5
As she did the night before, she waited until he was
just about to unlock his door.
“Mr.
Hallaron?”
It
made him jump and spin, and lurch to the right. There was a splash of metal,
his keys falling from his grasp and smashing onto the tiles.
“Christ,
Jane. You scared me.”
She
was lounging in the swing seat, perched like a sentinel, watching the comings
and goings of Toantown; not that there was much to watch. She had spied Jim
Hallaron’s listing silhouette from way down the street… had heard his off key
brogue Irish singing from even farther afield. It was a remarkable thing,
Hallaron’s Irish tongue—you’d only ever guess that he was from Irish stock when
he was drunk.
“Had
a good night?” Jane goaded.
“A
hard day’s night,” Hallaron conceded. He proceeded a couple of steps towards
Jane, a hand cupped over his eyes to ward off the worst of the burning light
bulbs he had installed after Tuesday’s attack. “Shouldn’t you be in bed for
school tomorrow? If I was teaching…” he
glanced at his watch, “…I’d be abed by now.”
“I
was waiting for you, actually.”
“For
me? I can’t say I’m flattered. Does your
mother know you’re up?”
“Don’t
be silly! My mother went to bed hours ago.”
She
saw Jim nod his head sagely, as if the answer should have been more than
obvious.
“We’ve
been told the news Mr. Hallaron.”
“Oh,
aye. The news.” The accent rang
crystalline through the cold air. Jane found it hard to believe Jim had lived
in Australia for twenty-four years. He seemed deep in thought for a few
seconds, his eyes distant. Then, he looked up at Jane. “What nonsense did they
tell you lot?”
“Not
much. Lachlan and Benny were suspended. You’ve been… how did he put it… given
respite until the situation is sorted out.”
“Were
those Mr. Baker’s words?”
Jane
nodded.
A
thin whistle escaped from Jim’s lips. He looked again as if he were
contemplating something of earth moving proportions, an un-gloved hand, unusual
for Jim Hallaron, speculatively stroking the bottom of his jaw. It was a pose
Jane had seen countless times in class: the thinking pose, the reflective pose.
On most other occasions, this process would move Jane. Only tonight, given the
ugly flaws on Jim’s face—flaws that Jane noticed were healing quite well, thank
you very much—that very process seemed to be a parody of itself.
“That
man,” Jim stated, appearing to choose his words carefully. “Is a twat.”
The
word completed the parody. That ugly, four letter word, uttered from a man
whose English, though sometimes tainted with that Celtic lilt, was better than
most. That four letter word was a fair representation of the inner turmoil that
was no doubt swirling about Jim’s poor head. But for Jane, it was the sound of
the wind dying in her sails.
For
some time, there passed between them a deathly silence, borne on the frozen
wind and that last callous statement. Jane was watching Jim, just as Jim
watched the ground. Whatever hope Jane had for her mentor was dissolving at a
rate she could hardly bear to stomach.
“What
are you going to do?” she asked, her voice piercing the envelope of silence.
Jim’s
shrug was barely noticeable beneath his bulky jacket. “I haven’t given anything
much thought of late.” He glanced up at
her for the briefest of seconds, before lowering his gaze once more, finding
his boots more interesting.
“You’re
going to fight this aren’t you?”
“To
the best of my ability, Jane,” he told her, though the flat cadence of his
voice suggested otherwise.
She
regarded him closely then, trying to compare the messages his body language
sent with those of his words. That they didn’t coincide was really no big
surprise to her. It hurt, sure, but wasn’t unexpected.
“You
can’t let them win,” she said.
“Let
who win? Lachlan and Benny?”
“Well...
them... and Mr. Baker...”
“They
won’t win,” Jim said.
“How
can you be so sure?”
There
was another short pause, broken by a long drawn out sigh. “I can’t,” Jim
admitted. “I just can’t.”
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