Dreaming of Amelia (42 page)

‘Since when?'

‘Since the last day of school. The Thursday. The day of the Final Assembly, and the play.'

That was the night I'd kissed him.

I tried to focus.

She's cheating on him
, I reminded myself, and then a surge of anger:
What
,
Amelia, you cheat on Riley and he stops returning calls? You don't think the two things are connected?

It felt great, the anger.

‘Maybe,' I said, ‘maybe he found out your secret.'

Her eyes widened. Then she shook her head. ‘But if he knew, I don't think he'd . . .'

And then — standing in the middle of the oval, sounds of traffic, student voices in the distance — she told me.

She fixed her eyes to the collar of my shirt, and told me what she hasn't told Riley.

It's to do with her stepfather.

‘I've never told anyone that before,' she said with a small smile, ‘except my mum, and it made her burn the onions.'

She laughed. I was breathing hard.

‘It's nothing. It's not a big deal.'

It is a big deal.

‘I've never told Riley because — I guess I didn't trust him not to go kill my stepfather. Plus, I liked telling him the good things about Patrick. That way Patrick stayed special, and the other stuff kind of never happened. I always meant to tell Riley, one day, I mean. He's my, Riley's my . . . I think he knows I'm keeping something from him, and it hurts him. But you think he'd stop talking to me if he found out?'

She was actually checking.

‘No,' I said. ‘He would not stop talking to you.'

She smiled sadly, and said she had to go. Her face was so thin, her bones were casting shadows.

So, just summing up for you. A few weeks ago, I kissed Amelia's soulmate (
he's my, Riley's my
. . .). Yesterday, she trusted me with a secret she hadn't even told him yet.

Today, before this exam, Amelia sat alone and wouldn't look at me.

I closed my eyes, and —

Lesson 4: I don't deserve to live —

That's it. That's my story.

 

Riley T Smith
Student No: 8233569

My last look at her was a desk.

Polished, curved and pushed against a window.

A fly crosses the window.

Before this exam, Amelia's silent. Then sudden fast talk. Who knows what she's saying. Something about how I haven't called her the last few weeks. I lead her down a corridor, and we turn our backs.

She changes the subject — ‘Heard you kissed Lydia' — and gives her wicked grin.

‘Where'd you hear that?'

‘Read it on a blog last night. People say the strangest things.'

That cracking grin. She's holding it. She's waiting.

All I can do is hold her gaze — ‘Didn't know you read blogs,' I say — and now she knows it's true.

Time was, I used to kick the faces in on garden gnomes. That crumpled, broken shock.

Never found a sound that could catch my love for her, and now, look at that, I've gone and broken her.

‘Ame,' I say.

Some things you can't ever mend.

‘After this,' I say, meaning this exam.

She's shaking her head. The pride so fast, it makes me proud. The strength in her.

‘After this exam,' she says, ‘I have to go see my friend.'

Ah. The friend in the institution.

Me kissing Lydia — Amelia knowing that — none of that counts, because Amelia's already gone.

Amelia crossing away from me. Clean, diagonal cut.

I am very sorry to have to ask you this, but have you ever actually SEEN the mental institution that Amelia visits to see her ‘friend'?

Now there's a white flash of truth in my eyes like a migraine: a folded square of paper.

Toby slipped it into her hand just a moment ago, and Amelia put it in her pocket. I saw this and I didn't think a thing.

But the folded paper.

It's a place to meet.

It's Toby.

There he is.

Toby.

In the Goose and Thistle. His hand hits the exit door above Amelia's shoulder. He looks sideways at Amelia, and she smiles her eyes.

There he is.

Toby.

On the street with us. Asking where she lives. Saying that's on his way.

Eyes in the rear-vision mirror as he drives her away.

There he is.

Toby. Running up a staircase. ‘I think he's in my History class,' Amelia says.

There he is.

Toby. Talking to people at parties. Taking control of the music, making it better.

Trapped in a closet, talking Irish folklore and black holes.

Irish folklore
. Of course. The folklore, the fairytales, the
path to her heart. I could never compete with the stepfather. Now I can't compete with this —

Toby.

There's no such person as the crazy friend. That's her cover story. Her wild imagination gone mad.

It's all a story, all code for Toby.

And there he is.

Toby. Floating in Lyd's swimming pool, talking Irish convicts, while the others laugh, ignore him, tell him to shut up.

There he is — Toby. In the auditorium, talking about time travel with mirrors.

At the Final Assembly, heading up to get his woodwork prize.

Toby — the Irish folklore boy, playing tricks with time.

Toby —

he's been there all along.

You just haven't seen him.

I see him now.

Three desks to the right, two up.

Leaning over, writing fast.

His woodworking hands.

Just beyond him, the empty desk. The fly still walks the window. A clean, diagonal cross.

Its wings flutter, flutter, buzz — those wings don't work. That fly can't fly.

Imagine that.

A fly that can't fly.

A man who can't walk.

Woodworking hands that don't.

But let's head back to the corridor, just before this exam, Amelia and I unblinking. Amelia's face. Telling me she has to go to see her crazy friend.

Don't ever push me.

‘Your crazy friend tells you Irish fairytales,' I say. ‘Like your stepfather used to tell.' Now Amelia blinks, and I add, ‘Like you're telling me now.'

She stares.

My voice turns soft — cold as the freakin' Danish Alps — ‘I've given up on you, Amelia.'

She turns,

and just like that,

she's gone.

Toby's been taking her away all year, but I just made her disappear for good.

My last look at her is that desk.

Polished, curved and pushed against a window.

Empty chair lit by thunderclouds.

I always knew my Amelia was a ghost. Never knew I'd be the one to make her so.

There he is.

Toby — just put down his pen and stretched his arms.

 

Tobias George Mazzerati
Student No: 8233555

What can I tell ya?

The only real convict uprising in our history, and it almost worked.

If only the message had got through.

Just to round things up then — you've got a few rebels dead from the battle; a few more dead on the side of the road.

A bunch hide in the woods, and some disappear.

Redneck locals round them up and play this sick (in the oldfashioned sense) game where they get them to line up in a row. ‘Every third man, step forward!' Drum roll. ‘Congratulations! Men out the front get executed!'

And they hang them.

I kid you not. Maybe it's where
Idol
got the idea for their show.

Governor goes, ‘Cut it out, boys. We'll do this proper now.' Had a trial of a few more rebels: guilty, guilty, guilty, death by hanging, death by hanging, death by hanging in chains.

Some were flogged, some sent to chaingangs, the rest went back to Castle Hill.

Not for long though. The crops all went to hell. History reckons it was a disease called rust, but I reckon the crops just up and died on account of all the blood and death.

So they closed down the farm. And that stone barracks that Phillip C built?

Guess what they did with that?

Ah, you'll never get it. But check it out. It's gothic.

They turned it into a lunatic asylum — Australia's first. There was even an axe murder there — more gothic — they
let a couple of the inmates out to chop firewood, and one hacked the other to death. Shifted the asylum somewhere else in 1826.

Stone crumbles — they tear it down — and all around the building starts: houses, roads, shops. Ashbury High. Brookfield High. Castle Towers Shopping Centre, cinemas and mobile phone retailers. A sweeping stretch of grass and trees where the barracks once stood, and these days they call that the Castle Hill Heritage Park.

So, that's the story, and I've gotta say, it kind of gets to me.

Maybe because it's the first time I ever really thought about history, you know, historically speaking? Or maybe because it happened down the road.

If I had a mirror and a telescope I could sit right here and watch.

As it is, I can drive ten minutes to the place where the battle took place, where the major clapped the pistol to Phillip's head. (It's a graveyard now, which is gothic.)

I can
walk
to the heritage park from where I'm sitting. I can show you the spot where Phillip's barracks stood.

The foundations are still there. Shadow of a building. Getting darker and thicker where the fireplace once was.

‘Yeah, but what about Tom?' you go.

I told you some guys hid in the woods and disappeared? That included Tom. They never caught him.

Turned up dead about eight years later. He and another guy lived in the bush all that time, natives helped them survive. A year or two of drought and they tried to cross the mountains — find that hidden paradise (or China). Couldn't make it, of course. Ended up starving, crazy, sick as dogs. They were on their way back, to give themselves up. The other
guy made it (and wrote to Tom's mum to let her know the story) — not Tom.

Almost though — he fell down dead just moments from those old stone barracks.

And there you have it.

The final gothic moment, in my very gothic tale, which might not in fact be gothic at all, but give a guy a break, I wrote a lot.

As for what the dynamics of first impressions have to do with anything, who the f— knows. Ah well.

Might as well head home and shoot some pool. Stop by the heritage park on the way, say g'day to my ole buddy, Tom.

Thanks for your time.

Hills Shire News, Thursday 16 October

AMBULANCE CALLED TO BRUTAL BEATING; POSSIBLE LIGHTNING STRIKE

Three people are in hospital, one in a critical condition, following two apparently unrelated incidents in Castle Hill yesterday
.

In the first incident, an ambulance was called to a Castle Hill residence. Witnesses say they saw two cars arrive separately at the residence in the early afternoon. Approximately ten minutes later, both cars were seen speeding away in opposite directions. An ambulance arrived shortly afterwards and paramedics discovered an unconscious man in the doorway of the home
.

Police have arrested a youth in connection with the incident. The youth, who cannot be named for legal reasons, was treated for fractures to both hands
.

In an unrelated incident, a second ambulance was called to Castle Hill Heritage Park. A girl had apparently collapsed in the park during yesterday's electric storm. Earlier reports that she had been struck by lightning have not been confirmed. The girl was taken to Baulkham Hills Hospital by ambulance and is fighting for her life
.

Both incidents allegedly involved students from exclusive local private school, Ashbury High. The Ashbury High School Principal, Bill Ludovico, declined to comment
.

Rob and Chris,

Can you two put together a solid answer to this question for me:

Why the hell were Riley and Amelia chosen for the scholarships in the first place?

I need to know exactly what happened yesterday. Get the committee together and find out. Tonight, if possible. (And find out if we're going to be liable for any of this.)

Cheers,

Bill

 

Inquiry into Events of Wednesday 15 October

Transcript of Interviews — Thursday 16 October, 6.00 pm

EVIDENCE OF LYDIA JAACKSON-OBERMAN

Mr Botherit:
Lydia. Can you tell us what happened after your English exam yesterday? In your own words.

Lydia:
Whose words did you think I was going to use?

Mr Botherit:
Forgive me, Lydia. I have no doubt that you will never use anybody else's words but your own.

Lydia:
After the exam, I spoke to Riley.

[
Long pause
]

Mr Botherit:
Maybe you could be a little more — detailed.

Lydia:
Like how?

Mr Botherit:
Like — what did Riley say?

Lydia:
If I told you that, it wouldn't be my own words.

EVIDENCE OF EMILY THOMPSON