The Children Of The Mist Read online

  Her home was a block of modern units on the river. Four stories of concrete and glass. As she ducked into the lift and swiped her card, she hoped someone was home. Possible on a Friday afternoon. Sometimes her dad, a lecturer at the uni, would beat her home, armed with a cheesecake or something else yummy. It was something of a ritual, the pair of them out on the balcony washing down the good stuff with Coke. It was possible her mum, who was a diplomat (whatever that was), might be there, but it was less likely due to her commute from the city. Sometimes she worked long hours. As Morven stepped out of the lift her spirits lifted. The sliding glass doors onto the small balcony were open and her dad was already perched on his favourite seat, an ancient squatter’s chair that her mum reckoned had woodworm.

  At the sound of her footsteps on the tiled floors, he put down his book, lifted his glasses off his bony, prominent nose and smiled. ‘Hi.’ With his long, limber frame and thick head of black hair people often commented on how alike they looked. It was a secret source of amusement to the whole family.

  Morven waved and dumped her bag on the floor.

  He pointed somewhere behind her. ‘Cake’s in the fridge.’

  Not needing a second invitation, Morven cruised into the trendy chrome and black kitchen and popped open the fridge. Not cheesecake, better still, a humungous black cherry gateau, oozing with cream and cholesterol. In the words of a famous Weasley, ‘Bloody brilliant.’ With a small sigh of ecstasy, Morven cut what could only be described as a mammoth slab of cake and grabbed a can of Coke frosted with icy condensation.

  The great thing about Dad, Morven reflected between large mouthfuls of drink and cake, was that you didn’t have to say anything. There was just this unspoken agreement that Friday afternoon cake was a kind of pinnacle of happiness. Of course, there was an element of guilt. Her mum loved cake but as she often said, she was built for comfort, not speed, the opposite of her husband and only child. So Morven and her dad made sure they got in a serious top-up of carbs in private, to spare Mum the agony of missing out, or worse, joining in.

  After a second slice, which, if anything, tasted better than the first, Morven released a burp that triggered the weekly burping contest. While she prided herself on quality, her dad still had the edge on quantity. Still, Morven felt that the contests were getting closer. Maybe it was because her boobs were getting bigger. Awesome.

  It was a lovely afternoon. Down below, the river meandered lazily by, its dark surface glinting in the harsh rays of the sun. Ducks took off in a whirr of wings as two small kayaks skimmed across the surface. Morven could hear the kayaker’s voices but the meaning was lost in the distance. A breeze ruffled the heads of the gum trees, whispering secrets softly.

  Finally full, Morven cleared up and put the dirties in the dishwasher. Her stomach groaned and grumbled, and she felt a small twinge of gut ache. Serve her right for being a pig. A noise caught her attention. She smiled and yelled to her dad, ‘Mum’s home!’

  Her father looked around expectantly. But the lift was closed. Morven frowned, feeling a bit silly. She must be suffering from auditory hallucinations. She caught her father’s eye and shrugged. ‘My mistake,’ she said.

  As she popped the little white pellets into the dishwasher the lift doors swished open and her mum stepped out. Morven rushed over to give her petite parent a hug, and she had a strange, slightly spooky feeling, something like déjà vu. But not quite the same. She released her mum and smiled down at her. ‘I’m magic. I knew you were home before the lift arrived.’

  Her mum smiled. ‘That’s handy. It will save me having to tell you that you need to tidy your room before you head out.’

  Morven groaned. Housework was even worse than schoolwork. So boring. Still, while her mother was small in stature she was big on ‘everyone pulling their weight.’ Morven went to her room and looked around. It was a tad untidy. She got through it by counting the items she put away. Ten pairs of clean socks, six pairs of dirty, two hairbrushes, and (unfortunately) one empty pizza box. She paused and stared at Wolverine, airbrushed larger than life over one white wall. His expression was definitely sympathetic. She would have laid down her life that the probability of Wolverine ever having to tidy his room was about three million to one. When she was a super hero, she would pay someone to tidy up.

  After she finished her room, she changed. ‘What do you think?’ But Wolverine, the stubborn man, refused to answer. Morven checked herself out in the mirror. The T-shirt looked good. She turned sideways on and perused her chest. Maybe it was the shirt, but she still reckoned her boobs were bigger. About bloody time. She pulled on her khaki cap and tugged it down to her eyes. Exactly the right look — street but not scruff. She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. Its chrome arms told her it was time to go.

  Her mum was perched beside her dad on her little cane chair, a glass of red wine in one hand. Her unofficial declaration that work was out and the weekend was in.

  ‘Mum, Dad, I’m off then.’

  ‘Have a good one,’ said dad.

  Morven knew exactly what her mum was going to say. She said the same thing every time. As predictable as a school bell.

  ‘Phone us if you miss the last train.’

  Morven grinned. She never missed the last train. On the way to the lift she grabbed her skate from the cupboard. With a last goodbye she stepped into the lift and was off. Back on the street, she hopped on the board and skimmed down the level road. She could hear the train on the tracks, approaching the station. She’d better hurry; she whipped down Peach Street, nipped through the park and over the wall into Station Street. After a burst of abuse from a slow old lady in a Volvo, Morven slid effortlessly to a stop at the station entry. She could hear the train really clearly now. Scared she was going to miss it, she raced out onto the platform. But the train wasn’t there. It didn’t arrive for another three minutes.

  Chapter 3

  As the train finally slid into the station and ground to a halt, Morven hopped onto the first carriage. That way she was sure to find Zest. The train was about one third full, people scattered throughout. Halfway down the length of the train, Morven spotted him. His spiky, red hair was as good as a beacon. He was sitting with his back to her but must have been on the lookout as he turned and smiled.

  Morven smiled back. It was impossible not to. With his wide-set, green eyes and his dimples, Zest looked like a choir boy on vacation from the Vatican…not that she would have shared that observation. Zest honestly thought he was pretty tough. She didn’t have the heart to tell him.

  She flopped into the yellow and green chair opposite. ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Great shirt.’

  She was really pleased. Not just that he noticed but because she valued Zest’s opinion. If Zest said it was great, then it really was great. She checked him out. He wore jeans and a black singlet that showed off his broad chest and the wolf head tattoo on his left shoulder. Zest loved wolves too.

  Zest picked up his iPod. ‘Listen to this.’

  Morven took one of the earplugs and Zest took the other. Immediately she recognised the new track by Coolio, Gangsta’s Paradise. It was good. All about how death is just a heartbeat away. Cool.

  Zest danced in his seat and mouthed the words. But then, he was never still. He had more energy than a shooting star. Besides, it was that kind of music and it was Friday. The world flashed by, leafy suburbia giving way to the industrial fringes of the city. Morven grinned as they slowed at a station and admired the huge orange wolf’s head sprayed on the grey wall of a factory. She pointed. ‘Very nice.’

  Zest grinned back. ‘Did that Wednesday night. Only had enough for the head. Cost of paint’s going to put me out of business.’

  Morven felt a small twinge of anxiety. Zest always looked hungry, his jeans cliffhanging from his hips and the ribs of his chest visible beneath his shirt. She pushed a hand into the back pocket of her jeans and found the 20 dollar note still in situ. She’d shout them both something to eat lat
er.

  He picked up a scuffed khaki backpack from beneath his seat and shook it. The contents rattled drily. Just like old bones, she thought.

  As Zest’s mouth opened to speak, a movement in the window caught her eye. It was the reflection of a woman standing just behind her. Not looking at her exactly, more…through her. Morven turned but there was no one there. She checked the window again, but she was gone.

  ‘Did you see that woman?’ she asked.

  Zest plucked his earplug out, turned and looked around the carriage. ‘What woman?’

  ‘The one wearing fancy dress.’ Morven paused to try to recreate the image. ‘She was wearing a long, gold gown and she had dark hair covered in a thick kind of hair net.’ She stopped and tried to remember. ‘And she wore a sash, a tartan sash. Black and green. And blue.’

  Zest laughed, tilted his head a little and raised an eyebrow. ‘You been smoking the wacky weed?’

  Morven was deeply offended. ‘No, I haven’t!’

  He grinned. ‘Chillax.’

  Realising he was winding her up, Morven smiled back. Zest knew her better than that. Neither of them dabbled in chemistry. Who needed a pseudo high when they could already fly?

  ‘What’s on?’ she said.

  ‘Thought we’d hit the park for a while and then head down town. I got something special for you.’

  Morven was immediately sucked in. ‘What? Where?’

  Zest pretended to look offended. ‘What, you want me to spoil the surprise?’

  Morven thought about it for a moment. ‘No. Stash it.’

  The train began to slow. Morven picked up her board and followed Zest out onto the platform. She waited for him to slip on his backpack then she jumped on her board with unconscious ease, feet hitting the deck before the board hit the ground. And she was away, unperturbed by the irate glares of the pedestrians. She liked the long tunnel that connected the station to the outside. Its smooth tiled surface made for serious speed, with the added buzz of the small metal bands that she pushed over effortlessly. Ahead of the crowd the bodies thinned out and Morven’s spirits did a loop the loop when she spotted the stairs. One flight. Twelve lovely steps. Light spilled in and she could barely believe their luck. Not a soul in sight.

  It was a gift. Already she knew what she was going to do. This time it would be perfect. She steadied up a fraction, only vaguely aware of Zest beside her. Just metres away, she glanced over at him. He pointed left and moved aside. Morven was touched by his generosity. Maybe the spectacular stack she’d performed the last time was still forefront in his mind. She’d been black and blue for a month. No bones broken but a very large dent in her pride. With ruthless determination she focused. Her brain leapt ahead and her body and board followed; somehow she knew it was going to be fine. A few seconds of lift and halfway down the ascent the back of her board touched down and she was home. One long grind. She hit the floor, knees bent to absorb the impact. Zest swept by and gave a high-five. Exhilarated, Morven kicked off, eager not to be left behind.

  They had to take a break through the city. Too many people, too many traffic lights. At the corner of the main street they waited on the cars.

  Zest tapped his board to get her attention. ‘That was reckless.’

  Morven nodded. It had felt pretty sick. But it was great to hear it put into words.

  Zest stepped off the curb as the lights changed. ‘I think you’re ready.’

  Morven glanced at him curiously; he looked pretty wired, even for Zest. She felt a tingle of anticipation. ‘Ready for what?’

  But he tapped his nose and struck out down West Street, leaving the swanky stores and soaring offices behind, replaced by inner city suburbia where cute cottages huddled between brick blocks of flats. The air smelled like money. But before long, the houses grew older and shabbier, the gardens larger and untidier. The smell of meat sizzling on barbeques vied with the stink of garbage that overflowed from bins. There was another aroma which at first she couldn’t identify. It took a while before she realised it was the faint, fusty scent of the river. A baby wailed at the top of its lungs and a dog barked. The sun began to sink behind the city skyline, turning windows into molten gold.

  Morven followed Zest’s lead and hopped back on her board. Soon suburbia gave way to industry. Brick warehouses straddled cracked concrete compounds where thistles and marigolds competed for sun and soil. Except for the odd security van cruising the streets, it was quiet.

  The dog barked again. ‘He knows we’re coming,’ she said.

  Zest slowed a touch to match her pace. ‘How’d you figure that?’

  The barking started again. Morven looked at him in surprise. ‘Can’t you hear him?’

  Zest cruised to a stop and listened. Then he looked at her and grinned wickedly. ‘Can’t hear anything except the fart I’m about to release from captivity.’

  Morven covered her nose and mouth. Zest’s farts were legendary. She swore he secretly fed off carcasses. She accelerated, keen to avoid the issue. With a dirty cackle of laughter he took off after her. As the hard ground flew beneath her wheels, over curbs, cracks and grates she was filled with happiness. This was truly a shark-attack adrenaline rush. At the corner she chanced a look behind her, convinced Zest would be breathing down her neck. It took a minute to register that he was about a metre behind. She slowed a little and together they covered the rest of the familiar ground, slipping in and out of the shadows like bats. Finally the long, rusty fence that marked the beginning of the scrap metal yard came into sight and they slowed instinctively.

  Morven glanced up and down the street. It was dusk, the sky soft lavender with a few brave stars twinkling. The street lamps made no impression against the half-light. With boards in hand they walked quickly down the fence line. They could hear the dog on the other side, his claws tapping softly on the ground. But he didn’t bark. When they reached the huge iron gates Morven peered through the bars.

  The big black Belgian shepherd stared back. His tailed wagged softly.

  Chapter 4

  Zest looked quickly up and down the road. As he pulled a couple of slim instruments out of his backpack, the dog barked. A short sharp woof.

  ‘Shush, Dog,’ said Morven.

  Dog wagged his tail. In less than 20 seconds Zest had the gate open. Dog slipped out and jumped up to give Morven a big wet lick on the side of her face. His deep brown eyes were level with her own. The gate clanged shut and they were ready to go. The three of them raced down the empty road, Dog in hot pursuit, his tail waving wildly. They headed north-east, back toward the river. Ten minutes later they cruised into a park and came to rest behind a jacaranda tree.

  Dog knew the routine and waited patiently for Zest to measure out his dinner from the bag in his pack.

  ‘Not too much,’ Morven warned. While it had been his emaciated state that led them to start ‘borrowing’ Dog, they didn’t want him getting too well covered. Someone was bound to get suspicious. That would do Dog no good at all. As she watched the big animal inhale his food she was filled with frustration that they couldn’t just take him. But neither she nor Zest had suitable accommodation. Besides, she knew that even her easygoing parents wouldn’t approve, which in some ways was a relief. Sometimes it was a bit disconcerting to have parents who seemed unfazed by any of her antisocial behaviour. Even threats to get her tongue pierced had been received with mild murmurs of ‘That’d be nice, Morven.’ Took all the joy out of life. She knew Zest wanted to take Dog too, but his place was a no-pet zone, like hers.

  Dinner done, Dog waited for Zest to pack up. As soon as he saw them put down their boards, he was off. By the time they reached the skate park Dog was already doing the rounds, getting his share of Scooby snacks. Everyone loved Dog. The park was busy. Not just skaters, but pedestrians, cyclists and dog walkers too. The cool breeze off the water drew all kinds on a hot summer night. A tall, skinny guy known as Waffle was practising his moves on the brand new skate park, unanimously known as The Sink. It
was a sick piece of action. All waves and dips, slides and angles. Morven watched Waffle make a pig’s ear of a 360 and land in a tangle of limbs. Dog came to the rescue, paws on his chest, licking him back to life.

  ‘Geddoff, Dog!’

  Zest had to go rescue Waffle from his rescuer. Not one to get the hump, Waffle retired and shared a packet of chips with Dog. Morven liked Waffle who reminded her of the old cartoon character, Goofy. A few minutes later Chino arrived, his short, dyed blonde hair incongruent with his dark skin. Next to Zest, Morven reckoned that Chino was the cat’s poop. He skated like a fish swam. No thought, no plan, no fear. Pure instinct. A shark in the water. A bird on the wind. Chino was a skater boy, alright. Someone put on the music. Wasted Youth echoed off the concrete. An old couple scurried by, as if they were in a war zone, expecting a raid any time soon.

  Morven waited for a break on The Sink. She didn’t get one until Zest came off and gave her the nod. Pleased to be moving, she headed in. The music was loud. Really loud. It filled her brain and overflowed into her bloodstream, making her heart race to catch up. And she was on form. Her feet seemed to stick to the board like magnets on metal. She felt a rush and skimmed up the concrete wave, and curled over the edge, turning neat and skiing back down. The speed was up and she flew back up the other side. It was high and she felt her hair snap with the 180. She was on a roll. Literally. Without thinking she made the tre flip, and then took the bunker. She came to a sweeping stop, no shake or wobble. She came off feeling fine, but unfulfilled.