A Place for Sinners Read online

  Janine Collins at church one Christmas Eve. She’d been fanning herself with a doubled-over community newsletter. They had made eye contact, only Janine had turned away.

  Clover pulled the trigger and the dark cave bloomed white. The dog flew against the wall, its intestines spelling words in the air before splattering against a bed of insects. “I got you! I got you, bitch!”

  He stuck his head farther into the cave and saw the girl huddled on the floor—moving. Only now did he realize the dice he’d taken the risk of rolling. Had he aimed a little to the right, it might have been little Amity Collins lying there in a bloodied mess and not the wolf—

  Not a wolf, Clover. There ain’t no wolves on this land. This was a dog. A big, mean fucker, too.

  And you killed it. You tore it a new asshole. You’re a fucking hero.

  Clover stepped back into the gray and stood, those bones that were just too stubborn to align right cracking again. “Down here, fellas,” he called. “Goddammit, I found her.” Clover’s hoarse voice broke on the final word.

  Her. Amity—whose father was dead.

  His blood’s all over me. Christ, Dean-o’s gone.

  The cloud of blood floating toward him like a slow-moving shadow, only once this shadow had passed over him, he didn’t feel the familiar cold that shade brings. Instead, it had been warm.

  “We’re coming!” Disembodied calls coming from nowhere, from everywhere. “Hold in there!”

  Clover crawled back into the cave. Stinks of rot in here. And even worse was the reverberating thrum of the ocean, the sound distorted into something almost soporific; he struggled to keep his eyes open. All he wanted to do was escape into the fresh air, lay his head against the rocks and sleep, but he forged on instead, the cockroaches parting before him, scurrying back into their dank hiding spots. And then he saw Dean’s little girl, lying on the rock, facing away from him with her hands cupped to the sides of her head.

  “Amity?”

  Clover touched the fatherless child’s arm, his hand so dark against her sugary skin, only to have her shy away. The small part of him that believed in the good of the world, in fairness and in justice, withered inside him and was never known to live there again.

  The girl faced him and he saw her eyes. They were wide. Confused. Hands plastered against her ears, blood gushing from between the fingers.

  A ray of light so strong it glimmered on the ocean floor drew fish into play on the surface. It was like Papa-Jesus himself had wiped away the fog—as though it were little more than a layer of dust he could breathe life into later—to reveal the blue beneath.

  9

  There was no sound; there was nothing.

  Amity Collins was on the rigid hospital bed, the sheets wrapped around her. She held her shaking right hand close to her ear, clicking. Clicking.

  There was no sound; there was nothing.

  She could tell that she was humming, could feel the vibrations in her throat, buzzing and then stopping. The fact that she couldn’t hear anything didn’t stop her from doing it anyway.

  A year before, Amity had explored the crawl space under their house. It was a dusty wasteland of moldy cardboard boxes, bricks and rotting planks of wood. She always thought it was fun to explore there, despite being frightened the entire time. It was the kind of place where monsters might live, like those on the covers of the Goosebumps books her brother was always reading, or the kind that came out of her closet when nobody else was looking.

  But there might be fairies too. That concept had made her smile.

  Amity had been about to carry her grimy self out of the crawl space when she noticed cobwebs quivering between the wooden beams above her head. There were dead bugs trapped in the cottony strands. Amity touched the wood, and even though she couldn’t hear the washing machine in the laundry, she knew her mother had put in a load on account of the vibrations.

  The vibrations in her throat felt the same way.

  There was no sound; there was nothing. And she was afraid.

  Her mother’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. Amity got the impression that she was being asked a question, so she nodded anyway. Does Ma want to know if I’m okay? Is she asking if I’m scared? She didn’t want to answer that one. All she wanted was to be back in her room and play with her toys, maybe doodle in her coloring-in books. She was halfway through The Hamburglar Gets Away, which her pa had bought for her at the McDonald’s in Lismore. Amity liked going outside the lines, adding speech bubbles, and didn’t care that she sometimes used the wrong colors, that sometimes her skies were pink, and Ronald was blue and green, not yellow and red.

  Click. Click.

  Amity was beginning to understand that she was deaf. She was easing into the concept, wielding a childlike acceptance no adult could match.

  Amity had no idea how long she’d been inside the hospital. It felt like years. She wondered when she would have to go back to school, if people would recognize her. Would all of the other kids still ask her to go and hide with them in the Love Tunnel at the back of the playground near the gum trees they’d carved their names into, or play afternoon hopscotch on the footpath while they waited for their bus to arrive, or ask her over for sleepovers where they would watch the same movies over and over again, and dress up in their older siblings’ clothes?

  All she knew was that her bandages were starting to itch the skin beneath. She wanted to rip them off, but the doctor-lady had scolded her the last time she’d tried.

  Amity longed for a distraction. Anything. The collection of toys her mother had brought in no longer worked its spell; the same with the boring, dog-eared books that one of the nurses had given her. There was a television in the corner of the room, but the volume must have been switched off because she couldn’t hear the sound.

  No, it’s not. You just can’t hear anymore, silly-billy.

  She sighed, playing with her Raggedy Ann doll. One of her button eyes was gone.

  My ears are broken.

  Amity with her ear pushed flush against the perforated speaker of her radio, toying with the My Little Pony stickers she’d stuck to the back to keep the battery hatch closed. Music flowed into her ears, into her body. She breathed the lyrics out.

  Time had slowed, and she guessed it would only get worse now that she would never hear music again. She tried to remember the last song that she had listened to but couldn’t remember.

  Amity wondered how old the woman sitting next to her mother was. She looked youngish, but had an uptight quality that betrayed her smile. It aged her.

  Maybe fifty? Nah, not that much.

  Seven-year-old Amity Collins was of an age when any adult was either twenty or fifty. These were the numbers that stuck; it didn’t occur to her that people could be anything but. But she was inquisitive. So she asked.

  She could tell from the look on their faces that the words were coming out wrong. Amity thumped her hands against the mattress and scrunched up her face. Sometimes, all she wanted to do was cry, but she refused to crumble. She wasn’t in kindergarten anymore; she was a Big Girl now, and Big Girls don’t cry. Those were the rules.

  The younger woman leaned forward in her chair. She held a set of cards in her hands.

  Is this a game? Well, I don’t want to play. So there!

  Amity exhaled, crossed her arms. She studied the row of purple bruises across her skin, as pronounced as the flower print on the “good skirt” her mother insisted she wear to church every Sunday. She hated that skirt. Amity liked her pink one much better. A smile flirted with her face—there was at least one good thing about being stuck in hospital: she didn’t have to go to borin’-ole-church!

  A hand landed on her ankle, and Amity flinched, unable to help it.

  The lead bitch, her lips pulled back to reveal her black gums. Teeth.

  The image of the dog receded as her mother stroked her ankle. Amity looked at the worn face attached to the hand, watched the overpronounced nod. A forced, dra
ining grimace.

  Ma is magic, Amity reminded herself. She makes the bad stuff go away.

  Clouds passed over the sun and the room dimmed. The television had been switched off for the meeting; there were grimy handprints across the black screen. A ring of dying flowers and get-well notes circled the bed, a barricade from truth.

  The young woman, who might have been old—maybe twenty but na-aaahhh, not fifty—lifted the placards in her hands, and with a tilt of her head, cracked the bones in her neck.

  SNAP.

  I heard that! Amity brightened, gripping the bedsheets.

  No, you didn’t. You think you heard it, is all.

  It was then that Amity understood that there was a link between what she saw and what she had been programmed to hear. The memory of a sound—its echo—didn’t cut through the silence; it was linked to something on the other side. And that felt wonderful. Amity was positive it was its own kind of magic, a quiet kind.

  The woman held up the card. It read: HI!

  Amity gave a halfhearted wave. The woman smiled and handed the card to her mother.

  AMITY read the second card. The woman pointed her index finger at the little girl.

  Ah-huh. That’s my name, don’t wear it out. I know how to read, you know. And I can write my name too. But I get the T and Y confused sometimes and I switch them ’round. I’ve got my name spelled out on my desk at school, so I can lift up the lid and double check. You know, just in case.

  The woman handed the second card to her mother, who dropped it and began to cry. Amity wanted to cross the linoleum between them and give her a hug.

  Please don’t cry, Ma. Please.

  The woman held up a third card: L-U-C-Y and then pointed at herself. Amity saw the letters floating around in her head and concentrated hard, screwing up her face. She felt the random shapes fall into form, creating a name.

  Hi, Lucy, what are you doing here?

  Amity liked sounding out words. It made her smile.

  Lucy, are you going to make the sound come back so I can listen to my music?

  A fourth card: a picture of an ear. A fifth: a picture of an ear with a red line drawn through it.

  Lucy pointed at Amity, who understood but could only blink in response. Amity took a deep breath and held it, cupping her mouth.

  She wished she were swimming with Caleb at the Ballina Pool. Caleb was the best brother in the world. She imagined herself leaping into the shallow end—even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to—with the big blue rushing up to meet her. And then there would be the splash, a bolt of cold water exploding around her. The chlorine would make her eyes sting. And then she would be floating, weightless. Silent. Caleb would be right there beside her, making sure she didn’t go under.

  Lucy produced a sixth card: A heart stencil, which the woman pointed at and then followed with a gesture toward her mother. Amity could see that the twentysomething’s hands were shaking.

  A seventh card: A Xeroxed photograph of Amity’s father glued to the board, the adhesive warping one corner.

  A bolt of longing shot through the seven-year-old, the kind of longing designed for daughters to feel for their fathers. She wanted his big, calloused hands to snatch up her own, wanted him to squeeze her fingers. His stubble brushing against her as he kissed her between her eyes. She loved how she never had to work for his affection; he made her feel brave enough to wander on her own.

  “There’s no such things as monsters, sweetheart. And even if there were, I’d catch them all up for you and lock them away. I’d keep you safe as houses.”

  “Pa,” she tried to say.

  Again, a cloud passed by outside and the window burned bright. It didn’t last. The wind blew and the clouds rolled back. A draft plucked wilted petals from the older flowers, scattered them.

  Amity could tell that the woman named Lucy didn’t want to be there; she almost looked angry.

  Please, let me go home, Amity wanted to say to her. This place scares me.

  Lucy shook her head and laid the final boards flat across her knees. Her mother’s movements were quick and finite, and reminded Amity of the giant cobra in the movie Aladdin—a favorite rewatch among the sleepover crowd. I want to get in a blanky and sit in front of the TV and watch cartoons all day. I’m sick. That’s what sick kids do. Oh, maybe someone will get me some ice cream from the shops down the street!

  Her mother snatched up the two remaining boards from Lucy’s lap and flipped them over, causing the twentysomething to scowl, get up and prepare to leave.

  Oh, don’t go. I like you. You have a friendly face and pretty hair and you smell nice.

  Lucy stopped, one hand on the door frame and the other rubbing the flushed underside of her neck. Amity thought the woman looked like she was going to cry too. She hoped she wouldn’t; that would make her very sad.

  On the second-to-last sheet there was another photocopy. This one of Baby-Jesus, bearded in black and white, with his eyes cast upward. Amity watched her mother’s finger point at the image, her face stern and pale. Tears were now growing fat at the tip of her nose. Amity tried so hard to understand what was being said, but couldn’t make sense of the goldfish smack of her mother’s lips.

  Pa, where are you?

  The finger moved from the image of her father and the image of the Son.

  Stop. I’m scared—

  Fingers slammed on the pictures in frustration. Dean to Christ, over and over.

  Ma, I don’t get it.

  Dean to Christ. Back and forth, each strike harder and faster.

  Pa and Baby-Jesus. Wait, Pa is Jesus?

  STOP!

  Pa’s with Baby-Jesus? What, is that what you’re trying to say?

  Amity flinched, even though she couldn’t hear the shrillness of the adults’ voices. She pulled the funny-smelling sheet across her knees up to her chin. Why am I in trouble? What did I do? MA! Make it all go away.

  Amity couldn’t tell if she was screaming the words out loud or if they were only bouncing around in her head. Nothing made sense. She couldn’t feel the vibrations as she had before.

  Amity watched her mother get up out of her chair, drop the final card to the floor and leave the room. Her bulk slammed against the woman named Lucy as she forced herself through the doorway. Amity peered at the floor and saw the final upturned placard on the linoleum. It was another image of a heart, in color this time. And that color was RED.

  10

  A little girl lost in the fog. A story for the gossipers of Evans Head to spin.

  Dean Collins was buried in a closed coffin, watched over by hundreds of the town’s population crammed into the narrow church pews, spilling out the front archway onto the footpath. There was a swarm of television crews that a group of locals chased off.

  “Show some respect for the dead!” they screamed. “Leave us alone.”

  Us. The tremors of the tragedy had rippled through them, and as a result, they had come together. The people of Evans Head were sometimes mean, they sometimes schemed, and like most folks in most places, being judgmental came easy. But on the other hand—and oh what a hand it often proved to be—they could be beautiful.

  Amity watched them, just as she had watched the coffin lid, with a reverential eye. The wood of that strange man-sized box had been so dark, almost stony. She knew what was inside, meat with all the meaning scooped out. And although she had caught herself looking around for her father amongst the crowd once or twice through the service, Amity understood what was happening, even though her mother didn’t seem to think she did. This was Pa’s funeral and all of the people around her were crying for him. Each held an image in their mind of who and what he was to them—the workmate in the sugarcane field, the beer-buddy, the best friend. None of these impressions were wrong and all should be held up and honored, but not a single one came close to who the dead body in the coffin was to her.

  Pa. Just Pa. A single syllable, a world entire.

  And he was gone. The stony
coffin lid was not going to rise, revealing him sitting there with a cheeky grin on his face as he yelled “Gotchya, ya silly buggers!” Not a chance.

  She understood.

  Father Lewis bent down to stare Amity in the face after the ceremony and spoke words that she didn’t have a chance of understanding. She watched his lips, saw the glint of his teeth. His tongue was in there too, like a piece of half-chewed-up meat. Amity felt fear closing in, and its presence made her breath quicken. She clung to the hem of her mother’s skirt. The clouds had grown thick and heavy, and Amity wondered if it was going to storm.

  Will the winds blow and rip off people’s roofs?

  Will the headstones shoot up into the sky? That would be weird.

  Only no, it wouldn’t just be weird. It would be scary. So scary that Amity caved in to her own rules and began to cry. Terror was the wind: just because it could not be seen did not mean it was not there.

  What if the storm rips up the ground and pulls Pa out of that box?

  Amity nuzzled against her mother’s side and was disappointed when all she received was a cold pat to the top of her head. She’d been hoping for a hug, a kiss. So Amity asked for one aloud, but she had no way of knowing that the words were indecipherable, or that her mother was embarrassed by her attempt.

  Amity turned to Caleb. He was hugging himself. His bandaged face looked wet.

  I think he’s been crying too.

  It was all so hard to understand—her father was dead and was with Baby-Jesus. Wasn’t that a good thing?

  Isn’t this what’s supposed to happen?

  There were no answers. There were just all of those faces bending down close to hers. They came at her from every direction, each bringing with them different scents. Sweat. Cologne. Huge hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Wet eyes. Crooked, yellow teeth. Sour punches of breath.

  She pulled away from them and ran through the cemetery, a veil of rain chasing close behind. She was no match for its speed, and the storm doused her to the bone. Amity wondered if she was steaming. Everything felt too hot. She took off her shoes and threw them at an old angel statue on her right. They bounced off cracked, unflinching features. Amity gasped.