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just go inside.’ ‘You forgot about me.’ He pressed his palm into his eye. He looked annoyed even though I was the one who should be annoyed. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Great,’ I said, standing up. ‘You even forgot that you forgot about me.’ He looked at me for a second and then opened the door, left me out there by myself. The light from the bathroom leaked on to the verandah. The tap turned on and I could see his shadow behind the window. When I went inside a floorboard creaked under my foot and Cassie opened the bathroom door. He’d taken all his clothes off but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem embarrassed. I felt my face go red and I hoped he couldn’t see it in the dark. ‘Go to bed, Cub,’ he said. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I could see past him into the bathroom. His shoe was resting on the side of the bath and he had a wet washer in his hand. There was a weird smell coming from the bathroom, like the smell of the school toilets early in the morning before lessons have started. I peered around him. ‘What are you doing in there?’ I said. Cassie took a step forward and grabbed my arm. ‘Go to bed,’ he said again. His fingers dug into my skin, and he pulled me to my bedroom. When I tried to worm out of his grip he grabbed hold of the back of my hair and held it tightly. He shoved me into my room and closed the door. I climbed into bed. My scalp stung. I looked up, at the glow-in-the-dark stickers scattered on the ceiling. I remembered when I’d taken them from Cassie’s walls. Wally let me climb onto his shoulders to peel them off, and climb on again when I’d glued them to our ceiling because they’d lost their sticky. They weren’t glowing now, though.

*

176 At school the next day I couldn’t stop thinking about Cassie, about the paddock. He’d probably gone to the knackery again. At lunchtime, when we were in the library, I told Wally I was going to the toilet, but instead I unchained my bike from the racks next to the shelter shed. I’d never skipped school before, but by the time I realised what I was doing I was already out the gates. When I got home I dumped my bike at the edge of the paddock and climbed over the gate before I could chicken out. The sky was stinging blue, the grass yellow. The dirt was churned up from Cassie’s tyres the night before, and I followed the track along the path. After a while I came to a part in the grass where the stalks had been bent and snapped over, making a new, smaller trail. The grass came up to my shoulders, and I stood on my tippy-toes. There was something in there, a few metres back from the path, something shiny, black. I peeled the grass apart, crouched into the dirt. It was a bag, wedged in the grass— a garbage bag tied into a knot at the top. I picked up a stick and prodded the bag’s middle. It felt soft, like it was full of stuffing. I crouched down, started picking at the tie with my fingernails; if it were Wally he would have ripped it right open but I made sure I was careful. When the knot came loose I saw it was full of clothes, a school uniform. There was a hat made of straw with a ribbon tied around the base, and a starchy shirt with a badge pinned to the collar. A skirt. There was something heavy at the bottom of bag. I put the hat and the shirt on my knees and reached in. It was a shoe—a black school shoe—small, the same size as mine. I could hear the drone of horseflies, feel the sun like an iron on my head. I stuffed the clothes back into the bag and stood up, took a step back. I whipped out of the grass, didn’t care that it scratched my face and my arms. I followed the track back home, running until I reached the gate. I got on my bike without looking back to the paddock, and rode down the highway with my fists clenched hard around the handles the whole time. The bones in my fingers were stiff as pliers when I finally let go. I chained up my bike and went to the bubbler, pressed my lips right up to the tap even though Wally had told me not to because at after-school care the feral kids pissed all over it. I splashed water on my ears to make them feel less hot, and then went to the classroom. I tried to slip in without anyone noticing, but as soon as I appeared at the door, Miss Williams’s head snapped towards me and she stopped in the middle of her sentence. ‘And where have you been, Coralie?’ she asked. Everyone turned around to stare

177 at me. ‘I felt sick,’ I said. ‘What kind of sick?’ ‘Vomit sick.’ ‘Do you need to go to sick bay?’ She raised her eyebrows behind her glasses. ‘Your mum will have to come pick you up.’ ‘I feel better now,’ I said. ‘You don’t look very well.’ ‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I just feel a bit hot.’ ‘Go have a drink.’ ‘I already did.’ Miss Williams gave me a funny look. I knew I looked scruffy and she was real smart and could probably tell I was lying. I sat down at my desk and turned to look at Wally. He was staring at me strangely. I turned back around and stared at the front of the room for the rest of the afternoon. When the bell rang I headed to the port racks but Miss Williams called me back in. ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘Wally’s waiting for me.’ ‘I’m sure he can wait a minute,’ she said. I didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to talk to anyone. ‘He’ll leave without me.’ ‘I’m sure he’ll wait.’ She stared at me. Her glasses made her look like a bug. I scratched the back of my leg with my foot. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she said. I nodded. ‘I felt a bit sick but I’m fine now.’ ‘And how are things at home?’ she said. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What did Wally say?’ ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘You just seem a bit upset. I’m wondering if something’s troubling you.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing’s troubling me.’ She smiled. ‘If you say so.’ I stared at her, didn’t know what to say. For a moment I was worried she could see into my mind, could see what I’d seen in the paddock. ‘You can talk to me, if you’d like to,’ she said. ‘Or to Wally. It’s very special to be a twin.’ ‘No, it’s not,’ I said.

178 ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘It’s just not that special. Everyone thinks it is, but it’s not. Cassie said that we only have one soul because Granddad’s split in half. That’s the only special thing about it.’ She smiled again. ‘Don’t you get along?’ ‘Not anymore,’ I said. Miss Williams laughed a little bit, which I didn’t understand because I wasn’t telling a joke and it didn’t seem like a funny thing to say. ‘He doesn’t like me,’ I said. ‘Why do you think that?’ ‘He just doesn’t.’ ‘I’m sure he likes you very much,’ she said. ‘But maybe this will give you a chance to make some new friends.’ I shrugged. She seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. ‘Do you smoke?’ I said. ‘No, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Did you know if you smoke your fingers turn black and fall off?’ ‘I did know that,’ she said. ‘Smoking’s very bad for you.’ I wasn’t sure why she was being so nice to me. She didn’t know anything about Les, I could tell. But she’d find out soon enough and, when she did, she’d treat us how we deserved to be treated. But for now, I hoped I’d distracted her enough to forget about how upset she thought I looked. I glanced over my shoulder to the door. Miss Williams sighed, so quietly I almost didn’t notice it, and I don’t think I was supposed to notice it, because then she opened the lolly jar and held it out to me. It was full of sugary jubes, the kind that sting your lips. She said I could take one for Wally as well. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she said, and gave me a wink. Wally was waiting by the port rack. I felt bad for what I’d said about him to Miss Williams, but not bad enough to give him his lolly. ‘Where’d you go?’ he said. ‘I was right in there,’ I said. ‘You just saw me come out.’ ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘At lunchtime.’ ‘Nowhere,’ I said, stuffing my things into my bag. The zipper was stuck so I tugged until it fixed itself.

179 ‘You’ll break it if you do that,’ Wally said. ‘It’s already broken,’ I said. Wally pulled at the bag straps over his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere.’ ‘I was in the toilets,’ I said. ‘No, you weren’t. I looked in there.’ ‘You looked in the girls’ toilet?’ ‘So what?’ he said. ‘It was empty. And your bike was gone.’ I shrugged, headed to the bike rack. Wally followed me and we walked for a while. I kicked at a rock, and then Wally kicked it back. We went back and forth for a while, before it bounced on another rock and skittered into the gutter. ‘You were gone for ages,’ he said. ‘I had the vomits,’ I said. ‘I already told you.’ ‘Well, you better not be contagious,’ he said. Wally wanted lollies so we went to Main Street. I didn’t want to go home, and rode slowly so that Wally had to keep stopping to let me catch up. ‘Hurry up, you slow-poke,’ he said. ‘There’s something wrong with my bike,’ I lied. ‘It’s not going any faster.’ When we got to the corner shop, the owner came downstairs when the buzzer rang. He watched the small TV set up next to the register while we picked out our lollies. ‘Is that all you’re getting?’ Wally said, when I put a single Ghost Drop on the counter. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You better not ask for any of mine later,’ Wally said. ‘I’m not sharing with you.’ ‘I don’t want any of your stupid lollies.’ ‘Well, you’re not getting any.’ ‘I said I don’t want any.’ I gave the man five cents for my Ghost Drop and sucked it on the ride home. Along the highway I skidded on a rock and came off my bike, grazing my knee. When I fell the lolly slipped down my throat, sunk like a stone to the pit of my belly.

*

I didn’t talk to Cassie all afternoon. I wanted to wait, to think things through first. I

180 couldn’t think of any good reason for Cassie to have that uniform. All I knew was that he dumped the uniform in the paddock, that it was a uniform from the private school. A girl’s uniform. And I just knew that Ian had something to do with it. I was doing homework in the kitchen after dinner when Ian came over. He usually honked the horn or waited in the yard with his headlights blinding us all, until Dad yelled something rude out the window and Cassie went outside. But I heard his car come up the driveway, and a minute later there was a soft knock at the back door. No one seemed to have heard it. I went into the hallway and opened the door. Ian was standing there in the dark. I switched on the verandah light and he startled, then squinted as he got used to the light. One of his eyes was crusty pink. There was a scratch along his cheek. ‘Hi, Cub,’ he said. He wiped his nose on his wrist and looked past me into the hallway. ‘How’re you going?’ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Good day at school?’ ‘Alright.’ ‘Go get Cassie, would you?’ he said. I turned and looked down the hall. ‘I don’t think he’s here.’ ‘Course he’s here. His car’s here. Now go get him.’ ‘I think he went out.’ ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ Ian said. ‘Either you go get him or I’ll come in and get him myself. Alright?’ ‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think he’s here.’ ‘Just do what you’re told.’ Ian turned and looked into the paddock. He picked at the rubbery pimples on the back of his neck and then sniffed in long and hard. When he looked back at me he seemed surprised that I was still there. He nodded down at my hand. ‘What are you doing with that pencil?’ he said. I looked at my hand. My fist was curled tight around the pencil, its grey tip sharp as a fang. I tried to open my hand but couldn’t, as though my fingers had snapped shut around it. After a second they unclenched. The pencil clattered to the floor, rolled along the floorboards. ‘I was just doing my homework.’ I picked up the pencil, closed the flyscreen and hurried down the hallway. I knocked on Cassie’s door. When I looked back Ian was in

181 the doorway, face pressed up against the flyscreen.

*

I tried to finish my homework but still couldn’t concentrate. I needed Ian to leave. I felt my guts squeezing together and the more I thought about the uniform the tighter they felt. I went to the back door. The verandah light was off, but I could see the two of them out there by Ian’s car. I opened the flyscreen and headed down the verandah steps before I knew what I was doing, my legs controlling my brain. Ian and Cassie must have spotted my shadow or heard me crossing the grass, because when I got to the clothesline they shut up. I paused, like I was playing musical statues. I tried to come up with a reason to tell Cassie to come inside but I couldn’t think that quickly. I looked up. The sky was steel grey and I felt unsteady on my feet. The earth was turning very fast. They both looked up to see what I was looking at, and as they did I scurried into the laundry. I could smell wet cement and my feet were cold from the water that had seeped in during the rain and chilled the concrete. I searched around for something to take out with me, so it looked as though I’d gone in there for a reason. I didn’t want them to be suspicious of me, for them to know I saw what I saw. There was nothing but junk and crates of Dad’s empty homebrew bottles, thin green ropes strung from the rafters to hang the washing from when it rained. I opened the lid of the washing machine and there was a damp wad of clothes in the bottom. They smelled dank. I peeled through them and went back outside, school dress bunched in my fists. Ian and Cassie waited until I was on the verandah before they started talking again. I went inside and stood behind the flyscreen. Cassie took a few steps towards the paddock. He rested his hands, his head on the fence. Ian stared at Cassie’s back and then got into his car.

*

An hour later Helena came over. I hadn’t seen Tilly all afternoon, and when Helena banged on the door, rattling the flyscreen, my stomach turned into a pond. I felt like I had water in my ears, an entire tub full. And then, suddenly, it was gone. ‘Is Tilly here?’ I heard Helena say from the verandah. There was something strange about her voice, like her throat had been scraped clean.

182 ‘No,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Shit,’ Helena said. I went to the door, stood behind Mum. ‘Have you seen her?’ Helena said, noticing me. ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Come in for a cuppa,’ said Mum, opening the door wider. ‘I’ve just boiled up.’ Helena ignored her. ‘Little shit,’ she said under her breath. ‘Did you have a blue or something?’ Mum asked. ‘She said she was staying at a school friend’s last night, but then she didn’t turn up at school today.’ Helena took a step back, looked over to the yellow house. ‘Come in for some tea,’ Mum said. ‘Calm your nerves.’ ‘I’m going to go look for her,’ Helena said. ‘Colin can help,’ Mum said. ‘Or Cassie.’ ‘She’s probably just at a different mate’s place,’ she said. ‘Forgot to tell me. She’s made all these new friends this year. It’s hard to keep up.’ She smiled. Her lips disappeared. ‘Well, let us know when you find her,’ Mum said. I watched Helena walk down the steps, melt into the dark. I felt my guts lapping around my stomach. I stood on the other side of Cassie’s door, pressed my ear to the wood. There was no sound, just quiet.

*

The next morning I woke at sunrise. My jaw ached and there was a throbbing at the back of my head, like someone was hammering a nail there. I looked over at Wally and he was still asleep. A corner of the sheet was dried to a point from where he’d sucked it during the night. He looked peaceful, like a little lamb. I went into the kitchen. Mum was at the table. ‘Is Tilly back?’ I asked. ‘No,’ Mum said. ‘Helena was out all night looking for her. Silly girl.’ ‘Where do you think she is?’ Mum leaned over the sink, scooped tea-leaves from the drain. ‘Well, if she’s anything like her mother . . .’ I went onto the verandah and put on my boots. I didn’t want anyone to see me leave, so I ran to the gate and clambered over, didn’t bother opening it in case anyone heard the creak. I followed the track up the paddock. It rained during the night, so the

183 tyre marks were gone and the ground squelched. I told myself I would just go and have a look, and either way I’d come home and not have to think about it again. Tilly would turn up and I wouldn’t say anything to Cassie. I would just worm it out of my brain so that everything could go back to how it was. I followed the track for as long as I remembered walking yesterday, and then started looking for a part in the grass. Even though I knew no one was out here, I tried to be quiet just in case, not wanting to disturb the ground, not wanting to leave any trace of me having been there. I kept my eyes down and searched for the dent in the stalks. I slowed down and started to look more closely, but I knew I’d already walked much further than I had the day before. There was nothing but grass and dirt, more grass and dirt; nothing there that shouldn’t have been. I pulled off the ends of some of the stalks that had turned to seed. I blew on them and the seeds sailed into the air even though I couldn’t feel a breeze.

*

Dad was in the yard when I got back to the house. The gum tree that had fallen a few weeks back still lay across the yard. Dad looked up, saw me climb over the gate and head towards the verandah. I pretended I hadn’t seen him but he called out from across the yard. ‘What were you doing out there?’ He was on the other side of the tree. Branches poked out from the trunk and it was like we were speaking from opposite ends of a forest. ‘I just went for a walk,’ I said. I felt like I was telling a lie even though that really was what I’d been doing. ‘Righto,’ Dad said. He kneeled down and pulled out a handful of mulch from the bag at his feet. I stood on my tiptoes and peered over the truck. There were some baby trees, thin as whippets, planted in a row along the paddock fence. Dad worked the mulch around the base of the tree. ‘What are they for?’ I said. ‘Zigzag wattle,’ Dad said. ‘The council were giving them away for free.’ I kicked the gum’s grey trunk. ‘How tall will they grow?’ ‘They most likely won’t,’ he said. ‘Earth here’s no good.’ ‘Why are you bothering then?’

184 ‘You’ve got to bother.’ I climbed over the gum’s trunk. ‘What are you going to do with this tree?’ I said. ‘What tree?’ he said. ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘This tree.’ I kicked it and a scroll of bark scuffed off. ‘That tree?’ Dad said. He stood up again and looked at the tree and then gave me a wink. The thick gardening gloves he wore were brown and furry and made it look as though he had giant bear paws. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said, like he’d never even thought about it. He didn’t seem worried about Tilly being missing, which made me feel better. But maybe he just didn’t care.

*

Wally and Cassie were watching TV inside. Wally was still in his pyjamas; his silky boxers were too big, and flapped around his scrawny thighs like parachutes. Cassie was in his work uniform, but had a big jumper over the top as though he was huddling into a blanket. They looked cosy together. ‘What are you watching?’ I said. ‘TV,’ Wally said. ‘Well, obviously.’ I sat on the carpet and picked at the wormy threads, plaiting some of them together. I heard Dad come inside. He went into the kitchen, rummaged through the fridge. When the ads came on Wally flicked through the channels for something else to watch. I turned to face Cassie. ‘I just went for a walk,’ I said. ‘Yeah?’ Cassie said. ‘Out in the paddock.’ Cassie didn’t say anything. I turned around to face him. ‘I got pretty far.’ Cassie looked over at the clock above the fridge. ‘Gotta go to work soon,’ he said. ‘Quiet,’ said Wally, reaching over and hitting Cassie on the leg. ‘It’s on.’ Cassie stood up, went into the kitchen. He grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter and disappeared outside. After a minute I went to the window. Cassie was sitting in his car with his jumper hood up, head tilted back on the headrest, eyes open or maybe

185 closed.

*

Dad was back in the yard later that afternoon. I didn’t want to be by myself, so I went and stood next to him on the grass. ‘Do you need any help?’ I asked. Dad stood up straight and put his hands on his hips, surveying what was in front of him. He was hacking off the branches of the fallen tree with a saw. The grass beneath the leaves was slick and dark. I bet there were all sorts of awful creatures lurking under there. ‘Righto then,’ he said. ‘You can pick up those branches. Pile ’em right up.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Anywhere you like.’ I picked up a branch and started a pile near the edge of the paddock. ‘Why do these keep falling down?’ I said. ‘Because they’re old. Because of the weather.’ ‘What if one fell on the house?’ ‘Then we’d all be dead, I suppose.’ I pulled off a leaf, rubbed it between my hands. ‘Hey, Dad?’ ‘Yep?’ ‘Am I your favourite?’ ‘Favourite what?’ he said. ‘Favourite kid.’ ‘Dads aren’t allowed to have favourites.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But if you had to pick. Say if someone said they would shoot you in the head if you didn’t. Then who would you choose?’ Dad looked up as though he was thinking deeply about it, but he was probably just having a rest from the sawing because his arm hurt. ‘When you’re both carrying on like pains in the arse, neither of you are my favourite.’ I thought that was a stupid answer. Everybody had favourites. ‘What about Mum?’ I said, looking down and moving a branch with my foot. ‘She has a favourite.’ ‘She does not.’ ‘Yeah, she does,’ I said. ‘It’s obvious. She loves Cassie best.’ ‘She doesn’t, Cub.’ He said it sternly and I knew not to say anything more about

186 it. He never let us complain about Mum, not even when he had the shits with her as well. ‘Now pass me that over there.’ Dad pointed across the grass and waggled his finger. ‘That thingamajig.’ There was a chainsaw lying in the grass. I picked it up and it felt heavy as an anchor. The blade was coppery brown, and the sharp grooves around the edge of it made me think of a cactus. I wanted to change the subject so Dad didn’t stay cranky with me, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I didn’t want to go back inside and it felt good to concentrate on talking, to concentrate on thinking about something that didn’t make me feel sick. ‘Are there any other twins in our family?’ I asked, handing him the chainsaw. ‘Not that I know of,’ Dad said. ‘What about ages and ages ago? Like, in convict times? Our teacher said that being a twin is genetic. There must be others.’ ‘There might be,’ Dad said. ‘But none I’ve ever heard of. Maybe on your mother’s side.’ ‘Maybe we’re mutants,’ I said. ‘It would explain a lot about Wally.’ I hoped he would laugh, but he didn’t reply, and I could tell by the way he turned away and inspected the chainsaw that he was getting annoyed with me bugging him and asking questions. He liked to do these kinds of things quietly, alone. Just like Cassie. He revved the saw and it roared. I stood back and watched him hack down into the tree that was smoothed of its branches. The cuts were so clean it was as though he was slicing something as soft as cheese. After a while Dad turned the saw off and wiped his face with his hat. His cheeks and nose and ears were bright red. He put his hat back on again and started chucking the hunks of tree he’d cut over to where I’d started the pile. They looked heavy but he gritted his teeth together and they landed in thuds across the grass. I wanted to go help him but I didn’t want to go near the chainsaw. I had a strange feeling that it had a mind of its own and might turn on and come for me, cut through me as easy as Dad cut through the tree. ‘You right over there?’ said Dad. ‘You look a bit crook.’ ‘I’m alright,’ I said. ‘You don’t look alright.’ ‘Do you think Tilly’s okay?’ I asked.

187 Dad rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, pulled on his nose. ‘Go inside,’ he said. ‘Go have a rest.’ ‘I don’t need a rest.’ ‘Go on,’ Dad said, waving his hand towards the house. ‘I want to stay out here.’ ‘It wasn’t a suggestion,’ Dad said. ‘Go on. Get.’ I threw the branch I was holding onto the pile. Dad turned the chainsaw on again and I felt like I’d gone deaf, my bones vibrating. I stood there and watched for a minute longer. I looked over to the yellow house. It was too bright, like it was trying to show off, trying to draw attention to itself. What a stupid colour to paint a house.

*

When Cassie came home from work he sat on the couch beside me. He smelled like sweat and sour breath and I could tell he hadn’t brushed his teeth that morning. I licked my teeth with my tongue and realised my teeth were furry as well. Cassie looked over my shoulder. ‘Long division,’ he said. ‘Yep.’ ‘I hated long division. Could never do it.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s pretty hard.’ ‘I was useless at it,’ he said. ‘That old hag Mrs Raymond was a shitty teacher, though. It was probably her fault for not teaching it properly.’ Cassie leaned back on the couch. ‘Maybe I’m really good at long division and I just don’t know it.’ ‘Maybe,’ I said. Cassie stuck his legs out and cracked the bones in his ankles. I made a scribble on the page, my full name in running writing. My real name. ‘What are you watching?’ Cassie said. ‘Just a cartoon.’ ‘Is it any good?’ ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen it before.’ Even though I wasn’t focusing on my work, I put my pencil in my mouth and chewed the end as though I was thinking about it real hard. I didn’t know how to talk to him, didn’t know how to ask him about the uniform, but I didn’t have to, because he brought it up first.

188 ‘Hey, Cub?’ Cassie said. ‘What?’ ‘Do you know how you saw me coming out of the paddock the other night?’ ‘When?’ ‘The other night,’ he said. ‘When I drove into the paddock.’ I didn’t look up from my page. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell Ian you saw me, alright?’ ‘Why would I tell him that?’ ‘I don’t know. I mean, you wouldn’t. But if he asks, or anything like that.’ ‘Why would he ask?’ ‘He won’t,’ Cassie said. ‘But if he does, just pretend you never saw anything.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘In fact, just try and forget you saw anything at all. Can you do that?’ ‘Okay,’ I said. I knew this was my chance to ask him what he’d been doing out there, to ask him about the uniform and where it had gone, where Tilly had gone. I also knew that if I asked he’d lie to me and I couldn’t stand being lied to again. ‘I’ll forget.’ ‘Good,’ Cassie said. ‘Good.’ He rubbed his hands on his knees. ‘I’ve been thinking about Ian, and maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a very good friend after all.’ I couldn’t hold it in anymore. ‘I saw it, you know,’ I said. ‘What?’ ‘What you put out there.’ Cassie didn’t say anything. The show came on again. I put my pencil down and tried to watch properly. Cassie watched for a while too, but he didn’t laugh in any of the funny parts, and he got up before the show was even finished. I hadn’t laughed at the funny parts either and I wondered if he noticed, but later on, when I went to change into my pyjamas, there was a Freddo frog tucked under my pillow.

*

We were all in front of the TV when the cops came round. The sunset was lolly pink above the paddock and shone through the curtains, making hazy gold patterns on the kitchen walls. Mum and Dad were on the couch with a bowl of peanuts, Wally and me on the carpet drinking cordials. Wally had his clay out and was making a giraffe in

189 between sips. Everything was fine. Everything was calm. They sat with Mum and Dad at the kitchen table. Dad told Wally and me to stay in our room, so I stood against the door and tried to listen. Wally lay on his bed, closed his eyes. ‘Do you think she’s run away?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I bet she has. What a dummy. I hope she’s gone for good.’ After a while Dad opened our door, told us to come into the kitchen. There were two cops sitting at the table— a man and a lady—cups of tea in front of them. The lady had fuzzy cheeks, and her hair was slicked back in a shiny bun that looked like a doughnut. She smiled at me when I came in, and then asked us all sorts of questions, about when we last saw Tilly and if we knew any of her friends. She asked us if we got along, whether she and Cassie got along. There was a pause, and one of the cops asked Dad if Cassie was home. Dad stood up and told them it was Ian they should be talking to. He told them all about Ian, about what happened with the girl in the toilets, like he’d forgotten Wally and me were sitting there, forgotten it was another one of their big secrets. ‘Butchered our cat,’ Dad said. ‘Ripped it to pieces like the little head case he is.’ I felt like I’d been poked in the chest very hard and my head started to spin with ugly images. I thought of Mango’s little body in the pillowcase all the way in the ground. I imagined her skeleton body, imagined her little head, wherever it was, as a hunk of bone as well. My mouth tasted like sick. It wasn’t a fox. It was Ian. ‘And did you report this?’ the man cop said, writing something in his notebook. Dad rubbed his nose. ‘Well, no,’ he said, looking at Mum. ‘Didn’t want to disturb the peace. Cassie’d only just moved back home and everyone was still getting settled.’ ‘And why did he move out?’ Dad glanced at Mum. ‘He wanted his independence. Thought he’d go it alone for a while. Normal for a teenager, isn’t it?’ The cop wrote something else in his notebook, and then said they’d still like to speak to Cassie, just so they could clear a few things up. ‘Clear what things up?’ Dad asked. Dad went and got Cassie and then sent us to our rooms again. When the cops were gone I went into the kitchen. They’d left without drinking their teas, the bags mushrooming on the surface, the tea dark as cola.

190 *

I felt as though this was what I’d been waiting for. That pinprick in my stomach had been wearing away, and the hole was now wide open. Ian had killed Mango. He’d done awful stuff to her, left her out there in the grass to rot, and now he’d dragged Cassie into something much worse. He called after dinner that night. I can’t remember him ever phoning the house, but I knew it was Ian right away because Cassie bolted towards the kitchen on the first ring, even though he never answered the phone. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said, jumping off the couch as well. I wanted to get there first and pretend it was the wrong number so I could hang up on him. ‘Get,’ Cassie said, elbowing me in the head as I tried to duck past him. When he answered the phone he gave me a look telling me to get lost. I didn’t move, and he picked up a newspaper from the table and threw it at me. It got me on the neck and fluttered to the ground. I went back to the couch, waited a few minutes and then went back into the kitchen. I pretended to be hungry and opened the fridge, hoping he’d forgotten that I’d been trying to listen in. He was leaning with his head against the wall, talking quietly into the receiver. I closed the fridge door softly and went over to the sink so I could get closer. ‘Hold on a sec,’ Cassie said. He picked up the phone from the table, dangled the receiver over his shoulder and went into the bathroom. The uncurled phone cord strained from under the door and into the power point in the kitchen. I thought about cutting the cord but I couldn’t find any scissors. I stepped on it for a while instead but nothing happened.

*

On Monday morning Cassie made us breakfast. He scrambled eggs in the microwave, pale as clouds. ‘Why are you making us breakfast?’ Wally asked. ‘Just thought I’d do something nice,’ Cassie said. ‘You’ve never make us breakfast before.’ Cassie put some eggs and toast and a cup of tea onto a tray and took it to Mum in bed. He called out for her softly and tapped on the door with the side of the tray, and then pushed it open with his bum. After breakfast Wally put on his uniform and sat on the couch. He turned the TV

191 to a breakfast news show but Cassie called over from the sink for him to change the channel. ‘You’re not even watching it,’ Wally said. ‘You’re not even in the room.’ ‘Put on a cartoon or something,’ said Cassie. ‘No way,’ Wally said, even though that’s exactly what Wally would have done if Cassie hadn’t told him to do it first. ‘I don’t want to listen to this shit,’ Cassie said. ‘So don’t listen, you moron.’ ‘Watch your mouth.’ Cassie walked over to Wally, prised the remote from his hands and turned the TV off. He held the remote over his head so Wally couldn’t reach it. Wally bounded off the couch, grabbing at Cassie’s arms until Cassie stuck the remote down his pants. Wally reached for the waistband of Cassie’s boxers and tried to pull it out, but then Cassie called Wally a perve and pinned him down on the couch, jabbing him around the ribs so that Wally started gasping and giggling like a maniac. ‘Stop!’ Wally screeched. ‘I’m going to pee. I’m going to pee all over you.’ It worked. Wally forgot all about watching the news, but Cassie went back to the sink with the remote down his pants anyway.

*

We had dinner early, right when we got home from school. Dad pulled out frozen fish fingers from the packet and put them under the grill. He stabbed crosses into the spuds and put them in the microwave. ‘Why isn’t Mum making our dinner?’ Wally asked. ‘She’s crook,’ Dad said. ‘Is she having a cry?’ ‘No,’ Dad said. ‘She’s crook.’ Dad pinched the fish fingers from under the grill and divided them among our plates. ‘I hate fish fingers,’ said Wally. ‘Well, so do I,’ Dad said, sitting down, ‘but that’s what we’re having.’ I squirted tomato sauce onto my plate. The undersides of the fish fingers were soggy and felt like mush in my mouth. Wally picked up a fish finger and poked it in my face. ‘Don’t,’ I said, batting his

192 hand away from me. ‘Stop squabbling,’ Dad said, turning up the TV volume with the remote. ‘He’s poking his fish finger at me.’ ‘Eat your food,’ Dad said. He reached over and grabbed the fish finger Wally was holding and put it back on his plate so that it was touching the potato he’d mashed up with his fork. ‘This isn’t a bloody zoo.’ Wally let out a moan. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘You made them touch. They’re infected now.’ ‘Just eat it,’ Dad said, ‘or I’ll make you eat it.’ Wally mumbled something under his breath, started brushing invisible blobs of potato off his fish finger. ‘There’s nothing there, you idiot,’ I said. Cassie came home from work halfway through dinner. Instead of coming to say hello he went into the shower and stayed there for a long time. We were still at the table when he came into the kitchen, poured a glass of water. ‘Is Mum in bed?’ he asked. Dad gave a short nod. ‘There any dinner left?’ ‘Fish fingers in the freezer,’ Dad said. He was talking as though Cassie were a stranger, someone he didn’t know how to act around. Cassie opened the freezer, stared into it. The packet was right in front of him, but he didn’t seem to see it. I could feel the cold air on my cheeks all the way at the table. I wanted to climb into the freezer and curl up among the frozen peas, the frost stuck to the wall like soft snow. I’d always liked sticking my head right into the freezer, the feeling of breathing in ice and the way it cleaned out your throat and lungs. I wanted to disappear into the freezer forever, forget about everything, forget about Tilly. Maybe that’s what Cassie wanted as well.

*

That night I was woken by the sound of the toilet flushing. My mouth was dirt-dry, so I padded into the kitchen for a cup of water. The lights were off and Cassie was standing next to the sink. I switched the light on; the fluorescents zapped before coming on properly.

193 ‘Cassie,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’ He turned around. It took me a few seconds to get used to the light, and when I did I could see he was crying, the quiet kind of crying where you make no sound but your face twists up like a tree root, as though it hurts to breathe and that’s what you’re crying about. I’d never seen him cry before, not properly. I felt embarrassed, for him but also for me. The lights turned him yellow. His t-shirt was off; I could see his guts moving underneath his stomach, as though his belly was full of worms trying to wriggle out through his bellybutton. He lifted his shoulder, turned his head and wiped his nose. ‘Can I have a hug?’ he said, taking a step towards me. I suddenly went from feeling embarrassed for him to afraid of him, which I’d never felt before, even when he’d grabbed my wrist so hard it had left dents in the skin, nail-shaped bruises like cattle brandings. I wanted someone else to wake up. I wanted someone else to have followed Cassie’s tyre marks into the paddock and opened the plastic bag. I hated him. Hated him for messing things up again. For being so weak. I switched off the light, turned around to go back to bed. When I got to the hallway I heard Cassie retch, the sound of spew glugging like sour milk into the sink.

194 15.

They found Tilly on a creek bank two days later—six days after she went missing—at the bottom of a property further south. Her hair chopped off, no clothes on. They said at first they couldn’t tell if it was her or not, couldn’t even tell if it was a boy or a girl. On the news, they showed her school picture, her long hair in braids, freckles orange as pollen. Cassie watched the screen from the kitchen, held on to his beer with both hands. Mum made a noise in her throat and Dad grabbed her hand hard, like he was trying to squeeze poison from her fingertips. The cops had already been over, though, that afternoon, so it wasn’t a surprise. They told Mum the farmer had been spraying thistles at the bottom of his property, that they were still looking for her uniform, her bag and hat and shoes. I’d been listening from the hallway even though Dad had told us to scram, and I could picture it in my head clear as anything. Could picture them pulling her from the river as if she’d been born right there among the silt and the tangles of branches with nothing but her skin on. It wasn’t until the very end that the newsreader talked about Les. Even though I felt hot all over, I also felt a zing of glee that I knew I should feel bad about. Now everyone would know that Les was Tilly’s granddad. Now everyone would know Tilly was just like us. Though I knew it was wrong, I kept having thoughts like that, feelings where I still wanted Tilly to suffer. I dug my nails into my wrist as a punishment and focused on the screen. They showed the girls in a row, like they were pictures on the back of a deck of playing cards. A few were in black-and-white, grainy like newspaper pictures. The girls looked different to each other, but also kind of samey in a way I couldn’t pick. Maybe it was because the photos were old, like how the voices in old movies all sound the same. I’d never seen pictures of any of them before. I’d never thought about their faces before. ‘Is that them?’ Wally asked, leaning towards the screen on his hand and knees. ‘Shut up, Wally,’ I said. Dad picked up the remote, switched off the TV. The screen prickled with static, grey-green as the picture faded away. I bet if I pressed my hand to the glass my skin would zap, ache with electricity. I turned around, caught Cassie’s eye. He looked through me like I was invisible, like I was the one who’d been in the river and now I was floating around like a ghost he couldn’t see. After a minute Dad switched the TV back on, flicked over to a game show. I watched Mum pick

195 at a button on a cushion beside her. When it came loose she looked at the button like she didn’t know where it had come from, like it had sprouted from her palm.

*

After they found Tilly, I didn’t want to be anywhere near Cassie. I felt like my brain had shattered, was trying to piece itself together in the wrong places. Nothing made sense. I imagined my head was a box with lots of drawers, tried to put the uniform and the paddock and the knackery into one of the drawers and lock it with a tiny key. That’s what Miss Williams said to do when we had stressful things going on at home that we couldn’t stop thinking about. She said to put those things in a box in our brains so that our minds became clear and peaceful. When everyone had gone to bed I started my homework at the table. After a while Dad came out of his room, poured a glass of the port he saved for special occasions. ‘You don’t have to go to school tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you don’t want to.’ I couldn’t think of anything worse than staying home. Being near Cassie, knowing what he’d been part of. Feeling the stench of the knackery waft towards me. ‘We’re making pancakes for little lunch,’ I said. ‘Wally won’t want to miss out.’ I didn’t even have to lie. ‘Well then,’ Dad said. He stood behind me, leaned over my shoulder. ‘I can write a note for that, love,’ he said, smudging his finger to the page. ‘Shouldn’t be worrying about homework after all that’s happened.’ His breath was syrupy. ‘I want to do it,’ I said. Dad stood up straight, rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘This is a terrible thing.’ ‘What is?’ I said. Dad paused. His voice went quieter. ‘You know what.’ I shrugged, rubbed out my last answer. ‘It’s not like we’re friends or anything. It’s not like she’s my sister.’ ‘She’s your cousin, Cub,’ Dad said. ‘She’s annoying,’ I said. ‘She thinks she’s really cool but she’s not.’ ‘You’re in a bit of shock, I think.’ ‘I’m not in shock. I know what happened. She’s dead. Someone killed her.’ Dad nodded slowly. ‘It’s normal to be a bit confused.’

196 ‘I’m not confused,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t even like me. She only likes Cassie. She loves Cassie. And Ian.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ I shrugged. ‘My mind is clear and peaceful,’ I said. Even though Miss Williams said it was something to think quietly to ourselves, it felt good to say it out loud; a chant to soothe my brain. ‘Tell me what you meant by that,’ Dad said. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’ Dad turned away. ‘I’ve only ever tried to do the best for you lot,’ he said. ‘Even Cassie. Even if it didn’t always seem that way.’ He went to the bench and poured another glass of port. Took the glass and the bottle to the verandah.

*

In the morning Wally and I wheeled our bikes out from under the house. Dad had written me a note to give to Miss Williams. I ripped it up without reading it, emptied the shreds into my backpack to hide the evidence. I didn’t want her knowing anything. Halfway across the yard I stopped. I looked over to the yellow house. I wondered what Helena was doing in there. I couldn’t see any sign of her. Her car was there but the curtains were drawn. I wondered what she was going to do with all of Tilly’s stuff, all her nice things. For a second I thought maybe she would give it all to me, the smelly pens and the sticky lip glosses. She’d probably just throw it out otherwise, or leave it in her room untouched, thinking that Tilly would come back for it. I looked out into the paddock and felt a wave washing over my guts that came out of nowhere. I could feel the drawers in my brain bursting open, like they were made of cardboard, soggy, the goo in my mind leaking through. I leaned over in the grass, opened my mouth. Thin, wheaty spew slimed up my throat, dribbled from my lips. My bike fell to the ground, the handle grazing my leg. I crouched in the dirt, rocks and twig knobs burred into my palms. I could feel tears prickle in my eyes, hot and blobby. They dropped down into the dirt, scorched my knees. I wanted to tell Helena about Ian. About Christmas night in the paddock, and how Ian and Cassie had Tilly’s uniform, and now Tilly was gone and I didn’t know what to do about any of it. But I could never do that to Cassie, no matter how much I hated him.

197 ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Wally said. I looked up. Wally had stopped on the grass, half off his bike. His eyes were big as coins, like he was scared of me. He didn’t even wait for me to answer. Didn’t wait to see if I was okay. He flung his leg over his bike, pedalled down the driveway. Left me there alone in the dirt, sick on my chin.

*

When we got home from school Mum was in front of the TV, snuggled in a blanket. Dad’s truck was gone, but his ladder was leaning against the house so I knew he wasn’t at work. Cassie’s car was in the yard. I checked the calendar. He always wrote his shifts on the calendar next to the fridge and the square for that day was blank. ‘Where’s Cassie?’ I said to Mum. ‘Where’s Dad?’ Mum wriggled under her blanket. ‘Just be quiet for one bloody minute,’ she said. I walked outside to the front gate, stood on the road. A few birds were burrowed in the scrub, pecking their hooked beaks in the dirt. They all had green feathers on their crests, bright like gemstones. They scattered as I walked towards them, before settling back down where they thought I couldn’t hurt them. I threw a rock at them, just to prove I could. I climbed up on a fence post and watched the highway for a while, waiting for Dad’s truck to turn into the street. The road was like a liquorice strap, splitting the scrub and the hills in two. On the other side, plum trees sprung from the pale green mounds. Sometimes, in fire season, the mountains were hazy, the smoke from the grass fires curling into the sky in plumes, as if from little campsites on the hills. The sunset sparkled and everything was orange, everything was magic. But not that day. The sky was blue but dull, clouds a colourless blur. Nothing sparkled through the leaves. Nothing was orange. When dinnertime came around, Mum hadn’t moved and Dad and Cassie still weren’t home. ‘Mum?’ I said, poking her on the shoulder, knobbly with bone. She didn’t answer so I shook her shoulder hard. ‘What are you doing?’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘For God’s sake.’ ‘Where’s Dad? And Cassie?’ Mum looked over at me and her eyes were watery with sleep. She looked confused, like she’d woken up somewhere different from where she’d fallen asleep. ‘Mum,’ I said again.

198 ‘Are they back?’ asked Mum. ‘Back from where?’ She looked around the lounge room, dazed. ‘That stupid girl,’ Mum said. ‘That stupid, stupid girl.’ My hand fell from Mum’s shoulder. There was no talking to her when she was like this. I wondered if she was still asleep, tried to see if her eyes were foggy with dreams. But then she heaved herself off the couch, put on her slippers. ‘Better get the tea on,’ she said. When she got to the kitchen she stopped in front of the sink, like she’d forgotten what she was doing. She shuffled into the hallway. I heard the door of her bedroom click open. When I walked past her room she was sitting on the edge of her bed, one slipper on, one slipper off. Her shadow stretched up the wall.

*

Cassie and Dad arrived home an hour later. When I heard the car come up the driveway I went to the kitchen window and watched it shudder to a stop on the grass. The sun had gone but it wasn’t dark yet, and the edge of the sky was a creamy blue that darkened to navy, splashed with stars. They got out of the car and walked up to the house. Cassie slipped into his room without a word and Dad came into the kitchen. He washed his hands in the sink, rubbed his wet hands on his neck. ‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Dad said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. ‘In bed.’ Dad headed into the hallway. I followed him but he closed the door on me. I tried to listen through the crack but their voices were muffled After a while Dad came out and knocked straight past me into the kitchen. I looked into the room and Mum was still sitting on the bed. There was a wad of bloodied toilet paper on the bed beside her. Her head was tilted back, and another wad of toilet paper was pressed to her nose. I closed the door and went into the kitchen. Dad poured a glass of wine from the cask in the fridge and sat at the table. ‘Is Cassie alright?’ I said. ‘Where’ve you been?’ Dad took a big gulp of his wine. When he didn’t answer I said, ‘I’ll ask Cassie then, if everyone’s just going to ignore me.’

199 Dad stood up, strode towards me and grabbed me by the wrist. ‘Just bloody leave it, would you? Do you always have to stick your nose into other people’s business?’ He lifted his arm and slapped the back of his hand hard against my cheek. I started to cry before I could stop myself. Dad had never hit me before, not since I was little and would get smacks on the bum. He went and sat back down, breathing deeply through his nose. He took another sip of wine and sunk back into his chair, as though yelling like that had sucked all the air from him and he couldn’t even sit up straight. I crossed the kitchen and sat next to Wally on the couch, pushed my knuckles into my eyes until they started to hurt. I waited until Dad had finished his wine, which didn’t take long, and when he was in the bath I knocked on Cassie’s door. He didn’t answer, so I pushed it open. He was lying on his mattress, staring at the ceiling with his headphones on. I waited for him to notice me but he didn’t. He’d kicked off his shoes and I could see his toes flexing beneath his white socks. I walked over to him and then poked his arm with my toe. He took the headphones off and sat up in bed. ‘Dad said to leave you alone,’ I said. ‘He said I’m nosy. That was him yelling before.’ I felt like a giant, peering over him. I could see the top of his head; his part was sunburned to a strip of pink beneath his sandy hair. There was a mole there, skin- coloured and rising out of his scalp like a tiny mountain. ‘What are you looking at?’ Cassie said. ‘Do I have nits or something?’ ‘You have a mole,’ I said. ‘Where?’ ‘Right there.’ I pointed. Cassie reached up and fingered the top of his head. When he found the mole he rubbed at the spot. ‘What does it look like?’ he asked. ‘Just how a mole looks.’ Cassie scraped his hair behind his ears. ‘You’re a good sister, Cub,’ he said. ‘I know,’ I said. He didn’t tell me to go away so I sat on the carpet, hugged my knees to my chest. There was a hole in the mattress and I stuck my finger in the stuffing. Cassie’s eyes were dry-looking, the rims red as scratches. There weren’t any scratches on his face, though, not like Ian had. I knew I had to ask him. ‘Cassie?’ I said. ‘Yeah?’

200 ‘What’ve you done?’ Cassie stopped smiling. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said. ‘Don’t lie,’ I said. ‘Where’ve you been? You and Dad were gone for ages.’ ‘S’nothing to do with you.’ ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Dad’s right, you know. You need to keep out of other people’s business.’ ‘You have to tell me.’ I tried to make my face look sad, but the skin of my cheeks felt tight and I couldn’t tell what expression I was making, if I was making any at all. I let my face go normal. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You just have to tell me.’ ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cassie said. ‘You didn’t see anything, remember?’ ‘But I did though,’ I said. ‘No, you didn’t.’ ‘Just tell me.’ ‘Just leave me alone, would you?’ Cassie said. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll tell Dad what I saw in the paddock. I’ll tell him about Tilly’s uniform. I know it was hers. I’ll tell the cops. I swear I will.’ Cassie looked like I’d tried to stick my fingers in his mouth and rip out his teeth. I knew I’d crossed him, just by saying out loud what I hoped wasn’t true. I pulled a piece of foam out of the mattress. It had crumpety holes in it that made me feel sick. But Cassie didn’t get mad at me, not then anyway. ‘I had to go to the cop shop, alright?’ ‘Because of Tilly?’ ‘Because of whatever you think you saw.’ ‘What did they ask you?’ Cassie didn’t say anything. ‘What’ve you done?’ I asked again. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do anything.’ ‘Why are you always lying?’ I said, standing up. ‘I’m not lying,’ he said. ‘And keep your voice down.’ But he was lying. He always was. ‘I hope you go to prison and rot,’ I said. ‘I hope someone stabs you in there.’ I was so angry I could’ve stabbed him myself. I went to leave the room but Cassie grabbed my arm and yanked me towards him. ‘You need to keep your lips zipped,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Let go of me.’

201 ‘I’m serious, Cub. You need to keep your fucking mouth shut.’ ‘You’re hurting me,’ I said. I looked down at my wrist, and my skin between Cassie’s fingers was white dough. I tried not to cry but it felt worse than a Chinese burn. I thought my wrist was going to snap. But then Cassie let go, clenched and then unclenched his fist. I moved out of his reach before he could grab me again. ‘What’d you do that for?’ I said, rubbing my arm, eyes down so he couldn’t see them. ‘Just don’t say anything, alright? It’s real important you don’t say anything.’ ‘This is all his fault, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Whose?’ ‘Ian’s.’ ‘Just leave it.’ ‘I’ll tell the cops it was Ian then,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll tell them I saw him put Tilly’s stuff in the paddock. I’ll tell them whatever you want me to.’ ‘You don’t get it, Cub.’ He looked small on the mattress. Small enough for me to kick him and for him to really feel it. I probably could have stepped on his throat and crushed it, if I wanted to. ‘He’s my friend,’ Cassie said. He leaned back on his pillow and snapped the rubber band around his wrist. It left a red mark on his skin. ‘What was Dad like, Cub?’ he asked. ‘Did he say anything to you? Is he mad at me?’ ‘Coralie,’ I said. ‘What?’ ‘My name’s not Cub. It’s Coralie. I don’t know why everyone calls me that stupid name.’ I’d given Cassie a chance to tell me the truth and he hadn’t taken it. After all this time, he was still on Ian’s side, was only looking out for Ian. I went back into the kitchen. Dad was still at the table. He’d taken the cask out of the fridge and it was sitting beside him like a friend. He poured a glass right up to the top. The cask was nearly empty, though, and the wine trickled from the nozzle like weak piss. ‘Guess what?’ Wally said, his eyes going wide. ‘Dad told me where Cassie was. He was in prison.’ ‘He wasn’t in prison,’ Dad said.

202 ‘But you just said he was with the coppers.’ ‘Not the same thing, idiot,’ I said. ‘How would you even know?’ said Wally. ‘You’ve never been.’ ‘Shut your traps,’ Dad said. ‘The both of you.’ ‘She started it,’ whined Wally. ‘Just get to bed, would you,’ Dad said. He wasn’t yelling yet, but I could feel it coming. I moved towards the hallway to get out of his way, didn’t want to get slapped again. ‘But it’s early,’ Wally said. ‘I’m hungry. Mum didn’t make us any dinner.’ I looked at Dad, expected him to get cross. But he didn’t. He went to the fridge and got half a loaf of bread from the freezer. The loaf was rock hard, and he banged it on the side of the table to break off enough slices and then put them in the microwave. He made us cheese sandwiches, and one for himself. The bread was soggy and had that fishy freezer taste to it, the margarine cold and in hard blobs on the inside of the bread. We ate the sandwiches in silence. Everyone’s chews were loud and wet. Wally nibbled around his crusts and left them on his plate. Wally and me went to our room without brushing our teeth or having a bath, still in our uniforms. It wasn’t even seven yet, and I lay on my bed on top of the sheet. The house was quiet with everyone in bed so early, so quiet I thought I could hear cars on the highway, like wasps. I tried to go to sleep but wasn’t tired. My brain was pulsing. I turned over to talk to Wally, but he was fast asleep already, his collar popped, protecting his neck from something.

*

We went to school the next day, same as normal. I didn’t say goodbye to Cassie. His door was shut when we left, and all day I replayed our conversation from last night in my head. So much had happened so quickly, like a video tape on fast forward. I wanted to rewind it in my brain, slow it down and sift through the details so I didn’t miss anything important. Only Mum was home when we got back from school. I thought Cassie was with Dad, seeing the cops again or maybe just out together, doing something normal. We watched TV, and at dinnertime Dad came home alone.

203 ‘Where’s your brother?’ Dad asked as he peeled out of his boots. ‘His car’s gone.’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Have you seen him? Did you see him leave?’ I could hear panic spiking at the back of his throat. I felt my own throat close up. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You should’ve been watching him.’ Dad moved down the hallway to Cassie’s door, wrenched it open. He paused for a second, and then called out to Mum, stormed into their bedroom and slammed the door shut. I heard shouting but I couldn’t understand what Dad was saying. I couldn’t tell who he was angry with: Cassie or Mum, or himself or me. When he came out from their room he took a beer from the fridge, stood in Cassie’s doorway, as though he were blocking things from going in, blocking things from coming out. Something prickled in the air. I didn’t know what was going on. I wanted to ask Dad where Cassie was but I couldn’t open my mouth, couldn’t speak. I was supposed to be watching him, only no one had told me that. No one had told me it was my job to look after him, and now Cassie was gone because I hadn’t done my job properly. Dad made dinner. He put sausages in the frypan, and I watched them snap and sizzle in their own fat. Flecks of oil jumped from the pan and nipped at my arms. The meat oozed from the casings in bulbs, as though the sausages were growing tumours. Mum came out of her room, made a plate for Cassie and left it in his spot at the table. We ate in silence. We watched TV. ‘What’s that?’ Dad said, pointing to my wrist. I hadn’t even realised that Cassie had left a bruise from when he’d grabbed me yesterday. The bruises were like fingerprints. I poked one and felt a little ache. ‘Wally did it,’ I said, covering the marks. ‘It was an accident. We were wrestling.’ I didn’t look at Wally; he didn’t say anything, didn’t tell Dad I was lying. I didn’t even bother sending a brain message. I knew they were useless. Cassie still wasn’t home when we went to bed. I heard Dad turn off the TV, get out of bed and go into the kitchen. The air outside was fiery, and the smell had seeped into the house. I could see a glow on the grass, a shadow stretching its neck across the lawn. The yellow house was all lit up. Every light left on. I took Cassie’s plate of food from the fridge, peeled back the plastic that had gone sweaty on the inside. I bit off the end of the sausage. It was grainy on my tongue. I wrapped it in a paper towel and put it in my pocket, went to Cassie’s room. His bed was

204 made and the room was neat. Nothing looked different. Nothing looked as though it was missing. I opened his cupboard and took out his tin of marbles, dug my hands in. The knuckles weren’t there. His most special thing was gone. Floorboards creaked, and a second later Dad appeared at the door. He put his hand on top of my head, steered me out of the room and closed the door. When I looked down I saw there was a hole in his sock. His big toe was poking through, as though it were trying to say hello.

*

I went over to the yellow house the next day. I didn’t want to go inside; I just wanted to look around a bit, have a peek through Tilly’s window. I wondered if her bed was made, whether she’d left her toys on the pillow, her play clothes strewn on the floor. When I got to the verandah there was something quiet about the place, something too still. ‘Helena’s gone,’ Dad said, when I got back home. ‘Gave me the key this morning.’ ‘Where’d she go?’ ‘Staying in a hotel in the city, closer to the police, closer to her family.’ ‘What family?’ I said. ‘Her parents,’ Dad said. ‘Her sisters. Tilly’s grandparents, Tilly’s aunts.’ Again, Tilly’s secret before-life was bubbling up. ‘Is she coming back?’ I asked. ‘Don’t think so, mate.’ ‘What about Tilly’s stuff?’ Dad pressed his hands to his face, like his head was hurting. Like I was the one hurting it. ‘I don’t know.’ I wanted to ask him about Cassie as well, where he’d gone and when he was coming back. But I didn’t want an answer. I knew he wasn’t just hanging out in the knackery, wasn’t just down the road. I didn’t know where he was, didn’t really want to know where either, because I knew for sure it was nowhere good.

*

The cops kept coming. Every time the car pulled up I felt a pit opening in my stomach. They were looking for Cassie, kept coming by to see if he’d called or contacted us, to see

205 if we’d remembered anything. When they asked me questions I pretended to be stupid. I didn’t tell them what happened at Christmas, didn’t tell them what I’d heard Ian and Cassie saying in the knackery, what I’d seen in the plastic bag in the paddock. I knew anything I said about Ian would be a bad thing about Cassie as well. Even now, Ian was still in control of everything. I imagined my tongue was carved from wood and only simple words and thoughts could escape, that everything else would be blocked by that lumbering thing that sat behind my teeth like a terrible ache. Wally and I developed a routine; each night we ate at the table properly, just the two of us. We didn’t see much of Mum, and when Dad got home from work he went straight to the fridge for a beer and sat in front of the TV all night. Wally set out placemats and forks and spoons, and poured us a cup of water each. Wally had started wearing one of Cassie’s jumpers, so stretched it seemed to swallow him right up. It made him look like a stranger. On Friday I sat opposite Wally at the table. He had his clay in front of him, was rolling a ball of purple between his hands. I stared at him until he looked up at me. He didn’t tell me to stop. I needed something to happen. I needed to know I wasn’t all alone. ‘Guess what I’m thinking,’ I said. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Guess what I’m thinking.’ His hands went still. I focused all my concentration, powered my brain message into the universe. I saw it beaming out of my eyes and sinking into Wally’s mind through his skull. I could feel it working, could feel our brains connecting in the way they were supposed to. His eye twitched and I knew it was a sign. He blinked three times quickly and I knew it was a sign. But then Wally picked up a stick of green clay and looked down at his hands.

206 16.

When they found Cassie’s car at Rustvale everything went black, but when the colour came back I was relieved. They didn’t tell us much; that his car was at the side road at the edge of the national park where the walking trails start. His wallet was in the shrubs a few yards from the car, which he’d left unlocked. They said his car was clean, empty, except for his shoes, which were crammed under the seat, but that we wouldn’t be allowed to have them back. I knew what they thought Rustvale meant, remembered Dad telling us what people did there, why people went there. Mum let out a wail that came from deep in her insides, and Dad’s fist clenched, pushed against his mouth that was opened wide. He didn’t make a sound. I went to school and did my work, came home and did my homework, and sometimes I went for swims with Wally and sometimes we watched TV. I searched Cassie’s room for his knuckles. It was important that I found them, and I looked in all his secret places. I didn’t even want them for myself; I just wanted to make sure Ian didn’t have them, that he couldn’t get to them. That he couldn’t take away another thing. For weeks Dad sat on the verandah every afternoon with a cask of wine as the sun set quick and early, while Mum stayed in her room, only leaving it to use the loo. After a while the cops stopped coming by, stopped calling. Dad said they’d stopped looking for Cassie; that he was out there somewhere, but if they hadn’t found him by now they probably never would.

*

Winter came around quickly, and also slowly, and I didn’t understand how time could be two speeds at once. Dad dropped me into town every Saturday. I had a doctor’s appointment in the city, and afterwards Dad would take me to Main Street so I could buy lollies. I didn’t eat them, though; I kept them in my special box and it was so full that soon I’d have to find somewhere else to keep them. Not even Wally knew what I was hiding. I was going to give them to Cassie when he came home, a welcome back present. I was standing by the containers one Saturday, making calculations in my mind, when I saw a figure stop outside the window. I looked up. It was Ian, in his work gear: polo shirt, and the glint of his dinky name badge. His hair was longer, slicked back.

207 That same feeling washed over me, the exact same feeling I got every time I saw him head towards the knackery with Cassie trailing behind, every time I saw him on the verandah, his rattish face, packet of chips fused to his hand. It was chemical, like there was something fizzing in my body at the sight of him. I turned away, but a second later he was standing right beside me. ‘Thought it was you,’ he said. I took a step back without realising, could feel my fists curl into stones. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I won’t bite.’ He smiled, and the smile was warm, like the way you’d smile at a baby or a puppy. Someone you thought was harmless. He said he’d just finished work, that he’d seen me from the window and that he wanted to say hello. ‘How was the funeral?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t a funeral,’ I said. I could hardly remember it. It was just us really: me, Mum and Dad, and Wally. A few of Dad’s cousins from the city. None of Cassie’s old teachers, no one he worked with at the Connolly. There was no body, no casket. It wasn’t even in a church. When we left the hall Dad’s windshield was smeared red with the guts of something feral. ‘Sorry I didn’t make it,’ Ian said. ‘You weren’t invited,’ I told him. Ian smirked. ‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘Well, who came then?’ ‘Why would anyone come?’ I said. Ian shrugged. ‘Say goodbye.’ ‘Why would anyone come after what he did?’ Ian didn’t answer. He didn’t know I knew and I wanted to keep it that way, keep the secret inside me forever so that Ian would have no reason to want to hurt me. Ian was free and Cassie was gone, but I wanted Ian to be gone from my brain too. ‘I read about what happened,’ Ian said. ‘In the paper. I had no idea. I figured he’d been depressed but I didn’t know that’s what it was about. The cops asked me a few questions as well, but I couldn’t help them.’ I wanted it to stop. I felt my hands begin to ache, spreading down my bones. ‘Do you still see them?’ Ian asked. ‘The cops, I mean. Are they still looking for more information?’ ‘Information about what?’ ‘About what he did to Tilly.’

208 I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. ‘So it’s pretty much case closed then.’ He whipped his head around to look out the window. He’d got what he came in for. He knew he was safe, that he’d got away with it, got away with everything. He reached up to scratch his nose, and my eyes narrowed in on what was dangling from his wrist. ‘What’s that?’ I said, and he yanked his hand down, wrapped his other hand around his wrist, but I’d already got a good look. He was wearing a bracelet of green and black wooden beads. Something snapped in my brain. My stomach filled with poison. ‘That’s Cassie’s,’ I said. ‘What are you doing with Cassie’s bracelet?’ ‘It’s not Cassie’s,’ he said. ‘Yeah, it is.’ ‘It probably just looks the same.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Tilly gave it to him for Christmas. That exact one. I remember.’ He stared at me for a second too long. ‘She gave me one as well,’ he said. ‘Went and bought another one from the shops after I told her I liked it.’ He blinked slowly. Something shifted in his face, like he was scrubbing all the expression away until his face was just a mask, covering something else. But she made the bracelet herself, I wanted to say. I wanted to scream. ‘Did you kill Mango?’ I said instead. I was nearly as tall as him now, and stared at him hard, the same way he always stared at me. He smiled, pulled his sunglasses down from his head and over his eyes. I could see the faded scar on his cheek where the scratch had been. He lifted his hand when he saw my eyes looking, trailed his finger along the dent. I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I have to go,’ I said. I could feel something rising inside me, and I knew if I stayed any longer I might kill him. I knew I might rip his head right off, done to him what he did to Mango. I knew Cassie wasn’t coming back. Ian had made sure of that. He was gone and Ian was free. He’d swept into our lives and ruined everything, wrecked every moving thing he touched, and if I stayed a minute longer I knew I would make him pay for all of it. I went outside without choosing my lollies, could feel Ian watching me as I crossed the street to where Dad was waiting for me in the pub car park. I was hot all over from my brain being throttled. Clear and peaceful, that was all that mattered. I took a deep breath, and got to work erasing the rubbish from my mind until everything was clean and normal, for a while at least.

209

*

The sports carnival was coming up, and the next weekend I took Cassie’s joggers from his cupboard to see if they fit me. I’d outgrown my own, hadn’t worn them since the cross-country the year before, when Wally came last and I came second-last because we walked almost the whole thing when Wally started wheezing a few hundred metres in. I’d run in the boys’ race and no one had even noticed. They’d notice now, though. Mum hadn’t tried to cut our hair for months. I could pull my hair into a ponytail, and it was beautiful; the best thing I’d ever owned. I untied the laces, sat on the end of Cassie’s bed and slipped my foot into the right shoe. But my foot didn’t go all the way; there was something hard in the toe end. I stuck my hand in and felt something mouse-soft, pulled it out. It was the green pouch. I felt the knuckles through the velveteen, the hard, familiar knobs. I unpicked the gold cord and turned the pouch upside down, let the knuckles fall into my palm. They were cold as cement, and I touched each one with the pad of my thumb. It was like they were glowing, the most special thing, and even though Cassie had hidden them, it was as if they were hidden just for me, a present. I cupped my hands and rattled them around like a castanet, held my hands to my ear. I picked out the smallest knuckle and clicked it against my teeth.

210 Introduction

The first narrative that sparked my interest in subversive serial killer fictionalisations was the 2013 film Snowtown, a reimagining of the ‘bodies in the barrels’ murders that took place in the northern suburbs of Adelaide between 1995 and 1999 (Kaila 2011). Justin Kurzel’s directorial debut fictionalises the circumstances that lead to Australia’s most prolific serial killer John Bunting and accomplices Robert Wagner and James Vlassakis murdering twelve people over a four-year period (ibid.). The three perpetrators were apprehended when eight dismembered bodies were found submerged in drums of hydrochloric acid in a disused bank vault in Snowtown, a small town 145 kilometres north of Adelaide (Anderson 2014). Upon its release, Snowtown received significant critical acclaim in the form of a Special Mention at the Cannes film festival (SBS, 2014 par.3) and a number of AACTA awards, including Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Direction (ABC 2012, par.2). It was also praised by journalist Jim Schembri as one of the most unnerving serial killer films ever made and one of the best Australian films of all time (2011). Though I was never compelled to write about serial homicide in my fiction prior to commencing this thesis, I have long been fascinated with narratives of serial crime, from films such as The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Se7en (1995), and Zodiac (2007), to television franchises Law and Order and C.S.I, which frequently feature serial killer plot lines. Early on, however, my interest did not extend beyond enjoying the genre as a form of entertainment, and nor did I question the sensationalism and salaciousness of how most of these narratives represent serial homicide. In consuming the genre, I was fascinated by the power dynamic at play between detective and killer, disturbed by the macabre and inventive methods of torture, and terrified by the construction of the serial killer as a horror villain. It was not until viewing Snowtown for the first time that I was compelled to question the dominant, often reductive narrative of serial homicide that is consistently depicted in popular media, and began to consider exploring the subject matter in my own creative practice. As a writer, I was particularly interested in Snowtown for two reasons. First, the Australian setting, which I had not often encountered in serial killer narratives, and second, the way the portrayal of serial murder in Snowtown distinguishes itself from the mechanical iterations of the genre in several substantial ways. Unlike the traditional serial killer narrative, where the focus is primarily on the crime and the criminal, Snowtown’s

211 scope narrows on the desolate circumstances operating in the community where the crimes took place. The sporadic scenes of explicit torture and violence at the hands of the killers are imbued with the banality and dysfunction of outer suburban, poverty- stricken Australia, where drug abuse, paedophilia, and addiction is rife. Rather than depict the killers’ crimes as acts of evil that took place in a vacuum, the film suggests it was the cultural disintegration operating in the disenfranchised environment which allowed for Bunting to gain the trust of the community and for the atrocities to go undetected by authorities for almost a decade. Snowtown intimates that serial homicide is not an isolated, unexplainable, and sensational phenomenon, but rather, a horrific product of social and cultural dysfunction. When viewed in the context of the other serial killer narratives, Snowtown is an anomaly. There is a stark absence of police presence, and though details of the offender’s prosecution are displayed before the end credits, there is no police intervention in the film. Instead, the narrative is from the perspective of James (Jamie) Vlassakis, one of Bunting’s accomplices who became a key prosecution witness against his co-accused and is currently serving a 26-year sentence for four of the murders (Anderson 2014). In the film, Jamie is portrayed as a vulnerable and traumatised victim of abuse since childhood, taken under Bunting’s wing where a father/son dynamic between the two rapidly develops. As Jamie is pulled into Bunting’s orbit he gradually shifts from innocent victim in desperate need of a male role model, to a participant in the crimes. Though Jamie commits murder, he is also drawn as a sympathetic character, and the boundary between victim and perpetrator blurs as the film progresses. Rather than interpreting the narrative’s events through the eyes of the typical law-enforcement figure, Jamie’s perspective works to highlight the banality of this particular act of violence. In contrast to generic serial killer narratives, Snowtown offers no respite from the subject matter through familiar genre tropes, and, as Telegraph journalist Tim Robey notes, makes “ ‘fun’ serial-killer pictures seem horrifyingly glib and removed from life” (2011, par. 6). Though the serial killer binds the narrative together, virtually every serial killer trope is disregarded, and the emphasis is placed on the character dynamics between the killers and their families and community, rather than the brutality and inventiveness of the methods of torture and murder. Essentially, the narrative is character, rather than plot driven. As Kurzerl states in Interview magazine: It's almost like a love story, really, between father and son. It's definitely not a horror film. The violence doesn't lead the film like violence usually does in a

212 horror film. I think you spent the most time in the film with John and Jamie, and the building of that relationship and the dismantling of it. To me, it's a love story between a father and a son (2011). This uncommon interpretation of the crimes leaves the viewer with a sense of unease that is far more realistic than what occurs with the caricatured construction of the serial killer that viewers generally witness when encountering fictionalised accounts of serial homicide. Through its rejection of genre tropes, the film presents an encounter with serial murder that is thoroughly original and gripping, and—significant to this thesis— challenges the viewer’s expectations of serial homicide narratives in order to present a far more accurate and empathic portrayal of the complex subject matter. For me, Snowtown not only reveals the unexamined narratives that occur amidst the destruction of serial homicide, but also raises the question of how to illuminate these untold narratives in my own creative writing practice. Despite my enduring interest in serial crime, when the idea behind my novel, The Yellow House—the creative output of this thesis—was germinating, I did not view the subject of serial murder to be central to the narrative. The novel initially began as a continuation of my honours project, which explored gender indeterminacy in fiction and the effect that concealing the narrator’s gender from the reader can have on the text. In this earlier practice-led research, I refused to ascribe a coherent and binary gender to my protagonist to examine how a gender-neutral narrator can provoke a sense of discomfort for the reader. Though my interest in gender indeterminacy was teased out in my honours thesis and my research interests have developed considerably, I was still interested in how confronting and taboo subject matters are fictionalised. When I began this project, I wanted to write a literary novel set in semirural Queensland, told from the perspective of a young girl whose grandfather is revealed to be a serial killer after his death. At this point I was broadly interested in the legacies of serial crime; however, I did not consider it to be a ‘serial killer novel’, and in early drafts the serial killer was mostly peripheral to the story, acting almost as a subplot or device aimed at creating a dark, unsettling atmosphere that heightened the sense of isolation and menace of the rural setting. It was tangential to the text and a feature of the novel that was, while important and necessary to the plot, not the narrative’s defining aspect, not what the story was about. Though I was interested in including an anarchic and unstable character in my work, I was not particularly concerned with foregrounding the specifics of the crime and the identity of the murderer. Rather, it was the rippling effect of

213 transgressive crime that piqued my interest, the nuanced stories that surround serial homicide that I wanted to engage with. I viewed this research to be a sophisticated and logical progression from my previous exploration into the challenges that arise when fictionalising non-normative identities in literature. I wanted to explore how serial murder could be included in a text, without the horror of the subject matter overshadowing the potential nuances of the narrative. As part of my preliminary research, I sought out other authors’ representations of serial murder. Though I was a consumer of serial killer films and true crime documentaries, I was not an avid reader of serial killer fiction, and was only vaguely aware of the enormous market for the genre and the multitude of serial killer novels that have been published. I read the seminal text The Silence of the Lambs (1988) and its sequels and prequels, and a range of popular serial killer thrillers such as Postmortem by Patricia Cornwell (1990) and The Concrete Blonde (1994) by Michael Connelly, as well as more contemporary novels such as The Killing Lessons (2015) by Saul Black. However, what surprised me in this initial survey was the lack of novels that moved beyond the traditional narrative of detection. The number of serial killer novels published since The Silence of the Lambs in 1988 is vast. Despite the popularity of these narratives, the subject matter has been largely neutralised in order to consistently propel the fictional serial killer into “mythic territory reserved for the most extreme taboo violators” (Simpson 2000, 11), and has for the most part, remained rigidly formulaic, which I discuss in detail in my literature review. Though there are significant examples of commercially and critically successful novels that move beyond the genre’s conventions and play with the tropes in interesting and subversive ways, such as Patrick Süskind’s Perfume: Story of a Murderer (1985), Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho (1991), and Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones (2002), none of these are constructed in a way similar to what I envisioned for my own work—an Australian serial killer narrative which decentralises the killer by placing him into the realm of the mundane. Considering the complex nature of serial murder, and the fact that literary novels are by definition “complicated, resisting ideological reduction” (Gelder 2004, 35), I was perplexed to find a relatively small pool of novels that moved beyond the genre boundaries in a way similar to what I imagined for my manuscript. In the early stages of developing my creative practice the novel underwent significant and constant changes: characters were cut or significantly refigured, the time period morphed, and numerous passages were written and subsequently discarded. However, during this continuous experimentation, what became increasingly central to

214 the narrative and what I now see as the lynchpin holding the narrative together, is first, the story that began to germinate around the then minor serial killer character, and second, how the effects of heinous crime can be passed down to the subsequent generations in the murder’s aftermath, and whether this could form the basis of the narrative. Though I see The Yellow House as an extension of my interest in exploring the challenges of characterising non-normative identities, as I began background research for this project, I became increasingly fascinated with the descendants of serial killers and how they cope in the aftermath of the perpetrator’s crime. While researching Australian serial killers at the early stage of the project’s development, I came across a newspaper article from a high-profile murder trial. In 2010—a year prior to the release of Snowtown, and around the same time I began sketching out plans for my manuscript—Ivan Milat’s grand-nephew Matthew Milat brutally murdered his childhood friend David Auchterlonie in the Belanglo State Forest, the same area where his great-uncle murdered seven backpackers in the 1990s (Bibby 2012). With another friend, seventeen-year-old Milat lured Auchterlonie into the State Forest and murdered him with a double-bladed axe, recording the attack on his mobile phone. In the court documents, it was revealed that Milat bragged to friends about the premeditated murder: “you know me, you know my family. You know the last name Milat, I did what they do” (Milat quoted in the Sydney Morning Herald 2012). I had never heard a story—factual or fictional—about a relative of a serial killer repeating the same acts as their ancestor. In fact, I had heard little about serial killers having any semblance of a life beyond their criminal activities. The serial killer is rarely discussed in context of their personal or familial lives, and is usually defined exclusively by the inhumane acts of violence they commit. This sparked questions for me about the effect family history has on the ancestors of notorious criminals, and how knowledge of such traumas shapes identity. I became increasingly fascinated with the descendants of serial killers and how they cope in the aftermath of incomprehensible crime. This, alongside the truly subversive, unsettling, and realistic account of serial crime presented in Snowtown, raised questions that I was deeply intrigued by, and had not seen rigorously examined in fiction before. Rather than try to subdue the presence of the serial killer— which I had been intent on doing—I realised these ideas and questions formed the meat of the novel, and I saw an opportunity to tease out these challenges in my creative practice.

215 Serial Killer Fiction: A Definition Before I outline my research question, it is important to come to an understanding of both a criminological definition of serial murder, as well as a definition of the serial killer genre. Though non-fiction accounts of historic serial killers such as Jack the Ripper and Gilles De Rais have been circulating for centuries, the fictional serial killer genre is a relatively recent conception, emerging in the 1980s as a by-product of the “phenomenon of serial murder” (Jenkins 1994, 21). During this period, this specific form of homicide attracted renewed public interest thanks to the high profile cases of American serial killers Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacey, and David Berkowitz, among others. This public fascination ignited an overwhelming demand for true crime accounts and subsequently resulted in an abundance of films and novels inspired by the phenomenon. Since this rise in volume of popular interest in the serial killer, serial homicide has been extensively treated across a range of disciplines, including sociology, psychology, criminology, and medical research and has produced a wealth of rigorous academic study. However, a 2007 study done by the National Homicide Monitoring Program found that only one percent of the total homicides over a seventeen year period (1989-2006) were committed by serial murderers (Mouzos and West, 1), a statistic similar to that found in international research (Morton 2008, par. 2). Despite the statistical rarity of serial murder, the fascination and fear it has evoked—based on the saturation of fictional and factual serial killer narratives—is vastly disproportionate to the threat it poses in reality (Holmes and Holmes 1994, 1). Though serial homicide itself is not a modern occurrence, a “specialised discourse emerged around the same time the term was defined” (Macdonald 2013, 1). The increased interest in serial homicide coincided with the coining of the term ‘serial murder’ in the 1970s by Robert K. Ressler, an FBI Behavioural Unit agent investigating what was previously known as “stranger murder” (Santaulària 2007, 56). There is a lack of consensus among academics and practitioners of a single definition of serial murder, and broad definitions are often used to distinguish between types of multiple homicides (Mouzos and West 2007, 1). The FBI Serial Murder: Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators report defines serial murder as the “unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s), in separate events” (2008, 9). However, such definitions are contentious, as the insistence on a body count can be seen as more of a “counting exercise” than an indicator of a serial killer’s intent or pathology (Mouzos and West 2007, 5). In more recent studies, definitions have expanded to differentiate serial

216 homicide from other forms of murder not only by the time frame and number of victims, but also to include some indication of the killer’s motivation or mental state. For this reason, I will draw on a recent definition of serial murder from Adjorlolo and Chan, which defines serial murder as consisting of three aspects: “two or more forensic linked murders with or without a revealed intention of committing additional murder… the murders are committed as discrete event(s) by the same person(s) over a period of time, and…where the primary motive is personal gratification” (2014, 486). This definition, revised by Adjorlolo and Chan after a study of the various legal definitions and current research in criminology, not only identifies the number of victims and the period between the murders, but also recognises that the pleasure derived from the crime differentiates serial homicide from other forms of murder. Although serial homicide has been thoroughly treated across a range of disciplines, this thesis’s scope is limited to how serial crime manifests in fiction. Because of this, it is important to clarify that fictional serial killers diverge significantly from their real-life equivalents. According to Morton, the “inaccurate, anecdotal information and fictional portrayals” of the serial killer has resulted in a number of “myths and misconceptions” regarding serial murder (2008, 3). The myths that circulate in popular culture are often far removed from how serial killers present in real life, and the general public’s understanding of the crime is based on fictional storylines which “heighten the interest of audiences, rather than…accurately portray serial murder” (ibid., 2). Unlike fictional accounts which present serial killers as being “dysfunctional loners” and “evil geniuses” motivated purely by sex, the real life serial killer is far more likely to be involved in the community, have average intelligence levels, and kill for a range of motivations beyond sexual gratification (ibid.). Fiction featuring serial killers has flourished for centuries, from Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), one of the earlier fictional incarnations of a serial killer, to the various narratives that fictionalise Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel murders. More recently, the 20th century saw the publication of a number of acclaimed novels featuring serial killers, including Psycho by Robert Bloch (1959), Child of God by Cormac MaCarthy (1973), The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks (1984), Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind (1985), and Killer on the Road by James Ellroy (1986). Evidently, the history of literary serial killers spans centuries; however, in this thesis, I am limiting my research to serial killer fiction published after 1988, when the serial killer genre emerged with all its attendant conventions, after the publication of Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs. It is in

217 these fictional accounts, which generally delve into the realm of fantasy to “superficially portray the serial killer as the ultimate alien outsider or enemy of society” (Simpson 2000, 2), that the public understanding of serial crime emerged and the largely inaccurate serial killer stereotype materialised. An complete overview and analysis of the serial killer genre and its tropes will appear in the literature review of this thesis in order for me to contextualise my creative practice within the genre, and identify the gap my novel seeks to fill.

Research Question: In order to understand what a radically reenvisaged serial killer narrative might look like, I turn to other writers and assess the strategies they deploy in their subversive serial killer novels. From the texts surveyed in my literature review, I have identified two key novels that contend exclusively with the aftermath of either serial crime or other violent murder: An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire (2016), and Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land (2017). Though these novels disrupt many conventions of the genre, they also raise further queries about the subject matter’s possibilities in fiction, and act as counterpoints to my own creative practice. The interrogation of these novels in the textual analysis component of this thesis helps me to take steps to answer the questions that my own work raises, the primary research question being: • In what ways can the generic conventions of the serial killer narrative be disrupted to reveal and illuminate unexplored narratives surrounding the aftermath of abject violence? From this question, secondary questions emerge, including: • How can intergenerational trauma be fictionalised to become a central, rather than secondary narrative of serial crime? • How can serial crime be fictionalised in a specifically Australian setting in order to reflect the particularities of Australian crime and culture? By interrogating these questions, it is my aim to come to an understanding of how to destabilise and disrupt the conventions of the serial killer genre, changing the lens on how serial crime is fictionalised in order to contend with the gravities of serial homicide. Through my creative practice and critical research, I seek to develop a number of strategies a writer could adopt to disrupt the predominating narratives of serial crime. The serial killer genre centres on the narrative of the crime and criminal, as seen through the perspective of a detective-like figure who uses his or her intellect and rationality to

218 solve the crime and apprehend the offender. However, this thesis is interested in the possibilities that can occur when you remove this perspective entirely by positioning a young girl entangled within a world of violence and abjection at the centre of the narrative. This thesis contends that this narrative innovation contributes a unique, subversive and valuable perspective of serial crime in order to potentially dismantle the genre and allow for unconsidered narratives to emerge. Presenting the narrative of murder through the eyes of a young, vulnerable character decentralises the murderer and shifts the focus onto the family of the killer and the aftermath of the crimes. In doing so, I aim to create the space for a more nuanced narrative to emerge that complicates and disrupts the genre by bringing the unconsidered victims of serial crime and their silenced narratives of intergenerational trauma to the fore.

Research Methods:

My methods of research have been constructed in response to problems and concerns that arose in my creative practice; namely, how can the figure of the serial killer be decentralised in fiction in order to illuminate untold narratives than occur in the aftermath of serial crime. I have never encountered this particular question being posed in other novels, and this absence further provokes questions regarding the challenges that arise when attempting to destabilise such a troubling and violent subject matter. As such, the most effective and rigorous method to address these questions is creative practice as research, where I grapple with the challenge of producing an original and innovative fictionalistion of serial crime through the writing of the novel itself. Though my creative practice is both the primary site of research and a site of dissemination, the creative work is also shaped through critical investigation. As Barbara Bolt writes, “theory emerges from a reflective practice at the same time that practice is informed by theory” (2007, 29). Though my novel is the main output of this thesis, the process of planning, constructing and redrafting the novel is dialogic with the exegetical research, and the methods of enquiry—creative practice and textual analysis—are mutually dependent. Despite the primacy of the creative work, for this thesis, theory and practice cannot sufficiently seek to answer the research question without functioning dependently. The primary outcome of this project is an 80,000 word literary novel, titled The Yellow House, which is accompanied by a 20,000 word critical exegesis. In order to

219 contextualise my practice and inform its direction as the research problem shifts and evolves, the exegesis deploys textual analysis as an accompanying method of enquiry, alongside creative practice as research. The contributions to research I envisage this novel making are unintelligible without the interrogation of the genre that the novel falls into and the analysis of significant, subversive novels which contextualise my creative practice. In the critical component of this thesis, I examine a range of serial killer novels that move beyond the formulaic constructs of serial killer fiction in order to position my own novel as a further subversion of the genre. The key novels I analyse in the exegetical component of this thesis are An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire and Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land. These are the two most relevant novels identified in my literature review, as they both display significant innovations within the genre pertaining to the aftermath of crime, and as such, are the context from which my novel has emerged. For Alan McKee, textual analysis is an attempt to gather information about sense-making practices, which can allow us to “better understand the sense-making cultures in which we ourselves live by seeing their limitations, and possible alternatives” (2013, 14). Analysis of these texts not only helps me contextualise the creative and cultural landscape these novels were published into, but also how they deviate from what I intend to illuminate in my own novel. By coming to an understanding of how these novels act as subversions and expansions of the genre, as well as where they fail to innovate, I am able to situate my own creative practice as a further extension of these works. To analyse these texts, my overarching lens of enquiry will be genre theory. By interrogating these novels and treating them as artefacts and significant variations within the history of the serial killer genre, I aim to position my own novel within the landscape of serial killer fiction, and as a further extension of these subversive serial killer novels. I also apply literary trauma theory in this thesis in order to analyse the inheritance of trauma in the context of serial crime. By applying textual analysis to contextualise my creative practice, I take steps to construct a narrative that fictionalises the far-reaching consequences of serial murder that are yet to be interrogated in contemporary Australian fiction.

220 Literature Review

The purpose of this review is to track the evolution of the serial killer literary genre over the last half-century, identify how the genre boundaries have inhibited the reach of serial killer narratives extending far beyond these genre conventions, and identify the gaps that my research addresses and seeks to fill. As my creative practice is concerned with the thus far under-examined subject (in both fiction and in critical studies) of intergenerational traumas wrought by serial crime, I use this review to situate the creative component of this thesis—an Australian serial killer novel that explores the legacies of serial homicide—as a disruption of the serial killer genre. I begin by analysing the emergence of the cultural preoccupation with serial homicide and how it converged with the increased apprehension and awareness of real-life serial murder since the 1970s. Second, I discuss how serial killer fiction as a hybrid genre evolved from a range of other established genres, particular horror, the Gothic, and crime and detective procedural, and outline the definitive tropes of serial killer fiction as a convergence of these antecedents, examining the current scholarly literature on this subgenre. I then trace the development of the genre through a survey of significant serial killer novels, beginning with genre progenitor, The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris, before moving to recent novels that take steps to broaden the genre and challenge its formulaic conventions. This review clearly reveals that since the genre’s inception, serial killer fiction has remained generically bounded, and those novels that do move beyond these boundaries are still fixated on mythologising the serial killer and centring the narrative around the horror of his transgressions. This review reveals a gap in the current landscape of serial killer novels; that is, that there are limited narratives that give voice to those affected by serial crime. To address this gap, this research then locates the space where my creative work sits as an extension of these previous imaginings: an Australian serial killer novel that shifts the focus away from the saturated interest in the perpetrator and illuminates the story of the serial killer’s descendants. By focusing the narrative on the largely untold traumas that linger in the aftermath of serial homicide, my creative practice seeks to more accurately reflect how these acts of violence manifest outside the confines of fiction.

221 Origins of serial killer narratives: real crime and its fictional incarnation

The contemporary public fascination with real-life serial murder is considered by prominent scholars of the serial killer genre to have emerged in response to a number of serial homicide cases that received a great deal of media attention in the United States in the 1970s and 1980s (Jenkins 1994, 8; Simpson 2000, 1). It was the high profile trials of notorious American serial killers Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy in particular that sparked popular interest in the subject matter, and the widespread hysterical response to these crimes by the media—and in turn, the public—signalled the start of an ongoing fascination with serial homicide in popular culture and beyond. Despite the media situating serial murder as a “modern mythology” (Jenkins 1994, 101) given the apparent influx of serial homicide cases from the 1970s onwards, it is not a contemporary phenomenon and can be dated back millennia. One of the earliest records of serial murder is from 331 BC, when Roman authorities convicted 170 women of murder for poisoning male victims and attributing their deaths to the plague1 (Newton 2006, 116). A number of serial killers in the modern era gained infamy before the 20th century, including Vlad the Impalor (Romania, 1400s) Gilles de Rais (France, 1400s), Elizabeth Báthory (Hungary, 1500s/1600s), H.H Holmes (United States, 1800s), and serial killer prototype, Jack the Ripper (England, 1800s) to name a few. However, it was not until the coining of the term ‘serial killer’ in the 1970s by Robert Ressler that “systematic descriptions and analyses of a multiple-murder problem” (Jenkins 1994, 8) were developed, and that serial homicide was intensively examined and defined in the criminological field. That is to say, a critical discourse and lexicon allowing sociologists and criminologists to discuss serial murder as a social problem was only developed relatively recently. As a result, serial murder has been treated as a modern phenomenon by the media despite its extensive history, and it is only in the last four decades that the public has understood serial murder to be a distinctive category of homicide. Since this rapid increase and sustained popular interest in serial killing developed in the last half-century, serial homicide has been comprehensively treated across a range of disciplines beyond criminology, including sociology, psychology, medical research, and the arts. As the fascination with serial murder developed, popular media narrativising

1 In The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers Michael Newton outlines a number of other serial murders that occurred in this era. For example, Roman defendant Calpurnius killed a number of his wives by poison; Locusta, a female poisoner was executed in 69 AD; in 70 AD a defendant called Asprenas was charged with the murder of 130 victims (2006, 116). 2 See: The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule (1980), Zodiac by Robert Graysmith (1986), The Shrine of Jeffrey

222 serial murder has been produced concurrently. There are numerous examples of true- crime novels2, television programs3, films4, graphic novels5, and even musicals6 depicting serial homicide, all of which contribute to the ever evolving construction of this cultural manifestation. The popularity of these accounts, in their varying degrees of complexity is evidence that narrativisations of serial murder are firmly embedded into popular culture and that both fictional and non-fiction accounts of serial homicide continue to be in high demand. Given the strong public interest in serial killers, it is unsurprising that a symbiotic relationship has developed between those non-fictional and fictional accounts of serial homicide. As Sonia Baelo Allue writes: Nowadays, we witness how, on the one hand, real-life serial killers are narrativised by the media by turning their killings into coherent patterns, or how they copy the murders of fictional serial killers; on the other hand, we see …fictional serial killers copy the deeds of real killers or try to resemble them (2002, 7-8). Similarly, for Jenkins, many fictional depictions of serial murder derive from real- life cases7, while these fictional accounts have largely shaped the serial killer that operates in the media (1994, 15). Boundaries between “fact and fiction often tend to become blurred” (Grixti 1995. 87), making it challenging to discuss the two as distinct entities; obvious parallels emerge, and the intertwining of their identities makes it difficult to untangle the real-life serial killer from their fictional counterparts. However, though serial murder as a real-life occurrence has been extensively researched across a multitude of disciplines, definitions of serial homicide across the various fields can be varied, elusive and contradictory, as discussed in the introduction of this thesis. Because of the haziness

2 See: The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule (1980), Zodiac by Robert Graysmith (1986), The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer by Brian Masters (1993), Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Kipper—Case Closed by Patricia Cornwell (2002), The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson (2003), A Death in Belmont by Sebastian Junger (2006), Lost Girls: An Unsolved American Mystery by Robert Kolker (2013). 3 See: Dexter (2006-2013), Ripper Street (2012-2016), The Fall (2013-2016), Hannibal (2013-2015), The Following (2013-2015), Bates Motel (2013-2017), La Mante (2017), The Frozen Dead (2017), The Bridge (2011- ongoing). 4 See: Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986), Copycat (1995), Se7en (1995), The Bone Collector (1999), Summer of Sam (1999), The Cell (2000), Kiss the Girls (2002), Monster (2003), The Saw Franchise (2004-2010), Taking Lives (2004), The Hitcher (2007), Untraceable (2008) and Maniac (2012). 5 See: From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell (1999), Green River Killer: A True Detective Story by Jeff Jensen and Jonathon Case (2011), My Friend Dahmer by Derf Backderf (2012). 6 The stage musical London Road opened at the National Theatre in London in 2011 and is based on the Ipswich serial murders in Suffolk and the trial of Steve Wright in 2006-2008 (Logan 2011). 7 Jenkins writes that Thomas Harris was influenced by real-life serial murderers, whose case information he accessed from the FBI’s Behavioural Sciences Unit. Hannibal Lecter is based primarily on Ted Bundy, but also on “intelligent and articulate” Edmund Kemper, while Jame Gumb is based on both Ed Gein and Gary Heidnik, with similar luring methods to Bundy (1994, 88-89).

223 surrounding absolute definitions, in Simpson’s analysis of the serial killer in American film and fiction, he contends that the public understanding of serial murder is largely based on these fictional accounts that, while being inspired by actual crimes, are often far more “exotic in terms of methodology and pathology” and bear little relation to their real-life equivalents (2000, 20). That is to say, if the fictional serial killer does not resemble real-life serial killers in any tangible way, then the serial killer narratives we see fictionalised largely misrepresent the way that serial homicide occurs in real life. Rather than serial homicide being treated as a complicated and nuanced type of crime, it is within the realm of popular culture that the “discursive construct” of the serial killer has been reified (Macdonald 2013, 2) primarily for commercial purposes. As a result, it is rare that fictional serial killer narratives accurately reflect how serial crime plays out in real life. Despite the universality of serial crime, it is important to note that serial killer archetypes often vary with geography. To argue there are specific, regional stereotypes is limiting and simplistic; however, there is little doubt that popular archetypes emerge not only from fictionalisations, but from high profile cases that permeate national consciousness, and that country-specific stereotypes have emerged from infamous criminals. For Jane Downing, the “excessive representation” of particular serial criminals in the media can appear to “mark moments of historically and geographically specific cultural anxieties” (2013, 30). Certain serial killers tend to gain more infamy than others, reflecting particular fears pertaining to a particular country or culture at a particular time and infiltrating the national psyche. In the United States in particular, certain “celebrity psychos” (Schmid 2006, 126) have come to represent the face of serial crime and are continuously reimagined in popular culture. Alongside Ed Gein, the murderer and body snatcher who inspired iconic fictional serial killers such as Jame Gumb in The Silence of the Lambs, Norman Bates in Psycho (1960) and Leatherface in Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), Ted Bundy is perhaps the most recognisable serial killer in America’s history. Bundy, who was found guilty of murdering over thirty women from 1974-1979, was an articulate and politically engaged law student with a steady job and girlfriend. Ann Rule, who chronicles Bundy’s crimes and her relationship with the murderer in her 1980 book The Stranger Beside Me, identifies it was his normality which allowed him to go unsuspected for so long: “people like Ted can fool you completely…his mask was perfect” (1999). The mythologisation of Bundy—a “virtual nonentity” (Rule 2008) before he was suspected of serial murder—

224 contributed to the enduring stereotype of the serial murderer hiding behind a “façade of bland normality” (Simpson 2000, 2). Bundy exemplified the handsome, charming, intelligent killer who masks his “psychosexually disturbed” (ibid.) psyche by blending seamlessly into his surroundings. There was nothing outwardly extraordinary about Bundy, and it was his “complete yielding to nonpersonality” (Schmid 2006, 12) that has allowed him, alongside Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy to enter America’s “national vocabulary” (Simpson 2000, 3). The stereotype of the American serial killer as a white, young, intelligent male initially emerged from the visibility and infamy of these criminals, and has subsequently been extended and solidified in popular fictionalisations. Similarly in the United Kingdom, the Whitechapel murders that occurred between 1888-1891 turned Jack the Ripper’s brand of “white-male-sadist-performance artist” (Seltzer 1998, 8) into a cultural icon. The legacy that emerged from the brutality of his crimes has endured centuries and become immortalised through its constant fictionalisation in film8 and television9. More recently, other archetypes have emerged which are uniquely British. The ‘Moors Murders’ and the mythology of Myra Hindley in particular has had a lasting impact on the British national consciousness, and she remains to be among the most recognisable and controversial serial killers in recent history. The high amount of public interest Hindley’s trial evoked—where she was “singled out for vilification” despite her partner Ian Brady committing all five of the murders—was excessive (Downing 2013, 102), as it was Hindley’s “aiding and abetting” of the murder of children which was considered the greater crime (ibid., 100). Like Rosemary West, who was convicted in 1995 of murdering ten women and children (Barwick 2001), Hindley transgressed the “binding social rule of what it is supposed to mean to be a woman” and corrupted the “cultural myth” that all women instinctively seek to protect children” (ibid., 108). As a result, she received the enduring wrath of the nation, and has become immortalised in the public imagination as the “feminine face of evil” (Storrs 2004, 14). The ‘Moors Murders’ have been reimagined in countless true crime books, as well as fictionalised in films such as Longford (2006) and See No Evil: The Moors Murder (2006). Likewise, Marcus Harvey’s 1997 painting, Myra, which depicts a reproduction of Hindley’s police photograph made up of a mosaic of infant hands, has been widely

8 See: The Lodger (1944), Pandora’s Box (1929), A Study in Terror (1965), Hands of the Ripper (1971), Murder by Decree (1979), From Hell (2001). 9 See: Whitechapel (2009-2013), Ripper Street (2012-2016), Time After Time (2017).

225 displayed throughout the UK, evoking much controversy10. Despite female serial killers being statistically rare11, the unease and fascination female serial homicide evokes is strong, and Hindley’s legacy continues to loom large in the United Kingdom12. The significance of region-specific serial killer stereotypes will be further analysed later in this thesis, primarily in my textual analysis of both the female serial killer depicted in Good Me Bad Me, as well as the idiosyncrasies required to construct a narrative of serial crime that is specific to an Australian context.

Genre origins of serial killer narratives Over time, the intense cultural interest in serial murder I earlier identified filtered down into an observable and immensely popular genre. It is within this genre that the archetypal serial killer figure materialised. For Simpson, the serial killer is a fantastic confabulation of Gothic/romantic villain, literary vampire and werewolf, detective and ‘pulp’ fiction conceits, film noir outsider, frontier outlaw, folkloric threatening figure, and nineteenth-century pseudo-sociological conceptions of criminal types given contemporary plausibility (2000, 15). Essentially, the fictional serial killer is a confluence of various elements that have been reworked over time to form the subgeneric, yet unique image of the killer we see today. For this reason, serial killer fiction is often deemed to be a “patchwork subgenre” (ibid., 35), and it is through examining these “historical and relational” (McCracken 1998, 12) precedents that an understanding of the serial killer genre and its conventions can be established. In this thesis, I identify and examine three key generic influences on serial killer fiction—horror, the Gothic, and detective procedural. Though this review does not have the space to extensively interrogate each of these antecedents, in the following, I identify how these genres conflate and infiltrate down to generate the conventions of the

10 When the painting was first displayed London’s Royal Academy for the Sensation exhibition the show was picketed. The painting vandalised and eventually placed behind Perspex and guarded by security. The painting also appeared in a promotional video for the 2012 London Olympics to great disgust (Hatterstone, 2009). 11 The most comprehensive serial killer database, The Radford Database has entries for almost 5000 serial killers and 13,000 victims and from this data identifies that there are ten times more male serial killers than female (Aamodt 2016, 8). 12 When Joanne Dennehy was arrested for the murder of three men in 2013, the British media was captivated by the case. She was only the third woman in the UK to receive a life sentence for murder, after Myra Hindley in 1966 and Rosemary West 1995, and the media dialogue during her trial made consistent comparisons between the three killers. Articles in The Guardian, The Telegraph and The Independent all discussed the cases in concert, emphasising not only the rarity of female serial murder, but also that serial crime committed by females is a particularly taboo act, as it conflicts with the archetypal role of woman as material nurturer.

226 serial killer subgenre that are central to this thesis. Through this examination it becomes clear that within these genre tropes, the serial killer is neatly contained by the genre boundaries, thus neutralising a complicated and confronting form of transgression.

Serial killer genre conventions: Gothic chaos and the rationality of detection

Despite the multiplicity of generic influences on the serial killer genre, Simpson maintains that serial killer fiction sits primarily at the intersection of Gothic romance and detective novels. For Simpson, the “neo-gothic sensibility” (2000, 34) is the greatest influence on the serial killer genre, as the killers—updated versions of a transgressive Gothic monster in a contemporary setting—maintain a similar position to what these “menacing but nevertheless captivating” forbearers did (ibid., 28). Though the neo- Gothic has lost many of its superficial and aesthetic tropes, the “ahistorical territory reserved for taboo violators” (ibid., 32) remains an essential part of its formula, and is an integral trope of serial killer fiction. This element of the Gothic manifests itself in the image we see of fictional serial killers, who, as mythologised villains, are “polysemous entities” (ibid., 35) who destabilise the natural order of the world. The anarchic serial killer displays “hungers, desires, and raw appetites that are usually denied, or repressed” (Messent 2000, 26-27), and which unsettle the universe’s moral system and social stability. As a modern-day Gothic monster, the serial killer is situated as the overarching cause of disruption in an otherwise ordered and civilised world. For Isabel Santaulària, the way to combat this Gothic chaos is through the presence of the law enforcement (2007, 57). Like detective procedurals, generic serial killer novels are told from the perspective of a detective, or detective-like figure who works to “single out and capture the subversive agent and re-establish a sense of order” (ibid.). The serial killer genre draws upon key elements of the detective procedural, such as the profiling of the killer using psychological tools, tropes that sanctify the “law enforcement[s] reactive approach to violent crime” (Simpson 2000, 70-71). This strong intervention of the law enforcement results in the reassurance in an authoritative system once the serial killer is captured and coherence is restored, as the killer will be arrested and an explanation for his crimes provided (Warwick 2006, 562). Considering serial killer fiction operates within an unstable Gothic environment, then the rationality of the detective protagonist and methods of tapping into “the mind of the killer” makes order of the chaos caused by the anarchic murderer (ibid.)

227 Though the presence of the law enforcement is essential in controlling the disorder sparked by the unruly, anarchic figure of the serial killer, the genre diverges from the detective procedural in significant ways. The classical detective story of murder, investigation and exposure traditionally culminates in a logical explanation of the criminal’s motives for committing murder (Gomel 1999, 39). However, in serial killer fiction, this tripartite plot structure is significantly altered. Unlike in the procedural genre, in serial killer fiction, the reader most frequently knows the identity of the serial killer from the onset. Over the course of the novel the murderer kills repeatedly rather than just once, and follows a pattern in the choice of the victims. In serial killer fiction, the killers are extreme in both their killing methods and pathology. Their signatures are “mechanical and repetitive” and they function as “monochromatic automatons mindlessly acting out again and again primal traumas” (Simpson 2000, 20). Therefore, the tension and interest in these texts lies not in the hunt to reveal the killer’s identity, but in the use of profiling. The detective, “armed with science, technology and/or the security of being morally right” (Santaulària 2007, 57) is able to makes sense of the killer’s methodology and pathology in order to make an arrest. However, the most significant divergence from detective fiction is the absence of any discernable connection between killer and victim. This leads to the classification of serial crime as motiveless, shattering the links which “forge the causal and narrative coherence” (Messent 2000, 24) of the classic murder story. For Warwick: The notion of motivelessness suggests that, in lacking a recognizable sequence of cause and effect in their actions, serial murderers lack internality, they are without normal human qualities. The ideas of emptiness and absence are also frequently perpetuated by a link with deadness: of the perpetrator being dead inside (2006, 561). This absence of a logical motive creates the impenetrable image we see of the serial killer, whose actions are “inscrutable, beyond the reasoning that otherwise explains the world” (ibid.). However, despite serial homicide being a seemingly irrational act, in these novels, an explanation for the killer’s behaviour is often given, thus reducing the “uncanniness of bodily harm to the soothing neutrality of rational explanation” (Gomel 1999, 26). As fictional representations of serial homicide have grown and become more complex since the genre’s inception, the prevailing image of the serial killer has shifted towards interrogating the individual pathology of the killer, depicting him as “sick and inadequate” (Jenkins 1994, 96) rather than innately or unexplainably evil. In these

228 narratives, there is often an emphasis on trying to neutralise savage violence by either explaining and placing the blame on the killer’s socialisation. In these texts, serial killers are often depicted as being delusional or mentally ill, as a “closed system of psychotic belief…is easier to represent than the violent ‘purpose’ of a sane individual” (Gomel 1999, 40). Gomel also notes that serial killer novels often emphasise the killer’s narrative of origin. In order to situate “violence as a symptom or an outer manifestation of a hidden truth” (ibid., 28) rather than an illogical and irredeemable act, these novels foreground the killer’s dysfunctional childhood or a traumatic, inciting incident to explain their pathology. However, despite the writers’ attempts to reduce the killer’s actions to a logical explanation, the violent murderer remains the “impossible and oxymoronic Other” whose intelligibility is always incomplete, structured around some “missing piece of the puzzle…that can never be articulated” (ibid., 26). Unlike in the detective novel, where “transgressive violence is both displayed and contained” (ibid., 34) through discursive rationality and the identification of a logical motive, in the serial killer novel, the killer remains a “metaphysical mystery” (ibid., 25). As the killer’s pathology cannot be adequately explained, the mysteries of abject evil are preserved. The horrific nature of their acts nonetheless situates them outside the realm of normal and understandable human behaviour, and the killer’s reductive, beyond human identity is maintained and perpetuated.

Serial killer genre conventions: the serial killer as a contemporary horror monster

Despite attempts in serial killer fiction to account for the actions of the killer, the “rhetoric of the narrative” nonetheless inflates the serial killer to “mythic dimensions” (Hantke 1998, 180). They are frequently discussed using “alienating discourse” (Tithecott 1997, 3) and the coding of the serial killer as a monster is a trope that is consistently emphasised in serial killer narratives. For this reason, the fictional serial killer can be considered to serve the same purpose that the vampire or the werewolf have in other eras (Jenkins 1994, 112-113), acting as a compelling and unambiguous monster for a modern audience (Tithecott 1997, 4). The principal way that the serial killer’s evil identity is constructed is by situating them as thoroughly inhuman predators. Regarding earlier depictions of monsters, Marie-Helene Heut writes that although the “monster was first defined as that which did not resemble him who engendered it, it nevertheless displayed some sort of resemblance, albeit a false resemblance, to an object external to its

229 conception” (1993, 4). This definition is consistent with the image of the fictional serial killer, whose physically human body is often depicted as falsely resembling a true human, given the monstrous soul that inhabits its normal body. Despite the fact that serial killers are generally “bodily inconspicuous” (Hantke 2002, 33), they are nonetheless portrayed as being a contemporary version of a monstrous creature whose difference—sexual, social and moral—is stressed. The serial killer also personifies “free-floating fears” (ibid.) regarding human psychology, in much the same way that the vampire, a dominating and enduring figure in horror fiction, serves as an “intuitive explanation of the human ability to murder other humans for symbolic reasons having nothing to do with literal survival” (Simpson 2000, 4). Essentially, the fictional serial killer delegates these fears into a containable, unambiguous threat, much like past iterations of the classic horror monster. Though the killer is generally not monstrous in a physical sense13, the emphasis on his voracious sexual and cannibalistic appetites and his “primitivism and animal savagery” (Jenkins 1994, 117) codes the serial killer as a monster and a predator nonetheless. It is the killer’s ability to blend into normal society that makes them so frightening—they are coded as monsters, yet their monstrosity is invisible and they are able to disguise themselves as regular humans. However, unlike vampires and werewolves in earlier horror stories, the serial killer is not a purely fictional creation, and the problems that emerge from this discrepancy lie at the crux of this thesis. The serial killer has come to represent the nearest manifestation of “pure demonic evil that can plausibly be described in an ostensibly secular world” (ibid., 19), yet they are a complex and legitimate source of menace in real life, despite their rarity. By positioning the killer as an unambiguous antagonist, these narratives reduce a complex crime and pathology to a simplistic conflict between “heroes and villains [where] both sides are presented in accordance with very traditional images and stereotypes” (ibid., 111). Within the genre, the serial killer is presented as a modernised, mythological beast whose complexity and anarchism is soothed by formulaic conventions. Because of this, there is little space to truly interrogate the various and extensive traumas that emerge from serial killer narratives. As the serial killer is almost exclusively characterised as an unambiguous monster contained within familiar genre conventions, these fictional encounters bear little resemblance to how serial homicide operates in real life. Though this characterisation serves the purpose of the genre, it also prevents the subject matter from

13 In Hantke’s analysis he does note some “minor exceptions to this apparent rule of bodily inconspicuousness”: the extra finger on each on Hannibal Lecter’s hand continues to mark him as monstrous even after it is surgically removed (2002, 33).

230 moving beyond unrealistic and simplistic representations of serial homicide. In this thesis, I contend that these tropes can be destabilised to broaden the narrative and more accurately reflect the reality of serial murder.

Tracing serial killer fiction through genre texts and beyond

Given the vast number of novels about serial homicide that have been published, this review has limited space to comprehensively overview the entire canon of serial killer fiction; however, in the following sections, I take steps to establish the novels most significant to the development of the genre, as well as texts that move beyond genre conventions and extend the subject matter beyond these restrictive genre tropes. Though the definitive conventions of serial killer fiction were not developed until the publication of the genre’s most formative text, Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs in 1988, there are significant novels preceding this period—such as Bluebeard by Charles Perrault (1659) and La Bête Humaine (1890) by Émile Zola—which present the first exemplars of literary serial killers, and are evidence that the interest in serial murder far preceded the development of the genre and its tropes. For Mark Seltzer, Jim Thompson’s 1952 pulp novel The Killer Inside Me is the “prototype novel of compulsive killing” (1998, 159). Written decades before the genre conventions were solidified, this was one of the first novels to give the reader access into the disturbed sociopathic mind, showcasing the inexplicable horrors of a “monstrous cipher…beyond human understanding or rationale” (Picart 2006, 5), long before it was popularised in later fictional iterations. The Killer Inside Me is often discussed as a major influence of the genre; however, it was not an anomaly of the era. Patricia Highsmith’s The Ripliad series14 (1955-1991), Psycho by Robert Bloch (1959), Child of God by Cormac McCarthy (1973), By Reason of Insanity by Shane Stevens (1979), The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks (1984), Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind (1985), and Killer on the Road 15 by James Ellroy (1986) all contain serial killer protagonists but predate the emergence of the serial killer phenomenon and genre. While these earlier novels are often discussed in relation to the later established genre, and conform to many of the genre tropes to varying degrees, it was not until the late 1980s and the publication of The Silence of the Lambs that the serial killer novel as a distinctive subgenre materialised, and so

14 The Talented Mr Ripley (1955); Ripley Under Ground (1970); Ripley’s Game (1974); The Boy Who Followed Ripley (1980); Ripley Under Water (1991). 15 Originally published as Silent Terror.

231 this is where I will begin tracking the genre.

The Silence of the Lambs and the emergence of the serial killer novel Most scholars who have written on the serial killer genre agree that The Silence of the Lambs is the genre’s most significant progenitor text (Simpson 2000, 70), as well as the “central point of reference in the renewed concern with serial homicide” (Jenkins, 1994, 75). A sequel to Red Dragon (1981) and followed by Hannibal (1999) and prequel Hannibal Rising (2006), The Silence of the Lambs’s relevance is evident in the continued popularity and influence the franchise has had in popular culture. A film adaptation of Red Dragon called Manhunter was released in 1986, followed by the immensely successful adaptation of The Silence of the Lambs in 1991, which won five Academy Awards (Grimes 1992). Hannibal and Hannibal Rising were both adapted to film in 2001 and 2007 respectively—as well as another Red Dragon remake in 2002—and most recently, the series has been reimagined in the NBC television series Hannibal, which aired from 2013 to 2015 for three seasons, demonstrating the continuing audience for this seminal serial killer narrative and the novels’ importance as literary artefacts. Though Red Dragon can be credited with developing some of the genre’s formula, it was not until The Silence of the Lambs solidified the genre tropes that serial killer fiction as a distinct genre came into being. For Simpson, the novel established the formula of a “controlled Gothic tone, two killers, a dark and troubled law-enforcement outsider in uneasy alliance with a murderer” (Simpson 2000, 70). A clear amalgamation of both the Gothic and procedural genres discussed earlier, these tropes regarding detection in The Silence of The Lambs offer a variety of sources of pleasure to the reader: The command of disorder, the enjoyment derived from discovering patterns, the pleasing feelings of anticipation and repetition provided by the serial murders, the identification with an intelligent detective, and of course the relish for transforming the murders into clues in an intellectual game (2002, 8). Harris’s villainous serial killer antagonist—the cannibalistic psychiatrist Dr Hannibal Lecter is beyond human, an evil genius who is in the thrall of his insatiable and irrepressible appetite: “at once transcendental and reductive, [Lecter is] literally programmed to commit murder according to some hermetically structured pattern or design” (Simpson 2000, 14). Lecter’s cannibalism—a not unexpected trope of the serial killer genre—represents the ultimate “transgression of boundaries” (Messent 2000, 27), insofar as it is an abject and taboo act that places him outside the civilised realm. Such

232 encounters with the abject—that which, as Kristeva (1982, 4) notes, “disturbs identity, system, order” and threatens bodily integrity with disintegration or decomposition—are integral to the serial killer genre, which allows the reader a horrifying but ultimately safe encounter with the abject that always resolves in the return to normalcy. Harris’s secondary serial killer character, the gender dysphoric Jame Gumb16, initially poses a similarly threatening encounter with the abject insofar as he sews clothing made of human skin, but he is ultimately apprehended and neutralised by FBI trainee Clarice Starling17, and proven to be human and fallible rather than an “undefeatable and eternal entity” (Caputi 1993, 103). Though the source of each killer’s monstrosity in Harris’s novel is fundamentally different—Lecter is seemingly ‘born’ a killer, and Gumb becomes one due to circumstance—Harris situates both Lecter and Gumb in the “realm of the other” (Grixti 1995, 88), as fundamentally inhuman and monstrous forces whose anarchy must be quashed by the return of order. The success of The Silence of the Lambs heralded the rapid publication of serial killer novels deploying the genre’s definitive conventions. There were more serial killer novels published in the three years from 1991 through to 1993 than in the 1960s and 1970s combined (Jenkins 1994, 2), including Patricia Cornwell’s Postmortem (1990), Michael Connolly’s The Concrete Blonde (1994), James Patterson’s Kiss the Girls (1995), and Jeffrey Deaver’s The Bone Collector (1997). While there was certainly a boom in the publication of these texts in the 1990s, the genre’s visibility has not since diminished. Novels such as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2005) by Steig Larsson and The Killing Lessons (2015) by

16 Though a feminist discussion of the genre is outside the scope of this thesis, it is important to note the feminist and queer scholarship which critique the novel and film’s depiction of the “hideously queer” transgender body as being monstrous “not so much through his killing…but because he is a man who sews, wears makeup and desires a sex change operations…The terms monster and transsexual collapse” (Sullivan 2000, 3). 17 Despite serial killer fiction often being criticised for its misogynist overtones the character of Starling has been regarded by some scholars as a feminist icon. Elizabeth Young writes that the film “consistently refuses to adhere to conventional gender boundaries. From the first, we watch as Clarice negotiates the masculine realm of the FBI academy with competence and confidence, constructing an adult persona marked by physical strength, intellectual ability, and detective acumen; for all that these qualities are coded “male” in the FBI world, Clarice assumes them as her own without falling into a kind of male mimicry. If she avoids the trap of identifying with or as a male hero, she also refuses to take on the identity of a female victim” (1991, 11). See also Dubois (2001), who notes the film’s deconstruction of the “generic amalgam of voyeurism” and the “confused and reinstated gender identities” typical of the serial killer genre (297). It is also important to note the critiques of the novel which problematise the fact that it is the “patriarch who rules this text” (Caputi 102-103) and question the “feminist value” of a narrative “featuring a central female figure when she must depend upon, bond with and achieve self-awareness through her interactions with the centennial version of Jack the Ripper?” (ibid.,103).

233 Saul Black—as well as consistent publications from writers such as Deaver and Cornwell—prove the stamina, appeal, and relevance of serial killer fiction in its most generic form.

Beyond genre: literary iterations of the serial killer Though generically bound serial killer novels dominate fictional accounts of the subject matter, Simpson writes that “very real possibilities of subversion and reform of established order do coexist” (2000, 19) in serial killer fiction. Since the emergence of the genre, subversive renderings of serial homicide have also been produced, and in the following, I will account for some of the variations within serial killer fiction by tracking significant texts that destabilise the genre. The publication of Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho in 1991 signalled a major shift away from conventional serial killer fiction as it decidedly subverts almost all of the genre conventions. There is a long tradition of literature narrated from the perspective of the murderous mind, including The Stranger by Albert Camus (1942), Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955), and The Killer Inside Me, as well as many generic serial killer novels that alternate between the perspectives of both killer and detective. American Psycho, however, is the most divisive novel narrated from the serial killer’s sustained first person narration, published to great controversy due to its graphic scenes of sexualised violence which had many critics debase it as a misogynistic text that represents Western culture’s approval of femicial violence (Simpson 2000, 155)18. While critics such as Brian Jarvis, and Ellis himself, discuss the novel as a satire of capitalism and consumer culture 19, Jane Caputi writes that the novel is a truly subversive

18 The “extreme critical reaction” to the novel’s publication has become infamous since its publication in 1991: violent and pornographic passages were leaked to national magazines, resulting in a subsequent uproar from the National Organization of Women (NOW) calling for publishers to boycott the novel. Simon and Schuster reneged on their contract weeks before publication, with Random House then stepping in to ensure publication. Though much of the criticism of the book admonished it, it is now considered a postmodern classic (Eldridge 2008, 19-20). 19 In Monsters Inc: Serial Killers and Consumer Culture, Brian Jarvis examines American Psycho—among other serial killer novels and films—and how it “uncover[s] unexpected intimacies between monstrous violence and the normal desires that circulate within consumer society” (2007, 328); In a Paris Review interview, Ellis writes: “American Psycho is…about lifestyle being sold as life, a lifestyle that never seemed to include passion, creativity, curiosity, romance, pain. Everything meaningful wiped away in favor of surfaces, in favor of looking good, having money, having six-pack abs, dating the hottest porn star, going to the hottest clubs…No one can really live up to these ideals, so there’s an immense amount of dissatisfaction roiling through the collective male psyche. Patrick Bateman is the extreme embodiment of that dissatisfaction. Nothing fulfills him. The more he acquires, the emptier he feels” (Ellis, n.d).

234 iteration of the subject matter, as the privileging of the killer’s perspective “refuses the standard mythicisation of the serial killer and…deconstructs many aspects of that lore” (1993, 103). Similarly, Baelo Allue suggests that the exaggerated usage of some conventions and its ignorance of others underlines the violence behind the serial killer phenomenon (2002, 16). Rather than present serial murder as a game-like structure, a puzzle or mystery to be solved, Ellis takes the violence that typically appears in the background of serial killer novels and presents it unflinchingly to the reader, preventing any concentration on the murders in objective, game-like terms. The first-person perspective highlights the novel’s process of subversion as it “disrupts the whole mechanism of the serial killer narrative” (ibid., 18). There is no detective who investigates the crimes and therefore no “pattern emerging from the corpse” (ibid., 17); Bateman is a free man at the novel’s conclusion, disrupting the closure that is typical of generic serial killer fiction. Essentially, the novel uses genre as an “ethical denunciation”, forcing the reader to “face the real horror behind the serial killer genre” (ibid., 8), rather than conceal it through expected and reassuring tropes. Similar to what I intend to do in my own creative practice, American Psycho presents the crimes without the structures of the genre, and as such, there is no reprieve from the brutality of the crimes through soothing genre conventions. Despite this major genre subversion, American Psycho still upholds the standard serial killer mythology propagated by traditional serial killer narrative. The reader does not encounter Bateman as a three-dimensional, complex character, and this characterisation complies with the motiveless trope of serial killer fiction. As Bateman narrates: There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there (1991, 376-377). Despite the intimate, first person narration, the reader is not privy to Bateman’s pathology, and he is drawn as a mysterious, monstrous entity; a caricature of an inhumane beast. Having access to his internal dialogue only highlights his emptiness; he is a shell of a human whose humanity is non-existent. This characterisation aligns with the traditional characterisation of the fictional serial killer, which perpetuates the myth the serial killers actions are “inscrutable, beyond the reasoning that otherwise explains the world” (Warwick 2006, 561). The access to Bateman’s thoughts does not align the

235 reader with the killer and seek to examine the killer’s psychology with nuance, but rather, emphasises the brutality and incomprehensibility of serial homicide, thus stressing the killer’s unambiguous monstrosity. Though American Psycho is the most infamous novel featuring a serial killer as protagonist, this narrative perspective has been deployed in a multitude of other novels. Among this catalogue is Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z Brite20 (1996), The Dexter Series by Jeff Lindsay (2004-2015), Kill Your Friends by John Niven (2008), and Joyce Carol Oates’s 1995 novel Zombie. Of these novels, Zombie in particular seeks to consciously reject the traditional template of serial killer fiction. Like all serial killer novels, Zombie operates within the “complex feedback relationship” (Jenkins 1994, 15) between factual and fictitious serial killer narratives, acting as a loose fictionalisation of the crimes of notorious American serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer. The novel exhibits the “monstrous consciousness” (Marcus 1995, par. 1) of narrator Quentin P, a paroled sex offender who describes the torture and murder of his young, male victims in a diary-like form. Despite obvious narrative similarities to American Psycho, Zombie was published to far less controversy (and commercial success), receiving the Boston Book Review’s 1995 Lilla Fisk Rand fiction prize and the 1996 Bram Stoker Award for Best Horror Novel (Simpson 2000, 156). According to Simpson, the critical praise Zombie received in contrast to American Psycho can be attributed to that fact Zombie explicitly attempts to “demystify the cultural obsession” with serial homicide by explaining the killer’s actions and motives as something other than “inhuman evil” (ibid.); that it attempts to present a more “complex and insightful” view of Dahmer than what has been publicised (ibid., 156-57). By attempting to treat the serial killer as more than an unambiguous villain, Zombie destabilises the dominant narrative of serial homicide that circulates within popular culture. Though exploring the psychology of the murderous mind is not a feature of my own creative work, novels such as Zombie seek to interrogate the complexity behind serial murder, rather than perpetuating its mythology. However, although these novels dismantle many of the genre’s main conventions, they still uphold the expectation that the serial killer is at the centre of the novel and fictional universe. By positioning the killer as protagonist, these subversive serial killer texts maintain the idea that the serial murderer is an inherently fascinating figure.

20 Though Exquisite Corpse is partially narrated by the serial killer protagonist, it also alternates in perspective with two other non-serial killer characters.

236

Beyond genre: shifting focus from the serial killer Though uncommon, there are several serial killer novels that shift the focus away from the killer and the “horror of the crimes” (Peach 2006, 150), disrupting the traditional narrative by avoiding an interrogation of the murderous mind or the salaciousness of the murders. Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones is a significant addition to the serial killer canon. Published in 2002 and adapted to film in 2009, The Lovely Bones received a great deal of critical and commercial attention. This was largely due to the novel’s unusual posthumous narrative voice and deviation from “the detective novel’s traditional suspense-building apparatus” (Whitney 2010, 357) by introducing a deceased narrator, Susie Salmon and revealing the identity of the serial killer—36 year-old George Harvey, an unremarkable neighbour who crafts dollhouses for a living—in the first few pages. Accounts of murder told from the victim’s perspective are a rarity in serial killer fiction, considering the major appeal of the genre lies in the detective, the criminal and the logistics of the crimes. By allowing the victim to arrange the telling of the story, Sebold ensures that the “murderer is not the creative force shaping the plot’s dynamic” (Bennett 2009, 467); rather, she places the narrative emphasis firmly on the typically peripheral figures of the victim and her family. The reader is unable to see serial murder as glib entertainment and the horrific aftermath of serial crime and the effect it has on the victim’s family is put on display. In writing on Felicia’s Journey21, a 1994 Costa Award-winning novel by William Trevor, which, like The Lovely Bones, sidelines the killer, Linden Peach observes that, unlike generic serial killer texts, the novel avoids focusing on the actual crimes and that the suspense instead lays in the ‘cat-and-mouse’ game the killer plays with a potential victim (2006, 2). According to Peach: As narratives of fictitious and ‘real crime’ serial criminals have proliferated and, in many cases, become more sophisticated…the emphasis has fallen upon the repetitive methods and the compulsive psychologies involved. In the most sophisticated accounts, the interest has shifted from the horror of the crimes to the performance of the criminal and the masquerades which they assume in

21 Though less commercially successful, Felicia’s Journey (1994) by Irish writer William Trevor is a novel that fictionalises serial homicide without conforming to generic serial killer conventions. Set during a period of upheaval during the Anglo-Irish Agreement of November 1985, the novel omnisciently tells the story of an unmarried Irish woman who travels to the English Midlands in search of her unborn baby’s father. Upon arrival, Felicia meets Mr Hilditch, a seemingly ordinary catering manager who, over the course of the novel is revealed to be a serial killer of young women.

237 undertaking the crimes and in melting back into ‘ordinary’ society afterward (ibid., 150). Though serial killers are generally coded as being monstrous in fiction, in The Lovely Bones the serial murderer is characterised with a “likeness” that is disturbing to the dominant culture (Jarvis 2007, 329). The murder appears “abnormally normal” (Seltzer 1998, 106), and the horrifying ordinariness of the serial killer is displayed. The serial killer is not showed to be preternaturally evil, but rather, his superficial normality contrasts with his capacity for violence, creating an uncanny rendering of the serial murderer. Furthermore, considering the novel does not focuses exclusively on the crime and the investigation, and neither the criminal nor a detective dictate the telling of the story, the serial killer is placed in the background of the narrative, and the reader’s preoccupation does not fall on the killer, but on the effect of the murders on the victim’s family. The serial killer is not the main point of interest in the narrative as his monstrosity—and therefore, his appeal—is deemphasised, leaving other thematic ideas and narratives to be positioned at the forefront. However, while The Lovely Bones departs from the traditional serial killer narrative by decentering the act of detection and the figure of the glorified killer, it still results in a sense of narrative closure for the reader. The serial killer in not caught and imprisoned at the end of the novel, yet justice for the victim and her family is served: the serial killer is killed in a freak accident, allowing the deceased narrator to be at peace in the afterlife. Although the threat of the serial killer is not neutralised through the triumphant apprehension by law enforcement, the killer’s death results in the same resolution and restoration of order that is an entrenched trope of the serial killer genre

Australian serial killer narratives Though the serial killer literary genre emerged in the United States, and the majority of the world’s serial killers operate within the United States (Aamodt 2006, 14), as discussed earlier, serial crime is not an exclusively American occurrence, and serial killer fiction extends far beyond American publications. However, much of the critical theory on serial killer fiction does situate it as a distinctively American phenomenon. Simpson writes that, “in his individual assertion of violent control, the fictionalized serial killer remains recognizably American in ideologies both subversive and conservative” (2000, 135). Similarly, Seltzer argues that the enduring interest in serial crime can be attributed to the “public fascination with torn and opened bodies and torn and opened persons” in America’s “wound culture” (1998, 4). Despite the genre emerging directly from

238 American writers for an initially American audience, the serial murderer has not remained exclusive to American fiction. The immensely popular Nordic Noir genre often features serial killers antagonists22, despite this region’s low rate of serial murder23. Likewise, despite the rarity of serial homicide occurring in Australia, accounting for just 1% of all homicide cases (Mouzos and West 2007, 1) the serial killer frequently features in Australian fiction. City of Light by Dave Warner (1995), Promise by Tony Cavanagh (2012), Hindsight by Melanie Casey (2013), Hades by Candice Fox (2014), and Dorothy Porter’s 2007 verse novel El Dorado, are all Australian serial killer novels published over the last few decades. Although Porter’s verse novel is innovative in form, the majority of these novels run along the lines that have been instilled by the archetypal American serial killer crime novels I earlier canvassed. While unusual, and even subversive in setting, these Australian novels are classically generic in style and plot, and uphold the major formulaic elements of the Americanised genre. Though this thesis is primarily concerned with literary depictions of the serial killer, it is essential to look beyond fiction in order to fully contextualise my creative practice and identify the space it fills. Alongside Snowtown, Australia has produced other subversive representations of serial crime in recent years. The critically acclaimed film Hounds of Love (2017) is loosely based on the ‘Moorhouse Murders’ and the crimes David and Catherine Birnie committed in Perth in 1986. Rather than focus on the murders, the film explores the psychology behind the couple’s dysfunctional relationship. Also significant is the 2016 podcast Bowraville, produced by the Australian and acclaimed for its reinvestigation into a serial murder case that was largely ignored by the media. The five- part series explores the unsolved murders of three aboriginal children killed within the span of five months in Bowraville, New South Wales in the early 1990s. The Walkley Award-winning podcast is largely presented through interviews with the victim’s family members, and highlights the systematic racism and subsequent failures of justice surrounding the investigation. Though not fictional, the podcast is still significant to this thesis as it presents an aspect of serial crime that is rarely seen in popular Australian media—that is, the failings of the law enforcement and the intergenerational effects that serial crime has on the family of victims. Similarly, the novel An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire—which I analyse in depth in the textual analysis component of this thesis—also

22 See: The Fifth Woman by Henning Mankell (1996); Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson (2005); The Snowman by Jo Nesbø (2007); The Crow Girl by Erik Axl Sund (2011). 23 Swedish serial killer’s make up just .25% of the world’s serial killers compared to America’s 67.58% (Aamodt 2006, 14).

239 shows significant subversion of the genre and the way murder is usually sensationalised in fiction. In this text Maguire intentionally shifts the focus away from the brutal murder, and instead uses the crime as a way to explore the aftermath of violence against women through a feminist lens, as well as the far-reaching impact on the victim’s family and community. However, after surveying a range of mediums I contend that the most subversive variations of serial homicide are depicted within television. Earlier in this review, I identified a range of popular serial killer television series, many of which conform to the generic expectations of the genre. Beyond this, there are several iterations of the subject matter that depart from genre conventions. The first seasons of critically acclaimed series Twin Peaks (1991) and True Detective (2014) both feature serial killer plot threads while avoiding the generic trappings of the procedural conventions. Likewise, David Fincher’s Mindhunter (2017) received critical acclaim for its fictionalisation of the FBI’s first forays into criminal profiling. Even more significant to this thesis are television series that offer groundbreaking variations of the genre through their representations of the serial killers’ families. The serial killer protagonist of Dexter (2006-2013) offers an unusual twist on the serial killer mythology: rather than killing purely for gratification, Dexter is a vigilante seeking justice on criminals who have not been apprehended by the justice system. Though this thesis contends that this veneration and idolisation of the serial killer is one of the problematic conventions of the genre, Dexter also extends the genre significantly as the killer’s family plays a large role in the series. Also of note is French crime thriller La Mante (2017), which has received critical acclaim for giving voice to the serial killer’s child amidst the criminal investigation. BBC’s The Fall (2013-2016) is also notable for its take on the subject matter. The series follows female detective Stella Gibson as she tracks serial killer, Paul Spector, a man who stalks, rapes and murders women, but who also has a wife and two children, and works as a grief councillor. As a further extension of the genre, The Fall situates serial murder as a symptom of a culture of misogyny, and “age- old male violence against women” (The Fall 2013). Though this is not a radical viewpoint as feminist scholars have put forth this theory for decades24, The Fall is a significant variation of the genre as it turns its “aspirations toward feminist social commentary” (Steenberg 2017, 60), as seen through the lens of the sexually-confident Gibson, a woman “trying to exert authority in an anti-woman environment that observes her with a

24 See: Jane Caputi’s “American Psychos: The Serial Killer in Contemporary Fiction” (1993) and “The New Founding Fathers: The Lore and Lure of the Serial Killer in Contemporary Culture” (1990).

240 mix of desire and terror” (Stanley 2014, par. 5). Not only does the series critique the genre through its feminist underpinnings, the introduction of the family narrative also problematises the idea of unambiguously demonising the serial killer. Rather than simply reducing the serial killer to a monstrous villain, each of these narratives exhibit the various facets of the killer’s lives beyond their preoccupation with murder. The success and critical acclaim of these television series suggests there is a market for narratives that go beyond the generic account of serial crime in order to interrogate the complexity of the subject matter beyond the pathology and methodology of the killer. Though television has thus far served as the most significant platform for these subversive narratives, this thesis seeks to question whether such disruptions can similarly be translated to novels.

Theoretical Framework: Intergenerational Trauma At this point of the literature review, it is necessary to introduce a secondary theoretical framework that will underpin the research. Literary trauma theory is useful for this thesis as it allows for an examination of how trauma can be inherited and transmitted across generations, and is therefore a critical theory to engage with when interrogating the traumas experiences by the descendants of perpetrators. Trauma theory is an expansive area of research which is outside of my field, and I do not have the space in this thesis to comprehensively review this area of study; however, within this extensive and nuanced field there are subareas that will contribute to the formation of my creative work, and allow me to fully realise the complex legacies wrought by serial crime. For that reason, this thesis will limit itself to investigating and applying the study of intergenerational trauma25. Intergenerational trauma refers to the transmission of trauma from one generation to the next, with much of its study growing out of the work done with children of Holocaust survivors in the 1960s (Dass-Brailsford 2007, 5). In particular, this area of study has been advanced by Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok’s theory of “transgenerational haunting” (1994) which asserts that trauma can be handed across to the next generation, even it they have not experienced the trauma themselves. For Gabrielle Schwab—who draws upon Abraham and Torok’s work in her own research— intergenerational trauma is the result of compounded historical trauma, transmitted psychically to successive generations "like an undetected disease" (2010, 3).

25 Also called transgenerational or multigenerational trauma.

241 There is a whole body of literature that argues that trauma can be passed across generations, and Schwab’s research further interrogates “transgenerational memory” and how the children of parents who experienced violence remember events they did not experience for themselves (2010, 22). In Schwab’s research she identifies a gap in transgenerational trauma studies, which focuses exclusively on the descendants of victims of violence and genocide. Schwab suggests that feelings of shame and guilt can also be passed along to the descendants of perpetrators, and makes the argument that trauma discourses should look at the “dynamic between victims and perpetrators” and consider that both are “suffering from the psychic deformations of violent histories” (Schwab 2004, 181). In Schwab’s research she cites Abraham and Torok’s psychoanalytical study on “transgenerational haunting”—trauma as a form of “psychic haunting” that haunts the children of parents who have lived through a traumatic history. Essentially, a person can manifest symptoms of trauma that do not emerge from their own lives, but from their parents and ancestor’s “psychic conflicts, traumas, or secrets” (ibid., 48). Schwab argues that trauma is a “haunting legacy,” constituting “things hard to recount or even to remember, the results of a violence that holds an unrelenting grip on memory yet is deemed unspeakable” (2010, 1). The “psychic effects” of violence, guilt and shame, when passed onto the next generation is an “excruciatingly complicated process” (Schwab 2004, 86), and the legacies of such atrocities continue to haunt future generations. Schwab’s research contends primarily with genocide and war crimes, asserting that such acts of violence that can transmit across generations are “liminal experiences that bring us to the abyss of human abjection”(Schwab 2010, 3). In this thesis I extend these acts of violence which provoke “soul murder and social death” (ibid.) to include serial homicide. When considering the victims of serial crime, the predominant focus is unsurprisingly on those murdered; however, in this research I broaden the definition of what constitutes a victim of serial murder to also include those left to grapple with the consequences of their family member’s horrific actions. In recent years, there has been increased media attention on the guilt and shame experienced by the “often unknown and largely unheard from” (Kovaleski 2012) families of serial killers26. There is a “complex set of emotions and circumstances” (ibid.) experienced by these victims, yet

26 A 2017 episode of Australia Story tells the story of Elisha Rose, daughter of Lindsey Rose, a convicted murdered serving life in prison for the murder of five people. Rose discusses carrying the “burden and shame” of her father’s actions, and the “complex and intricate” process of coming to terms with her father’s legacy (2017).

242 little academic study on the traumas experienced by the families of perpetrators. This absence in both critical studies and fictional accounts is an omission that has ensured that the lingering consequences of serial murder for all parties, including the perpetrators’ families, has not yet been fully considered. By focusing my research exclusively on the families of serial killers and applying trauma theory to this form of violence, I will interrogate how the act of serial murder and its subsequent feelings of shame and guilt can manifest in the lives of the killer’s descendants. By extending the concept of victimhood this thesis illuminates the traumas experienced by those generally neglected and overlooked in the aftermath of serial homicide.

Conclusion As I have outlined in this review, it is within the serial killer genre where the public’s understanding of serial homicide emerges. For Seltzer, serial homicide “has its own logic” and as such, the serial killer as a “species of person” should not be simply located on a spectrum of male sexual violence (1998, 2). However, for Macdonald, these narratives of violence are not recent sites of “cultural consumption, entertainment or artistic muse” (2014, 4), as serial killer narratives are just the contemporary manifestation of an intrinsic human interest in narratives of violent crime. Similarly for Lisa Downing, the serial killer is an “overdetermined cultural figure” (2013, 28); rather than being drastically different from other murders, they are simply the most “recent discursive construction on the murdering subject” (ibid., 29), an idea that is at odds with fictional serial killer narratives which simultaneously glorify and demonise the serial murderer. It is precisely this idea that I wish to rectify in my creative practice; the notion that the serial killers themselves are unquestionably the most interesting point of discussion in narratives of abject violence. As this literature view demonstrates, the critical research into serial killer fiction and the serial killer genre is extensive, but has largely focused on American texts and popular and generic iterations of the subject matter. However, another text essential to this thesis is Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land, which I analyse in depth in the textual analysis component of this thesis. Good Me Bad Me is a psychological thriller narrated by the daughter of a serial killer in the aftermath of her mother’s arrest. The novel presents a significant destabilising on the subject matter through its narrative perspective. In his seminal text Narrative Discourse (1980), Gérard Genette identifies the now widely accepted differences between homodiegetic and heterodiegetic narrators, replacing the common

243 distinction between first and third person narrators with a more exact contrast between involvement and uninvolvement in the story (Walsh 1997, 497). Narrative perspective is integral to both generic and subversive iterations of serial killer fiction, and indeed, the definitive difference between the two. Each non-traditional serial killer text I have surveyed here moves beyond the generic narrative perspective of the detective, and instead adopts the point of view of peripheral victims of the crime, disrupting the genre in the process. Though Land broaches the subject of intergenerational trauma and deploys an unconventional narrative perspective, the novel still upholds many of the reductive tropes of the genre. It is, however, an essential text to position my novel against for its representation of the lingering effects serial murder has on the family, and in particular, the child, of a serial killer. As a further extension of the literary novels I surveyed in this review, The Yellow House will put forth an alternative way to approach and examine fictional serial homicide. My novel will make an original contribution, as focusing on the intergenerational effects of serial crime is a relatively unexplored subject within fictional iterations of serial homicide. By decentring the serial killer and inserting an unconventional narrative perspective, my creative practice takes steps to consider alternative narratives associated with serial homicide. In particular, The Yellow House seeks to interrogate intergenerational trauma and the inheritances of serial violence, and how the complexities of serial crime are far reaching and exist beyond a neatly contained narrative of crime and punishment.

244 Textual Analysis of Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land

When Ali Land’s psychological thriller Good Me Bad Me was published in 2016, it was notable for the atypicality of the female serial killer character at the centre of the narrative. Though Land makes no specific mention of Myra Hindley or Rosemary West—Britain’s most infamous female serial killers—in interviews and publicity for the book, there are echoes of both cases throughout the novel. Good Me Bad Me tells the story of Annie Barnes, a fifteen-year-old placed in foster care after reporting her mother to the police for serial murder. Set in London in the present day, the novel is narrated by Annie in the period immediately following her mother’s arrest for the murder of nine children over eleven years. Annie is renamed Milly and given a new identity, and temporarily placed with her trauma psychologist and his family while waiting to testify in her mother’s murder trial. From childhood, Annie has been subjected to horrific sexual and physical abuse by her mother while simultaneously bearing witness to the murder of the children who were tortured and killed within the family home in a village in Devon. Christened the ‘Peter Pan Killer’ by the media, Annie’s mother’s crimes are sensationally reported in the news headlines as Annie integrates into her new school and living situation, undertaking rigorous therapy to deal with the traumas of her past and to prepare for the court trial for which she is a prime witness. Due to its recent publication, there are no critical studies of the novel; however, its handling of serial crime is relevant to this thesis as it presents “an interesting treatment of the subject: what happens to the children of criminals?” (Goldsworthy 2017). Though the novel is marketed as a psychological thriller, according to Land, it “doesn't slot neatly into one genre” (Huffington Post 2017), falling outside the boundaries of traditional serial killer fiction defined earlier in this thesis. In the following, I contend that Land’s elevation of the novel from formulaic genre conventions disrupts the traditional serial killer narrative and seeks to expand the genre boundaries, and as such, serves as a counterpoint to my own creative work. Good Me Bad Me departs significantly from generic iterations of the traditional serial killer narrative: the serial killer is captured before the events of the novel take place; the serial killer is a female—a rarity in both serial killer fiction and in real life crime—and the serial killer leads an outwardly normal life where she raises her daughter in a seemingly stable environment, expressing “no violence or rage, [her] smile gentle, [her] voice soothing” (15). Land’s characterisation of Annie’s mother as an outwardly

245 unexceptional person adheres to the serial killer fiction trope of a “mask of normalcy” (Seltzer 1998, 6) obscuring the killer’s psychopathy, and comparison can be made to the duel personality motif displayed in Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886). Obvious parallels can also be drawn to West and Hindley, who outwardly presented the feminine ideals of “nurturance and nature” while privately embarking on sadistic acts of “violence, dissoluteness and nihilism” (Storrs 2015, 15). Despite Annie’s mother presenting as the archetypal female serial killer, the novel rejects the serial killer novel template by being completely removed from the realm of detective. Good Me Bad Me is not a detective procedural, and there is no detective guiding the reader through the narrative, no ‘cat and mouse’ game played between the killer and the authorities. Though the murder trial is featured in the book, it is entirely from Annie’s perspective. The reader gets glimpses of the trial; however, the specific details are avoided, and for the most part we are witnessing Annie’s internal thought processes and her interpretation of these events. Through removing the element of detection from the novel, the narrative’s interest instead lies with Annie and interrogating the aftermath of her mother’s arrest. These attempts to disrupt the serial killer narrative are significant subversions worthy of interrogation, and have influenced my own attempts to destabilise the rendering of serial crime in my creative practice. As I argued in my literature review, it is often the presence of the law enforcement that prevents fictionalisations of serial homicide moving beyond a simplistic, generically bounded narrative. This removal of the law enforcement in Good Me Bad Me—as well as the rejection of the many other tropes I have identified—allows the novel to take steps to shift its focus to another facet of serial crime that is rarely fictionalised. Similar to what I foreground in The Yellow House, Land illuminates the underreported traumas associated with serial crime and gives a voice to another type of victim generally silenced in these narratives. It is not the intellectual, clinical detective whose perspective the reader follows, but rather, it is the teenage daughter of the serial killer who dictates how the story is told. Fictionalised serial murder is generally preoccupied with the psychology and killing methods of the serial killer and it is rare to see the family of the serial killer—beyond the reductive trope and “comforting etiololgy” of blaming the killer’s pathology on childhood sexual abuse or a domineering mother (Freccero 1997, 51)—examined with any rigor. The narration from Annie’s point of view moves towards decentring the serial killer, allowing the reader to experience sustained empathy with this typically sidelined character—the child of a serial killer. It is

246 through Annie that the reader makes sense of the crimes, as well as the effect that such abject violence can have on the family members who are forced to live with the legacies of homicide. The trauma Annie experiences as a result of her parentage is twofold; first, she is recovering from the lifelong abuse at the hands of her mother, and more pertinent to this interests of this thesis—she is grappling with the guilt, shame, and self-denigration that stems from the knowledge of her mother’s crimes. Annie’s own self-perception illuminates the lingering and complex effects of being the child of a violent perpetrator. Annie considers herself to be tainted by her mother’s transgressions. She is constantly grappling with the implications of being the child of a killer, which is heightened by her physical resemblance to her mother: “You’re the spit of your mother, they used to say at the women’s refuge”(43). She is constantly questioning whether she is genetically tainted, worried about “what lives inside me and if it’s possible to outrun it. Traits buried deep in my DNA follow me. Haunt me.” (89). As Schwab writes, children of perpetrators suffer from the “psychic deformations of violent histories” (2004, 181). Annie’s knowledge of her mother’s crimes has psychologically morphed and deformed her sense of self. She views herself to be “contaminated” (8) by her bloodline, and powerless in controlling her own life, which has already been determined by her mother’s actions. Though Annie’s mother is not physically present in the novel and Annie has been removed from her mother’s power and control, she remains an omnipotent presence in Annie’s life. Annie’s mother’s disembodied voice speaks to Annie as she navigates her new life with a secret identity; a constant reminder to Annie of who she “belong(s) to” (72). Despite the fact that the conventional serial killer narrative is resolved and the world returns to normal when the serial killer is caught, the lingering presence of Annie’s mother suggests that the menace and terror of serial crime does not cease when the killer is captured and the murders are stopped, but rather, it continues to manifest in the lives of those closely effected. Shifting the narrative’s focus to Annie’s story also allows Land to take steps to readdress the way that serial killers are generally encountered in fiction. As I discussed in my literature review, fictional serial killers barely resemble their real life counterparts, something I seek to disrupt in my creative practice. Rather than painting the serial killer as an entirely monstrous creation, the point of view of the serial killer’s daughter problematises the reductive trope of situating the serial killer as otherworldly and inhuman. Though Annie’s mother is characterised as an unconscionable predator she is

247 still a mother, and the paradoxical bond Annie feels in spite of her revulsion at her mother’s acts complicates the neat return to order that is characteristic of the serial killer genre. Despite being separated from her mother Annie still feels a great deal of devotion towards her: “…though I’m not longer with you, a part of me still wants to please you and indulge my desire to be close to you again” (44). At the trial Annie dresses in a way she knows her mother would approve of, acknowledging, “I shouldn’t be doing that. Still trying to please you” (227). Rather than paint the killer as an empty vessel, Land illustrates the potential complexity of the relationship dynamic. Annie’s love towards her mother is not an attempt to humanise the killer, but rather, it shows the multitude of narratives surrounding abject violence, and the ricocheted effect it has on various lives, not just those of the victims and their families. Expanding the definition of what constitutes a victim of serial homicide invites nuanced discussion of how serial crime’s impact is widespread and devastating. Though Annie herself was abused, her trauma can also be attributed to the guilt she feels over her mother’s crimes and the fact she holds a level of accountability for the murders. Annie’s trauma partially stems from the retrospective guilt she feels for not intervening sooner; her “survivor’s guilt and how it can make a person feel more culpable than they are” (153). Though Annie never witnesses or participates in the murders—with the exception of the final murder, which she commits to spare the abducted child further pain—she is groomed by her mother into being her “little helper” (274) and “protégé” (51), as well as a vital part of the mask which allows her to commit the crimes undetected and uphold her “façade of healthy normality” (Jarvis 2007, 329) for such a long period of time. Annie is made complicit in the murders. After each death, Annie is given the “job to clean up afterwards” (241) and help discard the children’s bodies. The abuse Annie experiences and the murders she witnesses are vaguely alluded to rather that gratuitously detailed, rejecting the traditional serial killer novel model which thrives on salacious depictions of torture and abuse. Though the explicit details of the crimes are not given space in the novel, the adverse effects that bearing witness to the murders have had on Annie’s development are positioned at the forefront of the narrative. Annie lives with her psychologist, who is writing a book about Annie’s experiences: …his other footnotes detail my self-blame, how a victim of abuse loses the perspective of neutrality—everybody for or against them. An arrow in red, then the phrase ‘GOOD ME VS BAD ME’, underlined and circled (211).

248 The constant interactions with Annie’s psychologist means that Annie’s fragile mental state is emphasised, as are the challenges of re-entering normal society after a lifetime of severe dysfunction. Annie willingly participates in therapy aimed at “releasing trauma buried in (her) subconscious” (117). Though Judith Herman states that “the ordinary response to atrocities is to banish them from consciousness” (1992, 1), Annie’s understanding of the effect her upbringing has had on her is thoughtful and coherent. She is aware of how the trauma inflicted by her mother has damaged her psychology, stating, “my mind does not function the same way an average person’s does” (47). She is aware that her trauma has significantly altered her mental state, and in the aftermath of the murders, the reader follows Annie’s lucid process to heal from her suffering, and attempt to overcome the psychological damage that has been inflicted upon her as a result of her mother’s heinous crimes. The mental health problems Annie experiences in Good Me Bad Me reflect how trauma can manifest in real life. In fact, it was Land’s specific intention to redress the narrative of trauma, and fictionalise a character living in the shadow of a parent’s abhorrent crimes. In an interview with the Huffington Post, Land states that she drew on her background as a mental health nurse to develop the narrative, and based Annie on a patient who “loathed herself and wanted to end her life, was that she was convinced she would turn out like her mother who had been involved in the serious harm of children" (2017, par. 6). By drawing on her own experiences working in the mental health sector, Land gives authenticity to the narrative of trauma, and seeks to develop a character whose experiences reflect how people potentially grapple with trauma in real life. However, Good Me Bad Me presents a significant deviation from what I contend is possible in these narratives—that is, that trauma of serial crime can be experienced through transmission and the shame and guilt of this knowledge is as damaging and extensive as trauma experienced first hand. As Schwab states, “a person can manifest symptoms that do not directly spring from her own life experiences but from a parent’s or ancestor’s psychic conflicts, traumas, or secrets” (2004, 181). As I have outlined, Annie feels tainted by her mother’s legacy and the manifestations of trauma she experiences are due to her torment at being related to such an incomprehensible figure. However, where Land’s construction of trauma in the aftermath of serial crime diverges from my own is that Annie was directly abused herself, and “groomed and sexualised from a very young age” (243) by her mother. As Annie states:

249 I never asked for a mother who wolf-whistled at me, who laughed in my face when I tried to say no. I’d tell you, you were wrong when you used to stand behind me at the mirror in your bedroom and say nobody will ever love me but you…You were right, my insides do look different to everybody else’s. A curious, twisted shape (326). Though it is clear that witnessing the abuse of others and experiencing abuse herself are both damaging, it is impossible to untangle the consequences of her mother’s sexual abuse from what stemmed from witnessing her mother’s acts of serial murder. Though Annie’s perception of herself as inherently tainted by her familial identity is a significant thematic construct of the novel, her own physical and sexual abuse overshadows a truly rigorous exploration of the transmission of trauma. Annie’s narration as an unconventional victim adds a layer of complexity to the novel, yet the novel still conforms to reductive stereotypes in significant ways. In particular, the serial killer still conforms to two-dimensional depictions of serial killers as being nothing more than a sum of their crimes, a stereotype I am rigorously trying to destabilise in my own work. The serial killer in Land’s text upholds many of the stale tropes that glorify the serial killer, and, despite withholding the specific details of the murders, the killer is still painted as a monstrous, unambiguous figure. Though Annie narrates the novel, her mother still holds together the fictional universe. She is at the centre of the narrative, and her characterisation upholds many of the reductive tropes that contribute to the serial killer mythology. As I mentioned earlier in this analysis, there are obvious parallels to Myra Hindley in the novel. Like Hindley, Annie’s mother presents a female serial killer archetype: clever and cunning, and using the mask of femininity and maternity to hide her monstrosity and avoid suspicion. However, this is shown to be a ruse, and, despite Annie displaying loyalty towards her mother, there are no feeling of tenderness from the serial killer towards her own child. The potential to interrogate the relationship dynamic between serial killer and daughter is great and could potentially present an interesting interrogation of how one straddles intimacy alongside their acts of terror. However, there is no tension or ambiguity between the killer’s family life and criminal life, and Annie’s mother presents as a stereotypically uncomplicated villain who shows no empathy, even towards her own child. Rather than portray a nuanced relationship between the pair, the serial killer is archetypally monstrous as the acts of violence she commits towards both the children she murders and her daughter remain entirely sensationalised.

250 The literary landscape that the novel entered into upon publication is significant when considering the novel’s appeal, as well as its shortcomings. The novel’s recent publication in early 2017 establishes itself loosely alongside a dominant literary trend that has dominated the market in recent years. The domestic noir genre made popular by author’s such as S.J Watson (Before I Go to Sleep, 2011), Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl, 2012) and Paula Hawkins (The Girl on the Train, 2015) is an immensely popular literary subgenre within crime fiction; books that are written by women for women, and which deal with crime within the domestic sphere. Though Good Me Bad Me also straddles the psychological thriller genre due to its fast pace, it still sits largely within this landscape of female-led crime narratives, which “takes as its base a broadly feminist view that the domestic sphere is a challenging and sometimes dangerous prospect for its inhabitants” (Crouch 2013, par. 12). Though the premise behind The Yellow House and Good Me Bad Me have parallels regarding their interrogations of the traumas experienced by the descendants of serial killers, it is the different landscapes from which they emerged which can account for their most significant divergences. Good Me Bad Me adheres to many of the tropes of the immensely popular, domestic noir genre. It is female driven, contains an unreliable female narrator, and the crimes take place within the home. Though the premise of the novel has potential to innovate, its reliance on these predictable tropes and conventions to hook and sustain the attention of the reader ultimately reduces the novel from being a truly complex extension of the subject matter. As a reimagined serial killer novel, there are many elements of Good Me Bad Me that align with my own creative practice. As a subversive of the serial killer narrative, Good Me Bad Me seeks to reject the genre’s conventional tropes, and instead focuses on the aftermath of serial crime and how the traumas manifest in the child of the perpetrator, a rarely considered victim of serial crime. Land figures serial crime as an event with many victims, and with a legacy that stretches well beyond the detection and apprehension of the perpetrator, making a substantial innovation to the genre in the process. Though Land’s subversion of the serial killer narrative takes steps to reframe serial homicide, it also highlights the challenges that arise when attempting to destabilise the genre. The novel takes steps to redirect the focus of the narrative away from the killer, yet still adheres to the many generic tropes of the genre resulting in a perpetuation of stereotypes and an ultimately reductive representation of serial crime. Though the novel hits these tropes in order to fulfil the reader’s expectations of the generic subject matter, the appeal and satisfaction of my own creative practice must lay elsewhere, which

251 I will further discuss in the conclusion of this thesis. Good Me Bad Me acts as a counterpoint for my own novel and aligns with elements of what I am doing in my own work; however, it is necessary to look further in order to address my research questions, and also consider an Australian rendering of the aftermath of violent crime. I now turn to An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire, a novel that disrupts the traditional narrative of crime in order to further contextualise my work as a reimagined Australian serial killer narrative.

252 Textual analysis of Emily Maguire’s An Isolated Incident

Emily Maguire’s 2016 novel An Isolated Incident sits in the “vast blurry middle ground” between crime and literary fiction” (Grossman 2012, par. 18). Though the novel opens in a generically familiar way—the discovery of a young, attractive woman who has been raped and murdered—Maguire’s feminist motivation is displayed through her consistent disruptions of the traditional crime genre narrative and its formulaic conventions, which often displays an “intense masculinity” (Reddy 2003, 202) and remains fixed on a predictable formula. Maguire intentionally subverts crime genre tropes for feminist objectives, transcending the traditional crime genre and emphasising that “plot and literary intelligence aren’t mutually exclusive” (Grossman 2009, par. 12). By writing “with genre” rather than “in genre” (Krystal 2012, par. 7), she seeks to represent a feminist perspective of male violence against women in contemporary Australian society, as well as interrogate the media’s role in fostering public fascination with gratuitous violence inflicted upon the objectified, female body. In an interview with the Sydney Morning Herald, Maguire states she wrote An Isolated Incident in response to her discomfort at crime novels which privilege the voice of the suffering detective over the victims, as well as her frustration that the individual murders of women are rarely linked to recognise the pattern of male violence against women (2016). On publication, Maguire’s subversive approach towards the subject was met with great interest, and she was shortlisted for a number of national literary awards, including the Miles Franklin, the Stella Prize, and the ABIA Literary Fiction Book of the Year. The novel’s timely publication during a particularly fraught period of escalating intimate partner homicides in Australia was topical. On average, one woman a week is killed at the hands of a partner or former partner (Bryant and Bricknall 2017, iii). In the past several years, a series of high profile homicides cases have led to a robust national discourse surrounding violence against women and intimate partner violence, including calls for government reforms aimed at implementing changes to ineffective legislation and policy. Within this discourse, there is an increasing amount of criticism of the way the media reports on these murders, which frequently frame femicides as isolated incidences of violence, rather than interconnected occurrences reinforced by a problematic culture of misogynist attitudes and gender imbalance. The murder and public response Maguire depicts in An Isolated Incident—which I will outline shortly—mirrors real-life homicide cases that have sparked public outcry

253 over the past few decades, and was broadly informed by the murder of Anita Cobby, one of the most infamous murder cases in Australia’s criminal history (Maguire 2016). In Western Sydney in 1986, five men abducted 26-year-old registered nurse Cobby as she walked home Blacktown station. After Cobby was robbed, raped, tortured, and killed, her body was left in a cow paddock and discovered two days after her murder (Hosking 2017). Though the details of the murder and trial were not unique in themselves, the public and institutional interest in the case was unprecedented (Serisier 2005, 121)27. In the 31 years since the murder, numerous nonfiction accounts have been published on the case, including Julia Sheppard’s Someone Else’s Daughter (1991), Alan Whitaker’s Anita Cobby: The Crime That Shocked the Nation (2015) and Mark Morri’s Remembering Anita Cobby: The Case, the Husband, the Aftermath—30 Years On (2016). The story was loosely fictionalised in the 1998 film The Boys, and featured in several true crime television series, including a 2006 episode of Crime Investigation Australia, a 2008 episode of Crime Stories, a 2010 episode of Crime Families Australia, as well as a 7 news special, 7 News Investigates: Anita Cobby — You Thought You Knew It All, which aired on the 30th anniversary of Cobby’s murder. Clearly, Cobby’s murder penetrated the national consciousness in the 1980s, and remains one of the most remembered murders in Australia’s history. The case depicted in An Isolated Incident is also reminiscent of several more recent, high profile cases, both in terms of the murders and the public responses to the crimes. The murder of Gillian Meagher in Melbourne in 2012 aroused a similar level of public outrage. After Meagher was raped and murdered while walking home from a hotel in Brunswick, there was an immediate public reaction to the murder, including a march down Sydney Road attended by 30,000 people, and governmental reform of legislation that resulted in stricter parole laws being instated in Victoria (ABC 2015). Similarly, the murder of Alison Baden-Clay who was killed by her husband in Brisbane earlier that year also resulted in an outpouring of public grief alongside a swift increase in national discourse regarding the epidemic of violence against women and the sociology that underpins these types of crime. The media interest in these cases also reveals the pattern of the media privileging a certain type of victim. ‘Missing white woman syndrome’ is a term coined to identify the “widespread and systematic race and gender disparities” in

27 During the trial of Cobby’s murders, there was a swift increase in newspaper sales and television news ratings. Furthermore the public reaction to and involvement in the case was intense: a petition to reintroduce the death penalty was signed by over 20,000 people in six weeks, and the arrests of the perpetrators provoked protests around the police station and courthouse. The protesters chanted ‘hang the bastards’, while construction workers the courthouse opposite hanged dummies suspended from nooses (Harvey in Seriser 2005, 121).

254 the media coverage of missing persons, based on the observation that white women receive disproportionate media coverage (Sommers 2016, 278). The missing and murdered women in Australia that receive the most amount of media coverage tend to adhere to an archetype—not only are they white, but they are also young, conventionally attractive, and middle class. The narrative of murder and its aftermath portrayed in An Isolated Incident mirrors the many topical cases of missing and murdered ‘perfect victims’ that have appeared in the headlines in the recent past. Though not directly fictionalising any of these cases, Maguire’s rendering of murder is reminiscent of—and critiques—how high profile murders have played out in the media in recent years, in order to more accurately reflect the aftermath of violent crime than what is generally depicted in crime fiction. Maguire’s explicit rejection of crime tropes allows for an extension of the well- established interests explored in her previous fiction, essays and articles about feminism, sex, and gender. As a writer with feminist objectives, she was writing outside the boundaries of genre in order to comment on Australian society at the time the novel was written. An Isolated Incident opens in a generically familiar way: the discovery of a dead body that leads to an investigation of a brutal and highly publicised crime. The body in question is twenty-five year-old aged-care nurse Bella Michaels, found dead in in her hometown of Strathdee, a fictional and nondescript rural town located on the road from Melbourne to Sydney, and the last place “you’d expect to hear about that kind of violence” (61). The novel opens with a police officer informing Bella’s older sister Chris—a barmaid and sex worker—that her sister’s body has been found mutilated and murdered in a stretch of highway close to town. The murder comes as a shock for Chris and the small town they live in, as “Bella herself was pristine” (124) and a “nice, sweet white girl” (142). However, like in Good Me Bad Me, the point of view deployed in An Isolated Incident decidedly subverts the traditional crime tropes. The novel alternates between Chris’s narration as she struggles with the grief of losing her sister, and the narration of May, a rookie journalist who has been posted from Sydney to cover the crime. Interspersed between these alternating voices are snippets of media analysis from a fictional online publication called Femoliton voicing outrage over the murder and the misogynistic society that enables these sorts of crimes. As the novel progresses, the narrative mainly follows Chris as she deals with the loss of her sister. The police investigation is sidelined to the background, and Maguire instead focuses on dissecting the culture of violence and the impact that male-

255 perpetrated crime has on the families and communities of the female victim. Like Land, removing the narrative of murder from the realm of detection allows Maguire to focus the narrative on the lingering and often unconsidered traumas wrought by violent murder. Also like in Good Me Bad Me the death happens off the page. A horrific murder is revealed to have occurred in the novel’s opening pages, yet the novel is not a police procedural. Though the police are present in the opening pages to break the news of Bella’s death to Chris—and the investigation occasionally intersects with the narrative— the detective’s point of view is not privileged, nor is the criminal investigation at the forefront of the narrative. Detective fiction can be classified as a text that combines two forms of suspense: “the desire to know ‘whodunit’, along with the suspense derived by the fear that whoever it was might repeat their crime” (Gregoriou 2007, 37). While these two narrative questions are raised in the novel, it is everything surrounding the crime that the novel is concerned with, rather than the crime itself. For David Lehman, the procedural genre takes “murder out of the ethical realm and put[s] it into that of aesthetics” (Lehman quoted in in Simpson 2000, 74), as the “labyrinthine plotting and intellectual complexity of the puzzle story” overshadows the moral dilemmas associated with fictionalising murder, turning it into a game of entertainment and intellect (ibid., 75). The text becomes a satisfying mystery for the reader to solve alongside the detective, as all ethical implications are eroded through the genre’s compliance to its narrative conventions and the reassurance that the criminal will be apprehended for his transgressions. This essential genre expectation is fulfilled in An Isolated Incident when Bella’s killer is anticlimactically apprehended at the novel’s end. However, despite this apparent closure the “rawness of violent death” (Gomel 1999, 34) is not defused by this plot trope. Indeed, towards the end of the novel, Maguire metafictionally comments on the gulf between the narratives found in the crime genre—where the apprehension of the murderer precipitates a return to social order—and how these tragedies play out in real life. After Bella’s killer is captured, Chris thinks: I’ve watched enough Law and Order, read enough true crime. I know how it has to go. Finish with a last memory of the pretty dead girl and the sound of the jail door slamming shut on the monster who kills her and everyone can feel like the world has been set to rights (336). By having Chris—the closest person to Bella—tell the story, it becomes apparent that this crime trope does not result in a sense of closure for those who know the victim. In the traditional crime narrative, when the murderer is captured, logically, closure is

256 achieved and the disrupted world neatly returns to the status quo. Though the rationality of detection methods prevails in An Isolated Incident as the criminal is captured, it is not the detective whose story or voice we hear. In crime fiction, the victim is often silenced and the journey and struggles of the detective become the focus of the story. By giving a voice to the other victims of the crime, Maguire refuses to figure homicide as a game or a narrative device, and nor is the murder fetishised. Though the reader knows the investigation is going on in the background of the novel—and these two narrative threads occasionally intersect—they are more interested in Chris’s story, rather than the details of the criminal or the struggle of the detective. By shifting the focus onto the family and community and the victim, Maguire also avoids salacious depictions of the murdered female victim that is so common in crime fiction. Kristeva’s theory of the abject is highly relevant when looking at the construction of the female body and the reader responses to gender-based violence in crime and serial killer fiction. For Kristeva, “the corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost abjection. It is death infecting life” (1982, 247). By encountering the dead and violated female body in all its abjection, the reader becomes, in Kristevan terms, both “voyeur and sympathizer”, both “critic of gender-based violence and complicit peddler or consumer” of a titillating genre (Naidu 2014, 71). Bella is the archetypal crime narrative victim, and reminiscent of the many high profile murder victims that receive a great amount of media attention: she is well liked, wholesome, and attractive: “the most beautiful thing anyone around here had ever seen in the flesh” (3). In the news reports after Bella’s death, her relatablity is emphasised: “that’s what’s so scary. It could’ve been any of us killed…She was just like us. Going about her life, not doing anything wrong or dangerous, and this has happened. You can’t help thinking, “it could’ve been me”” (150). By characterising Bella as the archetypical, empathetic victim, Maguire draws attention to the problematic depictions of female victims that are so common in crime fiction. As Chris is reflecting on the murder after identifying the body—which the reader is not present for—she imagines Bella’s attack as: worse than bad, the vivid guesswork of my mind, which has spent too many hours watching crime shows, too many nights reading true-crime stories. Bad enough I must see inside my own mind flashes of suffering that look like fucking NCIS, sound like Underbelly, feel like a boot coming down on my chest. And if

257 that sounds good to you then go ahead and read the coroner’s report and look up those obscene photos for yourself. I’m not your pornographer (22-23). For Jaque Lynn Foltyn, the sexualised dead body is a “stock character” (2008, 167) in popular culture and crime fiction in particular. The autopic gaze upon the dead, female body—what Foltyn calls “corpse porn”—in narratives of serial crime “highlight[s] the body’s sexuality as well as its decomposition” eroticising the female corpse and titillating the reader (ibid., 166). Maguire explicitly rejects this trope of “gratuitous depictions of corporeal afflictions” (Macdonald 2013, 4), as there is no voyeuristic appeal in the recounting of Bella’s murder; no salacious depiction of the victim’s mutilated body, and the gruesome details of Bella’s brutalisation are not revealed to the reader. There is no clinical investigation of the murder scene, no depiction of the autopsy where sexualised depictions of violence invite objectification of female victims. All we know of Bella’s attack is the suggestive horror of the news report, which states she was “terribly mauled” (18). The “repetitive trope” of the mutilated woman’s body, which represents the horror and tragedy of the murder (Jacobs 2010, 153) is withheld from the reader. Refusing to include salacious descriptions of the crime can be seen as a direct critique of one of the major tropes of the crime genre. Because these details of the crime are deemphasised in order to focus on the victims, Maguire’s construction of the perpetrator deviates significantly from the way violent offenders are generally encountered in both crime fiction and in the media. Having a family member of the murder victim dictate the way the story is told decentralises the identity of the killer. While Chris is eager to find Bella’s killer, she is equally focused on grieving for her sister, which means that Bella’s killer is not at the centre of the narrative. Shifting the focus away from the perpetrator serves two purposes. First, it redirects the interest of the novel to highlight the experiences of the victims, and second, it seeks to challenge the common misconceptions the public has of violent criminals. Though the perpetrator is eventually apprehended at the end of the novel, his identity is deemphasised. The reader is not told his name and the details of his arrest are only briefly described: “the police charged a thirty-two year old Strathdee house painter with Bella’s rape and murder. They had found him after a tip-off, searched his home and found a piece of Bella’s clothing. DNA was conclusive” (335). The narrative does not discuss the killer’s prior crimes or his motivation, and downplays the possibility of serial homicide, simply stating that the “detectives were looking into the possibility he was responsible for cases throughout the state going back a decade” (337).

258 Though the perpetrator in serial killer fiction is consistently characterised as a “villainous monster” (Santaulària 2007, 60), Maguire seeks to more accurately present a realistic reflection of what a violent perpetrator looks like, rather than propagate this genre trope of the serial killer being either preternatural or entirely animalistic. To do this, Maguire stresses the killer’s normality: “He was average height, slim, with short light brown hair. He wore jeans and a dark blue t-shirt” (336). In emphasising his mundanity, Maguire seeks to dismantle a common trope in narratives of male violence—namely that men who kill women are exceptional. In an essay published by White Ribbon Ireland, Tom Meagher, Gillian Meagher’s husband, writes of the “monster myth”—the view he had of his wife’s killer in the immediate aftermath of her murder. Meagher writes: “I had formed an image that this man was not human, that he existed as a singular force of pure evil who somehow emerged from the ether” (2014, par. 1). Seeing his wife’s killer at the court trial forced Meagher to reconsider the assumptions and myths he had bought into about perpetrators of violence against women. Rather than “insulating” with the “intellectually evasive dismissal of violent men as psychotic or sociopathic aberrations” (ibid.), it is necessary to dismantle the myths surrounding the ‘type’ of man who commits acts of violence against women. Throughout An Isolated Incident, Maguire explores the community’s perception of the perpetrator before he is apprehended: “no man I’ve ever met could do that” (41), Chris says, suggesting that a person capable of such a crime must exist on the fringes, and could not possibly be a normal, functioning member of society. However, rather than elevate the killer to a mythological status and turn him into a horror villain, Maguire critiques the source of the murder by posing that male to female violence can largely be “accounted for by social and institutional conditions of gender inequality” (Titterington 2006, 206). This, in turn, critiques the culture that allowed the murder of Bella to occur, rather than insinuating that rape and murder occurs in a vacuum and is committed by monstrous, psychotic men who exist of the fringes of society. An Isolated Incident is interspersed with relentless snapshots of the varying degrees of the degradation of women. The reader is privy to incidents experienced within the small, rural town, but also through wider Australia, seen through May’s reportage and narration, and through the snippets of the Femolition articles. May is heckled out of the car and a cop writes it off as “harmless” (51). A suspect in Bella’s murder is eliminated after a suspicious bite mark is revealed to be from his wife during a domestic incident (249-250). The reader learns that Chris’s ex-husband Nathan—Chris’s main supporter in the aftermath of Bella’s

259 death—has served time in prison for the assault of an ex-partner, and Chris similarly reflects on an incident when he punched her in the face when they were married: “I’d asked for it, really. Had egged him on for years” (111). Chris reflects on being beaten by her mother’s boyfriends as a child; May remembers a boy from school drawing a graphic picture of her dead body because he “liked her” (338). When May is pursuing her research, she notes a long lists of past Australian rapes and killings: “bodies burnt beyond recognition, decomposed, dismembered, shoved in suitcases, dumped in rivers, stashed in freezers, partially dissolved in chemical drums” (336). She reflects that these cases are unrelated and committed by different perpetrators straddling different classes and places: what happened to Bella had nothing to do with Tegan Miller and none of it had to do with the rich Sydney housewife left out to rot in the street which had nothing to do with the Nigerian girls stolen as sex slaves or the Indian woman eviscerated on a bus or the man grabbing women off the streets of Brunswick. None of it connected, she knew, and yet, and yet, it felt like it [did] … there was a thread connecting it all, and if she could find it she could follow it back, see where it began (337). Maguire constantly blurs the boundaries between physical violence against women, and the casual sexism that is rife in the community. As a result, Maguire conveys that the misogyny at the root of all of these incidents is systematic, and interwoven in the fabric of society. The novel does not reduce the circumstances of Bella’s murder to the actions of a monstrous, singular killer, but situates it as an unexceptional instance on a “continuum of sexual victimization”(Gavey 1999, 75). Maguire advocates that individual occurrences of violence should not be separated because doing so ignores the fact that these crimes have the same cause—violent men and a culture of ingrained misogyny. These casual, relentless instances of sexism are held up against both Bella’s murder, which is positioned not as a stand alone, aberrant crime committed by an evil man, but as a senseless consequence of a culture that enables male entitlement. Contextualising the novel within an Australian setting is also important to understand the culture Maguire critiques, and in turn, the context from which my novel and narrative of serial crime emerges. If the crime genre can act as a vehicle for capturing something about Australian culture and the people that inhabit it (Knight 1997, 3) then Maguire’s representation of the rampant masculinity of rural Australia works to convey larger truths about Australia’s attitudes toward gendered violence and homicide. Though Australian crime fiction is often set in urban areas—and often deals with organised

260 crime—much has been written about rural masculinity and crime in rural areas, in particular, the idea of rural spaces as areas of “backwardness and savagery”; a “landscape of violence and rigid gendered divisions” (Donnermyer 2013, 81). The menace that hides behind the celebrated bush mythology is a “subterranean cultural vision” which associates outback Australia with “rural horror” by situating it as an “object of dread” (Scott and Biron 2010, 310). In his study of Australian crime fiction, Stephen Knight writes of a “remarkable formation” that occurs in the genre; namely a lack of reference to place which results in the country having no “emotive or agent part” in the narrative. Alternatively, such crime narratives “over-emphasise” place and create a “touristic version” of the landscape (1997, 144). There has, however, been a number of recent crime novels published which emphasise the hostile and threatening landscape as a source of narrative tension. Garry Disher’s Bitter Wash Road (2013), Adrian Hyland’s Diamond Dove (2006) and Gunshot Road (2010), and Jane Harper’s The Dry (2015), are acclaimed crime novels set in rural Australia, wherein the setting is intrinsic to the how and why of the crimes. Though the “bush myth” is an enduring cultural legacy, these crime novels reject the mythology of the outback as a “familiar source of national identity” and instead present it as a “space of abjection” (Biron and Scott 2010, 308). In such novels, rural idealisation is rejected, and instead, the rural is presented as a “sick, sordid, malevolent…underbelly” (Bell 1997, 94). The “national dreamscape” becomes a “landscape of horror” (Scott and Biron 2010, 320) in which violence and transgression is rife. Earlier, I wrote of the particular stereotypes that exist of American and British serial killers based on notorious and sensational murders that struck a chord in their respective countries. The idea that a specific archetype exists of the Australian serial killer is equally true. From prominent cases, stereotypes have emerged which are ingrained in the Australian psyche, and which associate serial killers with isolated, rural spaces. The Peter Falconio case in the Northern Territory in 200128 and Milat’s backpacker murders in New South Wales in the 1990s loom large. These infamous criminals have shaped the archetype of the Australian serial killer as a patriarchal, white, violent drifter living outside the margins of society, both symbolically and geographically29. He is a wanderer

28 In 2001, British tourists Peter Falconio and Joanne Lees were pulled over by a passing driver and ordered out of the car. Joanne Lees was tied up and held in the man’s ute. Though Lees managed to escape, Falconio was never found and presumed dead. Bradley John Murdoch was convicted of the murder of Falconio and the assault and abduction of Lees in 2005 (Chulov in Gans 2007, 415). 29 Though Murdoch has only been convicted of the one count of murder, I contend that his infamy perpetrates this stereotype in a similar way to Milat, as the motiveless aspect of the murder places him in a

261 with knowledge of the land, and asserts his masculine dominance through terrorising and annihilating victims as sport. The image of the serial killer inhabiting rural spaces has been solidified in film in particular, most notable, Wolf Creek (2015), which was inspired by both Ivan Milat and the Falconio case and has turned the image of the wild, murderous outsider into a cultural icon. For Gemma Blackwood, the serial killer antagonist of the film, Mick Taylor is “allegorical of the horrors of patriarchal white Australian history that marginalised females, Indigenous cultures and other voices of alterity” (2008, 495). Despite the fact that many Australian serial killers do not fit this mould, it is the image of this fictionalised archetype that is emblematic of the dangerous psychopath who stalks the Australian landscape. It is therefore significant that this image of the monstrous killer is rejected in An Isolated Incident. When the killer is revealed, it is his ordinariness that is displayed, rather than the barbaric wild hunter stalking throughout the outback. The perpetrator is shockingly human, reflecting Meagher’s critique that violence against women is mundane rather than monstrous. Though crime writers such as Disher and Harper construct the isolated landscape as a treacherous and menacing space where violent crime is inevitable, in An Isolated Incident, it is not the landscape, but the people who inhabit it, who are the source of anxiety. Though Strathdee is a small town far removed from urban spaces, Maguire rejects the notion that it is the rural landscape that triggers the psychological mutation that allows for the murder to occur. Though Maguire does perpetuate the “masculinist constructions of rural Australia” (Samuels 1999, 109) in her characterisation of the town’s inhabitants, she expands on the previous fictional representations of violent crime and homicide by seeking to locate the murder as the inevitable result of a misogynist culture. The ironic title, An Isolated Incident suggests that acts of violence against women should not be looked at in isolation. As the setting is physically isolated from urban Australia, the size of the small town amplifies the crime, showing that what happens on a small scale pervades Australia wide. She uses the genre to provide commentary on gendered violence, and seeks to draw connections between casual sexism and the murder of women. Rather than reinforce genre tropes, Maguire rejects the common narrative of crime that is perpetuated in commercial crime fiction. By changing who is in control of telling the story, Maguire moves the reader’s interest away from the similar realm as the serial killer, despite the lower body count. Furthermore, after Murdoch’s arrest, police began reviewing his background for links to unsolved murders throughout WA, including the Claremont serial killers, the disappearance of Hayley Dodd, who was last seen in 1999 near Badgingarra north of Perth, and the disappearance of a Broome woman missing since 1996 (Sunday Territorian 2005).

262 salacious aspects of the crime in order to redirect the focus of the novel to the victims of crime and how families and communities cope in the aftermath of brutal violence, as well as the cultural factors that enable male violence against women to thrive. Ultimately, Maguire’s privileging of perspectives that are rarely considered in these narratives— namely, the families of the victims—emphasises that the horror and instability caused by serial crime cannot be tidily defused with the identification and apprehension of the perpetrator. The novel serves as a significant innovation of the genre by highlighting the ongoing and extensive traumas that fester in the aftermath of serial crime.

As I conclude my textual analysis of these novels, I begin to come to an understanding of how my novel aligns with these two narratives of crime, and where it deviates to further destabilise the dominant fictional narrative of serial homicide. In their treatment of the aftermath of violent crime, both Land and Maguire take significant steps to bring us to a partial reimaging of the serial killer narrative. By adopting the perspective of family members suffering in the aftermath of violent crime—the daughter of a serial killer, in the case of Land, and the sister of a murder victim, in the case of Maguire—both novelists significantly subvert the genre by removing the narrative of murder from the realm of detection, and allow for unexplored traumas of violent crime to be centered. In serial killer narratives, “victim figures often go unnoticed, stripped of life of course by the killers, but also dignity, particularly as each figure is not only very often randomly chosen by the killer, but also one of many” (Gregoriou 2011, 6). Considering the voices of crime victims are so infrequently heard in media narratives, this shift in narrative perspective towards peripheral narrators is a significant innovation, as it allows both Maguire and Land to centre “stories and experiences that have frequently been hidden in plain sight not only by criminology and victimology but also by criminal justice processes” (Walklate et al 2018, 12). Groups advocating for the victims of crime “have grown apace throughout the Westo-centric world” since the late 1960s and 1970s (ibid., 2), as has the concept of victim advocacy, which emphasises the importance of victims’ voices being heard within narratives of crime. By allowing the largely unconsidered victims of serial crime to control the narrative, Land and Maguire gesture towards the numerous, lingering traumas experienced by the various victims in the crime’s aftermath, and consider the importance of victims being included in these narratives, therefore echoing this “contemporary victim orientated climate” that is not generally reflected in serial killer narratives (ibid., 4). In doing so, the narrators in Land’s and Maguire’s novels

263 are no longer just bystanders looking on from a vantage point but central figures whose grief and agency is brought to the fore by the writers’ refusals to adhere to genre tropes. Though there is much that I adopt from these authors in terms of decentralising the serial killer and redirecting the focus towards the unconsidered victims of violent crime, my own contribution looks significantly different to both Maguire’s and Land’s narrativisation of the aftermath of serial murder. In this textual analysis I have identified how these works critique and play with genre tropes; however, in my own creative work I extend this further and consider another unconsidered victim of serial murder—the multigenerational family of a killer and the psychological ramifications of living in the shadow of violence. Unlike Maguire who wrote An Isolated Incident with a specific, political goal in mind of critiquing problematic attitudes towards women and violence, and Land, whose portrayal of Annie reduces the rich subject matter to a simplistic ideological proclamation which sees Annie begin to replicate the actions of her sadistic, deified mother within the formulaic confines of the psychological thriller genre, I am interested in taking a less tidy and moralising approach to the complex question my research raises. I do this by asking for empathy for completely overlooked and divisive victims. It has been fascinating to consider these novels, and I can see The Yellow House sitting in constellation with these works through the adoption of a similarly unusual narrative perspective. As I discuss in the conclusion, I aim to move beyond these texts that subvert the genre by privileging the victims, yet still make broad and reductive points about the nature of crime and its aftermath. With The Yellow House, I aim to further dismantle the traditional narrative of abject serial crime by engaging with violence and crime in a nuanced and empathic way that seeks to explore the complex and lingering legacies of crime for those victims who are rarely considered in these narratives.

264 Reflections and Conclusions

In writing this thesis, I set out to construct a serial killer narrative that accurately reflects the complexities and particularities of serial crime by disrupting the generic and repetitive tropes that emerge within the serial killer genre. In both fictional and true-crime accounts, we fixate on the serial murderer’s killing methods and their schemas. We relentlessly obsess over and analyse the crime, effectively contributing to the mythologisation and glorification of the serial killer. Such narratives use “nonexplanantion and noncomprehension as a way of conserving the mystery of evil” (Seltzer 1998, 120), but what I have discovered through this investigation is that when you strip back these generic devices, the serial killer is not all that interesting. As I begin to draw conclusions on what I have researched, I contend that the gory act of murder itself is not singularly gripping about serial crime. Rather, it is the context surrounding incomprehensible slaughter that sparks the most confronting and empathic questions; the legacies of crime and the multiple narratives that emerge in the aftermath of murder. It was through my creative practice that I broached these concerns, wherein I was intent on investigating how generic conventions of the serial killer narrative can be disrupted to reveal and illuminate unexplored narratives surrounding the aftermath of abject human violence. I had two overarching concerns that informed the direction of The Yellow House. First, I wanted the novel to loosely mirror real-life cases of Australian serial crime and the significant cases of serial murder that punctuate Australia’s criminal history. Second, I wanted to take steps to shift the power balance away from the killer by removing the shroud of mystery from his mythologisation. Rather than construct a familiar, generic narrative that exalts the serial killer, I was determined to fictionalise the unexamined consequences of such abject and devastating acts of violence; in particular, the way violence perpetuates more violence and affects the psyche in profound and lasting ways. How can intergenerational trauma be fictionalised to become a central narrative of serial crime, rather than a secondary narrative? How can serial crime be fictionalised in a specifically Australian setting in order to reflect the particularities of Australian crime and culture? These secondary questions—alongside my primary research question—could only be answered through the construction of my novel, which seeks to shift the focus away from genre conventions to illuminate the unconsidered narratives that surround the legacies wrought by serial crime.

265 Though serial murder is statistically rare compared to other forms of homicide— in Australia and beyond—I contend that it occupies a key place in our national imagination. The fears that circulate around the expansiveness of the largely uninhabited country and the subsequent anxieties about isolation are enduring. There are instances of serial murder occurring in Australia since colonial settlement, when ‘Cannibal Convict’ Alexander Pearce murdered and cannibalised his fellow prison escapees in Tasmania between 1822 and 182330. Pearce has been repeatedly reimagined in popular culture, fictionalised in films, The Last Confession of Alexander Pearce (2008), Van Diemen’s Land (2009), and the 2008 horror film Dying Breed, whose premise centres on Pearce’s mutated descendants perpetuating his cannibalistic legacy in the Tasmanian wilderness. However, it is the crimes committed after the coining of the term ‘serial killer’ in the 1980s that have emerged as the most infamous cases of serial homicide in Australian. A 2007 report by the Australian Institute of Criminology compiled and analysed a comprehensive list of eleven different groupings of serial homicide that occurred between 1989 and 200631; a total of 52 murders committed by thirteen offenders over a seventeen year period (Mouzos and West, 1), including ‘Rockhampton Rapist’ Leonard Fraser and ‘Frankston Killer’ Paul Denyer, John Bunting and his two accomplices, and perhaps the most notorious Australian serial killer, Ivan Milat, who murdered eight backpackers in the Belanglo State Forest in New South Wales in the 1980s and 1990s32. Though Australian crime has been thoroughly treated in Australian film, television, literature, and true crime accounts, it is rare to find serial homicide interrogated with this same degree of nuance in Australian fiction. When I began my initial investigation into fictionalisations of Australian serial killers, I could not find any novels that reflected the highly publicised murder cases I had grown up reading about. Those men were not criminal masterminds or anti-heroes. They were brutes and misogynists and irrevocably damaged humans. If the fictional serial killer bears little relationship to his real life counterpart (Simpson 2000, 20), then I was eager to rectify

30 Though Pearce is the most well-known serial killer from this period, in A Compulsion to Kill: The Surprising Story of Australia's First Serial Killers, Robert Cox investigates nine cases of serial homicide occurring in Australia during the 19th century, with the first murder occurring in 1807, and the last murderer hanged in 1861 (2014, 6). 31 Though the report identifies offenders by the details of their crimes rather than by name, given that information on these crimes is readily available to the public, the identities of the offenders can be deduced. See Australia’s Serial Killers by Paul B. Kidd. 32 Preceding the cut-off date for this analysis are a number of additional cases spanning centuries, including ‘Schoolgirl Stranger’ Arnold Sodeman, ‘Sydney Mutilator’ William MacDonald, ‘Brownout Stranger’ Edie Leonski, ‘Night Caller’ Eric Edgar Cooke, ‘Granny Killer’ John Wayne Glover, and ‘Moorhouse Murderers’ David and Catherine Birnie (Kidd 2000).

266 this discrepancy. I wanted to see a fictionalistion of serial crime that reflected the reality of how these acts play out, rather than adopting and perpetuating the consumable version of the serial killer that is constructed within the safe confines of genre conventions and popular culture. In the initial draft of The Yellow House, the central way I deviated from the genre formula was through my development of the bystander narrator to tell the story. I always intended for Cub to narrate the novel, and for her point of view to constitute how the reader pieces together the family’s murky history. As established in my literature review, the definitive convention of generic serial killer fiction is the presence of a detective-like figure whose perspective the reader encounters the fictional world through, and whose logic of detection the reader adopts. It is the detective’s role to use rationality and logic to identify and apprehend the offender and return the fictional world to ordered safety— and, consequently, the reader’s adoption of their perspective makes the reader an active participant in the return to normalcy. As such, positioning Cub as narrator in my novel disrupted the idea of a detective as plot logic. By shifting the traditional perspective of the detective to that of a young girl who is tied to the serial killer in a significant, familial way—and keeping any presence of the law enforcement to a minimum—this element of detection was completely removed from the novel and an unconventional telling of events could emerge. However, I did not want Cub to be the protagonist of the story, and intended for her to be a bystander with a fragmented understanding of the fictional world’s events. I initially adapted terminology from narratological theory, specifically the works of Gérard Genette, whose definition of homodiegetic narration I examined in my literature review, and Susan Lanser. According to Lanser, point of view sits on a spectrum (1981, 159). On the heterodiegeitic end of the scale are third-person narrators who are “uninvolved and separate from their story world” and on the autodiegetic end of the spectrum are first- person narrators whose personal experiences and perceptions are at the core of the story. Located in between this continuum are uninvolved eyewitness and witness participants, that is, first-person narrators who have a decreased presence in the narrative (ibid.). In my novel, I figured Cub as a bystander narrator: a witness participant who was present as a character in the narrative, yet who narrated the story as an ambivalent observer, not as the sole-protagonist or an entirely autodiegetic narrator. This narrative point of view diverged significantly from generic serial killer fiction, where the detective is the sole protagonist and guides the reader through the

267 narrative. In these texts, the reader is given special access to the crime, including insider information about the murder and murderer and a close-up view of the profiling methods and forensics used to catch the offender and make sense of the serial killer’s actions. In these texts the reader is invited to trust the detective’s authoritative position completely, as they are the only stabilising figure in the chaotic universe the serial killer has upturned. In my early drafts of the manuscript, Cub as a bystander narrator knew little detail of the crimes. Her perspective was neutral, and she observed her family in a submissive, inactive way with no real synthesis of what she was experiencing. However, in the redrafting phase, I found this perspective to be problematic. As I did not see the story to be Cub’s, her internal world was virtually non-existent. I had avoided bestowing Cub with unique thoughts and opinions, and consequently, her objectivity and passiveness resulted in a lack of empathetic engagement from readers. Despite my novel attempting to show the lingering effects of serial crime, Cub was virtually unaffected by her family’s history, which was not only unrealistic, but also worked directly against what I was trying to illuminate. In order to resolve this problem, I reconsidered how little of Cub was in the story. Rather than constructing Cub as a passive observer, it was important that she had agency, and was deeply interested in and confused by her family’s past. Though initially Cub was not there to solve the mystery, and had no function or responsibility other than to relay her piecemeal understanding of the world around her to the reader, in the redrafting process she came to actively seek out information and attempt to make sense of the crime. Though eliminating the traditional detective and subsequent procedural tropes that emerge from this choice destabilises the nature of the genre, situating Cub at the centre of the narrative essentially places Cub in the role of makeshift detective. Throughout the novel, Cub is essentially investigating the murders as a detective would, trying to uncover mysteries and secrets in order to come to an understanding of the dysfunctional universe she has been thrust into. The reader trails Cub as she attempts to piece together the various crimes; however, unlike the traditional serial killer narrative, where the detective is an authoritative figure who restores order, Cub’s process of detection subverts this expectation. Her process is instable and incomplete and the reader never gets a complete picture of the crimes. By witnessing Cub’s piecemeal and disruptive investigation they are forced to contend with the chaos and horror of serial crime through a lens that is far more chaotic and authentic than the sleek and formulaic investigation that occurs when a detective is guiding the reader through the murder.

268 Cub as narrator challenges the uncomplicated structure of generic serial killer fiction, and the novel’s conclusion sits in direct opposition to the traditional serial killer narrative. In these texts, the narrative is nearly always linear, and in line with the genre’s emphasis on logic and rationality triumphing, such texts are chronologically ordered and follow a predictable narrative arc. This always culminates in the apprehension of the killer after the detective puts together the puzzle that leads to the killing pattern being stopped. However, as the serial killer in The Yellow House was never captured and died before his crimes were discovered, the ‘cat and mouse’ appeal of the detective procedural plot is dissipated, as is the tangible sense of threat that is typical within the genre. As a result, there is no murder to open the novel, no accumulation of bodies. Like Maguire, I wanted to reject the autopic gaze that eroticises and fetishises the corpse (Penfold- Mounce 2016, 28), denying the reader the opportunity to view the “cadaver as a visual spectacle” (ibid., 27). There is no predictability to the way the narrative progresses, and the reader cannot trust in the transparency of genre to follow ordered storyline conventions or tropes. At the conclusion of The Yellow House, the chaos of the anarchic serial killer figure is not controlled and the danger diffused; in fact, given that the serial killer is already dead at the commencement of the novel, he cannot be controlled or diffused at all, and still continues to operate as a free-floating disruptive figure by the novel’s conclusion, continuing to haunt the lives of his descendants. Rather than the traditional threat—that is, that the serial killer will kill again and again over the course of the novel—it is the legacy left by the serial killer where the sense of horror and instability lies. This threat is elusive and lingering, rather than definable and easily contained through predictable genre conventions. As such, this sense of danger and menace is not relieved by the novel’s conclusion, thus dissolving the closure and clear resolution that is essential to generic serial killer narratives. Positioning Cub as narrator also allows for subversion of the novel’s main antagonists. Though this research does not seek to humanise or attract sympathy for the serial killer figure, given that the serial killer in The Yellow House is a relative of the narrator, he is instantly depicted with more depth than generic serial murderers, who are often unambiguously villianised as otherworldly entities or left as shapeless, empty figures in order to adhere to the genre’s plot trope of methodically analysing the murders and their patterns. In doing this, I did not want to feed into the idea that murderers should be glorified, or maintain the cultural narrative that situates them as icons. Though Ian embodies the public’s “fascination with savagery” (Tithecott, 1997 82) and how our

269 crime-obsessed culture mythologises the figure of the killer—albeit an extreme and pathological version of it—neither Ian nor Les in The Yellow House are presented as criminal geniuses. Though Ian is sadistic and manipulative, we are seeing him as a teenage bully and tormentor before he grows into a fully-fledged criminal. Similarly with Les, his absence from the narrative, as well as the character sketches that emphasise his ordinariness, is more in line with Maguire’s construction of the killer as mundane and ordinary rather than a Gothicised villain. Though Les’s actions have informed the worldview of his descendants, he does not dominate the narrative, and does not serve a greater narrative purpose other than to contextualise the lives of Cub and her family. Subverting these genre tropes allows me to change the lens on how the reader views and interprets serial crime. Rather than focusing exclusively on the crime, criminal, and the process of capturing the criminal and returning the world to its natural order, the narrative shifts its focus to the legacies wrought by serial crime, and these traumas become the central narrative, rather than an afterthought or secondary plot thread. The impact that Les’s crimes have had on the family is immense, and the way the family deals with the crime is consistent with Cathy Caruth’s theory that trauma is “amnesic and unspeakable” (1996, 334). For the family to function Les’s crimes are relegated to the “crypt”; a “sealed-off psychic place” designed to contain unresolved and inherited traumas (Abraham and Torok 1994, 141). The character of Christine, Les’s daughter and closest relative, refuses to acknowledge the past. Rather than work through the trauma, she relegates it to an impenetrable space so that it does not consume her. The crimes are too unbearable to talk or think about, and as such, for most of Cub’s life she is left in the dark about the murders Les committed. Even when the secret comes out in the open and Cub is made aware of the murders, there is still an air of silence and shame that lingers, and even amplifies as the novel progresses. Privileging the family’s perspective brings these traumas and untold stories to the forefront of the narrative, and it is this “collective guilt and shame” (Schwab 2004, 180) that propels the narrative forward. The lingering effects of abject violence and serial crime are highlighted through the various characters and their “psychic deformations” (ibid., 181); the trauma has been transmitted across generations, manifesting ongoing and severe symptoms that do not necessarily evolve from the characters’ own experiences. The family as a whole are ostracised from the hostile and unforgiving local community, whereas each family member experiences unique and varied distortions. Cub and Wally are outsiders at school with no friends or social skills. Wally is beginning to display an

270 alarming lack of empathy and tendency towards violence. Unable to process the trauma, Christine suffers from sustained but unrevealed mental health issues. Dermott, upon learning about his father’s crimes, attempts to commit murder/suicide to wipe out his family bloodline. Cassie, in particular, appears to have suffered the most in the aftermath of Les’s crimes, forced to grapple with the conflicting feelings of love and shame he feels toward his grandfather. As the novel progresses and the silence and trauma festers, Cassie ultimately lives up to his family’s name and commits the same act as his grandfather in much the same way that Matthew Milat followed in the steps of his great- uncle. Like Milat, Cassie is “subjected to an inheritance in the form of a horror-inducing legacy of which he is fated to re-perpetuate” (Anae 2016, 4). He has inherited a “generational curse” that binds the family to a “horrific yet inescapable past” (ibid., 2). This mythologisation of Les by Ian encourages Cassie to also valorise his grandfather’s actions, alongside the family curse, enables Cassie to commit the exact act his grandfather committed, demonstrating the insidiousness of intergenerational transmission of trauma and how such inherited traumas are inescapable. Like Milat, Cassie ultimately “did what they do” (Milat quoted in the Sydney Morning Herald 2012) and the legacy of the patriarch’s actions has rippled down to cause “far reaching psychic damage” (Bergmann 1982, 167). Though Cassie is old enough to be irrevocably damaged by the trauma and for this trauma to visibly manifest, by the novel’s conclusion it is unclear how Cub’s exposure to violence and abjection is going to affect her in years to come. It is clear that the family has been grossly traumatised by Les’s actions, the “ghostly hauntings by the phantoms of a silenced past” (Schwab 1994, 180), failing to assimilate the past and failing to forge a new identity, which would make a “recurrence of the past unimaginable” (Sichrovsky 1988, 13). Unable to move past the shame of their ancestry, the family become stuck in a cycle of guilt and subsequent silence. There is much discussion in the novel of the family’s tainted bloodline: “He hates that we’ve got Les’s blood in us”; “He doesn’t have feral blood like the rest of you”; “I decided I was going to be the best in the class, so I could go to a school far away where no one knew me, where no one thought I was strange or that my blood was rotten”. The family— whether consciously of subconsciously—feel cursed, believing their freewill is compromised as their lives and destinies have been shaped by Les’s legacy. However, though they imagine their position in life as a result of tainted genetics and “feral blood”, it is, in fact, their inability to move past their guilt and work through the trauma that

271 perpetuates their shame. As Dominick LaCapra writes, trauma is “precisely the gap—the open wound—in the past that resists being filled in, healed or harmonised in the present” (1997, 244). The consequences of serial murder cannot be neatly contained, and the ‘open wound’ it causes is lingering. The threat of the serial killer cannot be defused through familiar and comforting narrative conventions, and the trauma caused by abject murder manifests deeply in those left in the aftershock of the crime. The consequences of serial homicide extend far beyond the simplistic narrative of crime, punishment and justice played out between detective, criminal and the legal system, and there are far more victims involved than those murdered at the hands of the killer. Through this sustained empathic engagement with a group of characters whose stories and traumas are rarely acknowledged, I attempt to broaden the narrative of trauma surrounding serial crime. In Judith Herman’s examination of trauma and victimisation she writes that the opportunity to gain control over their own narrative is crucial for victims in the aftermath of the crime: “in the second stage of recovery, the survivor tells the story of the trauma. She tells it completely, in depth, and in detail” (1992, 175). Such notions are central to critiques of the serial killer novel, which is often faulted for eliding the experiences and trauma of the victims and their families entirely. As Lloyd notes, there is an imperative for “conventional crime narrative[s]… to consider the victim’s voice” and that of the survivors, in order to “form a kind of conversation with the dead” (2014, 103). Maguire and Land both take up this challenge in their respective novels by privileging the voices of victims and those personally effected by serial crime, contending that “openly elaborating on the traumatic experience is necessary to the victim’s recovery, which, in turn, is, or should be the primary goal in the pursuit of justice” (Myers 2006, 738). Both novels innovate the genre by reimagining serial crime as something that affects both victims and families, where women in particular are placed at the fore and are permitted to speak about the lingering traumas caused by the crime. Although these novels have taken considerable steps to reflect this real-life importance of allowing victims of crime to speak, The Yellow House extends this even further, and turns to victims who are not necessary likeable and relatable, and who are not considered victims in the traditional sense. There are moral responses that particular types of victims bring out—certain victims provoke vast amounts of public and media attention; “some story-tellers are listened to, while other experiences of victimization and family violence are silenced” (Walklate et al 2018, 9). Similarly, for Gregoriou “it seems indeed to be more of a tragedy if a victim who dies is, indeed, female and beautiful”

272 (2011, 169), and “the more prototypical or undeserving the victim, the more punitive the community will be in response to its attacker” (ibid., 172-173). Certain, morally convincing victims evoke widespread and communal compassion. In domestic violence campaigner Rosie Batty’s witness statement, she highlights that the amount of support and attention she received in the aftermath of her son’s violent death at the hands of his father is largely to do with her schemas as a relatable victim: One of the reasons I have been able to speak to so many people about my story, and why people are willing to listen, is because I am white, middle-class, well- educated and articulate. If I did belong to a rough neighbourhood, or I were Indigenous, or from another ethnic background or had a disability, I would not be heard” (2015, par. 5). In contrast to the victims of crime who evoke empathic responses and are granted the chance to speak, the granddaughter of a serial killer in the case of The Yellow House is not an ideal victim and does not necessarily reflect “collective vulnerabilities” (Walklate et al 2018, 13). It is this consideration of a taboo and unpopular perspective that signals my novel as an innovative encounter with serial homicide. Serial crime is immensely damaging, not only to the victims and victim’s families, but also to communities, and the families of the perpetrators. Trauma extends across generations, and by allowing a traditionally sidelined character to control the narrative of trauma, then the gravity and far-reaching consequence of serial crime can be considered, and more authentically reflect how such abject and anarchic crimes play out in real life. Positioning Cub as the narrator seeks to emphasise that, in the aftermath of serial crime, trauma is not contained or easily resolved, but disruptive and lingering for the many unconsidered victims involved. In conclusion, through the construction of my creative work, I have developed a number of narrative strategies and genre subversions in order to decentralise the serial killer and shift the focus towards the intergenerational effects of serial crime, thus challenging the dominant narrative of serial homicide that bears little resemblance to real-life occurrences. I was not interested in writing a novel that focused on the gruesomeness of the crime or the evilness of the killer, or in writing a horror or detective procedural novel. Rather, I aimed to shift the focus away from the accumulation of dismembered and disfigured bodies, and instead broaden the genre’s scope by investigating the intergenerational traumas wrought by this accumulation of bodies. Unlike generic serial killer texts, wherein the generic trappings of the genre creates a false

273 narrative that sits at odds with real life experiences, The Yellow House does not leave the reader with a sense of closure that is so common to these prior representations. The unconventional narrative perspective shifts the nature of the genre completely. Cub’s naïve and incomplete narration, alongside the narrative’s delegation of violence and serial crime to the realm of the mundane, offers a completely unique representation of serial crime. Stripping away the glamour of serial crime allows the reader to ruminate on the domesticity and ordinariness of these situations. This, alongside the emphasis on the ongoing consequences of horror and the impact it has on the killer’s descendants, provides a new model for the serial killer novel. The Yellow House presents a narrative where the consequences of the crime and the horror of the murder are not neatly contained. The effects of serial crime cannot be neutralised through the intervention of law enforcement and genre conventions which do not exist in real life, and the traumas wrought in the aftermath of the crime are shown to be lingering and horrific, grossly infecting the lives of generations to come. Throughout this thesis, I have observed that writers avoid grappling with the nuances of serial crime—a subject matter that has huge intellectual, ethical, and philosophical rigour. Serial killer narratives continue to endure, as seen in the continued output of fictional representations of serial murder, such as David Fincher’s recent Netflix series Mindhunter, Lars Von Trier’s upcoming film, The House that Jack Built, and the upcoming film Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil, and Vile, based on Ted Bundy and his crimes. However, to fictionalise serial murder is a risk, and avoiding didacticism when writing about stereotypically villainous figures can be difficult. As a writer and researcher, there is no doubt that there is far more work to be done here, particularly in regards to how serial homicide can intersect with political and societal concerns that occur outside the borders of fiction. How can the misogynist depictions of females and victimhood in serial killer fiction be further dismantled? How can the genre be broadened to include a dialogue on the injustices that affect marginalised groups affected by serial crime? These questions are logical progressions from what I have investigated, and are important questions to explore in further research. With this thesis, it was my broad intention to challenge the orthodoxies of reader expectations and interrogate the enduring traumas of violent crime by examining the lingering affects of having such an abject figure as the patriarch of a nuclear, working class family. Though this thesis dealt exclusively with serial crime, this research has also sparked further questions about the potential of broaching taboo and transgressive

274 subject matter in fiction. Earlier in this thesis, I wrote of the public reaction towards the Marcus Harvey artwork Myra. In his analysis of transgressive art, Kieren Cashell classifies the piece as transgressive as it remains reticent about the issues surrounding Hindley’s crimes and child murders. By suspending judgement regarding the subject of his work, the artist “transfers the responsibility of deciding the meaning of the work, and how it is to be judged, to the viewer” (Cashell 2009, 57). Rather than explicitly positioning the reader to accept an ethical stance on the subject matter, like Harvey, I am much more interested in the “moral undecidability” that comes from avoiding “interpretive reduction to single meanings” (ibid., 79). Though a narrative of atonement and forgiveness in the aftermath of violence would make for a more palatable reading experience, I am not interested in providing a sense of closure and an ending that idealistically restores karmic balance to the fictional universe. There is a long tradition of writers grappling with transgressive thematic content in intelligent, nuanced, and non-didactic ways, from paedophilia in The End of Alice by A.M Holmes (1996), incest and intersexuality in Jeffrey Eugenides’s Middlesex (2002), and more recently, euthanasia in The Easy Way Out by Steven Amsterdam (2016). Not only do I see The Yellow House as an expansion of the serial killer genre, but also as a novel that grapples with transgression and the taboo in a sophisticated and non-prescriptive way, which can be situated among these novels that dismantle and play with ideas of morality. Abject crime and acts of transgression evoke consistent philosophical enquiry, and this thesis serves as only an initial investigation in how to destabilise their fictional representations and arouse empathy for those characters usually sidelined. As I conclude this thesis, I contend that the questions I raised—and answered—have not only been essential for my own creative practice, but are useful and transferable to other practitioners. It is my intention that others can adopt the strategies I have put forth in order to continue to challenge and reframe the way that violence and crime is fictionalised. Though serial crime is largely viewed through the lens of familiar genre tropes that skews the subject matter from reality, by broadening these narratives beyond generic constructions and destabilising the predominating narratives, then truly innovative, thought-provoking, and empathic representations of the aftermath of violence can continue to emerge.

275 Reference List

Aamodt, Mike. 2016. “Serial killer statistics.” Accessed January 12, 2018. http://maamodt.asp.radford.edu/serial killer information center/project description.htm.

ABC. 2015. “Adrian Bayley Verdict: Victorian Parole System Now Toughest in Australia, Minister Says.” 25 March, 2015. http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-03- 26/victoria-parole-toughest-in-australia-after-adrian-bayley/6351176.

Abraham, Nicolas and Torok, Maria. 1994. The Shell and Kernel: Renewals of Psychoanalysis Volume 1. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Adjorlolo, Samuel and Chan, Heng Choon (Oliver). 2014. “The Controversy of Defining Serial Murder: Revisited.” Aggression and Violent Behavior 19: 486–491 http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.avb.2014.07.003.

Amsterdam, Steven. 2016. The Easy Way Out. Sydney: Hachette.

Anae, Nicole. “Writing murder: elements of Gothic horror in Matthew Milat’s ‘meat axe’ poetry.” TEXT special issue 35. October 2016. http://www.textjournal.com.au/speciss/issue35/Anae.pdf.

Anderson, Paul. 2014. “How Australia’s worst serial killers John Bunting and Robert Wagner stained Snowtown with their sadistic kill games.” Herald Sun. May 21, 2014. http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/law-order/true-crime-scene/how-australias- worst-serial-killers-john-bunting-and-robert-wagner-stained-snowtown-with-their- sadistic-kill-games/news-story/7a8f5f816349f60b8eeee2e06b23b2a4.

A Study in Terror. 1965 [film]. Directed by James Hill. United Kingdom: Compton-Tekli Film Productions/Sir Nigel Film Productions.

Backderf, Derf. 2012. My Friend Dahmer. New York: Abrams.

Baelo Allue, Sonia. 2002. “The Aesthetics of Serial Killing: Working Against Ethics in The Silence of the Lambs (1988) and American Psycho (1991).” Atlantis 24 (2): 7-24. http://www.jstor.org/discover/10.2307/41055067?uid=3737536&uid=2&uid=4& sid=21106296293321.

Banks, Iain. 1983. The Wasp Factory. London: Abacus.

Barwick, Sandra. 2001. “Murderess Rosemary West drops appeal.” The Telegraph, October 1, 2001. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1358129/Murderess- Rosemary-West-drops-appeal.html

Bell, David. 1997. “Anti-idyll: Rural Horror.” In Contested Countryside Cultures: Otherness, Marginalisation and Rurality, edited by P. Cloke and J. Little, 94-108. London: Routledge.

276 Bennett, Alice. 2009. “Unquiet Spirits: Death Writing in Contemporary Fiction.” Textual Practice 23 (3): 463-479. doi: 10.1080/09502360902868787.

Bergman, Martin. 1982. “Recurrent Problems in the Treatment of Survivors and Their Children.” In Generations of the Holocaust, edited by Martin Bergmann and Minton Jucovy, 247-266. New York: Columbia University Press.

Bibby, Paul. 2012. “Milat Gets 43 Years for ‘Unimaginably Cruel’ Murder.” Sydney Morning Herald. June 8, 2012. http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/milat-gets-43-years- for-unimaginably-cruel-murder-20120608-201k2.html.

Black, Saul. 2015. The Killing Lessons. London: Orion.

Blackwood, Gemma. 2008. “Wolf Creek: An UnAustralian Story?” Continuum 21 (4): 489- 497. doi: 10.1080/10304310701629920.

Bloch, Robert. 1959. Psycho. London: Bloomsbury.

Bolt, Barbara. 2010. “The Magic is in Handling.” In Practice As Research: Approaches to Creative Arts Enquiry, edited by Estelle Barrett and Barbara Bolt, 27-35. London: I.B Tauris. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/qut/detail.action?docID=676435.

The Bone Collector. 1999 [film]. Directed by Phillip Noyce. United States: Universal Pictures.

Box, Dan. 2017. “Bowraville.” Podcast audio: MP3. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://soundcloud.com/the-australian-1/bowraville-episode-1-the-murders.

Brite, Poppy Z. 1996. Exquisite Corpse. London: Phoenix.

Bryant, Willow and Samantha Bricknell. 2017. “Homicide in Australia 2012–13 to 2013– 14: National Homicide Monitoring Program report.” Australian Institute of Criminology. https://aic.gov.au/publications/sr/sr002.

Camus, Albert. 1942. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books.

Caputi, Jane. 1990. “The New Founding Fathers: The Lore and Lure of the Serial Killer in Contemporary Culture.” Journal of American Culture 13 (3): 1-12. doi:10.1111/j.1542-734X.1990.1303_1.x.

Caputi, Jane. 1993. “American Psychos: The Serial Killer in Contemporary Fiction.” Journal of American Culture 16 (4): 101-112. doi: 10.1111/j.1542-734X.1993.t01-1- 00101.x.

Caruth, Cathy. 1996. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press.

Casey, Melanie. 2013. Hindsight. Seaforth, NSW: Pantera Press.

Cashell, Keiren. 2009. Aftershock: The Ethics of Contemporary Transgressive Art. London: I.B Tauris.

277

Cavanaugh, Tony. 2012. Promise. Sydney: Hachette.

The Cell. 2000 [film]. Directed by Tarsem Singh. United States: RadicalMedia.

Connelly, Michael. The Concrete Blonde. London: Orion.

Copycat. 1995 [film]. Directed by Jon Amiel. United States: Warner Bros.

Cornwell, Patricia. 1990. Postmorten. London: Little, Brown, and Company.

Cornwell, Patricia. 2002. Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper – Case Closed. United States: Berkley Books.

Court, Ben and Ip, Caroline. 2009. Whitechapel season 1. Carnival Films. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/au/title/70209174.

Cox, Robert. 2014. A Compulsion to Kill: The Surprising Story of Australia's First Serial Killers. Queensland: Glass House Books.

Crouch, Julia. 2013. “Genre Bender.” Julia Crouch (blog), August 25, 2013. http://juliacrouch.co.uk/blog/genre-bender.

Cubitt, Allan. 2013. The Fall. Directed by Allan Cubitt and Jakob Verbruggen. Produced by Neal Gub et al. SBS. DVD.

Cuse, Carlton, Ehrin, Kerry and Cipriano, Anthony. 2013. Bates Motel season 1. Carlton Cuse Productions. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/au/title/70272479.

Dass-Brailsford, Priscilla. 2007. A Practical Approach to Trauma: Empowering Interventions. Thousand Oaks, California: SAGE Publications. https://au.sagepub.com/en- gb/oce/a-practical-approach-to-trauma/book227704.

Deaver, Jeffrey. 1997. The Bone Collector. London: Hodder Paperback.

Denyer, Winsome and Clark, Mayeta (producers). 2014. “Balancing the Scales.” On Australian Story. Aired October 30, 2017, on ABC. Television programme.

Disher, Garry. 2013. Bitter Wash Road. Melbourne: Text Publishing Co.

Dodd, Vikram. 2004. “Joanna Dennehy: serial killer becomes first woman told by judge to die in jail.” The Guardian, March 1, 2014. https://www.theguardian.com/uk- news/2014/feb/28/joanna-dennehy-serial-killer-first-woman-die-in-jail.

Donnermyer, Jospeph, Scott, John, and Barclay, Elaine. 2013. “How Rural Criminology Informs Critical Thinking in Criminology.” International Journal For Crime, Justice, and Social Democracy. 2 (3): 69-91. https://www.crimejusticejournal.com/article/view/122/120.

Downing, Lisa. 2014. The Subject of Murder: Gender, Exceptionality, and the Modern Killer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

278

Dubois, Diane. 2001. ‘Seeing the Female Body Differently’: gender issues in The Silence of the Lambs.” Journal of Gender Studies 10 (3): 297-310. https://www-tandfonline- com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/doi/pdf/10.1080/09589230120086502?needAccess= true.

Dying Breed. 2008 [film]. Directed by Jody Dwyer. Australia: Ambience Entertainment.

Ellis, Brett Easton. 1991. American Psycho. New York: Picador.

Ellis, Bret Easton. n.d. Interviewed by Jon-Jon Goulian in The Paris Review. Accessed January 14, 2016. http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6127/the-art-of- fiction-no-216-bret-easton-ellis.

Rule, Ann. January 12, 1999. CNN. Accessed June 7, 2018. http://edition.cnn.com/COMMUNITY/transcripts/ann_rule_chat.html

Eldridge, David. 2008. “The Generic American Psycho.” Journal of American Studies 42 (1): 9-33. doi:10.1017/S0021875807004355.

Ellroy, James. 1986. Killer on the Road. New York: William Morrow.

Eugenides, Jeffrey. 2002. Middlesex. New York: Picador.

Flynn, Gillian. 2012. Gone Girl. London: Phoenix.

Foltyn, Jaque Lynn. 2008. “Dead famous and dead sexy: Popular culture, forensics, and the rise of the corpse.” Mortality 13:2, 153-173, DOI: 10.1080/13576270801954468.

Fox, Candice. 2014. Hades. North Sydney: Bantam.

Freccero, Carla. 1997. “Historical Violence, Censorship, and the Serial Killer: The Case of American Psycho.” Diacritics 27 (2): 44-58. doi:10.1353/dia.1997.0014.

From Hell. 2001 [film]. Directed by The Hughes Brothers. United States: 20th Century Fox.

Gans, Jeremy. 2007. “The Peter Falconio Investigation: Needles, Hay and DNA.” Current Issues in Criminal Justice 18 (3): 415-430. http://search.informit.com.au.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/documentSummary;dn=53 2194332289874;res=IELHSS.

Gavey, Nicola. 1999. “ ‘I wasn’t raped, but…’: Revisiting Definitional Problems in Sexual Victimisation.” In New Versions of Victims: Feminists Struggle with the Concept, edited by Sharon Lamb, 57-81. New York: New York University Press.

Gelder, Ken. 2004. Popular Fiction: The Logics and Practices of a Literary Field. Oxon: Routledge.

Genette, Gérard. 1980. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Oxford, Oxfordshire: Blackwell.

279

Goldsworthy, Kerryn. 2017. “Good Me Bad Me review: Ali Land's tale of a child at odds with a murdering mother.” Sydney Morning Herald, January 27, 2017. http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/good-me-bad-me-review-ali-lands- tale-of-a-child-at-odds-with-a-murdering-mother-20170120-gtveom.html. Gomel, Elena. 1999. “Written in Blood: Serial Killing and Narratives of Identity.” Post Identity 2 (1): 24-70. http://liberalarts.udmercy.edu/pi/PI2.1/PI21_Gomel.pdf.

Graysmith, Robert. 1986. Zodiac: The Shocking True Story of America's Most Bizarre Mass Murderer. London: Titan Books.

Gregoriou, Christiana. 2007. Deviance in Contemporary Crime Fiction. Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan.

Gregoriou, Christiana. 2011. Language, Ideology and Identity in Serial Killer Narratives. London: Routledge.

Grimes, William. 1992. “Silence of the Lambs' Dominates Oscars, Winning 5 Awards.” The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/1992/03/31/movies/silence-of- the-lambs-dominates-oscars-winning-5-awards.html.

Grixti, Joseph. 1995. “Consuming Cannibals: Psychopathic Killers as Archetypes and Cultural Icons.” Journal of American Culture 18 (1): 87-96. http://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=http://search.proquest.com.ezp01.libr ary.qut.edu.au/docview/200669034?accountid=13380.

Grossman, Lev. 2012. “Literary Revolution in the Supermarket Aisle: Genre Fiction Is Disruptive Technology.” Time. May 23, 2012. http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/23/genre-fiction-is-disruptive- technology/.

Grossman, Lev. 2009. “Good Books Don't Have to Be Hard.” The Wall Street Journal. August 29, 2009. https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB1000142405297020370660457437716380438721 6. Hands of the Ripper. 1971 [film]. Directed by Peter Sasdy. United Kingdom: Hammer Film Productions.

Hannibal. 2001 [film]. Directed by Ridley Scott. United States: Dino De Laurentiis Company/Scott Free Productions.

Hantke, Steffen. 1998. “The Kingdom of the Unimaginable: The Construction of Social Space and the Fantasy of Privacy in Serial Killer Narratives.” Literature Film Quarterly 26 (3): 198-95. http://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=http://search.proquest.com.ezp01.libr ary.qut.edu.au/docview/226994396?accountid=13380.

280 Hantke, Steffen. 2002. “Monstrosity Without a Body: Representational Strategies in the Popular Serial Killer Film.” Post Script–Essays in Film and the Humanities 22 (2): 34-54. https://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=https://search-proquest- com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/docview/2144773?accountid=13380. Harper, Jane. 2015. The Dry. Sydney: Macmillan.

Hawkins, Paula. 2015. The Girl on the Train. London: Doubleday.

Herman, Judith. 1992. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York: BasicBooks.

Holmes, A.M. 1996. The End of Alice. London: Granta Books.

Jacobs, Janet. 2010. Memorializing the Holocaust: Gender, Genocide and Collective Memory. New York: I.B Tauris.

Jarvis, Brian. 2007. “Monsters Inc.: Serial Killers and Consumer Culture.” Crime Media Culture 3 (3): 326-344. doi: 10.1177/1741659007082369.

Jenkins, Philip. 1994. Using Murder: The Social Construction of Serial Homicide. New York: Aldine de Gruyter.

Hannibal Rising. 2007 [film]. Directed by Peter Webber. France/United Kingdom/United States/Czech Republic/Italy: Dino De Laurentiis Company.

Harris, Thomas. 1981. Red Dragon. United Kingdom: Treasure Press.

Harris, Thomas. 1988. The Silence of the Lambs. United Kingdom: Treasure Press.

Harris, Thomas. 1999. Hannibal. United Kingdom: Arrow.

Harris, Thomas. 2006. Hannibal Rising. United States: Delacorte Press.

Harvey, Marcus. 1995. Myra. Royal Academy of Art. https://www.artsy.net/artwork/marcus-harvey-myra

Hattentone, Simon. 2009. “Myra, Margaret and Me.” The Guardian, February 21, 2009. https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2009/feb/21/marcus-harvey- margaret-thatcher.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. 1986 [film]. Directed by John McNaughton. United States; Greycat Films.

Herbiet, Laurent. 2017. The Frozen Dead. Gaumont Telvision/Metropole Television. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/au/title/80186459.

Highsmith, Patricia. 1955. The Talented Mr Ripley. London: Vintage.

Highsmith, Patricia. 1970. Ripley Under Ground. London: Vintage.

Highsmith, Patricia. 1974. Ripley’s Game. London: Vintage.

281

Highsmith, Patricia. 1980. The Boy Who Followed Ripley. London: Virago Press.

Highsmith, Patricia. 1991. Ripley Underwater. London: Bloomsbury.

The Hitcher. 2007 [film]. Directed Dave Meyers. United States: Platinum Dunes and Intrepid Pictures.

Holmes, Ronald M and Holmes, Stephen T. 1994. Contemporary Perspectives on Murder. Thousand Oaks, California: Sage Publications.

Hounds of Love. 2017 [film]. Directed by Ben Young. Australia: Factor 30 Films.

The House that Jack Built. 2018 [film]. Directed by Lars von Trier. Denmark/France/Germany/Sweden: Zentropa

Huet, Marie Hélène. 1993. Monstrous Imagination. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press.

Hyland, Adrian. 2006. Diamond Dove. Melbourne: Text Publishing Co.

Hyland, Adrian. 2010. Gunshot Road. Melbourne: Text Publishing Co.

Hosking, Bill. 2017. “Anita Cobby murder: 'Everyone in the car that dreadful night had a passport to doom.” The Guardian, March 20, 2017. https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2017/mar/20/anita-cobby- everyone-in-the-car-that-dreadful-night-had-a-passport-to-doom.

Jensen, Jeff and Case, Jonathon. 2011. Green River Killer: A True Detective Story. Milwaukie, Oregon: Black Horse.

Joe, David. 2017. Mindhunter. Denver and Delilah Productions. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/au/title/80114855.

Junger, Sebastian. 2006. A Death in Belmont. New York: Harper Perennial.

Kaila, John. 2011. “Blood lust: Snowtown – the film.” Herald Sun May 15, 2011. https://www.heraldsun.com.au/ipad/blood-lust-welcome-to-snowtown/news- story/9c79d1a41e85020d36ef71e3bbc6bfb3.

Kidd, Paul B. 2000. Australia’s Serial Killers. Sydney: Pan Macmillan.

Kiss the Girls. 2002 [film]. Directed by Gary Fleder. United States: Rysher Entertainment.

Knight, Stephen. 1997. Continent of Mystery: A Thematic History of Australian Crime Fiction. Victoria: Melbourne University Press.

Kolker, Robert. 2013. Lost Girls: An Unsolved American Mystery. New York: Harper Perennial.

282 Kovaleski, Serge F. 2012. “Killers’ Families Left to Confront Fear and Shame.” The New York Times. February 4th, 2012. https://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/05/us/killers- families-left-to-confront-fear-and-shame.html.

Krystal, Arthur. 2012. “It’s Genre. Not That There’s Anything Wrong With It!” The New Yorker. October 24, 2012. https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/its- genre-not-that-theres-anything-wrong-with-it.

Kristeva, Julia. 1982. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. Translated by Leon S.Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press.

Kurtzel, Justin. March 2, 2012. Interviewed by Alexandria Symonds in Interview Magazine. Accessed March 4, 2016. https://www.interviewmagazine.com/film/justin-kurzel- finds-hell-in-snowtown.

LaCapra, Dominick. 1997. “Lanzmann’s Shoah: ‘Here There is no Why’.” Critical Inquiry 23: 231-69.

Land, Ali. 2017. Good Me Bad Me. United Kingdom: Penguin.

Lanser, Susan. 1981. The Narrative Act: Point of View in Prose Fiction. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press.

Larson, Erik. 2003. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America. London: Bantam Books.

The Last Confession of Alexander Pearce. 2008 [film]. Directed by Michael James Rowland. Australia/Ireland: Hopscotch Films.

Laurent, Alexandre. 2017. La Mante. Septembre Productions. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/au/title/80208337.

Lindsay, Jeff. 2004. Darkly Dreaming Dexter. London: Orion.

Lloyd, Joanne Reardon. 2014. “Talking to the Dead – the Voice of the Victim in Crime Fiction.” New Writing 11(1): 100-108. doi: 10.1080/14790726.2013.871295.

The Lodger. 1944 [film]. Directed by John Braham. United States: 20th Century Fox.

Logan, Brian. 2011. “London Road-Review.” The Guardian, April 15, 2011. https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2011/apr/15/london-road-review-cottesloe.

Longford. 2006 [film]. Directed by Peter Morgan. United Kingdom: Granada Productions.

Lynch, David and Frost, Mark. 1990. Twin Peaks season 1. Lynch/Frost Productions. Stan. https://play.stan.com.au/programs/17106.

MacDonald, Alzena. 2013. “Dissection the ‘Dark Passenger’: Reading Representations of the Serial Killer.” In Murders and Acquisitions: Representations of Serial Killers in Popular Culture, edited by Alenza MacDonald, 1-14. New York: Bloomsbury Publishing. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/qut/detail.action?docID=1334405.

283

Maguire, Emily. 2016. An Isolated Incident. Sydney: Pan Macmillan.

Manhunter. 1986 [film]. Directed by Michael Mann. United States: De Laurentiis Entertainment Group/Red Dragon Production.

Maniac. 2012 [film]. Directed by Franck Khalfoun. France and United States: IFC Midnight.

Mankell, Henning. 1996. The Fifth Woman. London: Vintage.

Marcus, Stephen. 1995. “American Psycho.” New York Times, October 8, 1995. https://www.nytimes.com/books/98/07/05/specials/oates-zombie.html.

Martin, Andy. 2017. “From Myra Hindley to Ted Bundy and the Yorkshire Ripper, what makes a serial killer tick.” The Independent. October 27, 2017. https://www.independent.co.uk/news/long_reads/serial-killers-shipman-brady- hindley-berkowitz-sutcliffe-dennehy-ted-bundy-a8021181.html.

Masters, Brian. 1993. The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer. London: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

McCarthy, Cormac. 1973. Child of God. London: Picador.

McCracken, Scott. 1998. Pulp: Reading Popular Fiction. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

McKee, Alan. 2011. Textual Analysis: A Beginner’s Guide. London: Sage Publications. http://dx.doi.org/10.4135/9780857020017.

Meagher, Tom. 2014. “The Danger of the Monster Myth.” White Ribbon Ireland, April 17, 2014. https://whiteribbonblog.com/2014/04/17/the-danger-of-the-monster- myth/.

Messent, Peter. 2000. “American Gothic: Liminality in Thomas Harris's Hannibal Lecter Novels.” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23 (4): 23-55. http://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=http://search.proquest.com.ezp01.libr ary.qut.edu.au/docview/200650149?accountid=13380.

Monster. 2003. Directed by Patty Jenkins. United States: Denver and Delilah Films.

Moore, Alan and Campbell, Eddie. 1999. From Hell. London: Knockabout Comics.

Morri, Mark. 2016. Remembering Anita Cobby. Ferntree Gully, Victoria: Random House.

Morris, Lynda. 2016. “Crime Fiction: Emily Maguire rejects murder mystery template with new novel An Isolated Incident.” Sydney Morning Herald, March 25, 2016. http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/crime-fiction-emily-maguire- rejects-murder-mystery-template-with-new-novel-an-isolated-incident-20160303- gn9a3x.html.

284 Morton, Robert, ed. 2008. “Serial Murder: Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators.” Behavioural Analysts Unit: National Center for the Analysis of Violence Crime. http://www.fbi.gov/stats-services/publications/serial-murder/serial-murder-july- 2008-pdf.

Mouzos, Jenny and West, David. 2007. “An Examination of Serial Murder in Australia.” Trends and Issues in Crime and Criminal Justice 346. http://aic.gov.au/publications/current%20series/tandi/341-360/tandi346.html.

Murder by Decree. 1979 [film]. Directed by Bob Clark. United Kingdom and Canada: AVCO Embassy Pictures.

Myers, Roslyn. 2006. “Crime Victims as Subjects of Documentaries: Exploitation or Advocacy.” Fordham Intellectual Property, Media and Entertainment Law Journal 16 (3): 733-788. http://heinonline.org.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/HOL/Page?handle=hein.journals/ frdipm16&page=733&collection=journals.

Nabokov, Vladimir. 1955. Lolita. London: Penguin Classics.

Naidu, Sam. 2014. “Writing the violated body: representations of violence against women in Margie Orford’s crime thriller novels.” Scrutiny2 19 (1): 69-79. doi: 10.1080/18125441.2014.904396.

Naughton, Julia. 2017. “Good Me Bad Me Is The Novel Putting Youth Mental Health Centre Stage.” Huffington Post, January 19, 2017. http://www.huffingtonpost.com.au/2017/01/18/good-me-bad-me-is-the- novel-putting-youth-mental-health-centre_a_21658014/.

Nesbø, Jo. 2007. The Snowman. London: Vintage.

Newton, Michael. 2006. The Encyclopaedia of Serial Killers. New York: Facts on File.

Niven, John. 2008. Kiss Your Friends. London: Vintage.

Oates, Joyce Carol. 1996. Zombie. Sydney: Pan Macmillan.

Pandora’s Box. 1929 [film]. Directed by G.W Pabst. Germany: Süd-Film.

Patterson, James. 1995. Kiss the Girls. New York: Warner Books.

Peach, Linden. 2006. Masquerade, Crime and Fiction: Criminal Depictions. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. doi: 10.1057/9780230625402.

Penfold-Mounce, Ruth. 2016. “Corpses, popular culture and forensic science: public obsession with death.” Mortality 21 (1):19-35 DOI: 10.1080/13576275.2015.1026887.

Perrault, Charles. 1659. Bluebeard. Spain: Lectorum.

285 Picart, Caroline. 2006. “Crime and the Gothic: Sexualizing Serial Killers.” Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture 13 (1): 1-18. http://www.albany.edu/scj/jcjpc/vol13is1/Picart%20&%20Greek%20(1).pdf.

Porter, Dorothy. 2007. El Dorado. Sydney: Pan Macmillan.

Psycho. 1960 [film]. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. United States: Shamley Productions.

“Red Dog takes out best flm at AACTA Awards.” 2012. ABC February 1, 2012. http://www.abc.net.au/news/2012-01-31/henshall-beats-rush-in-aacta- win/3803540.

Red Dragon. 2002 [film]. Directed by Brett Ratner. Germany/United States: Universal Pictures/Imagine Corporation.

Reddy, Maureen. 2003. “Women detectives.” In The Cambridge Companion to Crime Fiction, edited by Martin Priestman, 191-207. United States of America: Cambridge University Press.

Robey, Tim. 2011. “Snowtown: Review.” The Telegraph, November 17, 2015. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/filmreviews/8897355/Snowtown- review.html.

Royal Commission into Family Violence. 2015. Witness Statement of Rosemary Anne Batty. http://www.rcfv.com.au/MediaLibraries/RCFamilyViolence/Statements/Witness- Statement-of-Rosie-Batty.pdf.

Rule, Ann. 1980. The Stranger Beside Me. New York: Pocket Books.

Samuels, Selina. 1999. “The Urbanisation of Australia: Representations of Australia in Popular Culture.” Australian Writing and the City, edited by Ken Stewart and Frances De Groen, 108-113. https://openjournals.library.sydney.edu.au/index.php/JASAL/article/view/9575/ 9465.

Santaulària, Isabel. 2007. “ ‘The Great Good Place’ No More? Integrating and Dismantling Oppositional Discourse in Some Recent Examples of Serial Killer Fiction.” Atlantis 29 (1): 55-67. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41055265.

Schembri, Jim. 2011. “Snowtown.” Sydney Morning Herald, May 19, 2011. http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/movies/snowtown-20110519- 1eu0b.html.

Schmid, David. 2006. Natural Born Celebrities: Serial Killers in American Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/qut/detail.action?docID=408385.

Schwab, Gabriele. 2004. “Haunting Legacies: Trauma in Children of Perpetrators.” Postcolonial Studies 7 (2): 177-195. doi: 10.1080/1368879042000278861.

286 Schwab, Gabriele. 2010. Haunting Legacies: Violent Histories and Transgenerational Trauma. New York: Columbia University Press.

Scott, John and Biron, Dean. 2010. “Wolf Creek, Rurality and the Australian Gothic.” Continuum 24 (2): 307-322. http://www-tandfonline- com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/doi/abs/10.1080/10304310903576358.

Sebold, Alice. 2002. The Lovely Bones. Great Britain: Picador.

See No Evil: The Moors Murders. 2006. Directed by Christopher Menaul. United Kingdom: Granada Television.

Seltzer, Mark. 1998. Serial Killers: Death and Life in America’s Wound Culture. New York: Routledge. http://QUT.eblib.com.au/patron/FullRecord.aspx?p=1397280.

Serisier, Tanya. 2005. “ ‘Remembering Anita’: Rape and the Politics of Commemoration.” Australian Feminist Law Journal 23: 121-145. http://search.informit.com.au.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/documentSummary;dn=20 0603051;res=IELAPA> ISSN: 1320-0968.

Seven. 1995 [film]. Directed by David Fincher. United States: New Line Cinema.

Sheppard, Julia. 1991. Someone Else’s Daughter. Sydney: Pan Macmillan.

Sichrovsky, Peter. 1988. Born Guilty: Children of Nazi Perpetrators. New York: BasicBooks.

Simpson, Philip L. 2000. Psycho Paths: Tracking the Serial Killer Through Contemporary American Film and Fiction. United States: Southern Illinois University.

Snowtown. 2011 [film]. Directed by Justin Kurzel. Australia: Screen Australia.

“Snowtown wins special mention at Cannes.” 2011. SBS May 20, 2011. https://www.sbs.com.au/movies/article/2011/05/20/snowtown-wins-special- mention-cannes.

Sommers, Zach. 2016. “Missing White Woman Syndrome: An Empirical Analysis of Race and Gender Disparities in Online News Coverage of Missing Persons.” Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology 106 (2): 275-314. https://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=https://search-proquest- com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/docview/1879966709?accountid=13380.

Stanley, Tim. 2014 “The Fall: feminist, anti-men and sadly accurate.” The Telegraph, December 19, 2014. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/11303562/The-Fall-feminist- anti-men-and-sadly-accurate.html.

Steensberg, Lindsay. 2017. “The Fall and Television Noir.” Television and New Media 18 (1): 58–75. doi: 10.1177/1527476416664185.

Stevens, Shane. 1979. By Reason of Insanity. Chicago: Chicago Review Press.

287 Stevenson, Robert Louis. 1886. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. London: Penguin.

Stieg, Larsson. 2005. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. New York: Three Rivers Press.

Stoker, Bram. 1897. Dracula. Herts, United Kingdom: Wordsworth Editions.

Storrs, Elisabeth. 2004. “ ‘Our Scapegoat’: An Exploration of Media Representations of Myra Hindley and Rosemary West.” Theology and Sexuality 11(1): 9-28. http://www- tandfonline-com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/doi/abs/10.1177/135583580401100103.

Sullivan, K.E. 2000. “Ed Gein and the Figure of the Transgendered Serial Killer.” Jump Cut (38-47). https://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/logi?url=https://search-proquest- com.azp01.library.qut.edu.au/docview/2049431?accountid=13380.

Summer of Sam. 1991 [film]. Directed by Spike Lee. United States: Touchstone Pictures.

Sund, Axl Erik. 2011. The Crow Girl. London: Harvill Secker.

Sunday Territorian. 2005. “Murdoch Under Scrutiny.” December 18, 2005. https://gateway.library.qut.edu.au/login?url=https://search-proquest- com.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/docview/360896698?accountid=13380.

Süskind. Patrick. 1985. Perfume: Story of a Murderer. Great Britain: Penguin Books.

The Silence of the Lambs. 1991 [film]. Directed by Jonathan Demme.. United States: Strong Heart/Demme Production.

Taking Lives. 2004 [film]. Directed by D.J Caruso. United States: Village Roadshow Pictures.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 1974 [film]. Directed by Tobe Hooper. United States: Vortex.

Tithecott, Richard. 1997. Of Men and Monsters: Jeffrey Dahmer and the Construction of the Serial Killer. Wisconsin, United States: University of Wisconsin Press.

Titterington, Victoria. 2006. “A Retrospective Investigation of Gender Inequality and Female Homicide Victimization.” Sociological Spectrum 26 (2): 205-236. https://doi.org/10.1080/0273.

Thompson. Jim. 1952. The Killer Insider Me. United States: Fawkett Publications.

Trevor, William. 1994. Felicia’s Journey. New York: Penguin Books.

Untraceable. 2008 [film]. Directed by Gregory Hoblit. United States: Lakeshore Entertainment.

Van Diemen’s Land. 2009 [film]. Directed by Jonathan auf der Heide. Australia: Noise and Light/Inspiration Studios/Screen Australia.

288 Walklate, Sandra, et al. 2018. “Victim Stories and Victim Policy: Is there a Case for a Narrative Victimology?” Crime Media Culture 00 (0): 1-17. doi: 10.177/141659018760105.

Walsh, Richard. 1997. “Who is the Narrator?” Poetics Today 18 (4): 495-513. doi: 10.2307/1773184.

Saw. 2004 [film]. Directed by James Wan. United States: Evolution Entertainment/Twisted Pictures.

Warner, David. 1995. City of Light. Fremantle, WA: Fremantle Press.

Warwick, Alexandra. 2006. “The Scene of the Crime: Inventing the Serial Killer.” Social and Legal Studies 15 (4): 552-569. doi: 10.1177/0966390609547.

Watson, S.J. 2011. Before I Go to Sleep. London: Black Swan.

Whiticker, Alan. 2015. Anita Cobby: The Case that Shocked the Nation. Frenchs Forest: New Holland Publishers.

Whitney, Sarah. 2010. “Uneasy Lie the Bones: Alice Sebold’s Postfeminist Gothic.” Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature 29 (2): 351-373. http://muse.jhu.edu.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/journals/tulsa_studies_in_womens_li terature/v029/29.2.whitney.html.

Who is serial killer Joanna Dennehy? 2017. The Telegraph. July 28, 2017. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/0/serial-killer-joanna-dennehy/.

Wolf Creek. 2005 [film]. Directed by Greg McLean. Australia: Film Finance Corporation Australia.

Young, Elizabeth. 1991. “The Silence of the Lambs and the Flaying of Feminist Theory.” Camera Obscura 3 (27): 4-35. https://doi- org.ezp01.library.qut.edu.au/10.1215/02705346-9-3_27-4.

Zodiac. 2007 [film]. Directed by David Fincher. United States: Phoenix Pictures.

Zola, Émile. 1890. La Bête Humaine. Paris: Editions Flammarion.

289