‘And these . . .’ We hear the sound of paper in her hands. ‘. . . these were done early this year and these were done just last week.’
Another long pause.
‘As you can see, Mr Bell . . . ummm . . . Robert . . . August appears obsessed with this particular scene. Now, somewhat of an issue has formed between August and his art teacher, Miss Prodger, because while Miss Prodger believes August is one of her most outstanding and committed students, he simply refuses to paint any other image but this one. Last month the students were asked to paint a still life, and August painted this scene. The month before that they were asked to paint a Surrealist image, and August painted this. Last week August was asked to paint an Australian landscape; August painted that same scene again.’
August stares straight up at the floorboards, unmoved.
Dad remains silent.
‘I would never normally betray the confidence of a student,’ she says. ‘I consider my office a sacred space for sharing and healing and educating. I sometimes call it the Vault and only myself and my students know the password to the Vault and the password is “Respect”.’
August rolls his eyes.
‘But when I feel the safety of individuals within our school community might be at risk, then I feel I must say something,’ she says.
‘If you think August is gonna hurt someone then you’re sniffin’ the wrong rabbit hole, I’m afraid,’ Dad says. ‘That boy don’t hurt no one who don’t deserve it. He doesn’t do anything on a whim. He doesn’t carry out a single action that he hasn’t first thought through a hundred times over.’
‘That’s interesting you say that,’ she says.
‘Say what?’ Dad replies.
‘A hundred times over,’ she says.
‘Well, he’s a deep thinker,’ Dad says.
Another long pause.
‘It’s not the other students I’m concerned about, Robert,’ she says. ‘I truly believe August – and those thoughts he keeps running over in that extraordinary mind of his – is of risk to no one but himself.’
A chair slides briefly across the wooden floor of the kitchen.
‘Do you recognise that scene?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, I know what he’s paintin’,’ Dad says.
‘Eli called it “the moon pool”,’ she says. ‘Have you ever heard him call it that, “the moon pool”?’
‘No,’ Dad says.
August looks at me. What did you tell her, Eli, you fuckin’ rat?
I whisper: ‘I had to give her somethin’. She was gonna kick me outta school.’
August looks at me. You told that crazy witch about the moon pool?
‘When Principal Gardner told me of the recent traumas in their lives I thought it was natural that the effects of these events would manifest themselves in the boys’ behaviours in some way,’ Mrs Birkbeck says above the floorboards. ‘I believe they are both suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘What, like shellshock or something?’ Dad asks. ‘You reckon they been in a war, Mrs Birkbeck? You reckon those boys just got back from the Somme, Mrs Birkbeck?’
Dad’s starting to lose his patience.
‘Well, of a kind,’ she says. ‘Not a war of bullets and bombs. But a war of words and memories and moments, just as damaging to a growing boy’s brain, one could say, as anything on the Western Front.’
‘You sayin’ they’re loopy?’ Dad asks.
‘I’m not saying that,’ she says.
‘Sounds like you’re sayin’ they’re nuts,’ he says.
‘What I’m saying is some of the things running through their heads are . . . unusual,’ she says.
‘What things?’
August looks at me. Why do you think I never told anyone but you, Eli?
‘Things that could potentially be harmful to both boys,’ Mrs Birkbeck says. ‘Things that I feel I am obligated to tell the Department of Child Safety.’
‘Child Safety?’ Dad echoes. The words are acid on his tongue.
August looks at me. You fucked it all up, Eli. See what you’ve done. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? You couldn’t be discreet.
‘I feel those two boys are planning something,’ Mrs Birkbeck says. ‘It feels like they’re heading towards some destination that maybe none of us will know about until it’s too late.’
‘Destination?’ Dad asks. ‘Please tell me where they’re going, Mrs Birkbeck? London, Paris, the Birdsville Races?’
‘I don’t mean a physical place, necessarily,’ she says. ‘I mean they’re heading to certain destinations in their minds that are not safe for teenaged boys to go to.’
Dad laughs.
‘You get all that from August’s little watercolours?’ Dad asks. ‘Have your boys ever engaged in any suicidal behaviours, Robert?’ Mrs Birkbeck asks.