Imaginary Foe Read online

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  Copyright © 2015 Shannon Leahy

  ISBN: 978-1-925341-36-2 (eBook)

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Vivid Publishing

  P.O. Box 948, Fremantle Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  Order the Print Edition

  1

  It’s the first time I lay eyes on her and I literally have to pinch myself. I’m hanging with my mates at the edge of the oval during the first recess of the day; she wanders out across the grass with a few other girls and they sit in the middle of the cricket pitch. We immediately stop giving each other shit and stand there mesmerised. Jeremy is speechless – rare for Jeremy. Steve stands with his arms folded across his chest, studying the distant scene through squinted eyes. I can’t say what it is that has rendered us immobile. Maybe it’s the way she moved. She had an I-don’t-care-what-you-think swagger to her gait that hit me for six and her hair swayed from side to side in perfect uniformity with her movement. But maybe it’s her cream-coloured legs that have me awestruck – they look smooth and flawless from afar. I think to myself that Disney’s Snow White would have legs like that if she materialised into a real person.

  ‘That’s a swell lookin’ girl,’ says Steve.

  Jeremy lies back on the grass, attempting a cool, nonchalant pose à la James Dean, but it’s overdone, too try-hard. Mike looks at me and smiles, the least affected of us all. He’s obviously amused by our primitive reactions.

  ‘I know her name,’ says Jeremy matter-of-factly. It’s a cruel, cruel world! How could it be that he knows her name? And why hasn’t he told us about her? I look at Steve. His expression is pained. We both desperately want to know her name, but we also know that Jeremy will drag this out for as long as possible.

  ‘Go on, then, smart arse,’ says Steve, ‘tell us her name.’ Jeremy doesn’t respond straight away. It’s clear he’s enjoying being in control of the situation. In frustration, I think that he’d be the type to enjoy torturing someone, if the opportunity ever arose.

  ‘If I do tell you, you have to promise me you’ll carry out any dare I give you right now.’ He points a forceful index finger at the ground twice as he says the words ‘right now’. He doesn’t look at us as he puts the challenge to us. He just stares up at the clouds, chewing on a dry bit of love grass, knowing full well that we’re gonna take the bait.

  ‘You’re a prick, Jeremy,’ says Steve. ‘You’re going to embarrass us in front of her and her name won’t mean shit to us then, because we won’t have a chance with her.’

  ‘As if you’d have a chance anyway, Steve. Look at you! You’re not her type at all. She’d go for a pretty boy. You can always tell the girls who’ll go for pretty boys.’ He is really enjoying himself. I want to kick him in the balls and rip the love grass from his teeth. But, for some reason, I don’t think she’s the pretty-boy type. There’s something about her. It makes me believe – I want to believe – that she’s … smart. That’d be something, a good-looking girl who’s also a brainiac. Middleton wouldn’t know what’d hit it.

  ‘OK. What’s the dare?’ I ask.

  Jeremy sits up. ‘Oooohhh, Stan-ley!’ He draws my name out in a singsong tease. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’

  ‘Yep.’ I don’t want to muck around. I want to know her name.

  Jeremy can tell I’m not in the mood for games. He takes the grass out from between his teeth. ‘OK, Stan. This is it. You’ve got to walk out to the middle of the oval, go up to them and ask them if they’ve seen the ghost of the cricket pitch.’

  ‘What the…? That’s nuts! He’s gonna look like a freaking idiot!’ cries Steve.

  ‘Exactly.’ Jeremy resumes chewing on his love grass.

  ‘You want me to go out there and ask them if they’ve seen the ghost of the cricket pitch?’

  ‘Yep. And if you don’t do it in the next few seconds, the deal’s off. You won’t find out her name, possibly for the rest of the day, and I know you won’t be able to handle that, Stan.’

  The bastard knows me well. I won’t be able to concentrate for the rest of the day if I don’t find out what her name is and I’m not gonna hang around like a sad case waiting for some other sap to tell me. So I don’t delay. I turn and set out for the cricket pitch as a chorus of gasps ring out behind me. I’ve been handed a flimsy excuse to engage with the opposite sex and I’m not going to let the chance pass me by. I am hell curious. Does she look as good close up as she does from a distance? Are her legs really that milky, creamy white? Is her hair really that deep chocolate brown that seems to dance in the sun? And what colour are her eyes?

  I begin to feel scared as the girls notice me approaching. I hear their mocking little giggles. I have to make myself keep walking forward while my brain is telling me to turn and run for my life. She whispers something to the rest of the group and they all quieten down. I feel like wetting my pants as the gap between us gets smaller and smaller.

  ‘Hi, Stan, what’s up?’ Bridget Brown cocks her head to the side and eyes me like a police officer about to ask fifty questions.

  I sneak a peek. Incredibly, she is even more beautiful close up. She looks like a 1950s screen goddess. Her skin is a perfect shade of pale and there are no pimples on her face that I can see. Green. Her eyes are green.

  I start speaking, and, miraculously, I am making sense. My voice is steady and composed. I feel like I am completely detached from my speaking self. I am at the controls and the mechanics of the remote unit are operating splendidly.

  ‘To begin with, I want to apologise. Jeremy’s dared me to come out here and ask you all if you’ve seen the ghost of the cricket pitch.’

  ‘Is there a ghost?’ Her voice is confident and playful.

  I turn to her and try my darnedest not to tremble or miss a beat. ‘Well, no. There’s no ghost.’

  ‘So, trot back to Jeremy and tell him you carried out his pathetic dare,’ says Bridget, coolly.

  ‘I could do that. Or I could tell you about a real ghost in Middleton.’ I steal another glance. Her eyes have widened.

  ‘I love ghost stories. Sit here and tell us all about it.’ She pats the ground next to her, and I notice her beautiful, slender hand. I almost lose it right there and then. I drift off into a daydream in which I am centre-stage in a musical, dressed in a cobalt-blue tuxedo, dancing down the cricket pitch and singing about love with my arms flung wide, happily exposing my vulnerable self. Thankfull
y, I manage to kill the daydream and reconnect with reality. I sit down next to her, in the space that her hand had occupied just moments before.

  ‘I’m Rhonda, by the way. Rhonda Parker.’ She offers me her hand. I manage to shake it without trembling.

  ‘Hi. I’m Stanley Kelly.’

  ‘We both have the same number of syllables in our names – two-two. Rhon-da Par-ker, Stan-ley Kel-ly.’

  I feel like adding that our names sound heavenly together, but I think that might be pushing it a bit. I just smile at her like an idiot, for what seems to be a noticeably lengthy time, before I snap back to reality.

  ‘So, you’re new to town?’

  ‘Yeah. I just moved here with my Mum. We’re from Perth.’

  ‘Well, welcome to Middleton,’ I say cheerfully. ‘You should love it here. There’s so much to explore – roads that lead to other roads that lead to other roads …’

  ‘Enough with the crap joking, Stan. Tell us about this ghost.’ Bridget isn’t amused at all. She can see that I am woefully smitten. Helen and Sophie look interested, though. They move in closer to form a tight circle. I wonder what the guys are thinking, seeing me huddled with the girls on the cricket pitch, Rhonda Parker and I sitting tantalisingly close together. Jeremy would be spewing big time. I rejoice inside.

  ‘So … one night, my sister Rose and I had to babysit for a teacher.’

  ‘Which teacher?’ asks Helen.

  ‘I’m not going to say. I don’t want to name names.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says Rhonda. ‘Small town and all. You’ve got to be careful what you say.’ So, she’s considerate too.

  ‘When was this, Stan?’ asks Sophie.

  ‘It was last year – 1987. I was fourteen and Rose was thirteen. Mr and Mrs X, I’ll call them, left for the evening. Their kids were already in bed asleep, so Rose and I watched some TV.’

  ‘Oh, my God, I can tell this is going to be super spooky, isn’t it?’ Sophie sits forward, hunched, as if to protect herself from something unseen. She clasps her hands together tightly, turning her finger joints as white as a ghost gum.

  ‘Are you OK, Sophie? Want me to continue?’

  ‘Yes, please, Stan. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Well, after an hour or so, Rose and I decided to check out the fridge, which they’d said we could help ourselves to.’ I needed to clarify this; I didn’t want Rhonda thinking I was a sneaky pig. ‘Rose got up, and, on the way to the kitchen, as she was passing through the dining room, she started screaming her head off.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ whispers Sophie.

  ‘I’d never heard her scream like that. She was terrified and shaking. I was so freaked out that it took me a while to react. Part of me didn’t want to go and help her, because I didn’t think I could handle knowing what the hell she was screaming about. Then she pointed at the window.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Sophie again.

  ‘I sure as hell didn’t want to look through the window. But my adrenalin kicked in and I knew I had to protect Rose from whatever it was that was scaring her. I ran across the room, reached Rose and looked out the window … but I didn’t see anything there.’

  Sophie is audibly relieved.

  ‘Rose was shaking and crying like crazy, so I guided her into the hallway. We sat down in the dark and I held her until she calmed down. She said she’d seen a figure floating outside the window. It was an old woman, probably in her sixties. She was all grey – her body, everything. And she was transparent. She just floated there, looked in at my sister and held her gaze.’

  ‘How do we know you’re telling the truth?’ asks Bridget.

  ‘Because I wouldn’t make this shit up.’ I sneak a quick peek at Rhonda. I shouldn’t have said the word ‘shit’. Maybe she doesn’t like it when guys swear. I’d have to be more careful with my loose tongue.

  ‘We didn’t mention anything to Mr and Mrs X that night. We just said that everything went OK and that there were no problems. We wanted to get the hell out of there, basically. Mrs X drove us home and when we got home, we told Mum what’d happened. She could see the change in Rose, so she believed us. The next week, Mum saw Mr X at school and told him what Rose had seen that night. He said, “Oh, she saw the Grey Lady, did she? I’m very sorry about that – she hasn’t appeared for some time. But we’ve seen her, and the people who owned the house before us saw her as well.”’

  All the girls sit there with their mouths hanging open like clowns from a sideshow, staring at me in disbelief. ‘Oh, my God! That is the spookiest thing I’ve ever heard!’ says Sophie.

  I can tell they want to hear more. They want an explanation. It’s always like that when you have a conversation about something that’s not of this world, something that can’t be easily or scientifically explained; people always want more. But there isn’t more. It is what it is. I like to think of myself as a rationalist – that reason and deduction form the basis of truth. But I sure as hell can’t explain that ghostly figure and my sister sure as hell didn’t make it up. She was spooked and she couldn’t sleep for weeks.

  The siren sounds.

  ‘Can you show us the house, Stan?’ Sophie pleads.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, Soph.’

  ‘What a bummer! I’ve never seen a ghost. I’d love to see one!’

  All of us look at Sophie, knowing full well that she’d probably die of fright if she ever did see a ghost.

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen a ghost myself either, but after seeing Rose’s reaction, I’m not so sure I want to. Who wants to see dead people floating around? What if they come up to you while you’re sleeping? That would be screwed up!’ I look at Rhonda. She’s smiling at me.

  ‘So, when can we hear more of your stories?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ She winks at me and rushes off to class.

  I join up with the guys again. ‘Rhonda Parker. Her name is Rhonda Parker,’ I announce triumphantly.

  Jeremy is not impressed at all. He storms off to class. I high-five Steve, and Mike shakes his head at me with a big disbelieving smile plastered across his face. He can’t believe I had the balls and the cunning to manipulate the stupid dare to my advantage.

  2

  Life isn’t fair. The first time we realise this, it’s like a swift kick in the guts. You’re coasting along as a kid, blissfully unaware that life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You have everything you need and everything you want. You want ice cream? You’ve got ice cream. You want to kick the footy in the park? Go ahead. Knock yourself out! You want to go swimming up at the weir? Be my guest. But then the day comes when you ask for something and your parents flatly refuse you.

  ‘Hey, Mum, can I go stay at Steve’s this weekend?’

  ‘No, Stan. Your aunty is coming down for the weekend and we’re all going to spend some time together as a family.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You can’t go. You’re needed here.’

  ‘What do you need me for?’

  ‘We need you here as part of the family, Stan.’

  See? Life isn’t fair. It’s full of all these little rules that you have to abide by, which don’t make much sense. My aunty doesn’t want to hang out with me. What’s she going to talk to me about? Girls? Not likely! And if she does talk to me about girls, it’ll probably be some lame question like, ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Stan?’ And then I’ll have to say no. And after I say no, she’ll probably stare at me uncomfortably for a while, wondering whether I’m gay. But the number one thing that annoys me in life is that I’m obliged to go to church with my family every weekend. Holy Mother of God, indeed! I live with my parents and I have to obey them. But I’m fifteen years old and them’s the breaks. In order to deal with this tedious, vapid reality, I often daydream about my ideal living arrangements:

  1. Mum and Dad rent a house just for me.

  2. The house is on the other side of town from theirs.

  3. Mum and Dad g
ive me a generous weekly allowance to cover the costs of living (food, booze, cigarettes, music).

  4. Mum cooks meals for me and drops them off.

  And when she drops them off, she doesn’t hang around. If she does stay, she makes herself useful and does a bit of cleaning up for me. Like I say, it’s a daydream. An unattainable fantasy.

  Anyway, it’s Sunday and here I am sitting in church. Jesus is stuck high up on the wall behind the altar, nailed to a cross; a reminder to us all of the suffering he endured so that our sins could be forgiven. His head hangs to the right, limp and lifeless. Over the years that I’ve attended this church, I’ve studied Jesus’ dying expression many times. His sinewy body has been etched into my brain. I know every muscle, every detailed trickle of blood from each of his historic wounds and every smear of his dirt-infused sweat. Catholics aren’t particularly subtle.

  As I consider Jesus’ body for the umpteenth time, I notice there’s not a speck of dust on him. I wonder how often he gets dusted down. You’d need a ladder to get way up there. I look around at the other statues and the Stations of the Cross. They appear to be impeccably clean too. That’s devotion for you. Or perhaps it’s just part of the façade. If you want to keep selling something, you’ve got to make it look good. I’ve experienced Jesus’ agonising journey through the Stations of the Cross many, many times. Going to church can be like learning your times tables in primary school. You’ve got to go over everything again and again so that the stories of the pain and suffering are as easy to recall as two times two equals four.

  My family and I are squeezed into a single pew. My sisters pick at their fingernails and Mum sits forward, completely absorbed in Father Ryan’s sermon. She nods every now and then, a demonstration of her unwavering devotion. It’s so embarrassing. I wish I could just click my fingers and disappear. Dad is seated next to Mum, jiggling a leg up and down and thinking about his next beer, I suspect.

  It was around six months ago that I started feeling embarrassed about going to church. It made me look at everyone and everything through very different eyes. I realised that a certain number of the congregation are serious, devout Catholics, who, unlike some others, don’t just turn up to church every week in order to guarantee their safe passage through the gates of Heaven. God bless you, no! These devotees wear a glazed expression on their faces, and, when their eyes rest upon yours, it’s as if they’re looking straight through you, at something in the distance. Once or twice, I’ve turned around to see what they’re looking at, but there’s never anything there. To me, this glazed expression equals blind faith. It acts as a clear indicator to others that these people are well and truly immersed in their religion, and there’s no hope of persuading them otherwise. They’re living in a God-is-everywhere-and-in-everything land and they are not likely to change.