Part One Chapter 6

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‘So, Molly my dear. Harbouring terrorists in your classroom, I hear.’

It’s just the two of them in the English staffroom. Last period before lunch. Molly’s been teaching all morning, and hasn’t seen the police car or heard any of the chatter amongst the students about Zeph.

She frowns, puzzled. She doesn’t look up. 

‘You wouldn’t have thought just to look at the poor wee thing,’ says Rodney. 

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about Rodney.’ She keeps marking student work.

‘Your boy Zeph. The one who can’t read or write. Nabbed by the police in Period One. So exciting!’

Now she looks up. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ says Rodney, licking a finger and melodramatically wiping it across his chest. ‘He’s been planning a school massacre for sure. We’ve escaped by the hairs of our chinny chin chins.’

‘Rodney stop pissing around. What happened? You’re not serious.’

‘Deadly,’ says Rodney, clearly pleased to have ruffled Molly’s feathers. ‘He’s Muslim you know. The word is that he’s part of a cell of radicalised Islamic youth, planning our own little September 11th. Got him just in time.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says as Rhonda walks in.

‘Tell our doubting queen here that I speak the truth,’ says Rodney. ‘Zeph the terrorist has been captured by the Coalition of the Willing.’

‘Give it a rest Rodney,’ says Rhonda wearily.

‘Was, or was he not, whisked away by the local plod?’

Molly looks anxiously at Rhonda’s face. 

‘Zeph was taken off to answer some questions,’ says Rhonda.

‘Terrorist related?’ asks a beaming Rodney. ‘Or because he wasn’t concentrating in Molly’s class?’

‘Something about an ISIS flag, I’m told,’ says Rhonda.

I can’t stop worrying about Zeph. Where is he? I feel like putting on my coat and beanie and searching again, but I’m not sure where I’d start. And I know Grandpa would worry, as it’s nearly midnight and freezing outside. I hope he’s OK. I hope he’s gone back to his apartment, though I doubt that. Not after what happened today.

I only heard at lunchtime about the police coming and taking him away. No-one was sure why, but there were all these rumours, stupid rumours, about him being involved in some terrorist group. It was so pathetically ridiculous. Zeph, a terrorist! Give me a break! 

I think I knew straight away what must have happened. The ISIS flag. Someone must have seen a boy with olive skin in the area, seen him with paints, and drawn the wrong conclusions. The police then somehow tracked him down. 

I suppose I feel a bit protective towards him. Like I want to look after him, or look out for him, now that I’ve got to know him a bit. He’s got this wounded look, like he’s been hurt, or he expects to be hurt. Something like that.

Anyway, I couldn’t concentrate at school. Right after the last bell I sent a text to Grandpa to say that I wasn’t coming straight home. He gets worried if I’m not home at the usual time. Then I went over to the police station.

Zeph wasn’t there. And if they knew where he was, they weren’t telling.

I went round to the apartment block he’d shown me on Friday. There was a police car parked outside. And a van. One of those with a lockup at the back. Two policemen were pushing a man into the van. I couldn’t see Zeph.

There was a little crowd of onlookers gathered round the entrance, residents of the apartment block I’m guessing, and so I asked someone what was happening.

‘Drug bust,’ said a woman with a nervous looking toddler clinging to her legs. ‘He’s been dealing for months. Police must have known for ages. Don’t know why they decided to get him today.’

‘They came with that young bloke,’ said a second woman, ‘the one who lives with the dealer. Maybe he told them what the other bloke was up to.’

‘Nah,’ said a third. ‘That young fella was in trouble. You could tell. The way the police were holding him by the arm when they went in.’

‘Where’s the young bloke now?’ I asked. It was Zeph for sure.

No-one knew.

‘What floor do they live on?’ I asked.

‘Tenth.’

As soon as they told me, I left the group and went up the stairs. I didn’t want to take the elevator, I’m not sure why. I just felt really uncomfortable in that building. It had a smell. Or was I just imagining it? I felt so out of place.

When I finally got to the tenth floor, I saw a policeman standing outside an open door. There were others inside, searching the place.

The policeman asked what I wanted. Did I know the occupants? 

I explained. He seemed interested when I told him about the ISIS flag, how Zeph had wanted to show me something he’d done but that it had been painted over. 

‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘He didn’t seem the type. His uncle though, a very different kettle of fish.’

‘Is Zeph inside?’ I asked.

‘Isn’t he downstairs with the others?’

‘With the police? No, he wasn’t there.’

I found out later that Zeph had slipped away somehow. No-one knew where he was.

I looked for him around the school and at the train station, but there was no sign.

I feel really worried though. I wonder if he thinks the police still think he painted the ISIS flag? I don’t think he’ll go back to the apartment, not for a while anyway.

Maybe he’ll be at school tomorrow. I hope so.

Zeph sits huddled in a corner of the dark warehouse. It must be well past midnight. He hasn’t slept. He’s cold. He’s also scared.

It’s not dead bodies he’s scared of this time, though this is where he had imagined one. It’s who might be around. It’s dry and out of the way here, a likely shelter. 

Restless mice scratch in a wall cavity. Or are they rats? Zeph pulls his jacket tighter. The hood is wrapped around his ears. But he’s still cold. Especially his feet.

The police have his keys so he can’t return to the apartment. They questioned him about defacing public property. They handcuffed his uncle.

Things are turning to shit again.

He remembers the time after his mother’s death. The feeling of being alone in the world. The cold hostility of his uncle when he agreed to give him a room. Zeph started to shut off then. To make a wall around himself.

It hadn’t been like that with his mother. He can still remember the feeling when he was with her, the earthy distinctiveness of her smell. Her voice. He wishes he could remember her face. 

But then she’d died. Suddenly. When he was ten. Overdosed apparently. He didn’t even know she was taking drugs. He just thought she was sometimes bright and loving, other times sleepy and confused. 

They were a pair, the two of them. ‘It’s just the two of us, little Zephyr,’ she would say, ‘the two of us alone in the world.’ She’d say it with a little laugh, like it was a good thing. He felt it was a good thing. Just the two of them. And then she was gone.

He’s found himself thinking about her a lot this last week or so. After not thinking about her for ages. 

He’s been thinking about Harriet a bit too. 

She is the same age. Fifteen. Maybe sixteen. He feels awkward around her.

 He stretches his legs, disturbing the bag of paints and brushes at his feet. The police asked him to bring the bag to the station. He kept hold of it as he fled. 

It looks like he has the warehouse to himself for the night.

He wishes it was morning. He wishes he was back at the apartment. He wishes his mum was alive.

He’ll never go back to the apartment, not with the police after him. He can’t go back to school. He’ll have to leave Melbourne. Get a job somewhere. Go where it’s warmer.

He wants to go a long, long way away.

He begins to imagine a door, a door to another world. An escape. A door to another world where things aren’t always shit.

He is suddenly aware that in front of him is the blank wall, the one he thought of once as being a blank canvas. 

He’ll paint the door when there’s enough light. He’ll pass the time by painting. 

Molly is packing up her books at the end of the Year 10 lesson.

‘Ms McInness,’ says a voice. It’s Harriet. The rest of the students have left. Harriet is looking anxious and is standing at the door hugging her books to her chest.

‘Are you OK Harriet?’

‘Ms McInness, do you know where Zeph is?’

‘I don’t think anyone does. The police have been asking.’

‘I’m really worried about him.’

Molly has felt concerned too. He doesn’t seem the kind of boy who would get involved in something serious like this. Not that she knows him well. But he’s got such a gentle face. Such a nice smile. She saw it for the first time when Max was talking about the image of the warrior and the dragon. A shy smile, but it changed the look of his face. 

‘I didn’t realise he was a friend of yours.’

‘He’s not. Well, not a close friend. We’ve just had a few chats over the past couple of weeks. That’s all.’

‘Does he have any friends?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s a bit of a loner. He lives with his uncle.’

‘Have you talked to his uncle. Does he know where Zeph might be?’

‘Apparently Zeph’s uncle is a drug dealer. I think he’s in police custody. I’ve been round to their apartment a couple of times. His door is locked. No-one’s seen Zeph. That’s three days he hasn’t been seen. And it’s been freezing.’

‘I’ll check to see if the school has been in touch with Welfare. Maybe they know something.’

‘I’ll bet he’s gone off on his own. To some other city or something. I’m really worried.’

‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything Harriet. You let me know too, OK?’

‘I will.’

‘I’ve been worried about you too. Not just today. You haven’t been writing. We haven’t had one of our sessions.’

‘I know. I’ll try to get back into it. I’m just not in the mood.’

‘I enjoy our sessions,’ says Molly.

 ‘Me too. Heaps. Hey, Ms McInness?’ Harriet is looking at Molly’s brooch. 

‘Yes?’

‘That brooch. It’s really beautiful. I noticed it the first lesson we had. But you haven’t worn it since.’

Molly laughs. ‘No I haven’t.’

‘How come? If I had a brooch like that, I’d wear it all the time. Is it a real ruby?’

‘It’s a real ruby.’

‘Scared you’ll lose it?’

‘Not really. Its clasp is really well made. Here, have a look.’

She unpins the brooch and hands it to Harriet. She watches as Harriet examines it, hold it up to the light. She tells Harriet about Granny Metcalfe and about her stories. 

‘So why don’t you wear it more often?’ Harriet asks.

‘A silly suspicion I think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve always thought of this ruby brooch as being kind of powerful. I think probably because I always thought Granny Metcalfe was a dabbler in the mysterious, a kind of benign witch. And then I noticed at the beginning of this term, when I started actually wearing it, that I was feeling sick and that the sickness seemed to come and go according to whether I was wearing the brooch.’

‘Are you feeling sick today?’

Molly laughs again. ‘Not today. It’s just a silly suspicion.’

‘You haven’t seemed so happy in class.’

‘I think maybe I’m also concerned about Zeph. I think the class is affected by what’s happened.’

Harriet gives back the brooch. ‘I think if anything’s magic, something like this brooch must be.’

‘It’s nice to see you smiling Harriet. I’m sure Zeph will be OK. We’ll hear from him soon. Or he’ll just turn up.’

‘I hope so. He’s had a tough life I think. I hope you’re right.’

Max has rung Molly’s phone and he’s waiting for her to answer. He fidgets while he waits. His mind flits. He’s feeling agitated.

‘Hello.’

‘Molly?’

‘Speaking. Max?’

‘I tried ringing earlier but you must have been busy.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘I’m wondering if we can postpone Sunday’s coffee.’

‘No problems. Are you OK?’

‘Just a bit worried about Harriet. She hasn’t been herself these last few days. I think I need to be at home this weekend.’

‘Of course. No worries. Has she talked to you about Zeph?’

‘Who?’ 

Max hasn’t heard this name before. Harriet doesn’t talk much about the other students. She’s looked uncomfortable whenever he’s asked. He’s often wondered why she doesn’t seem to have close friends. She never has. She’s always preferred her own company.

‘Zeph. One of the kids in our English class. He’s gone missing.’

‘Is he a friend of Harriet’s?’

‘I’m not sure Max. I know they’ve spent a bit of time together recently. Harriet’s really worried. She talked to me a bit at school yesterday.’

‘Who is he?’ Max notices the hint of hostility in his voice.

‘Just one of the students.’ 

There’s a little, awkward, silence. Max tries again. 

‘So Harriet’s worried about this boy Zeph.’

‘Yes, he’s gone missing. I’m not sure how much I should tell you. Maybe talk to Harriet. I know she’s worried.’

Max doesn’t like the sound of this. Why isn’t he with his family? Why hasn’t Harriet mentioned him?

‘Is he in trouble?’ he asks

‘Max, I can’t say any more. Have a chat with Harriet. She’s worried about him. He’s a vulnerable boy and I think Harriet’s been looking after him a bit. Something like that. I’m not sure. Have a chat with Harriet.’

‘I will. Thanks Molly. Sorry if I’ve sounded a bit sharp. I’m a bit worried myself. She’s been very quiet. Withdrawn. Spending a lot of time in her room.’

‘She’s a great girl Max.’

‘I know. A precious girl. I’ll have a chat with her. Thanks Molly. Let’s have a coffee soon.’

‘Yes let’s. Soon. I enjoy our chats. Bye Max.’

‘I’ll be in touch. Bye.’

I can’t believe he’s sleeping just in the next room. I feel scared, but relieved too.

It’s 1.30am. Or thereabouts. 1.30am on Saturday morning. I’m tucked up in bed, typing this on my laptop. It’s blowing a gale outside and there’s rain belting against my window. 

It’s been quite a night. Quite a week, actually.

Zeph disappeared on Monday. I went to the apartment again, several times, but his neighbours said he hadn’t been back. I rode on trains after school. Nothing. 

Grandpa kept asking me what was up and if I was OK. Then this morning he said he’d chatted with Ms McInness. He kept asking me questions about Zeph, who he was, where he lived, what his family was like. I got a bit irritated to tell the truth. I could feel him being judgemental. Not about me. About Zeph. Or about his family. I didn’t mention the drug thing with his uncle. 

I kept seeing Zeph’s face. Those big eyes, heavy eyelids, like he’s half-asleep. The thick tousled hair, as if he’s just got out of bed. The half-smile when he realises I’m teasing him. This will sound weird but he’s been a bit like a stray puppy I’ve adopted, one who hasn’t been treated well and is not sure what to make of me. Something like that.

Then tonight.

I went to bed a few hours ago, at about 11. Sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually I turned on the light and tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. I turned off the light again and must have dozed for a bit.

Then, about an hour ago, I woke up suddenly. The wind was howling and there was this branch or something being blown against my window. Or that’s what I thought at first. Then I realised that there was someone outside knocking. I wanted it to be Zeph but I felt so scared getting out of bed and drawing back the curtains. 

It was Zeph.

I signalled to him to move round to the front door.

When I opened the door, he stood there dripping and shivering. His eyes were all bloodshot and his hair was matted and soaked. His face and hands were smeared with dirt and paint, despite the rain.

I grabbed his hands. They were icy and stiff.

And he was crying. I couldn’t work out whether it was distress or relief.

Grandpa’s room is at the other end of the house, down a long corridor. It’s a part of the house that got extended before I was born, and it’s almost like a separate wing, with its own bathroom and study. There was no sign that we’d disturbed him. Especially with the wild weather outside making such a din.

Anyway, Zeph was crying. I started to cry too. I’d been so worried. He looked so sick. I thought for a moment that I needed to get him to a hospital somehow.

I went to give him a hug but he pushed me away. Just as well really. My pjs were getting soaked. And he stank.

‘You’re fucking freezing,’ I blubbered.

He nodded.

‘Are you sick?’

He shook his head.

‘Hungry?’

He seemed to think about it, like he wasn’t sure. Then he nodded.

‘Thirsty,’ he said. ‘Something to show you.’

I waited for him to show me whatever it was. He just stood there though. He looked out of it, but not on drugs. His pupils weren’t dilated. Just red. 

‘What Zeph? Something to show me? What do you mean?’

He mumbled something, but it wasn’t making any sense. 

We’ve got a gas fire in the sitting room. One of those ones that pretends to be a real fire. I turned it on, then got him water. He gulped it down before squatting, shivering, in front of the fire.

‘Have you got any spare clothes?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

I went to the hall cupboard and got a towel. Then into my room to get some pjs. I’d stopped crying by now. I was working out what to do, and in what order. Shower. Clean pjs. Food. Spread his wet clothes on a rack in front of the fire. Get Zeph wrapped up in the spare doona and on the sleeping mat. Put alarm clock on for 5am, before Grandpa wakes up. I had a feeling that Grandpa wouldn’t be happy about Zeph being here. I needed to get Zeph out of the house and in dry clothes. 

The first part went to plan. Zeph was like a dumb animal, saying nothing, just doing what I told him to do, spending ages in the shower, wolfing down some food I put in front of him, wrapping himself up in the doona. He kept talking about wanting to show me something, but I couldn’t work out what it was. I told him to tell me in the morning, and that seemed to relax him. He fell asleep almost instantly, while I spread out his clothes on the rack. 

I’ll wake him at 5.

I’m so relieved. I’m also so worried. I’m not sure what’s next.

But he’s safe and in the next room.

I’ve tried sleeping but I can’t. So I’ve been writing. It feels good to have written all this, as if I’ve brought some order to something that was kind of confusing because it was all so unexpected and was moving so fast. 

 I’d like to show this to Ms McInness. But I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.

I’ll sleep on it. If I can.