chapter 20
Sally knelt up on the bed, pushing up the curtains with her head (hands can't touch or it's bad luck, hands can't touch or it's bad luck). She pressed her forehead against the window and breathed out, but it was too dark to see to make pictures in the steam of her breath. So she squashed her nose against the glass, shook her head, rolled her eyes and, opening her mouth wide, pulled tongues at the large tree that had dared frighten her by impersonating a monster her very first night under the Fletchers roof.
The glass tasted cold and slightly bitter. Sally didn't really know why she was tasting it but it had been a very peculiar day. She opened and closed her eyes twenty times to clear her mind and thought about the last part of it.
Like a stone age bird, the helicopter had whirred noisily above them, casting a giant shadow over Summer Bay beach and bringing with it a cold wind that whirled everything in its path like a brewing storm. Even though she could see Tom sitting next to the pilot, Sally clung to Lance's hand, wondering if she was in terrible trouble for running away. She would have been terrified if she hadn't been with Lance, Frank and Steven and if they hadn't all been laughing and singing so she knew everything must be alright.
"It's just like the Wizard of Oz, Sal! You're Dorothy going home and I'm the scarecrow who needs brains, Frank's the cowardly lion who needs courage..." Lance grinned at Frank because Frank was afraid of no one. "And Steven...Steven's..." Lance frowned, unable to remember the third character from the movie.
Frank looked at Steven, who was standing a little way back as if he wasn't with anyone.
"The tin man. The one don't have the heart," he said coldly.
Sally had been very surprised at Frank's tone. And even more surprised when Steven turned away without answering. Frank had been joking. Hadn't he? She knew Frank and Steven fought, usually when Steven had been teasing Sally and Frank didn't like it, but boys were always fighting. She'd thought they were mates, what with Steven borrowing the guitar and them all singing and everything.
But she didn't have time to ponder on it too long because, to the cheers of the onlookers, she was up in the helicopter, with Tom ruffling her hair and pointing down to where Steven, Frank and Lance stood waving.
Sally - and Mrs Martha - would never forget the helicopter ride. How breathtakingly beautiful Summer Bay looked as evening fell and lights began to twinkle across the seaside town and the pretty harbour where toy-size ships sailed across the darkening waters. The picture kept coming back into her mind and she fought hard to stay awake, anxious not to miss any of this exciting night. Even at the hospital.
"Would you like to go home with your Mum and Dad?" The lady doctor put down the stethoscope and smiled. Apart from the long gash across her cheek, the little girl was absolutely fine. TLC and the familiarity of home would do her more good than medicine and white sterile hospital wards.
Sally nodded emphatically. Most eight-year-olds would consider themselves far too old for laps, but Sally snuggled against Pippa in sleepy contentment. Warm. Safe. Loved.
Everyone was out and Lynn was to be kept in hospital till tomorrow for observation. She had Tom and Pippa all to herself. How could she ever have felt unwanted? Hugs and kisses goodnight, hot chocolate and marshmallows, a foamy bubble bath, fresh-scented sheets and another chapter of Five Dolls in the House, one of the books that hadn't been too badly damaged when Steven had trashed the room. (Somehow Sally knew it was Steven, but somehow she didn't want to dob him in either.)
Five Dolls, one of Pippa's favourites when she was eight too, was a very funny story of a little girl who could make herself small enough to go inside a doll's house, where she met the likes of bossy Vanessa, posh Jacqueline, and, most of all, mischievous Lupin and her equally mischievous friend the monkey, who lived on the roof and liked to shout down the chimney at everyone.
Sally loved the story and had slept like a log afterwards, but the bright light and noise of another helicopter had woken her suddenly from her deep, cosy sleep. This one, she knew, would be the "weather watch" that circled the sea at the same time every night, looking out for sudden storms or high winds. But it didn't stop her hoping. And she still didn't know what she was going to do about the twenty dollars ransom money that Scott Phillips had demanded for Milko. She couldn't tell Pippa. She couldn't tell anyone or they would kill him.
"Milko, where are you?" She whispered sadly into the night. "Because, you know, if you've run away from the Phillips brothers and you're scared of the chopper, you don't have to be. It's only come to rescue you. Please, Milko, come back!" She added after listening for a while.
But her voice lost itself in the darkness and still nobody answered. Sally and Mrs Martha were all alone.
-----
There are a million songs for the lonely
a million stars to look up at each night
but there's no one to hold you and kiss you
and tell you everything's gonna be alright...
He had a lot in common with Sally really. Sally counted desperately when something troubled her. Steven turned situations into rhyme. He never used to, but, since the fire, he'd begun churning words into songs. Anything to drown out the terrible memory.
"Steven, the fire..."
The fire he had stood cheering with his best mates, Gazza, Andy and Jonno, all of them slightly drunk on four large cans of lager and two large bottles of strong cider, unaware that the electrical sparks flying into the air came from his own home where his parents were burning to death.
There are a million songs for the lonely
a million stars to look up at each night...
Everyone had someone. Tom and Pippa. Sally and Milko. Lynn and her God.
And they didn't even know they were couples. Not yet. Only people who didn't have anyone had time to peoplewatch.
Lance and Kathy. Engaged in serious whispered conversation. Steven heard Sally and Milko's names mentioned several times. He would have joined in except he didn't feel he was any expert on Sally and Milko. He was the one who'd teased her about Milko most. And he wasn't an expert on anything anymore.
Carly and Zammo. Carly, still feeling guilty that her drinking had nearly killed Lynn and Sally, unusually pale, but at least smiling now, at something Zammo was saying, leaning her head to one side to listen, curling her hair round her finger like Carly always did when she was pleased but uncertain about something.
Frank and Jenny. Jenny, trying to persuade an unusually shy Frank to play another song. She'd got him to play two so far and some of the diners, swept up in the happy mood of a missing child being found safe and well, sang along. Frank, uncomfortable that they were being hailed as heroes and he was being called the Pied Piper, and adamant he wasn't singing anymore, caved in. Jenny could be very persuasive.
Steven put down the finished glass or coke, swirling the straw round the glittering ice cubes that rattled in response. The Diner had been Lance's idea and Lance's treat, but Steven hadn't been felt like eating and had settled for two glasses of coke while Lance and Frank had hungrily polished off snags, fries and beans.
He had only come to the Diner because Lance had insisted and anyway there was no place else to go. Kathy, Jenny, Carly and Zammo had since returned from the Northern District Hospital with the great news that Lynn was doing fine and Sally, airlifted to the same hospital, had been doing so well that she was already being allowed to go home with Tom and Pippa.
"Guess I'll head back," Steven said.
No one heard. Maybe he didn't say it too loud. Maybe he didn't say it at all. He tried to make out it was no big deal, his not belonging anywhere. He yawned, locked his fingers together, stretched his arms high above his head. Frank threw him a look. Dead at ten paces.
Jenny laughed at Frank's expression, ran her finger down his arm and drew him back to the music. But, wrapped up in their own little world, she didn't think to turn her head to see what or who he was glaring at. The chair scraped as Steven pushed it back. The coffee machine gurgled and bubbled another frothy coffee. Nobody noticed him leave.
...but there's no one to hold you and kiss you
and tell you everything's gonna be alright...
The sweet smell of doughnuts and chocolate lingered on the evening air as he pushed open the Diner doors and a young couple brushed past him inside, like everyone except Steven, eager to be part of the celebrations.
The door swung behind him and he looked back for a moment, at the light and the silhouettes and the singing he'd shut himself out from. He thrust his hands into his pockets and headed down to the beach, the strains of guitar music peppering the summer night. Someone must have bribed Frank into playing a solo next. Steven recognised the piece. Rodrigo's Guitar Concerto D'Aranjuez. A pretty Spanish melody and, although he preferred the heavy rock he and his band were into, somehow no surprise - Frank loved all music and would have played till his fingers bled. And beyond.
The guitar playing grew fainter and ripples of applause turned into the ripples of the night sea. The lights of the Diner and Summer Bay faded to moonlight and stars.
Steven sank down on the sand and watched the inky blue sea and the rolling waves that seeped on to the shore before quickly creeping back again like timid children. He thought of his Mum and Dad. Of the house, long before it was burnt to a cinder, with its pristine white door and its brass-plated gold numbers 27, the corner of the seven splashed with a careless blob of white paint.
That was from the time when Dad, always too lazy to remove fixtures and fittings before painting, was distracted when Mum, sitting out soaking up the sun, suddenly yelled at the neighbour's dog, who was making off with the rolled-up newspaper that the paper boy had just delivered by hurling randomly over the hedge and Jip, next-door's comical-looking rusty-coloured mongrel and probably the most stupid dog in the whole of Australia, had leapt over the fence (three times his height) to catch and run off with.
"Stop him! Catch him! I need the coupon for my free sugar canister!"
Mrs Matheson could easily have afforded to buy a new tea, coffee and sugar set, but she had set her heart on the ugly purple-swirly-patterned plastic containers that were unavailable anywhere else - hardly surprising as, finding the line a flop and sales extremely sluggish, the manufacturers had donated them to the newspaper in return for free advertising space.
The dog panted and ran like a fugitive from justice, with frequent glances behind to check on his progress.
Mr and Mrs Matheson were already giving chase. So was the paper boy. And two workmen, who, from the top of their scaffolding, had seen the dog running off with something and thought it must be valuable. And assorted neighbours, including Jip's embarrassed owner and the six-year-old twins from down the street, who didn't know why everyone was running but thought they'd better join in.
Crying with laughter, Stevo and his girlfriend Tina did a U-turn and now headed the race, Tina's tied-together long blonde plaits rising and flying behind her like wings.
And then, without any rhyme or reason, there being no rhyme or reason whatsoever to his life, Jip stopped abruptly in the middle of a muddy field that was earmarked for a new housing development, flopped down and began chewing the newspaper to pieces. He looked up proudly as Stevo and Tina caught up with him first, his tongue lolling to one side, his tail pounding the ground, bits of soggy newspaper fluttering away like snow. He pressed his paw down hard on the front page and took another large bite. It was sooo nice of everyone to join him for dinner.
Tina. Whatever happened to Tina? Tall, slim, Scandinavian blonde hair, pale blue eyes. They were both barely fourteen and she was his first girlfriend, if you didn't count the clumsy kisses and shy giggles of primary school romance. Tina, who had been furious to realise she was so mud-splattered till he made her laugh again. Tina, who belonged now to the dim and distant past of a few months ago.
Steven let the sea wind riffle his hair and stared out at the horizon. The house was burned to ashes. Memories and faces and tears and laughter all gone.
He was another Steven. In another life.
"I'm Pippa," she says. She has kind eyes and a motherly smile.
"Tom." His new foster father offers his hand, but he holds back, inhaling the canvas smell of the green rucksack clutched tightly to his chest. Since yesterday, all that he has left in the world.
He draws another shuddering breath and glances apprehensively at his social worker as they hear voices outside. The other foster kids arriving home from school. Pippa lightly rests her hand on his shoulder as if she understands all the trembling hidden inside. Tom doesn't take offence at his slight, but pulls open the door.
"Okay, guys, this is Steven, your new brother. Let's see how fast we can make him feel at home."
Home. So this is home now. This strange house, with new faces and new voices, with its high ceiling and mahogany pendulum clock, with its shabby but much-loved furniture and smell of home-baked scones piled high on the plate.
The music came to him again. Soft and melodic, then faster and faster, first drifting, then rushing towards him across the moonlit ocean, curling round his heart. A song without words, filled with memories and faces and tears and laughter. He smiled, reliving the memory of Tina and Jip, and then, suddenly remembering Frank again, sighed deeply into the restless wind. He was in heaps over taking the guitar.
-----
Scott Phillips stood outside the shed for a little while. He wasn't dill enough to go inside the house.
He'd checked out the window and seen Mum lying in a bloodied heap on the floor and Dad still drinking. So it would be a night in the shed - slightly warmer than sleeping under the wooden bridge of the wharf and safe enough because Dad was too drunk to look for them - but, oh, Jeez! Kane was freaking him out, sitting there all on his own, having whole conversations with himself.
Scott had seen something like this on a TV show once. Is There REALLY Anybody Out There? The show had been called. It was all about people who, even though everybody laughed at them, were convinced that they spoke to aliens or dead people or guys who lived in alternate universes. But this show took a different tack. What if THEY were right and everybody who laughed at them was wrong? It asked. What if they really WERE talking to aliens?
Scotty shoved open the shed door and looked warily round. "You got anything to eat, drongo? I could eat a ------- horse and chase the jockey!"
Kane shook his head. He was starving too.
"Milko had steak, chips and berries for supper though," he said helpfully, thinking perhaps Scotty would be put in a better mood if he heard their prisoner was being well fed.
But it didn't have the desired effect. Scotty thumped him and Milko glared at him.
Scotty looked down at his stinging fist, half in satisfaction, half in fear. What if this Milko dude and his weirdo mates Deefa and Fred laid into him for thumping Kane? For ----'s sake! Now he was even thinking like his loopy kid brother! Scotty was fast reaching an inevitable conclusion. There was only one solution to the ever increasing insanity that was threatening to sweep him in its path too. Milko had to go...
