Shutterspeed (3 page)

Dustin nodded. He'd heard about death and had suspected this was why his mother wasn't around. Other kids at kindy had said so. Dustin let the barley sugar knock against his teeth.

‘Your father loves you,' his grandfather said, turning again to the garden. ‘Very much.'

‘When will I see her?'

‘You'll see her in heaven one day. And maybe in your dreams.'

Dustin pulled roots apart, dirt sprinkling across his lap.

‘She was in a bad accident,' his grandfather said, his fists filled with roots. ‘Years ago. Cars are deadly things. But you and your father are all right and life can be happy.'

The two of them filled a bucket with weeds. Beneath his knees, Dustin could see the ground wriggling with earthworms.

And now, Dustin's mother exists only as an absence; a phantom limb niggling in the night.

After human biol, he unlocks his bike from inside the bustling shed. Junior kids fumble with locks and keys, desperate to escape and push out to freedom. Front wheels knock against one another as bikes are spun and rammed through the open Roll-A-Door. He's restless, too, eager to get to his father's lab, but before he can get going his phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

‘I swear you're getting quicker,' Jasmine says. ‘Hey, I'm just checking if you want to catch a movie this arvo.
Just Once
is on.'

‘Seen it.'

‘When? Who'd you go with?'

‘No-one.'

‘Dustin, you know you don't have to do that.'

‘It's dark. I don't need friends in the dark.'

‘So where are you rushing to now then?'

‘Motorbike store. Nugget's dad's getting him one for his birthday and I've gotta help him choose it.' He's surprised at how easily the lie comes out.

‘Tell him to get a green one.'

‘Okay, see ya.'

‘Or purple with green pinstripes. Something funky. Actually, I think I'd better come too.'

‘No, don't,' he says into the phone, not liking this. He's never lied to her before.

‘Come on, let me meet you there. It'll be fun.'

Her persistence grates at him.

‘Actually, I just remembered I've gotta help at the lab today.'

‘What? Since when do you work Mondays?'

‘Since there's a big backlog.'

The lies keep slipping out and he wonders if she can tell. He doesn't wait to find out. Within minutes he's cruising along at 30k an hour, with the school dissolving behind him.

It's the ‘in-between' bits that Dustin prefers: in-between home and school, in-between school and work, in-between work and home. These are the times he can breathe and anything is possible. The in-between places matter. If he's got an hour or two, he'll criss-cross through Fremantle on
his bike, or straightline it down the coast to Woodman Point and back. If he's got more time he'll spend it in a cinema, and it doesn't matter what the story is or who's in the movie, as long as it's fiction. Twenty-four hours in a day is too much to dedicate to reality anyway.

But today there's something he needs to do, so he cruises south-west, weaving through suburban streets to reach the esplanade where pine trees prick the blue sky. He cycles past picnickers with greasy fish and chips spread out on paper before turning right into Collie Street, past the new row of expensive clothing stores and the waffle place that makes his stomach churn with the sweetness of it. He pushes on past the cinema and its wafts of salty popcorn, but he's not stopping for a movie.

He drops his pace along the cafe strip to avoid running into pedestrians preoccupied with gelati. Beside him on the pavement, umbrellas shade latte-drinkers from the late afternoon sun. Window shoppers walk and talk slowly, not rushing anywhere either. He sees it all at 14k an hour and knows they're just like him: in-between places, in-between meals, in-between chores and responsibilities. Like him, everyone along the cafe strip delays the inevitability of being where they're supposed to be. He grins because he likes it here where laziness is cool.

And the Freo noises make a soundtrack as he rides through the strip: chinks of crockery, teenagers chatting outside Simmo's, Japanese techno music from the games arcade, clip-clopping heels on pavements, squeals of braking CAT buses, fragmented conversations that fill his head and leave no room for thinking. He lets it all in.

But the soundtrack fades as he heads north to his father's lab. Dustin lets his momentum roll him along High Street, and that's when the gut-feeling returns — the feeling that had distracted him this afternoon, especially in chemistry whenever his attention lagged and the picture of her came to mind. The woman with the Ducati. She's been occupying his head without good reason today, and he doesn't feel entirely right about it.

He stops out the front of the photo lab and chains the Avanti's cool chrome alloy frame to the light post. He knows he's got to have another look, to see if she really is worth this fuss, or if he's just making something out of nothing.

The sharpness of processing chemicals hits him at the door. Even after twelve years of coming here he's never got used to
it. The reek of developing fluid reaches out to every corner, filling his lungs, clinging to his skin. Sometimes he lingers under the shower at night, waiting for the lab's smells to wash away.

The store's empty of customers. No-one loiters here; this isn't an in-between place. Stands are covered with old frames in various sizes. Orange-and-green film canisters line the shelves.

Leaning against the counter are sample photos to demonstrate the different dimensions of enlargements. There are seven copies of the same image — a woman with permed hair, shoulder pads and pink lipstick. She hangs from the ceiling too, sometimes in matt, sometimes glossed. Tall people like Dustin bump their heads on her. These prints — like the rest of his father's equipment — are so out of date they irritate Dustin every time he comes in. It's as though the lab were a time capsule, incapable of evolving with the outside world.

On hearing the bell above the door, his father emerges from the stock cupboard, anticipating a customer. He seems disappointed. ‘I wasn't expecting you.'

‘I left my maths here last night. I won't be long.'

‘I didn't see it.' Ken sighs. The in-tray is bulging and there's little chance of him closing the shop on time. He
could use some extra help but won't ask for it. ‘Take your time,' he says, and returns to the stockroom while the old processor continues its whir. A pedestrian walks past the shop's glass windows but doesn't come in. Dustin's on his own and there's nothing to lose. He slides the top drawer open. Inside, cardboard dividers separate letters A to Z, each section fat with packs of photos waiting to be collected. There's nothing stopping him but time.

He doesn't know her first name, let alone her last, so his only strategy is to start from the beginning. She's not in A or B. He opens packets in a rush, finding a repetition of themes — babies, pets, cars, holidays — but he doesn't find her. The urge to find her is greater than the trepidation he thought he'd feel.

From inside the stock cupboard, his father's pen taps as he counts. She's not in C or D. Where is she? Where is this woman with the dark eyes and the Ducati?

‘Dustin, can you get that?'

She's in front of him, standing across the counter. She's the length of a ruler from him.

‘Dustin?' Ken repeats.

‘Hi. I've got some photos to pick up.'

She's speaking to him. She's not wearing a leather Kevlar jacket, but a white shirt. He senses her dark eyes but can't
bring himself to look at them. She's so close he can smell her perfume.

‘Dustin, you got that?' His father emerges from the stock cupboard. ‘Oh hi, Terri. Dustin will sort you out. Dustin …' Ken's unaware of the adrenalin rushing through his son's body.

Dustin's skin prickles him, like pins and needles all over. Each second drags on.

‘… he'll sort you out …'

Dustin fumbles through the remainder of the photos in the deep drawer. He's the only one who can see his hands shaking. He needs to ask for her last name but he doesn't know how to look at her, let alone speak.

‘Under P for Pavish.'

He flicks to P and works his fingers through the bunches of packets. Terri Pavish. Terri Pavish is standing across the bench. His head is down, focusing on the bundles of photos, but he can feel the weight of her eyes upon him. There's no Pavish.

‘Or F for
Fremantle Herald
. Sometimes it goes under F,' Ken calls from the stock cupboard.'

‘Yeah, this one's for work. Most of it anyway.'

And so Terri Pavish speaks — casually, easily, as though her world goes on as normal. He tries to pull himself
together, to use reason to regain control of his body. She is just a stranger after all, just another one of his father's boring customers. She's not drop-dead gorgeous, so why is he so nervous? Why can't he stop his stupid hands from shaking?

He finds F and there are three packs of photos for
Fremantle Herald
.

‘You got it, Dustin?' his father calls again.

And still he feels reckless. He knows he only has seconds to do this. In the privacy of the top drawer, his fingers rush through the contents of one of the packs: black-and-white shots of people, athletes, cars. There's nothing he wants. The second pack is more of the same.

‘Dustin? Did you hear me? Try F.'

But from the third pack he separates two photos and slides them away. There are others of her in there, seen in a blur. He doubts two will be missed.

His father swoops behind him and scoops the three packets up in his hands.

‘Sorry Terri, we've got a stack of orders at the moment. Three, was it? You must be getting a lot of work. At this rate they'll make you go digital.'

‘Ah, not a chance Ken, some things shouldn't be changed. Your processor is mint. I've got another film to drop off too, but put this one under my name.'

‘Dustin, get the tab out. Write it down, will you?'

He feels his face burn as his father speaks to him like a child. He can't bear to make eye contact with either of them so he reaches across to the paperwork beside the till. He can smell her. Without looking up, he senses how close she is, and feels the pull of an invisible force — a rubber band wrapped around the both of them, holding them in place. He can't remember his heart ever racing like this.

And he can't explain it. It's irrational, he knows. He wants to understand, but he's got nothing to compare it with. He senses her leave; hears the bell tinkle as the door slides open, then shut. He still can't take his eyes from the book on the counter. He doesn't know what to write.

‘Leave it to me, I'll do it,' his father says, sliding the notebook towards himself. ‘Did you find what you came here for?'

That's when Dustin looks up at his father. ‘Did I find what?'

‘Your maths homework.'

‘Yeah,' he lies, relieved. ‘Yeah, I did.'

He lifts his backpack off the floor and rests it in the drawer while he transfers Terri Pavish's photos furtively into the front panel of the bag. He slides his helmet off the bench.

‘I'll be a couple of hours,' says Ken, ‘maybe more.'

Dustin cycles home with the sun setting to his left, orange spilling across the horizon. Kids eat chips beside Cottesloe Surf Club. Surfers look like seals in the water. He feels nothing.

At home, he stands at the kitchen cupboard filling his mouth with handfuls of dry cereal. The house is quiet and claustrophobic; the air stuffy. He's so thirsty he drinks three glasses of water, but his mouth still feels dry.

The photographs. He takes his backpack into his bedroom and locks the door behind him.

These photos are different to the one from yesterday. Her hair looks shorter, and there's no Ducati. But her eyes — they're still the same.

The first one is a do-it-yourself photograph, the kind of shot where you place the camera on a pedestal and set up the timer. It was taken down by the lighthouse near Freo Harbour. She's sitting on the pier edge, and behind her a man is fishing. He's got grey tattoos spiralling all the way up his arms. The lighthouse with the old green door is in the right edge of the photo. She's half-smiling with her lips closed. Is she holding something back? What
is
it about her?

The second one was taken by someone else. She's by a roadside somewhere with five people in the background.
Two of them are bending over gardening, and the other three are talking with hands on hips. Terri Pavish stands, arms folded, with dirt above her left eyebrow and that sneaky smile on her lips. Not even a baggy shirt and old jeans can make her dull.

He forces thumbtacks into the top corners of each photo, mounting her to the corkboard above his desk. To make room, he bins bits of paper that have been there for ages: last year's semi-formal invitation; old movie stubs; receipts of CDs; business card from Bikeforce; phone numbers of Nugget, Jasmine, Duffy and Tyrone. They're all programmed into his mobile phone anyway.

The three photos take up the corkboard now. She's fucking unreal. She grabs him in a way that Nugget or Jasmine never have. And there's more to this — her photo getting stuck, her Ducati, and her appearance in the store — than coincidence. He's sure of it.

When he turns off the light, it's with the knowledge that Terri Pavish's photos are on the wall beside him, and still will be in the morning. He lies in bed in darkness, musing on the effect an unknown woman is having on him. It's out of his hands.

At 2:30am he wakes himself from the nightmare and switches on the light. He squints into the ugly white glare of his room, the sounds still sharp in his ears.

It was so vivid! He was standing beside the road, helplessly watching the moment of impact play out like a movie in slow motion. Her dark hair, matted with blood, smeared against the inside of the car window — that part always took so long. Her hair was like black seaweed swishing thickly under the surface of the sea. He tried to walk around the car to see her — to recognise the woman's face — but the car turned along with him so all he could see was this thick dark hair and blood against the window. He knew the car was smashed in. He knew someone was broken, but the dream wouldn't let him see more. All he could do was listen to the raining glass and metal, and the soft whimper of that someone within.