The Shadow House(25)

The doorknob rattled one last time, and then Michael came stamping down the hall. ‘For shit’s sake,’ he muttered as he entered the kitchen. ‘Since when has he had a lock on his door?’

‘Lock?’ Renee said. ‘Are you sure?’

Michael went to the fridge for another beer. Twisting off the cap, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a deep slug before answering. ‘Pretty fucking sure.’

‘Maybe the door is just stuck.’ Checking the dresser for dust, she straightened the plates and gave the teacups a quick wipe with a napkin. ‘Which reminds me – can you take a look at the front door? Dad said the latch isn’t engaging properly.’

Ignoring her, Michael wiped his mouth and stared out of the kitchen window.

‘Please, Michael, don’t be too hard on him. He’s upset about the cat.’

Michael snorted. ‘The cat. Sure. Always some excuse.’

‘We have to respect his needs.’

‘The kid turns sixteen next week. What he needs is to grow the fuck up and help out around here.’

Renee gave up. She and Michael had played out this same row over and over again, often with Renee in tears and Michael speaking through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve been working on this place since I could walk,’ Michael would say. ‘It wasn’t an option; my old man picked me up by the scruff of the neck and threw me in the greenhouse.’ And Renee, shuddering at the memory of her brutal ex-military father-in-law, would reply gently that Gabriel just wasn’t suited to the land and maybe they should be encouraging a career in some other field instead, perhaps something in an office. And then Michael would look at her like she’d just suggested Gabriel become a tap dancer, and Renee would get defensive, and they’d both start yelling. It was the same every time, a script they both knew by heart, and neither deviated from their lines.

Occasionally, Renee would have to admit that her husband was half right. Gabriel was getting older; he would have to find a job eventually. But he’d always been a bit different – and over the last few years he’d slowly become so reclusive, so resistant to life in general, that she now doubted he could dress himself for an interview, let alone get himself to one. If he barely left his room, couldn’t hold a conversation, couldn’t even eat in front of other people, and if he flat-out refused to see a doctor for help, then how could she ever expect him to do anything as comparatively complicated as work?

Taking another long slug of beer, Michael wandered over to the sink, where he stood and gazed out of the window.

Renee brushed a cobweb from the top corner of the dresser. Rubbing the sticky strands from her fingers, she studied her husband, taking in his mottled cheeks and rounded shoulders. His blue checked shirt, and the gaping hole at his belly where a button or two had popped off. The shadows under his eyes, almost as dark as Gabe’s. It had been a difficult few years, there was no doubt about that – but she couldn’t understand why he was quite so stressed. After the terrible strain of both the global financial crisis and the drought, things were finally looking hopeful. The rain was coming down and orders were going up. The land was hydrated, and though the crop was still small, it was more beautiful than ever.

Renee watched as Michael finished off his second beer, threw the bottle in the bin, then poured himself a whisky. Shuffling back to the lounge area, he flipped on the sound system before collapsing onto the sofa. Ebony flopped onto the cushions and curled up next to him as the jangling opening bars of Paul McCartney’s ‘Fine Line’ hurtled from the speakers.

As Paul sang merrily about recklessness, courage and choosing the right road, Renee walked slowly to the fridge and began pulling out ingredients for dinner. Just under the music, she could faintly make out another rhythm: the incessant tap of fingers on a keyboard coming from behind Gabriel’s closed bedroom door.

On the sofa, Michael closed his eyes.

It’s a fine line, warned Paul, when your decision makes a difference. Get it wrong, you’ll be making a big mistake.





ALEX





10


‘Homeschooling is just so hard.’ Layla reached for the platter, cut a fat slice of cheese and pressed it onto a cracker. ‘I’m lucky that Amy is so good, but Violet never listens to me, I can’t make her do anything. I don’t even know where she is half the time.’

Tucked away at the back of the village and high up on the slope, Layla’s unit was probably one of the best positioned in the whole of Pine Ridge. She had the upper floor of a split-level similar to Jenny’s, with huge windows and stone benchtops and an enormous entertaining deck with a panoramic view right across the valley. The outdoor dining table was large enough for twelve but that afternoon it was just Layla, Shannon, Mariko and me; plus our kids, who, by some happy accident, were all occupied and quiet. Kara was under the table playing with measuring cups and saucepans, while Mariko’s almost three-year-old son buried Lego in the planters. Amy was inside, sitting up at the kitchen bench diligently doing some art homework, and Shannon’s six-year-old twin girls were in the communal garden out the front, playing on a wooden swing set. Violet and Ollie had rejected us all and taken their skateboards down to the cycle path that looped the dam. I could see them in the distance, wheeling around with two or three other teens, yelling out to one another and sucking on Layla’s homemade ice-blocks.