Free Candelo by Georgia Blain Page B

couldn’t intimidate me. No matter what he said.
    He lit a Winfield and sat on the window ledge.
    What do you reckon?
    I told him I thought he was too young.
    I’ve been around
. He grinned again, white teeth in a brown face. In the brightness of the light, I could see the scar on his knuckle more clearly. Smooth and white across his finger.
    So why don’t you live with your family?
I asked.
    He flicked the ash onto the floor.
    Who says I don’t?
    Well, what are you doing with us?
    Fucked if I know.
    I was smiling before I could stop myself.
    He offered me a cigarette.
    Not wanting to tell him I didn’t smoke, I took one. He lit it for me, leaning close, forcing me to step back.
    I must have gone purple with trying not to choke, the smoke billowing out from my mouth, my nose, my ears, until I was coughing and spluttering in front of him.
    He laughed.
    This is how you do it
, and he drew back, slowly, holding it in, holding it in, finally letting out a series of perfect smoke rings.
    I was dizzy. Nauseous and reeling. But I persisted.
    So where do you live?
I asked him, in between sporadic fits of coughing.
    Depends
, and he butted out his cigarette, flicking it across the verandah.
Sometimes with foster parents. Sometimes in a home. Sometimes on me own
.
    I started sweeping. My mouth tasted dry and foul, and I was concentrating on not being sick. He still hadn’t moved. Leaning against the window frame, his back warm in the sun, watching me.
    You know
, and his voice was slow and lazy,
you’ve got pretty good legs. Nice tan. Not bad
.
    And despite the fact that I was secretly pleased by what he had said, I glared at him.
    You know
, I said.
Your dick isn’t bad either. Pity you wear it on your shoulders
.
    He ignored me.
    He looked out again at the sharp clarity of the sky above the bleached grass before slowly letting himself down from the window ledge, his gaze still fixed somewhere out beyond the garden.
    I kicked the dustpan and broom towards him.
    Reckon we should get this done and get down to the beach
, he said. But he didn’t move from where he was, standing there, staring out the window, seemingly mesmerised by what lay beyond. Miles of space. An emptiness he had probably never seen before.
    I turned my back to him and went on with the sweeping. And because I was looking down, I didn’t see. I just heard.
    His sudden shout, loud and clear, legs disappearing over the sill as I turned around and dropped the broom, clattering at my feet. Scrambling over the verandah wall, running fast across the garden, long thick grass, towards her, Evie.
    She liked to pretend she was pregnant.
    I remember.
    She would stuff clothes, cushions up her shirt and walk around like that all day, careful of her baby.
    That was how I saw her, her pillows supported with one hand, a long stick in the other, the red of her shirt startling against the golden grass and cobalt sky. And as he hurtled towards her, she dropped everything, her mouth in a wide scream as he scooped her up in his arms. So fast it was still. Just the brilliance of those colours. That is how I see it all.
    Still.
    Just that image.
    No sound at first. And then slowly, the breeze in the cypresses, the slap of Mitchell’s thongs on the stairs as he carried her up towards us, Simon and me. And Evie’s scream.
    It was a snake.
    I still don’t understand how he had managed to see it from the house. But he had. Thick and oily, rearing up towards her, while she prodded it away with her stick. Coiled in the long grass.
    And as Evie continued to scream, Vi came out from her room, papers clutched in one hand, reaching for Evie with the other; she seized her out of Mitchell’s hold, and she wanted to know what had happened.
    Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.
    We all waited for the explanation.
    But it wasn’t him who told us.
    It was Evie. Still sobbing as she described the snake.
    Mitchell nodded in agreement.
So I ran