The Ottoman Motel (15 page)

Simon had spent all afternoon at the window, huddled up on the seat by the ledge. He found the view soothing; the sharp pain that had stabbed his mind like a pulse had now been worn down to a dull hum. He'd stirred once, half an hour ago, with literally no idea why he was feeling so sad. Then, the image, dusk-muted, of his parents walking away from him floated back, and he hated himself for forgetting it. He couldn't even picture their faces now. They must have been so familiar to him he had no need to
keep them.

There was a gentle knock. ‘Simon?' Ned's voice came through the bedroom door. Simon's legs flexed, ready to run, but he had nowhere to run to. Panicking, he looked for somewhere to hide.

Nowhere. The bed was too high off the ground. The cupboard was too full. Without really thinking he prised the edge of the seat and to his joy it rose up. The top was hinged, the seat was hollow. He climbed into it.

‘Hello?' Ned knocked again.

Simon's heart thumped as he eased the lid of the chair down. He expected to be cloaked in darkness, but instead the light remained. He twisted his body around and realised the seat had no back: its edge jutted up right against the window pane; the glass went straight down into the floorboards. He crawled right to the edge of the glass, and suddenly he was hanging in mid-air, suspended out over the thin strip of garden below, the tufty expanse of sand beyond. For a beautiful and terrifying moment, Simon thought he was floating.

Then his stomach rose in his throat, the familiar horror-flash of crawling to the top of his grandmother's roll-top desk where the beckon-curl of smoke rose from far-flung chimneys. A pink hand fat with world-trust, an explosion of paper-thin glass, a suffocating spin through all of innocence. And all the air there ever was not able to fill his lungs as he fell.

Simon realised he had stopped breathing, and sucked in a sudden chestful of dust-laden air. He coughed violently, tears surging to his eyes.

‘Simon?' Ned's voice was right above him. Simon heard his weight creaking the floorboards. ‘Are you…under the seat?'

Simon coughed again, the dust was everywhere. But then, fresh air.

Ned peered down at him. ‘What are you doing down there?'

Simon could see the crude hint of stitches at Ned's forehead. A yellowing bruise covered one cheek. ‘Um,' said Simon, ‘just looking…out.'

Ned stuck out his hand. ‘Why don't you come out,' he said. ‘I wanted to have a little talk with you.'

Simon took Ned's hand and unfolded himself from the
space under the seat. ‘Okay.' He stepped out and brushed the dust off his knees and arms. It was dark grey, thick, curled like fancy butter.

‘Guess we never clean under there,' said Ned.

Simon stepped awkwardly out of the seat. It felt like he'd been caught doing something illegal. ‘Are you…okay?' he said.

‘I'm fine,' said Ned. ‘Don't worry about it. Shock, mostly.'

‘I'm sorry.' Simon brushed down his trousers, a tiny charge of panic going through him as he felt a stone still in his pocket. ‘Can I…is there…?'

‘Do you want to sit down?' Ned motioned to the bed, and Simon sat down on it. Ned sat down next to him. ‘Listen,' he said, ‘Simon. Don't feel bad about what happened at the lake. It was an accident, and they happen, and I'm fine.'

Simon twisted his hands in his lap. ‘I really didn't mean to.' He desperately wanted to explain to Ned about his mother's voice, how it appeared in his head just as he was about to throw. But it sounded so stupid.

‘I know you didn't mean to,' said Ned. ‘But Audrey and Gin—especially Audrey—are still a bit upset about it. They're just being protective. I mean, you'd be the same if your—'

Simon gulped down a swallow, as if eating the air might make the silence go by faster.

Ned rubbed his head where the stitches were. ‘Anyway it wasn't really the rock that did this to me, I hit my head on the ground when I fell. If I'd put my arms out to break my fall it would have been a different story.' Ned snuffed out a laugh. ‘Just the old waiter coming out in me,' he said. ‘Save the food and drink at all costs.'

‘Were you a waiter?'

Ned nodded. ‘That's how I started out, then I moved into the kitchen. Worked my way up to owning my own business. It was great fun, really.'

‘How big was your business?' said Simon. He shuffled his body further back on the bed. It was nice to hear an adult who sounded excited about what they did.

‘Fairly big,' said Ned. ‘I ended up doing events all over town. Brisbane, mainly. Gold Coast. Big dinners: launches, receptions, celebrations. Once I cooked breakfast for Neil Armstrong. You know, the first man on the moon?'

‘Really? What did he eat?' Simon thought of the packets of Space Food he'd seen in the supermarket—sticks that were supposed to taste like whole meals. Roast dinner, pumpkin soup, Neapolitan ice cream.

‘I can't remember,' said Ned. ‘It was a business lunch he was speaking at. He had the same as everyone else.'

Simon looked down at the carpet. He had never met anyone famous, let alone made something for them. ‘Why did you stop your job?' he said. ‘Why did you come here?'

Ned rubbed his neck. ‘It's sort of hard to explain.' He moved his tongue around in front of his teeth. ‘Is there something you love doing, Simon?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Is there something that you'd always rather be doing, rather than anything else?'

Simon thought. ‘I like reading,' he said. ‘Reading books.'

‘Well, that's what cooking was like for me. But imagine if someone told you where you had to read every day, which books you had to read, how fast you had to finish them—how would that feel?'

‘Not too good,' Simon said.

‘Well cooking got to be like that for me. Once people knew I was good at it, they wanted more and more.'

Simon thought he understood. ‘You mean, it wasn't fun any-
more.'

‘Exactly,' said Ned. ‘My life wasn't just in a kitchen anymore. It was art galleries and racecourses and business meetings. No one was there to enjoy my food, they had other things on their mind.' Ned gripped his head suddenly, trying to hold it still. He closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tight. ‘This place,' he said. ‘Reception…Stephanie—my wife—she was a local.' He smiled, but Simon thought he saw a glint of moisture at the edges of his eyes.

Simon looked at the floor.

‘When she went…when she—' Ned sighed. ‘It was like the sun had gone.'

Simon thought about the game where he waited, trying to catch the moment when the light had completely gone away and afternoon became night. He never could. Time would just stretch out and slow so much that he would always forget to watch and by the time he'd remember what he was doing, it would already be night.

‘Anyway.' Ned shook his head and winced. ‘Just wanted to check you were okay.' He got up and walked to the door. ‘I'll probably make some lunch soon,' he said. ‘If you're hungry.'

Simon went to fetch a jumper from the pile of clothes Ned had left for him the night before. He felt all the better for having talked to Ned; his mind had settled. It was strange the way the sick feeling came in waves, one moment he was panicked, the next, calm. He pulled the jumper over his head and decided that he would walk down to the ocean. Out the front door, around the house, through the garden and over the dunes. He ached to see the water up close.

As he walked out the bedroom door, he knew something strange was happening. It was a series of noises: slipping, straining sounds, and underneath a deep painful creak: Simon thought again of a ship. Coming out the door, he realised the sound was coming from a thick multicoloured rope tied to the banister on the landing, shifting and straining under a weight which Simon realised too slowly was Pony. The other end of the rope was wound around Pony's belt. He leaned back into thin air, his feet planted firmly below the banister. He was wearing a battered felt hat, the kind they wore in the outback. Simon couldn't work out how the thin rope was holding him up.

‘What are you doing?' Simon couldn't help the waver of panic in his voice. Pony whipped his head up; his body swayed on the rope.

‘Standard safety tests,' he said.

‘What for?' Simon pictured the entire banister giving way, Pony's body spinning to the ground.

‘I'm seeing how much pressure it can take.'

‘But—but what if it breaks?'

‘Then I'll know it's not safe. Don't you listen to anything?'

Simon's leg itched. ‘But won't it be weaker if you keep putting pressure on it? Won't it be less safe than if you did nothing at all?'

Pony gave him a dark stare. ‘How's the search going?' he said.

‘I'm not sure. Ned had…you probably heard. The rock.'

‘Yeah.' Pony's face fell. ‘Help me back, can you?'

Simon took Pony's hand, and helped him clamber back onto the landing. Pony unwound the rope from his waist, loosening a series of complicated knots. ‘You want a muesli bar?'

‘Sure,' said Simon. ‘Thanks.' He realised he was quite hungry.

Pony pulled out two bars with faded wrappers and gave one to Simon. He sat down with his back against the banister and Simon did the same.

Simon had never really seen Pony's face close up. Most of the pores on his nose and down his cheeks were clogged with dirt. Simon had learned all about pores from his mother. He'd seen diagrams in the brochures she had. Cleansers and toners
penetrating deep
into pores: little drawings of blue arrows driving out particles of dirt from the evil bulbous holes.

‘So,' said Pony, chewing a large mouthful, ‘Why don't you ever talk?'

‘What?'

‘You don't seem to talk that much. You don't seem to be interested in other people.'

‘Don't I?'

Pony shook his head. He finished his muesli bar in another giant mouthful and put the wrapper back into his pocket.

‘I suppose I don't talk to anyone that much,' said Simon.

‘You mean, not just here?'

Simon didn't say anything.

Pony stared at the floor. Then he said, ‘Remember I told you both my parents died?'

Simon nodded.

‘You never asked me how it happened.'

Simon fished in his mouth. A piece of nut from the muesli bar had lodged between two of his teeth. ‘I didn't know you then. It would have been rude.'

‘I didn't know
you
,' said Pony, ‘and I asked about
your
parents.'

‘Sorry,' said Simon, not particularly meaning it.

Pony cracked his knuckles. ‘That's okay.'

For a moment, Simon didn't know what to say. Why should he have spoken to Pony? His parents had gone missing: making friends wasn't the thing at the very front of his mind. Especially with someone who threw rocks at his door and made fun of his scars.

‘We're not that different,' said Pony. ‘That's all I'm saying. I know it can be…not easy. When it's your parents, I mean.' His fingers twisted themselves into the rope.

‘Is this why you came here?' said Simon. ‘Did the Gales adopt you?'

Pony snorted, his laugh shooting out of him like a mistake too late to take back. ‘Not exactly,' he said.

Simon took a deep breath. ‘Do you think
I'll
have to be adopted,' he said, ‘if my mum and dad don't come back?'

Pony shook his head. ‘You've probably got other family to look after you.'

‘Not really.' He thought. ‘There's only Ir—my grandma. And she's…not well.'

‘Iris.' Pony rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Not well indeed.'

Simon didn't know what this was supposed to mean.

‘But your parents have got friends, or neighbours? People to look after you?'

Simon shrugged. ‘We've moved around so much. My dad used to call his business his best friend.' Simon felt a fresh sadness rustle in his stomach.

‘So it's just you.' Pony folded his mouth up. ‘We're pretty much alike, then.'

‘Are we? I thought you didn't like me.'

‘Because I tackled you.'

‘And made fun of my scars.'

‘Oh,' said Pony. ‘Sorry.' He poked his fingers at Simon's leg. ‘How did you get them?'

‘I fell out a window,' he said. ‘When I was little. At my grandma's house. She was looking after me.'

‘The window cut up your leg?'

‘No, the window was open. I fell into a greenhouse. Broke both my legs.'

Pony winced. ‘How on earth did you manage that?' Simon imagined him safety testing all the hotel's window frames.

‘My grandma left me alone in my grandpa's old study. She was gone a long time, and I climbed up on a desk and was leaning to look out the window when I…fell.'

‘Did it hurt?'

‘Not at first. I remember falling, but I can never really think about falling through the greenhouse. It was just a small one, where my grandma used to grow flowers. I broke…I got cut up pretty badly, especially—' he pointed at his scars. ‘I was knocked out and my grandma didn't find me for a while.'

‘Why not? Wouldn't she have heard the crash?'

‘She was…taking some medicine. She was taking medicine then that wasn't really good for her.'

‘Bloody hell,' said Pony. ‘Iris.'

‘It wasn't her fault,' said Simon, ‘but my mum didn't let us talk to her after that.'

Pony suddenly stood up. ‘What are you doing today Simon?'

‘I was going to go to the beach,' said Simon. ‘I wanted to see the water.'

‘No you're not,' said Pony. ‘I know somewhere even better.'