February 28th
‘You said about the pool,’ you say, as the relentless heat of the day starts to withdraw.
So, you do hear what I tell you at night. Some of it, at least. You are improving. Your lips curl into the shadow of a smile. ‘I want to go.’
I’m even more surprised when you sit up in bed.
‘I’ll have the sheet.’
I pass you the sheet from the Perth department store, and you wrap it around yourself, standing hesitantly.
‘I’m like Jesus,’ you say, ‘in my shroud, just woken up in that cave. Resurrected!’
You’re like the old Ty, wisecracking—what I thought I wanted. But perhaps you are playing with me, putting on an act: you are waiting until we’re outside before you get your own back and run. When we walk through the kitchen, you will see the cutlery, utensils—all things you could hurt me with. You will see the car key.
In the cool of the late afternoon, we make it as far as the veranda, where you stop and lean against one of the posts, breathing hard, sweat beading on your forehead.
‘Not yet,’ you murmur.
You go back to bed. And I wait.
The fox peers from between the clump of trees where the car died. Can she see me? I bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the setting sun and watch her. She is perfectly still, almost the same colour as the glowing sand behind her. Even so, she doesn’t fit. Like me, she is an outsider; she’d destroy others to stay alive.
I hear a thud from inside the house, you must have tippedsomething off the bedside table. When I look back, the fox has gone. I scan the sand all the way across to the Separates. Perhaps she is imaginary, come to lead you down into the underworld. She is biding her time.