Three Strikes Read online

  I shook my head quickly. Too quickly, maybe. ‘I can’t let the girls down.’

  Mum started to frown again so I tried to smile back, make the mood lighter somehow.

  ‘It’s just girls, Mum, I already told you. I can’t spend all my time with you, surely?’

  She thought about this. After a moment, she nodded, reluctantly. It was the first step out of there. I kept talking.

  ‘And anyway, Abby really wants to see this new film with…’

  I struggled to think of a film star Mum would know; I tried to think of a film star who wasn’t a boy. I couldn’t think. In the end I just said,

  ‘…with me.’

  It sounded pathetic; too much like a lie. I talked quickly to cover it.

  ‘I can make you dinner before I go,’ I said. ‘I’ll even go down to the corner shop and get you a bottle of wine.’

  This was a big thing, and she knew it.

  ‘Red, or white?’ I continued. ‘Ramen’s working tonight, isn’t he, so he’ll sell it to me if I say it’s for you? I’ll grab it before the film.’

  She nodded slowly. I saw something like gratitude flicker over her eyes. I’d got her! I opened the freezer and took out a pie before she could say anything. I slapped it on the bench.

  ‘15 minutes at 220.’

  I even turned the oven on.

  Mum didn’t look at the pie. Just watched me with her best stay-with-me-please look, her eyes wide in the I-need-you way she was so good at, the look Dieter hated. She didn’t dare try to bribe me by saying I could have a glass or two with her; she’d tried that tactic before and I’d thrown the whole bottle out. Even so, I knew what was coming next: the guilt tactic.

  ‘Without you the world falls apart,’ she said, so quietly. ‘I miss you too much.’

  She widened her eyes, big enough to cry. Dieter called them her ‘stupid big cow eyes’.

  ‘The world’s fine without me,’ I said.

  I was angry at Dieter too then; that he’d escaped and left me alone with her; that he didn’t ever come back and help. That the only time he ever called was Christmas and birthdays.

  Mum turned back to the window. ‘What if the cat comes, and you’re not there? What if nobody sees?’

  I said as calmly as I could, ‘Nothing’s going to happen without me. It never does.’

  ‘But I need you to help me work the trap.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  She nodded but didn’t believe me … not really. In her world, a huge black cat roamed across the mountain beside our town. In her world, she’d catch it one day and take an amazing photograph: make everyone believe her that it really did exist. Make art like that, and fame. But everyone knew that wouldn’t happen. In reality she’d probably just heard a story about an escaped panther from a zoo and convinced herself it lived here.

  ‘You don’t need me.’ I stood on my toes and kissed her flushed cheek. ‘You’ll be alright.’

  She grunted. Her skin smelt like Marlboro. I hesitated.

  ‘You’re smoking again.’

  I was more surprised that anything. She’d said she’d given it up when Dr Phillips told her it was bad for her anxiety. But Mum was always lying about something. I wrinkled my nose against the stale smell. Mum saw and moved away, turning back to the window. Her jaw went hard and nasty.

  ‘Piss off out then,’ she said.

  She didn’t mean it. She was just saying it because she was angry at me and didn’t want me to go.

  But they were the last words she ever said to me.

  ‘Hope the fucking cat eats you,’ I said back. Quietly. But probably not quietly enough.

  The last words I ever said to her.

  I turned and walked. Stuff her wine. And her. I was out.

  I was so relieved I’d got out that I forgot to check Mum’s pills like I normally did. I checked my own pockets instead for lip gloss, polo mints, mascara to put on in the park. I smiled as I slammed the front door. I’d done it! If Mum had known what I was really doing, she wouldn’t have let me past the kitchen. It felt like the biggest victory.

  I stood on the step and texted Sam. Meet you in the park, see you soon.

  And I was out of there. From inside my coat pocket, I even stuck my finger up and aimed it back at the house. Mum was an idiot if she thought she was going to stop me.

  This morning, when it was grey-dark and closer to night than day and not yet hot, Sam spoke to me. His voice came from his bed, but he sounded close enough to be in mine. I opened my eyes to check he wasn’t, and looked over at the lump that was his body, lying on top of his sheets, still and sprawled. I hadn’t even known he was awake.

  ‘Tell me a story,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘Like you used to.’

  His voice was fragile and unsure, still half in a dream. I kicked the sheets off my legs and turned to him. In the soft light I could almost make out the features of his face, though not his expression.

  ‘You’re sleeping,’ I said. ‘You’re dreaming.’

  ‘Make me.’

  I was quiet. I was thinking he might go back to sleep, but after a while I could see his eyelids, blinking now and then. Waiting. I thought about the stories Mum used to tell me, the stories I’d repeated to Sam before. I hadn’t thought about those stories for a long time, hadn’t let myself. But it was dark and quiet, and talking with Sam like that was almost like how it used to be, back when we could say anything to each other.

  ‘Go on,’ Sam said.

  So I opened my mouth, and there the words were.

  ‘There once was a dark, craggy mountain,’ I began. ‘A place where trees, at its base, grew taller than buildings … and there were as many animals on that mountain as it was possible to imagine.’

  The words felt strange in my mouth. Wrong. Like they were made up of sharp edges digging into my cheeks, piercing my throat. These were Mum’s words, not mine. My voice made a mockery of them.

  ‘I remember this,’ Sam said.

  I focused on the lump in the bed opposite until I saw where Sam’s chest rose and fell. I spoke slowly and calmly, the way Mum once spoke to me when she was trying to get me to sleep.

  ‘In the dark, craggy mountain there were a thousand shades of green, two thousand of brown, a million more of grey…’

  Sam’s breathing slowed, just like mine used to. I told him how each colour in the mountains had a different smell; how walking up there was like entering the world’s most amazing sweetshop.

  Trees rustled outside the cabin as I spoke, animals jumping around us, things waking and stretching. I stopped to listen. It was kind of like Mum’s craggy mountain out there, too. Only there were more animals than I could ever know the words for. Mum would’ve had a field day making art here, making traps and taking photos.

  ‘And right in the middle of those mountains lived a huge black cat,’ I whispered.

  I stopped. I couldn’t describe the image in my head. Not to Sam. Not to anyone. The black cat in my mind was bigger and stronger and more vibrant than could ever actually exist. It trembled with life. There weren’t enough words. Maybe that’s why Mum’d always had to draw it instead – make art to represent it. It was just too fierce.

  Perhaps I could do that too. Make that cat come to life here with dark, deep scratches from this biro?

  I can’t draw it like Mum did, though.

  When I first told Sam about Mum’s Black Cat we were in the cubby. I’d spoken the story slowly, loving the way I could make Sam’s eyes widen as I repeated Mum’s tale.

  ‘The cat was enormous,’ I’d told him. ‘And she was staring right back at Mum. Mum swears the cat could’ve killed her right then on the top of the mountain. But the cat chose not to. Instead, she prowled on silent feet around the edge of the trees, considering. After that, Mum always knew that cat was watching her, somewhere. Whenever she went up the mountain, she had a feeling that this would be the day the cat would finally pounce.’

  I’d pounced my hands onto Sam’s shoulders to ma
ke him jump. He’d laughed and said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘But no one else ever saw the cat,’ I’d said. ‘Not even me. And Mum couldn’t trap her, no matter how hard she tried – could never even take a photo of her. But she saw paw prints now and then – she put them in her paintings. She saw how the cat parted bushes after she’d pushed her shoulders through. Mum found her black hairs on trees. Maybe … she still does. Maybe, she always will.’

  I’d laughed. I wasn’t being serious about any of it.

  Day is almost here. The forest heating’s turned on. The volume of its radio cranking up.

  My mosquito net has rips. Six. Maybe I should patch them. Getting malaria on top of everything else is all I need right now. But the cracks of sunlight coming through those rips make me smile.

  Already there’s the familiar feeling of sweat on my spine. Perhaps this is the day Lily and George return. Or they set another task. They never actually told us the exact day when we go home.

  That’ll be up to you.

  Only when you’ve completed all your tasks.

  Then you get your bags and your passports back.

  What if they never come back?

  Will we still leave in a month?

  Should I escape before? Take Sam?

  Can we leave without passports?

  I turn to watch him. When he breathes out, the hair that’s fallen across his cheek moves a little. Occasionally his top lip twitches. What’s running through his dreams … are there any black cats pouncing? Does he dream of escaping too? Would he come with me, if I asked?

  With the day coming, I see the freckles on him. Scattered across his nose, all the way to the darker freckle above his top lip. So many times I’ve wanted to touch that. Only once I have.

  I don’t want to wake him, even if I can hear the others moving about outside. I just want to watch his peace. Imagine what it might be like to lie beside him.

  I have a memory from last night, though I’m not sure if it really happened or if I just dreamt it. I heard a noise. I got up out of bed and parted the frayed thin curtains across the window. And – there! – for a moment I thought I saw it. At the edge of the trees. Big and dark. Moving smooth as water, low to the ground … as low as something so big can get. I haven’t told Sam yet, but…

  …it could be a cat, couldn’t it?

  Cats in a jungle isn’t a crazy thought, is it?

  The others are annoyed with waiting. It’s the end of the day now. Thirty-five hours gone. How long are Lily and George going to leave it? It’s like there’s an unspoken sentence hanging between us, holding us together somehow.

  They’re coming back, aren’t they?

  The question circles around us, keeps us out of the trees. So far.

  Pete asked the others about going looking for them. No one replied. Nyall and Annie are city kids, Pete too I’m guessing – not sure they’d have the guts to go anywhere through those trees.

  I would, though.

  But I think it’s a trick, anyway.

  It all just seems too easy – forcing us together and seeing what we’ll do. Exactly like something Lily and George would try: make us fend for ourselves. A psychological experiment. They have the cameras’ eyes in the trees watching. Why do they need to be here as well?

  So, what do I really think? They’re not coming back. Least not for a while. They’ve got something else planned. We just have to wait and watch.

  I just stood up and looked around the clearing, trying to count the red lights I can see. When it gets dark, it’s easier to imagine eyes there instead.

  Demon eyes. Cat’s eyes.

  This place could send someone mad. Maybe that’s the idea. Maybe that’s what they want. That, at least, might make a good documentary.

  Either way, I’m sure they’ve left us on purpose. Why else would they have stacked a couple of days’ worth of tinned food on the camp table? And what about the rope and knives lying about? Maybe they want us to catch our food – hunt. Either that or they want us to kill each other. Nothing about this place would surprise me.

  Sometimes I wonder if Lily and George are pretending about the whole psychology-camp-to-make-you-better thing: The Tribe. Maybe we’re just here to make a few bucks out of, and they’ll send all this footage off to some TV company to do something weird with. Maybe we’re already being broadcast across thousands of screens on some odd reality TV programme. I’ve seen the sort.

  Teenage Bootcamp.

  Screwed-up Teenagers Communicate with Animals.

  Brat Camp.

  The Tribe.

  Or maybe it’s something sicker. Some kinky snuff film.

  Maybe they’ll market us as Hunger Games meets Love Island meets Battle Royale. Only we’re not as attractive as Hollywood wannabes, or as fucked up as a Japanese horror film (surprising, I know!). And none of us have died … yet.

  Maybe there’s a tag line: You need to get lost to find yourself. Or: You need to die to live. A voiceover talking about how we’re coping.

  It’s the kind of programme Mum would have watched, glass of wine in hand and cackling like a hyena. It’s the kind of programme we would’ve laughed at together.

  I’ve just been over to look at the stuff Lily and George left. There was a three-inch knife, a serrated one, a small filleting knife … no big knives, but maybe the others took them before I got there. I took the filleting knife – sharp as a razor, and fits easily in my shorts’ pocket. I can feel it now: small, hard, metallic. It’s so tempting to touch it, to hold it against the tips of my fingers and dig in until my skin goes red. I want the pain, badly, exactly like how I used to want Sam. But I’m good at saying no to things, now.

  There is lots of rope, too. Wire. Even nails. I was expecting a machete to cut branches down. I mean, how are we supposed to get through a jungle with just filleting knives? Lily and George might as well have left art materials! Cotton wool!

  It would be easy to build an animal trap from all that stuff, though. I can think of at least three different types without even trying. The others don’t know I can make traps; only Sam, and maybe he’s forgotten. Or perhaps he’s deliberately not mentioning it. But there’s only so long we can survive on tins of baked beans and chickpeas, and the bread’s run out entirely.

  Annie’s yelling at us from the kitchen area. ‘Does anyone want to make anything?’

  We talked about it this afternoon, whether someone should take over on cooking duties. No one volunteered. I guess Nyall and Annie never had any need to cook, living on the streets. Sam’s mum is the best cook I’ve ever met, so why would he learn? And Pete. He’s too much of a dick to stand still long enough to boil peas.

  And me? Yeah, I suppose I can cook some, but I haven’t told them this and I don’t want to look after any of them. Besides, my specialities aren’t anything they’d want to eat. Thanks to Mum and our time on the mountain, I can cook rabbits and rats on a campfire. I can skin them too. My other speciality is heating frozen food.

  Maybe in the morning I’ll look in the chest that has the books. There are field guides in there, information about plants. I’d trust those words more than the crash course on bushfood George gave us before he disappeared.

  But they’re watching me for this. They’re waiting for me to use the skills they know I have – waiting for the psychological breakthrough from my meaningful interaction with nature.

  When I first met Lily and George, I saw dirt in their skin. I knew they’d spent time outdoors, that was part of what drew me to them, I guess. They stooped, crouched forward, were always on alert. And I thought – these are shifty people: people who slip through cracks. Like Mum. Like me.

  Sam’s just come over.

  ‘Pete wants to make a plan for the morning,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll try and find Lily and George’s camp, where they’re staying?’

  I shuffled over on the tree stump to make room for him, but he sat on the grass instead. The crickets all shut up for a second as he crossed his legs. Mayb
e he squashed them. He picked at a grass stalk and didn’t look at me. I think he’s still annoyed I didn’t sleep in his bed.

  I watched him in the gloom, pulling strips off the stalk. ‘Is that what you want?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sick of waiting. Nothing else to do, is there?’

  Fireflies were lighting up around him. Tiny, orange, flickering beams. Like the smallest campfires in the world. When I reached to touch one, it went out.

  I could think of lots of other things to do.

  We could leave this place, go find our own way home. We could run away forever into the dark. I could reach out and throw my arms around Sam.

  He sighed, looking between me and this journal. ‘Annie’s making some sort of stew, do you want some?’

  I shook my head. ‘Good luck with that.’

  He got up and paused for a moment behind me. I held my breath. ‘You have to eat,’ he said. ‘I won’t feed you.’ Then he moved on, went back to the main cabin.

  It’s getting too dark to write now. I’m using my torch, but it’s making insects land on my face, and land on the page too. I can feel legs on the back of my neck, scrabbling on my skin. Plus, I don’t want to use up my batteries.

  It’s strange, I guess, but none of us have talked properly about the other possibility: that Lily and George aren’t coming back at all. That they’ve left us like this forever. That it’s up to us now to find our way out. That something’s … happened.

  We all heard them, after all: the shots.

  The second night without L and G. It feels hotter somehow – louder. I’m writing with my head torch strapped to my forehead. Tomorrow we’re leaving, it seems. The others have packed day bags ready. It’s decided!