Chapter 42 George
George
When George wakes from a disturbed sleep the next morning, he instantly recalls the nightmare that unsettled him hours earlier.
Again, he was back at his school; again, it was their dormitory that was being subjected to the night visits; and, again, in this nightmare version of his childhood, it was him being taken from his bed in the middle of the night.
He understands, now, why he keeps going back there.
This place, just like Holvine, is the kind that blurs the boundaries of consciousness, where it becomes harder to tell where nightmares end and real life begins.
Fortunately, his mind has emerged fully from the depths of sleep and landed on the shores of a new day.
And he should be glad of it. Soon they’ll be moving on, driving out of this miserable reserve and on to somewhere better.
But glad isn’t quite the right word. Instead, he has what some people call ‘mixed emotions’.
It’s a curious expression that suggests feelings can exist separately yet be all jumbled up, like marbles in a bag, when the truth is they seep and bleed into each other – anger, frustration, regret – and become a single entity, a complicated cocktail that can’t be defined by a single word.
As a child, George used to find feelings overwhelming, to the point where he visualised them as a living, breathing thing: a burning red dragon to be wrestled with.
Nowadays, they are much more sedate, like a cat that winds round his ankles or curls up on his midriff when he is still.
George sits up and cranes his head to see through a gap in the curtains. Unbelievably, it’s still tipping it down outside, and the wind seems even stronger than it was last night. The rain is not only hammering the roof but also lashing the whole left side of the bus.
‘How the hell is it still raining?’ George mumbles, not directing his question at anyone specific. ‘What is this, a rainforest?’
There’s no response; the others are still dozing or lack the enthusiasm to respond.
He suspects the latter. So, George lies back and listens to the sound of the rain.
It’s discomforting. Just like the soreness around his cheekbone.
A distant echo of the smouldering fury he felt last night.
He’s also woken with a good half a dozen new mosquito bites.
Since they no longer have air-con, they needed to open the windows last night, and the bitey little bastards found their way inside.
It’s maybe ten minutes before the door to the bedroom opens and Faith pads into the main area, stretching her arms above her head as she yawns. ‘G’day.’ She picks up the kettle and turns on the tap. ‘Anyone for a cuppa?’
‘Good luck with that.’
Faith sighs and replaces the kettle. ‘Ah yeah, I forgot.’ After a moment’s thought, she says, ‘Shall we have a cold one? That’s a thing, right? Iced tea?’
‘The freezer’s not working, so it certainly won’t be iced,’ George says. ‘But given that we’re on a voyage of discovery, I’ll embrace the spirit of adventure and join you for a tepid tea.’
Faith opens the cupboard containing the mugs. ‘Anyone else?’
Miles and Reubyn decline the offer, in weary voices.
Faith peers into the bathroom, before planting her hands on her hips. ‘Where’s Elis?’
They all turn to look at the heap of sofa cushions, pillows and red sleeping bag that has served as Elis’s bed for the past couple of nights.
‘He’s probably gone for a walk or something,’ George says.
Faith pulls back a curtain and peers out of the window. ‘Not great weather for a hike. It’s pelting pick handles out there.’
George stands and steps into a pair of trousers. ‘You know what he’s like; thinks he’s bloody Ray Mears. He’s probably fashioned a shelter out of logs and bear hides.’
‘There are no bears in New Zealand,’ Faith says.
‘Rat skins, then.’
‘He’s probably gone to the bird hide,’ Reubyn says. ‘I’d be there myself, if I hadn’t given up hope of seeing one of those bloody kākāpō.’
For an hour or so they lounge around, get dressed and drink weak room-temperature tea.
Eventually Polly and Jessie join them, and everyone begins the process of reorganising the space and packing up their stuff.
They have a late breakfast of cereal and lukewarm milk, and Jessie makes sandwiches for the journey.
Lastly, Reubyn brings in the slide-outs that extend the living area, returning the space to how it was before they arrived.
All loose items have been secured, and the only stuff left on the floor is Elis’s.
It’s all in a heap next to his half-empty backpack: his sleeping bag, toiletries, clothes.
In the couple of hours it’s taken them to pack everything up, most of the chat has been about where the hell he’s gone.
They’ve speculated about his mood, what he’s doing, when he’ll be back.
George, Miles and Reubyn are of the opinion that it’s nothing to worry about.
But the others – Jessie in particular – are becoming increasingly dramatic about it, as if Elis is a vulnerable child or pet that’s gone missing, instead of a grown man with a love of the outdoors.
Now, in a physical manifestation of that split, they sit, three to a bench; the girls on one side, boys on the other.
‘I think we should just get going,’ George says.
Faith, directly opposite, glares at him. ‘We’re obviously not going anywhere without him.’
‘Well, what does he expect? He knows we’re leaving today. If he wanted to come with us, he shouldn’t have gone AWOL.’
Faith doesn’t respond, but, even out of the corner of his eye, George can tell she’s giving him daggers.
‘We should go look for him,’ Jessie says.
George scoffs. ‘In this weather?’
‘We should at least check the trails and the bird hide.’
‘Oh, should we?’ George says, wide-eyed at Jessie. ‘And are you volunteering to do that?’
‘No, but I don’t think—’
‘Thought not,’ George says. ‘And I’m not going either. The bastard took a swing at me yesterday, so forgive me if I’m not in a rush to go out and find him.’
Jessie looks at Miles, asking a question with a hopeful raise of her eyebrows.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not doing it. My clothes still haven’t dried out since the last time I went out looking for him.’
‘But he’s your friend.’
‘And he’s a big boy. If Elis wants to go walkabout, then that’s his choice. He doesn’t need me.’
Faith stands. ‘I’ll go.’
Jessie takes hold of her wrist. ‘Not on your own. It’s not safe.’
The girls look at Reubyn, who initially avoids their eye contact. It appears he’s not in a hurry to search for Elis, either.
‘Look, there’s no rush,’ Reubyn says, eventually. ‘The weather’s still horrendous, and I wouldn’t mind leaving it for a bit before we leave, anyway, to see if the wind backs off a—’
‘Reubyn,’ Polly snaps. ‘Don’t you dare start this again.’
‘Start what?’
‘All that crap about waiting for the weather to change. Let’s get one thing very, very clear. We’re not staying another night.’
Reubyn shows his palms. ‘I know. I know.’
‘I don’t care if this forest gets hit by a category five hurricane, we’re leaving today. Understood?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ Reubyn says.
The others stare at him, as if waiting for Reubyn to pledge a higher level of commitment. George feels a rare smidge of sympathy for him. What’s he supposed to say? Even Reubyn wouldn’t stoop to using the phrase ‘one hundred and ten per cent’ – only a football enthusiast would do that.
‘Look,’ Reubyn says eventually, gesticulating, as if handling an invisible object. ‘His boots and coat are gone. He’s obviously gone for a hike. We’ll just have to wait until he returns. And if he’s still not back in a few hours, then, at that point, obviously we’ll have a decision to make.’
There are a few sighs. An eye-roll from Jessie. They are sure signs an agreement, albeit a reluctant one, has been reached. It seems they’ll remain in the forest for a few hours yet.
George slumps back into the corner of the bench and closes his eyes. Bloody Elis. Eventually, everyone is going to head out and look for him – George can sense it. And, eventually, they’ll find him. George would rather they didn’t.
The afternoon passes with card games – mostly rummy – being glumly contested on the living-room table.
Not everyone is partaking; Polly has been engrossed in her novel, and Reubyn is using the remaining battery life on his laptop to edit.
In the time they’ve killed, the weather hasn’t improved.
But they really need to get going. The sandwiches Jessie made are long gone, and there’s not much in the way of food.
Most of it requires cooking or will soon perish without refrigeration. In short, Elis’s time is nearly up.
After some negotiating, they decided the cut-off – the time at which they would cease waiting for Elis – was to be five o’clock.
That way there would still be a few hours of daylight left, and they wouldn’t have to drive out of the forest in the dark.
Now, it’s gone four-thirty, and the mood is getting antsy.
They’re between games, and Faith has been riffling the cards with a metrical precision.
The steady thrum under her thumbs is stark against the chaotic weather outside.
Such skilful shuffling would be pleasing to watch if done by a croupier, but George finds it mildly irritating – that she can shuffle like that, and he can’t.
Surely those cards are good and shuffled by now. This has become performative.
As if reading his thoughts, Faith places the deck on the table. ‘All right, this has gone on long enough. It’s obvious he’s not coming back.’ She folds her arms, waiting for a response.