12. DASHED PLANS
"How dare you speak about my son that way," said Mum quietly. "I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted them to this evening, but it had nothing to do with Patrick."
"Be quiet, woman," snarled Mr Fisk, his bald head glistening with sweat under the lights. "You are all the same, leading a man on, then kicking him to the curb once he's paid for dinner. Come on Jokkum. Let's go."
"You stay right where you are, Jokkum," said Mum, crossing the room to stand in front of the chairs, half way between Joke and Mr Fisk. "Jokkum, your dad's had a little too much drink to drive," said Mum. "We nearly crashed into a tree stump on the way home. I think it's best if you stay over tonight."
"I quite agree," snapped Aunt Bea curtly, entering the room. She was still dressed in her day clothes. "This display is unseemly, Balder. And I will not stand for such rudeness in my house."
"Your mother's house, you mean," sneered Mr Fisk, slurring his words into each other. "You've never had to work a day in your life, and yet you stand here judging me. A working man."
"Boys," said Aunt Bea, pointing to the nearly finished clay model Minmi. "Clean up this mess at once, then go up to Paddy's room. Balder," she continued. "I suggest you take a seat and calm down while I call you a taxi. You must be over-tired from your efforts at the school."
No-one moved for what seemed like a full minute. Mum held her ground, staring impassively at Mr Fisk. The bald, squat man struggled to hold her gaze. His face was as red as a fire-engine and his breath was laboured, like he'd just run a four minute mile. He raised his arms, revealing large patches of sweat at the armpits, right through his jacket.
"Come on Joke," I half-whispered, folding up the butchers paper and resting the model on the bare floorboards next to the heating vents under the window. "Let's wash up the left-over clay and then go to bed." I didn't like the wild look on Mr Fisk's face one bit, and my instincts told me there was a lot more going on than I understood. This was no place for Joke and me.
"Stay put, you little monster!" hissed Mr Fisk. "This is all your fault, poisoning your mother against me. Spreading stories about me," he said. "Jokkum, go get your things. He's no friend - remember how stood by while that rich brat stuck you like a pig!"
I flinched. He was right. Mum started to say something back to Mr Fisk when Joke walked around the green armchair, ducked under Mum's hand, and beat her to it.
"Dad," he said, joining Mr Fisk at the reading room doorway. "Let's go home." He reached up and hugged his dad, wrapping his short arms around the bald man's wide waist.
"Jokkum," started Mr Fisk. "Bridget, I didn't mean -" Then the handyman burst into tears.
I didn't know where to look. Aunt Bea clicked her tongue like a judgmental kangaroo. Apart from when Dad broke his arm trying to teach me to play football when I was five, I hadn't seen a grown man cry before. Mr Fisk looked like a baby with his eyes squashed shut, his flushed bald palate and his tear stained cheeks.
"Balder," said Mum, in the same dulcet voice she used to soothe me when I was upset. "You've had a really long day. First with the pest problems at the school. Then at the movies, when the projector chewed up the film. Then the mix up at the restaurant."
"I booked it," said Mr Fisk petulantly. "The best table, yesterday, you have to believe me!"
"I do, Balder. I told you before that I do. But you didn't need to be so rude to the waitress. It wasn't her fault the chef had called in sick. And when they ran out of lobster, you didn't have to storm out. And you certainly didn't need to take your frustrations out on Beatrice and Paddy."
"Or Bridget," snapped Aunt Bea. "You were meant to give my sister a relaxing night out, but you couldn't have made things more stressful. I hope you're proud of yourself."
"Shhh, Beatrice," chided Mum. "You're not helping. We're all willing to forget about this whole thing and to pretend it never happened. But only if you let us call you a taxi right now. We'll look after Jokkum tonight. You need to sleep it off."
For a moment, it looked as if Mum's words had done the trick. Mr Fisk dried his eyes on his tie, took a deep breath, and looked ready to apologise. I exhaled - I hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath. Joke let go of his father's legs, and turned around to face me. We exchanged reassuring glances, thinking we had averted near disaster.
Then Aunt Bea cut in. "Speak for yourself, Bridget," she said. "I for one am not ready to forgive, much less to forget this outrage. Balder: you are a disgrace. Babbling and blubbering like a town drunk, especially in front of the boys. I've a good mind to tell the Council about it tomorrow. People have a right to know what type of man they let into their houses."
"Beatrice," cried Mum. "That is enough!"
"Don't tell me what to do," snapped Aunt Bea. "Balder needs to face some home truths. We've put up with his snivelling and gossiping for long enough. No wonder Vivian took off."
"Be quiet, Bea!" commanded Mum. "You are completely out of line!"
I was shocked. Mum rarely spoke harshly to my Aunt. And Aunt Bea herself had been the one to warn us never to speak about Joke's mum, Vivian. Joke's mum had never come back to Quakehaven, even for the divorce. She'd never once even called her son.
"Stop it, Mrs Logston," shouted Joke at my Aunt. He was trembling, and tears fell from both eyes down his pale cheeks, like tiny paperweights filled with water. "Leave us alone."
"Sorry to air your family's dirty laundry in front of you, boy," said Aunt Bea. "But your father needs to face facts and deal with his problems. Not blame women and children. Balder: I've got a Council meeting with Barker tomorrow to discuss the maintenance contract for DinoQuake. I hear you are one of the frontrunners. In my humble view, Mr Barker should think twice before he considers such an unreliable character for such a big job."
Mr Fisk's face blanched. He stepped back from Joke, into the door of the hallway, pulled off his stained brown jacket and threw it across the room onto the chair in front of me. Then, without further warning, he charged at Aunt Bea.
Aunt Bea, grunted with surprise and rocked back on her heels. I didn't have time to think. I didn't think. I dropped to my knees, grabbed one of Uncle Gerry's old textbooks and pitched it over the chair at Mr Fisk. I missed and threw another big tome, this one hard at his body.
Aunt Bea ran out onto the porch. Mr Fisk ran straight at her, hunched over like a goblin. The book spun wildly through the air, and clipped Mr Fisk in the side of his head - just above his right eye, near his temple. He went down like a sack of potatoes, falling between the chairs. Aunt Bea pulled the porch doors shut behind her. I heard her bolt the lock from the outside.
"Paddy!" shouted Mum, rushing over to the back of the armchair. "Come to me." She looked alert, but not frightened.
I ran around the far side of the chair to Mum. Joke darted over to his fallen father. Mr Fisk, cursing, pushed himself up clumsily onto his knees. Then he palmed Joke away and roared. The plastic dust jacket of the book had torn the skin above his right eye, and blood streamed down his face.
"Get out, Balder," said Mum holding her ground. "Get out now, or I'll call the police." She grabbed my arm and yanked me behind her. "Paddy was just trying to protect his Aunt. He didn't mean to hurt you."
I cursed silently. I'd left Platykuk up in my room. There was no way I could fight Mr Fisk - he was too big, and angry. My eyes fell on Minmi, lying on the floorboards just in front of Joke's left shoe. Joke had almost tripped over it when Mr Fisk had shoved him away. Like a hawk tracing a nervous field mouse's escape route, Mr Fisk followed my line of sight. Unexpectedly, he started to laugh.
"I wasn't going to hit her, Bridget, I swear," he rasped. "I just wanted to give her a fright. And I'm not going to touch your son, either, though he could do with a clip around the ears from a man for once."
"Let me know when you find one," said Mum icily. "No-one touches my son. Get out before Beatrice calls the police. She went too far and will apologise for what she said. I'll see to it. But that's no excu
se to terrorise children."
"Fine," spat Mr Fisk. "Whatever. I just need my keys," he said, bending to retrieve his jacket from my armchair.
"Leave them!" ordered Mum. "You're not driving drunk. You can pick up your things tomorrow when you're sober and ready to apologise. A long walk will do you good. Just leave!"
"Yes, ma'am," Mr Fisk said, sarcastically. Then he walked towards his son, reached down, and grabbed something. Automatically, I stepped forward and gripped Mum around the waist.
Joke gasped.
Said Mr Fisk: "So this is the big assignment piece Joke's been babbling about." He spun around. He was cupping Minmi in his dirt-stained hands. "The sprog thinks this going to get him the big scholarship. To the fancy school that his dog of a father can't afford."
"Dad," cried Joke. "You're not a dog. You've taken good care of me since mum left."
Mr Fisk smiled. "Look how much work the little devils have put into it," he said, thumbing the back and tail of the model. Look at all the amazing detail on the spines."
"Plates," said Joke. "Armour plates. We're making a dinosaur bridge." While Joke talked, I examined the model. Was it just a trick of light, or had the clay somehow reddened? It looked like it had been baked bone dry, but it had only been next to the heater for a few minutes.
"Jokkum, why don't you come over here with Paddy and me?" beckoned Mum, softly.
"Do what the lady says,” snarled Mr Fisk. “Get used to women telling you what to do,". Mr Fisk squeezed Minmi. Although Mr Fisk was treating the model roughly, he was making no impression.
"Put it down, Mr Fisk," said Mum.
"Your wish is my command, Ms Lee," sang Mr Fisk in a deep baritone. "Or are widows still missus." Mum balked.
"I've burned so many bridges tonight,” hummed Mr Fisk, “what's one more?" He lifted Minmi above his head and hurled it down onto the black wooden strip that skirted the floor of the reading room. On impact, Minmi detonated into a thousand shards.
Joke screamed and ran over to Mum. Incensed, I lunged at Mr Fisk. Or at least I tried to. Mr Fisk leered at me, licking the blood that had streamed from his eyebrow and onto his lips. I tried to propel myself forward. Mr Fisk's eyes rolled back in his head as he whispered something inaudible and quick. The lights flickered, and an invisible force buffeted me, throwing me backwards, onto my bum.
Mum had been distracted by Joke's cry. But she must have noticed the lights flicker and heard my fall. With one arm around Joke, she ran forward and grabbed me under the shoulders, hauling me onto my feet. "Did you hurt yourself?" asked Mum.
"No," I said, glaring at Mr Fisk. "I didn't hurt myself." I hadn't fallen. I'd been pushed.
I scanned the devastated rubble that had once been Minmi. A pebble of clay had flicked up off the curtains and onto the bald man's arm, nestled in a thatched-nest of arm hair. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the small object. I thought of Mr Seth, lava flows, then the centres of stars.
"Aaagh!" screamed Mr Fisk. I opened my eyes, and saw him brush the pebble off his arm onto the floor, where it glowed like an ember. The smell of burning hair wafted through the room. Mr Fisk's stared at me, agog.
Mr Fisk recovered and performed a mock-ceremonial bow. It would have been a clever exit, but for a flash of yellow and black that darted through the door and struck Mr Fisk's glistening pate at high velocity. Mr Fisk screamed and swatted the thing away. The yellow and black blur settled on the top of a bookcase and resolved into Katy.
Mr Fisk clamped a hand to his bleeding head. Without so much as a glance at his son, the handyman stormed out of the room and down the hall, slamming the front door behind him.
For a while, Mum and I stood motionless. Then Katy flew out of the room and Joke started to whimper. Mum squatted down in her beautiful green gown and soothed Joke.
Mum embraced Joke and tried to calm him down. "Everything's OK; everything's OK, she chanted into his ear like a mantra. But, of course, everything was far from OK. I sat down to lend Mum a hand and recognised the glazed expression on Joke's face. A Passenger stared back at me. Joke's dreams of a scholarship were in smithereens, like our clay bridge. And he didn't know the worst of it. Joke's father was a monster.
I couldn't stomach telling Joke the truth. But I knew what had to be done; and what I had to do.