Inconsolable (13 page)

“
The Courier
. We've got our own petition in support of the homeless, Drum's case, council's homeless charter.”

“When did this happen?”

“Happens tomorrow. Lead editorial, unless you're telling me I should pull it. Do I pull it? We've got about fifteen minutes before that possibility expires. The issue is at the printers.”

Foley sat. She needed a minute to think. “Why?”

Nat sat too. “Because I saw him, Fole. Something went wrong in that man's life. Something awful and he's not hurting anyone. For more than twelve months he's been a secret. These flipping do-gooders are more trouble than he is. You know their leader, a bloke called Walter Lam, complained today about the way the story was written. He thought I should've quoted him more. Guy's a troublemaker. He wants the paper to cover the group's annual meeting.”

“I'd never heard about this group until today?” God, that felt like a lie even though it was true—an astro-truth.

“Exactly. They've only been in existence a few days, but that's not stopping them and Drum isn't their only issue, no, it's all the homeless, and Walter has one of those shitpoodolally crossbreed dogs, and a bee in his bonnet about all kinds of other stuff. Says he's got a direct line to the mayor to get support for his initiatives.”

“Initiatives?”
Bloody hell
, what had Gabriella given birth too?

“Yes, he used that word, made sure I understood he was retired partner from one of the big accounting firms and had plenty of time and skill to champion community issues and knew what he was doing.”

“Direct line to the mayor?”

“Oh, that was only puff. Walter is on a power kick. I could see that from space. But I bet he does try to get in Roger's ear.”

Foley rolled her neck, it was so tight, but that was some relief. Nat didn't know she was being astro-rolled. “Hugh will deal with him.”

Nat laughed. “I'd love to see that. Retired ambition with bees meets once shockingly handsome bulldozer with charm. So tomorrow's editorial stays put.”

Did it? What was the best thing for Drum? It was more stirring the pot, but what if Walter was a serious threat, got his way, and all of the municipality's homeless were under the spotlight?

“What if he did something bad?”

“Walter? I think he's a passive aggressive bully, who probably doesn't always bag his dog poop, but I—”

“Drum.”

“Oh. I checked.”

Foley blinked at Nat. “How?”

“I talked to Dave at the cop shop. He let me look through mug shots. It's not like anyone who looks like Drum is on a wanted list. Me looking at mug shots is obviously not conclusive. Drum could be a Columbian drug lord in disguise, but it's not all that likely. It's more likely something dreadful happened to him and it's unbalanced him mentally. He needs qualified help, he doesn't need Walter and friends.”

“Or me. You're right about that. I need to work out how best to help him when he comes back.”

“Don't you mean if? I thought this whole thing was about getting Drum off the cliff permanently.”

Foley nodded. “I think it's part of his sickness though. The cliff, the cave. It's something he desperately needs. I'm so worried about him.”

Nat stood up and went into the kitchen. “That's better than romanticising him. Is it my turn to cook?”

Foley followed. She couldn't remember whose turn it was. “That's ridiculous.”

“I saw the way you looked at him.” Nat had her head in the fridge. “Hell, I was looking at him that way too.” She reappeared with chicken breasts. “Clean him up, put some decent clobber on him and that man is something else, even if he's a stammering idiot.”

“He's not.”

“See, infatuated.”

“I'm not.” But Nat's assumption was like the flame she lit under the pan, it licked too close to the truth for comfort. “And if for a second I was, I'm over it.” Foley left the kitchen to ring Hugh. “So over it.”

12: Overwhelmed

Drum watched the workmen pack the sculptures away. He'd spent hours walking amongst them and would miss them, particularly his favourites: a full size but entirely melted Mr Whippy ice-cream van, a fake iceberg complete with penguins made out of old porcelain electric jugs with open lids for beaks, and a mammoth made from recycled computer monitors, keyboards and cables.

Tonight he'd sleep with the sounds of the sea in his head. He'd stayed away for eighteen restless nights. Each harder than the one before it for all the temptation in his grasp, but now he was home and it would be easier to colour inside the lines.

It wasn't till the last truck pulled out that they came. Ten of them, a scattering of dogs, one baby in a pram. They weren't a welcome committee. He watched as they arranged themselves on the walkway roughly above the cave. They pinned a sign to the railing that said, Protect Public Property for the Good of All Residents. They wore hats and carried bottles of water; they were going to settle in.

It'd be amusing except it was infuriating. This was Foley's action group, men in ill-fitting shorts with knobbly knees and women in straw hats and sensible shoes. Earnest and active, and fucking with him. He could reach the cave the back way and they'd never know, but he didn't want to risk it. In a little while there were more of them, twenty maybe. People using the path to walk or run had to manoeuvre around them, had to stop and talk with them or wave them off.

Drum watched from his perch in the park as they milled about, mostly talking to each other. When the photographer arrived the real event started. So that's what this was. It had less to do with preventing him going back to the cave than it did with the politics of getting their picture in the paper.

He left the bench and went to stand behind the photographer and a woman with a toddler who'd stopped to watch. He wanted to hear what they had to say. There was an obvious spokesperson. The only man in long pants and a business shirt without the tie. He wore a big-brimmed straw gardening hat.

He spoke to a woman with a notepad while the photographer arranged people against the sign, some standing, some squatting. The woman was Foley's flatmate. Drum was careful to stay behind her.

The leader pontificated. “The park, the cliff, the beach belong to every resident, every rate payer. That's why we started the petition to have the man, this Drum person, moved on. We simply can't allow people to camp here. Imagine if everyone wanted to do that. It'd be a nightmare of sanitation and lawlessness.”

“Do you think everyone would?” Foley's flatmate said.

“One man is enough to start a trend.”

The one-man trend amused himself by staring at the one man rabblerouser and his cappuccino set, hat-wearing rabble with the knowledge these folk had no idea who he was.

“But he's been here for some time and others haven't followed.”

“And isn't that lucky. The poor man needs our compassion. He needs more than a cave to live in.”

“I understood he'd moved on.”

The man took his hat off; he had a sweaty comb-over. “Now, we both know, Natalie,
The Courier
started an alternative petition and has been stirring sympathy for this character, suggesting he be allowed to stay. I say it's an admirable thing you're doing, championing the rights of those who can't help themselves, but in all seriousness, this man is a danger, both to himself and to others.”

Drum had seen that story. It'd been carefully done, responsible journalism that had kept his identity from being exposed. Without that he couldn't stand here and risk being spotted.

“Are you saying he's in more danger now than for the previous months he lived in the cave?” Natalie wasn't taking too many notes, but then the man wasn't saying anything worth much.

“Oh, I absolutely am. It has to stop and our group is here to make sure it does.”

“How is he a danger to others?”

“He's clearly a trouble magnet. It goes without saying, Natalie.” It went with multiple taps of his hat against his leg, as if they could make it so.

“But there's been no report of trouble associated with him, and he doesn't have a police record.”

“It's surely only a matter of time.” That went with face raised heavenwards and a succession of make it so hat waves.

“What's the group's plan, Walter?”

“I have a direct line to the mayor and we all know council amalgamation is a big issue for the state government. We're not averse to taking our complaints higher if we don't get what we want.”

“You'd complain to the state government about one homeless man?”

“You're deliberately missing the point, Natalie. This is not about one man, this is about residents, rate payers' rights.”

Drum had heard enough. Two petitions; one against his right to stay in the cave, one for it. And for this group he was nothing more than a symbol of some other agenda they wanted attention for. He backed off, let them have their protest in the sun, their picture in the paper. He bet they'd be off to their designer homes, coffee makers and televisions before the afternoon rolled around, and it'd be safe for him to go home too.

He turned to walk towards Fat Barney's; Paul had promised him work revarnishing the outdoor tables, and came face to face with a woman.

“I've seen you before,” she said.

He'd seen her before too. Out wandering the sculptures like he'd done. He gave her a nod and stepped around her.

“Are you him? Are you Drum? Are you the man who lives in the cave?”

She'd spoken loudly, this woman in a skimpy top and a floaty long skirt. He remembered the clothing, the bright colours she'd worn. He kept walking. At Fat Barney's he got stuck into the varnishing.

He wasn't sure Foley would come. She'd done her job, was finished with him. She had no more reason to care, except he was still a controversy, a poke in her ribs she could do without. He didn't want her to come. But when Paul offered him food to go, he chose the chicken Caesar salad and took a jumbo portion, and on the way back to the cave he bartered with Tony. Tomorrow he'd mop the storeroom at Fruitopia if tonight he could take two mangoes, two peaches, two plums, a bunch of green grapes and a bottle of sparkling mineral water.

So he did think she was coming and he didn't know whether to be angry or elated about that. But he'd over-catered either way.

He'd had a lot of time to think since frightening Foley, and he'd chosen deliberately not to think about her. But she was there just the same, under his eyelids, embedded in his fingernails, hidden between his ribs. She was brighter than the sun, cleaner than the air, more vibrant than the sky on the clearest blue sky day. He'd made her afraid and yet she didn't back down. She tried to joke. She tried to touch him. And he'd wanted that, wanted her slaps, her wasp sting punches or the shy graze or her fingertips. Any of it. All of it. But that night at the bent tree, if he'd taken her hand when she offered, he might never have let her go.

If she came now, he wouldn't shout at her, he wouldn't scare her. He'd try to show her he was still human, still capable of reasoning. And the least he could do was feed her.

It was late into the sunset, its pale pinks and golds, when she came. He heard her call, a shouted whisper. Not his name. His name was obviously common knowledge now. Anyone could know it now, not just the people he did work for; the ones he trusted. Now dog walkers, kite flyers and tai-chi doers, men in big straw hats with comb-overs thought they knew what was best for him one way or another.

It was hard to believe he'd given everything away only to have this problem again, the problem of uncertain fame. But he couldn't very well ditch this name as well. This one he was stuck with.

She called, “You better not be home,” and it made him smile.

He met her on the top ledge like the very first time. “I've disappointed you.”

She tried to look angry but delight leaked into her eyes and animated the shake of her head. “Do you want to come to the park?”

He was already on his way up and over to go back to the cave. “No, have you eaten?” He looked over his shoulder at her, caught another head shake. “Come, let me feed you.”

She came without protest, but he knew it was only on pause. When she hit the cave floor she said, “What do you mean feed me? Why did you come back? It's not all over. How long have you been back? Did you really go, or did you just pull a swifty on me? Is that a smile? Are you smiling at me, you terrible scary hermit squatter caveman?”

“Are you finished?”

She made a sound like gah, like a cartoon character, her mouth open, her brows raised in surprise.

“Yes, that was a smile. I can do it. I haven't forgotten how.” He tried it out on her again and she gave a short bark of laughter and spun a cartoonish circle with her hand to her forehead as though she might faint.

“I knew you'd come back,” she said, trying to sound annoyed, failing beautifully.

He smiled at her again. He almost laughed at her. “One petition neutralises the other.”

“No.” She shook her head. “There are now twice the amount of people with an opinion about you.”

And not one of them knew the truth. “Opinions are cheap.”

She put her hands to her hips. “Are you having a dig at me?”

“Sure sounds like it. Would you like to eat? I don't have a table anymore so you'll need your lap, but I have a chicken salad and fruit and mineral water. Plastic crockery and cutlery, so you can trust me with a knife.”

“I don't. I shouldn't.” She did the mental equivalent of stamping her foot in exasperation. “I can't tell if you're being funny or mocking me. I will never work you out.”

He smiled. It was getting easier to do.

“You brought this food because you thought I'd come tonight.”