The Ottoman Motel (16 page)

Sometimes, lying with his back to her, he would feel her fingers tracing down his back. She would smooth down his hunched shoulders, draw her hands over the old gouges of acne, over the deeper lesions: cigarette burns and unhealed bruises, cuts from forgotten blades. Her fingertips would sketch his spine as if tracing backwards through his life, making each wound disappear.

‘I can't stay.' Tarden's voice rumbled in the quiet room. His feet moved up and down rhythmically against Iris's leg.

‘You don't have to go,' she said. ‘There's plenty of time.'

Tarden always reached a stage, when he was with Iris, when he would feel suddenly lost. Always a moment when he would find himself out of place in the ivory sheets and dappled seaside light. This was not where he belonged. He would never belong somewhere like here.

‘I've got to go,' he said. ‘It's kind of important.'

Iris rolled over, taking his face with her hands. ‘You're a good man, Jack Tarden. You know that?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I don't.' Even her hands: softer and more tender than he ever deserved.

‘You are. The way you're helping with Bill and Louise. The whole town is lucky to have you. And poor Simon.'

Tarden ran his hands over his face. He groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. His voice was muffled by his hands. He smelled seawater and wet plastic. Damp rust.

‘What is it, Jack?'

For all the world, he wanted to tell her. For all the world, he wanted to take her away.

‘You can tell me.' Iris stroked his arm.

Tarden knew this feeling too well, words roaring red in his mind, demons too big to exit his body. Then another thought, another layer. ‘Simon told me you were sick.' These words came out lightly, with no comprehension of their weight.

Iris shrank away from him and drew up the sheets. ‘Did he.'

Tarden turned to face her. His arm ached, had ached for years. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘But…Jesus. I had no idea.'

Her eyelids fluttered and closed.

He said, ‘You were the reason they came here.' It sounded cruel.

‘Five years,' she said quietly. ‘Do you know how long that
actually
is? Not to hear your daughter's voice, your grandson's?' A tear shivered at the inner corner of her eye.

Tarden reached out a hand, touched her temple. He was sure he could feel her blood, running just below the skin. ‘I didn't know.'

‘Of course not. It's not something you ask someone like me, is it.
Any family? Any life outside these four walls?
' She turned over, cocooning in the sheet, so all Tarden could see was her back: the soft white skin of her shoulders.

‘You could have told me,' he said.

Iris started to cry, a sound that still gave Tarden chills of white-hot guilt. ‘You shouldn't feel like…it's not your fault.'

Iris let out a wet laugh. ‘You have no idea.
I'm
the reason I haven't seen them in so long.
I'm
the reason they came here.
I'm
the reason they went missing.' Her sobbing became a howl of lost breath.

Tarden drew her in close, holding her tightly. ‘Don't say that. It's not true.' He pictured Bill and Louise's car parked inside his shed. He said, ‘They'll turn up soon. We'll find them.' He moved his face closer to hers. ‘What did you say?'

‘This bloody town,' she whispered.

‘This town?'

‘It's a bolt-hole. All of us—we're not doing anything right.'

Tarden felt a prickle of heat. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Life isn't—' she paused. ‘There's always something trailing you, and it'll always catch up. Like a…well that you're drawing up.'

‘Well I sure as hell didn't come here to haul up my past.'

‘Jack,' Iris turned back to him, ‘I didn't mean that. I didn't mean you.'

Tarden looked away from her gaze. ‘Nearly sixty years of my life, and this is all anyone thinks of me.'

‘Jack—'

‘No. You're right. This place is an escape. This town is for people who have apparently not done one worthwhile thing in their life. This is what you get for being honest with people.' Tarden stuck out his hand to an imaginary partner. ‘Pleased to meet you. Name's Jack Tarden. Recovering alcoholic. Recovering gambler. Fifteen years for accessory to murder.'

Iris held his gaze. ‘This isn't you,' she said.

Tarden's head burned. ‘Yes it is,' he said. ‘And I'll be fucked if I'll do it anymore.'

‘Jack. Stay with me. We'll talk some more.'

She was just a helpless old woman. Tarden saw this now. Her eyes spider-veined, her mouth hinged with lines of sadness. He got out of the bed and started pulling on his trousers. ‘If it's all the same with you,' he said, ‘I'm pretty sick of talking. Time I actually did something.'

She reached out for him as he walked away. ‘Jack, just—'

‘Shall I send in whoever's next?' He watched Iris's face fall, and felt the sharp edge of satisfaction at having wounded her so deeply.

The afternoon sun was low and Pony adjusted his hat for shade. ‘This is it.'

Simon could still see the Gales' house, a corner of it. They had taken a right turn at the bottom of the driveway and followed a short overgrown track. Pony was on his bike and Simon had borrowed an old one of Ned's, but it was such a short distance Simon wondered why they hadn't just walked. A tall chain-link fence was once a barrier to intruders, but had now either collapsed or rusted away. The iron gate had long ago come off its hinges and fallen onto the ground by the entrance.

‘Yeah,' said Pony. ‘Come on.'

He led Simon through the entrance; Simon followed Pony's footsteps exactly. Dry leaves and fern fronds covered the ground. By the entrance was the old ticket booth, an oblong sentry's box with a faded sign, a glittering carpet of broken glass on the ground around it.

‘Ned told me they built it about fifteen years ago,' said Pony. ‘Didn't stay open long because it was so close to the beach where you could swim for free. Stupid, really. Ned also told me to stay away because it's dangerous.' He grinned.

Simon saw horrible images of children running barefoot over the glass, blood running into cement cracks.

‘I'm going to restore it,' said Pony.

‘Restore it?'

‘Yeah. No one uses it anymore, so I've claimed it.' Pony stuck his thumbs under his armpits as if he was wearing braces. ‘Squatter's rights.'

‘But won't people still go to swim at the beach?'

Pony looked at Simon like he was slow. ‘I'm not going to reopen it as a
swimming
pool
,' he said. ‘I'm going to reopen it as a
restaurant
.' He pointed to the ticket booth. ‘That'll be the cloakroom. The front gate is where I'll be most of the time, greeting people, seeing who's arriving.' He walked away from Simon. ‘This is the best bit, though.'

Simon followed him, gingerly stepping over broken glass and cracked pavers. They came to the pool itself, which was far bigger than Simon had imagined. At the near end—the shallow end—there was an angry mass of wrinkled canvas: an old pool cover, faded and desiccated by countless summers. Dirt and foliage caked the once-white pool floor, the black lane markers now only pale suggestions. At the deep end, someone had abandoned an old card table. It looked for all the world like some cumbersome animal that had lost its balance and toppled in.

‘Up here!' Pony's voice cracked overhead. Simon looked up to see Pony strutting along the top tier of a wooden grandstand, the seats nothing more than long benches. One entire row had completely fallen away, and others were rotten and crumbling.

‘Are you sure it's safe?' said Simon.

Pony turned around. ‘I've tested it,' he said. ‘I'll show you.' He scrambled down the rows, zigzagging back and forth, stuttering steps in places, loping full strides in others. ‘Come on!'

Simon peered down the gap. He saw remnants of the bench below, pieces covered in moss. The grass was striped too, green and brown, where the rain and sun fell between the gaps.

‘Here we go then,' said Pony, stretching across to place one foot either side of the gap. He held out his hands. Simon looked at him sceptically. ‘Don't be a pussy,' said Pony, grabbing Simon under the armpits and swinging him effortlessly across the gap. Simon gasped at Pony's strength. ‘There,' said Pony. ‘Easy.' He swung his leg back past Simon and bustled past him.

‘Wait,' said Simon. ‘How old are you?'

‘Fifteen.'

‘Really?'

Pony spun around. ‘What? Just because I'm short.'

‘No,' said Simon, ‘sorry. I didn't mean—it's just I didn't realise how strong you were.'

‘Yeah, well. You have to be, don't you.'

Simon knew this was another question that didn't want to be answered. He followed Pony to the top of the grandstand, and Pony pulled two more muesli bars from his pockets. ‘I don't know if I'll keep these seats,' he said. ‘I want the best views to be from down there.' He pointed at the pool.

‘How will the waiters get down with the food?' said Simon. ‘They won't be able to carry it down a ladder.'

‘I'll put in steps, probably,' said Pony. ‘Or a door in the side. But the people who come here to eat will have to climb down to get to the dining room floor.'

‘What about the slope?' Simon remembered his own public swimming pool experiences, that sinister feeling of the water creeping up your body the further in you went.

‘It doesn't matter. I'll put a grippy covering on the floor, and the tables and chairs will be specially made so it feels like you're sitting flat.' Pony pointed to the far end. ‘Do you see down there?'

‘The deep end?'

‘Yeah. That's where the best seats will be.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because you're in the deepest part of the pool. The best view's from the deep end table. That's where the famous people will sit.'

‘Like Neil Armstrong?'

‘The man on the moon?'

‘Yes. Ned said he served him lunch once.'

‘Neil Armstrong.' Pony smiled. ‘Definitely. I'll make him something myself.'

‘I thought you didn't like cooking, though.'

‘What gave you that idea?'

‘I don't know. I guess I've mostly seen you eat cereal.'

‘Well, I help out in the kitchen sometimes. When it's busy.' Pony frowned. ‘I'm not a freeloader you know.'

‘How long have you lived here?' said Simon. ‘At the Gales' house, I mean.'

‘For a while.'

‘Where did you live before here?'

Pony squinted up his eyes, as if trying to focus on some details at the pool's edge. ‘Ned could help in the restaurant,' he said. ‘He'd be very useful.'

Simon stared at the broken card table, and something came to him. ‘Did your parents go missing as well?'

Pony drew in a breath like he was going to say something. Then he shook his head and laughed. ‘I was going to say
yes
,' he said. ‘It was too good to miss. But that's not what happened to them.'

Simon's stomach lurched with anger and embarrassment. All his life's bullies howled in his head. ‘That's not funny,' he said. ‘You shouldn't laugh at me for that.'

Pony chuckled on. ‘Admit it,' he said. ‘It was pretty funny.'

Simon stood up and threw his half-finished muesli bar through the gap in the seats, even though he never littered. He started to walk back down the grandstand.

‘Oh come on,' called Pony. ‘I was only kidding.'

Simon made his footsteps rattle the wood.

‘I'm sorry, okay?'

Simon kept walking. Sick of this, sick of stupid Pony, sick of everything.

‘My dad shot my mum with a rifle, okay?' Pony's voice cut through. ‘And then shot himself.'

Simon froze.

‘That's how my parents died,' said Pony. ‘If you wanted to know.'

Simon slowly climbed back up the grandstand. He sat down next to Pony. ‘I didn't…When?'

Pony took off his hat. He stared upwards. A threadbare awning was stretched above them, covered with the soft shadows of leaves and sticks. They twirled and danced: swishing fingers on the old fabric. ‘I was…maybe nine? Ten? We lived on this property, outside of Roma. Cattle farm. My mum worked in the doctor's surgery in town. She was the receptionist, she'd organise everything for the doctors. She didn't like the farm, all that stuff. Neither did I. I spent a lot of time in the waiting room. I read a lot.
National Geographic
s. Never thought I'd finish them all.'

Pony wedged his hat between his knees, and went on. ‘Dad was just obsessed by the farm. Kept wanting to make it bigger. It wasn't making any money—the drought, you know—but he was always saying
speculate to accumulate
. We were getting poorer, and basically relying on Mum's wage and Dad couldn't believe that nothing was working. He'd get so angry.'

Pony was folding up his muesli bar wrapper, over and over on itself. ‘We were just sitting down to breakfast, same as any morning. Walked in with a gun under his arm. Started shouting about living and dying on the land. I thought it was a joke, you know? Like he was overacting to make us laugh. But then—' Pony thrust his hands into his pockets. He pulled out a band-aid, flicked it against the palm of his hand. ‘After he…after Mum, he pointed it straight at me.' Pony put two fingers at the side of Simon's head, just above his eyebrow. ‘Kept asking if I agreed with him, kept saying
I'm right, aren't I, I'm right, I'm right?
'

‘What did you say?' Simon could barely get his voice to make a noise.

‘I told him
no
. So he shot me.'

‘He shot you?'

‘Tried to, except the gun jammed. He kept pulling the trigger.' Pony tapped Simon's temple. ‘Click. Click. Click.' Pony put the band-aid back in his pocket. ‘I took my chance. Punched him in the guts and ran. I was out the front door and I heard the gun go off again. I waited for the pain. I actually waited to feel the bullet. But it wasn't me he shot. They were there together, in the kitchen. I went back.'

Simon cleared his throat. ‘That's horrible.'

Pony shrugged. ‘It's not something I think too much about.' His voice was steady, but Simon saw his hands were shaking.

‘Did you tell anyone?' said Simon. ‘What happened…after?'

‘I just left,' said Pony. ‘I knew where Dad kept all the money, so I took it. I dunno, maybe they think he buried me somewhere. Maybe they think
I
killed them.' He shook his head. ‘I haven't told anyone that,' he added. ‘Ever. And you can't tell anyone, okay?'

Simon nodded. ‘You haven't even told Ned?'

‘All they know is I ran away from home. Dad's money got me a bus fare and half a year's accommodation here. I just stayed. No one asks you much about what you did before.'

‘Are the Gales your family now?' said Simon.

Pony didn't say anything for a long while. He studied the long wooden plank beneath his feet. Eventually, he said, ‘You see these?' He pointed between his shoes. Simon peered over. A long line of light brown ants threaded a path over the wood. ‘These are the same ants from this morning.'

‘The ones stuck in the orange juice.'

Pony nodded.

‘But they haven't got any wings.'

Pony raised his finger like a teacher. ‘They haven't got any wings
anymore
.'

‘You mean they fall off?'

Pony nodded. ‘When they find somewhere they want to stay, they shed them.'

‘But why? Why wouldn't you want to keep wings?'

‘I guess,' said Pony, ‘they know they won't need them anymore.'