The Tumours Made Me Interesting (21 page)

I was floundering somewhere between sleep and consciousness when I started to hear my name being called. The voice was that of a child and contained such desperation. It grew closer and became familiar.

“Bruce, darling,” said my mother. “There’s a child here to see you.”

I forced my eyes open. Belinda stood before me, her faced flushed with heat, tears streaked down her face.

“Bruce… they’re coming for you,” she cried. “They’re on their way. They want your tumours.”

Fiona was making her move.

5.

M
y mother looked on in horror after I gratefully accepted one of Belinda’s cigarettes and sucked it down in one strong drag. My whole body buzzed with satisfaction and relief.

“What are you doing, Bruce? That’s a filthy habit.” She stared at Belinda who, despite the clear panic dancing about her face, still radiated innocence. “And what are you doing with cigarettes, little girl? How old are you?”

“Mum… this really isn’t the time. We have a situation here.”

Fiona and my ‘roommates’ were on their way with one objective in mind – get the tumours. Sirens filled the air, which backed up Belinda’s assertion that the police had also been called as a result of the deaths of Rhonda and the man at the Tent Bar. I was so thoroughly in over my head. The only thing I knew was that it wasn’t safe for my mother if I remained here.

“We’re going to have to leave, mum,” I said. “They’ll be here any minute and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

My mother tried blurting out several objections, but they tripped over themselves as they left her mouth. Belinda slung me a full pack of cigarettes.

“I think you’ll need these,” she said.

I patted her head and made for the door. Belinda followed close behind. There was no way I was dragging her along for this particular ride. I turned to face her, getting down on one knee so our eyes were level.

“You can’t come, Belinda. This is really dangerous and I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt. I’m already responsible for so much.”

She clenched her fists and punched the air, throwing a bona fide tantrum. The squeals that left her mouth sounded like a thousand sharpened nails on a thousand blackboards. I winced in response.

“LET ME COME,” she screamed.

“Bruce, honey…” said my mother. “You’re not going anywhere. We’re doing this together. We’ll hunker this place down. We’ll be safe.”

“But, mum…”

She made a patronizing ‘shhhing’ sound at me. I wanted to throw a tantrum. My bottom lip quivered.

“You’re not the boss of me,” I said.

My mother shook her head, the same way she used to when I was a child.

“You’re both staying here and that’s final. Fourteen months of labour means I get the final say. Are we clear?”

I nodded my head. The labour argument floored me. As a baby, I sure had been reluctant to come out. Belinda’s tantrum had been replaced by excitement and she danced around the room with an invisible partner.

“Okay, you two,” said my mother. “I want you to find anything you can and push it against the doorway.”

We both obeyed without question. Within minutes the doorway was crowded with bits of gnarled tin, broken furniture and general refuse. I felt a sense of comfort at the thought of keeping whatever was coming for us out, but a much more profound discomfort at the thought of us being trapped in. I suppressed the discomfort with cigarettes (much to the chagrin of my mother) and pressed forward. The sirens had reached a deafening volume. Police lights flooded our window in circular flashes, turning the lounge room into a nightmarish disco.

“They’re here,” said Belinda.

“We’ll hide in the attic,” said my mother. “I think your father’s old cranberry gun is up there. We can protect ourselves.”

Belinda and I each took one of mum’s fingers and made for the stairs. She took every bump with silent stoicism. I hadn’t been in the attic for nearly 20 years. It was a place that had always provoked fear. The last time I was up there, I was attacked by a swarm of moustaches. Ascending the stairs was difficult. Each step collided sharply with my mother’s head. Both Belinda and I apologised each time this happened.

We closed and bolted the attic door behind us. A long string connected to the light dangled in the bleak illumination that spilled through the window. I gave it a hopeful tug. A sizeable section of the roof fell in response followed by dead owl after dead owl. They bounced off the refuse, their bodies stiff and morbid. Through the newly developed skylight, a canvas of purple stars glimmered overhead.

I scurried for the window, eager to see what we were dealing with. Just below us, surrounding my mother’s house, were police officers pulling up on motorised ladders. The ladders scrapped down the road, one following the other. Each ladder carried three officers donning protective xylophones on their chests. They struck the xylophones with county-issued mallets, communicating with each other in unnerving, beautiful music. I sucked on another cigarette.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that, honey,” said my mother.

I widened my eyes in response and sucked even harder. The sirens were disengaged, but the swirls of light remained, churning silently. The three of us were completely trapped. I considered trying to escape through the hole in the ceiling, but I’d have been a sitting duck and, most likely, have fallen.

“Where’s the cranberry gun, mum?” I asked, my eyes still glued to the officers.

“In the medicine chest near where you’re standing I think. I haven’t been up here for so long… I can’t be sure it even works anymore.”

I glanced to my right and saw the ornate, wooden chest she was talking about. I made my way toward it and forced the rigid lid open. Several slips of paper flew out and churned around my body before floating away. Each slip of paper had ‘IOU dramatic bats’ written on it. The chest was full of toys from childhood. Each had been confiscated after causing either my brother or I an injury. There was my knife ball, my brother’s exploding cod piece and my first amateur operation set. Nestled amongst these nostalgic trinkets was my father’s rusted cranberry gun. Memories of my father using this to hunt down errant mailmen unfurled in my mind. I picked it up, cocked the trigger and watched as it liquefied into a brown soup.

“We won’t be using the gun,” I said.

I cast my attention back to the drama outside. The screeching sound of car tyres punctuated the xylophone resonance of the encroaching officers. The car rolled onto its side and from it emerged Fiona, Arthur, Vince and Belinda’s mother. They wore matching skirts and decorative Native American headgear. Belinda shuffled in beside me, absorbing the spectacle below.

“I don’t really like mummy anymore,” she said. “She was better before she died.”

“Don’t say that about your mother,” I replied.

“She was helping Fiona find you. She wants to help cut you open. It’s why I ran away to warn you.”

I placed my arm over Belinda’s shoulder. She snuggled into me and sobbed. The warmth of her distress made me hold her even tighter. She pulled away and looked up at me with enormous eyes.

“I don’t want you to die, Bruce. I like you too much and I want someone to buy me a lizard.”

I patted her head, unsure how to respond. Police officers were swarming around the entrance to the house and moving a battering ram into position. The absence of a door clearly confused and confronted them. One pulled out a megaphone that played Indian ragas whenever the trigger was depressed.

“Bruce Miles,” said the amplified voice accentuated by a droning sitar. “Why is there no door attached to this domicile?”

I scurried across the attic floor and retrieved a dead owl, which I hurled through the window. The window shattered as it sailed the ground outside with a thump.

“Is that an owl?” asked the voice.

I scurried back to the window.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Why did you throw an owl at us? That could very easily be construed as assault.”

“I needed to break the window so I could talk to you.”

The officers huddled together and muttered amongst themselves, nodding their heads in furious discussion. The officer with the megaphone pulled away from the huddle.

“We’ve decided to accept that response. Now… please explain to us why there is no door attached to this domicile.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was like that when I got here.”

“It makes it very difficult to knock a door down when one doesn’t exist. Do you have any idea how much this battering ram costs? We hardly ever get to use it and it’s the most enjoyable aspect of our job.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I yelled.

Once more, the officers huddled and conversed amongst themselves. Once again, the officer with the raga megaphone broke away to address me.

“Do you mind if we build a door so we can knock it down?”

I stared toward my mother who merely stared back with as much confusion painted on her face as me.

“Yeah… I guess,” I replied.

The officer’s high-fived each other and started kicking the tree in the front yard. Across the road, Fiona and my roommates stared on in disbelief. The frustration this ridiculous delay was causing her flooded me with glee. They weren’t prepared to fish us out themselves, so they had to rely upon these amusing men of the law to do it for them.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” said my mother. “We should have all legged it. We’ve trapped ourselves up here.”

“We’ll be okay,” I said without the slightest conviction.

Belinda pressed her ear against my stomach and started giggling.

“They’re so loud,” she said. “Why don’t you ask them for help?”

I chewed on the knuckles of my good hand considering Belinda’s suggestion. I had no idea what help my tumours could provide, but it was the only suggestion that made any sense.

“What do you think, mum?” I asked.

The frenzied sound of sawing and hammering wafted in from outside.

“I don’t like what those things have done to you,” she replied. “In my opinion they owe you. I think you should ask them for help.”

I crawled away from Belinda and laid flat on my back. The stars overhead were dancing. I rubbed at my stomach.

“Do you think you could help us out?” I asked my tumours.

I felt the familiar hive of activity inside me die down.

Of course we can help you, Bruce, but it will take our combined strength. There’s a fair few of them out there… it looks like a battle.

I thought about my body devoid of the only thing that made me interesting. It was a thought I couldn’t stand. The police officer commenced talking on his raga megaphone.

“The door is nearly finished. We’ll be inside soon. At this point, I am obliged to inform you that you may come out willingly. However, please keep in mind that this course of action will prevent us from ramming down your door. This course of action will result in a lot of very angry police officers.”

“Is anything happening?” asked my mother.

I could feel them lining up inside me, so eager to leave. I clenched my muscles, reluctant to allow their exit.

What are you waiting for?
asked the tumours.

“I don’t want you to leave,” I whispered.

The battering ram began striking the newly constructed door, sending tremors throughout of the foundation of the house.

“Hurry, Bruce!” implored my mother.

I rolled onto my stomach, copping a nose-full of aging attic floor. I focused on my breathing. The battering ram struck again, trying to derail my concentration. I heard something splinter. I raised my arse and clenched my good fist.

“We will be inside shortly, Mr. Miles,” said the police officer. “I think we made the door a bit too strong. The battering ram is falling apart.”

My stomach began to inflate and tear through my shirt. I could see my blackened insides through the stretched translucence of my skin. My internal organs looked like a decrepit town and dripped with decay. I squeezed my eyes shut while the tumours marched toward the opening. Their foot steps were synchronous hammers pounding against me.

“Don’t look,” I moaned to Belinda and my mother. “You don’t need to see this.”

I heard the front door break away as the first tumour flew out of me. Belinda ran toward it, keen for a closer look, but my mother intervened. Another tumour vacated, followed by another and another. They landed with a wet thump on the attic floor. My arse yawned open as more and more tumours joined the first three. With each evacuation, I felt less pain. I felt lighter and more alive.

My mother ran toward the attic door and pressed her ear firmly against it.

“They’re inside!” she screamed. “Do something!”

As more tumours departed, I lost count. I just listened to them land and scurry into formation. I was powerless to control my babies. They were leaving home.

“There’s so many of them,” commented Belinda. “I wanna play with one.”

“No you don’t,” scolded my mother. “You need to go and hide in the corner, sweetie. This isn’t a game.”

My body fell limp and for a moment I had no idea where I was. I felt so different. I sat up, taking deep breaths and orienting myself. My mother was covering Belinda in a paint-smeared sheet. Belinda was wriggling and giggling like a child reluctant to go to bed. I heard the sound of a bugle playing “Last Post” and turned to face it. There they were… my tumours.