Free Joyous and Moonbeam by Richard Yaxley Page A

boards, turn a corner and wander past the first set of shelves, fingers trailing along the spines of the books. This is Reference A – M. Pull out a book, open it to
Fungus
, read for a moment, close the book, drop it on the floor. Turn, do a lap of Reference N – Z then move into Fiction. Pull out another book, kiddy story, fox on the white cover. Hear something – a cough, scrape? Stop, listen, drop down, lie on the floor. Wait, close my eyes, smell the mangy carpet, listen some more.
    Nothing. Stand up, check the nearest window. Outside is more night than day. Very carefully, quietly, I rip pages from the fox book, pile them on the floor. I am smilingwhile I do this. Look at me, I am actually smiling.
    There are still some ceiling fluoros on, plus illumination from the green Exit signs. I pick up the pages and move to the front desk. There are stacks of returned books as well as a thin box of biros, two computer screens, an empty plastic bin and note-pads scrawled with codes and phone numbers and reminders.
    Why did I choose here? It’s the gateway, I suppose. Entry-exit.
    We strike out at the things we love
. Shut up, Bracks, you know too much. I drop some pages in the bin. Drop some more into piles under each screen, add pages from the note-pads, crushed into balls. I am still smiling.
    Second-to-last cartoon-strip; I reach into the bulging pocket, bring out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Alpine Supremes that I stole from my mother – didn’t know why at the time, beyond the satisfaction of stealing from her. The lighter is red plastic, micro. Its flame is mostly blue. I take a cigarette, place it between my pale lips, lift the flame, inhale. Blow smoke then hold the orange tip to each pile of paper. They ignite, one by one. When all are lit, I drop the smouldering cigarette into the bin. Step back and watch. Smiling.
    Why didn’t I leave? Why didn’t I run to the shadows that hide the fence-line, to the next bus away? Don’t know. I really don’t.
    Ashleigh, said Bracks, if your aim is to destroy something, you want to see it destroyed, don’t you? There’s no value in hearing about it afterwards. You want it confirmed.
    Guess so. I’m not used to destruction.
    Last cartoon-strip. Small flames building into bigger flames that lick the computers like hungry cats. Smoke curling and rising. The smell of burning plastic, chemical and nasty. Then – the sudden shock of an alarm and a greater shock – voices close by, a chorus. People rushing from a room, faces I know and don’t know. Adults, men in jackets, women with hand-bags.
    And words, the words that I tried to kill off, cutting across like old saws slicing logs,
Get the fire extinguisher! What happened? Who is it? In the bin! Watch the girl. Is she …? The bin!
    Last frame. I’m standing, mute and crazy-looking, and there’s Bracks with me, pushing me away from the anger and questions, it was a parents and council meeting, of all the luck. She’s taking me to the door, to the pathways and dark lawns and I’m still smiling like this clown I once saw at a circus, one of those touring ones, Big Top on the local footy field, a white-faced clown playing dumb, tip-toeing through the good and not-so and grinning at the stupidity of it all.
    We strike out at the things we love
. Our house is close toa hill, on the edge of a gully between suburb and bush. One year the bush burned. It was an autumn fire, the sparks fanned by new winds on the back of a long, dead summer. The grass and brush were crisp and combustible. They got the fire before it got us but the stink stayed for months. Early in September Dad said, Come for a walk. So I did, the two of us picking through the black remains of the burned bush, the charred stumps and insect corpses, the empty floor. At first I thought it was depressing and gloomy but then I looked closer, like you have to sometimes, and I saw green buds breaking