Running Man

  Joseph kept his head bowed and concentrated on arranging his pencils and preparing a clean page in his sketchpad. His hands felt large and clumsy and incapable of even the simplest tasks. He fumbled with his pencils, balanced the sketchpad awkwardly on his knees and accidentally tore the tissue paper that separated the pages. All the time he sensed dark, unfeeling eyes coldly studying his nervousness.

  When Joseph eventually selected a pencil and sharpened it, there was nothing left to do but draw. However, in order to do that, he knew he would have to look into the face of the man sitting only a metre away. Suddenly he felt engulfed with the same panic that swept over him when he had to perform an oral at school. No matter how hard he tried, he could never lift his head to confront that fearful wall of faces.

  But here there was no escape. He had come to draw Tom Leyton and there was no way he could do that without looking at him. With his hand poised over the empty page Joseph forced himself to raise his eyes. When he did, he discovered no dark stare confronting him. Tom Leyton had his head tilted up as if he knew that Joseph needed to see his face, yet his eyes remained focused on the carpet. He sat rigidly and self-consciously in the lounge chair. His only movement was an occasional hand that flew to his beard, fingered it lightly and dropped to his lap. Although he knew the man before him was probably somewhere in his fifties, at that moment he reminded Joseph of a young boy – someone like himself, feeling uncertain and awkward and hoping that no one would notice.

  For the first time Joseph had the opportunity to really observe Tom Leyton. After all the wild rumours he had heard about disfigurement and deformity, it was quite a shock to see that Tom Leyton’s face was strong and engaging, although it invited no communication. It might even have been a handsome face once, and perhaps still was, but it looked as if it had seen too much and didn’t care to see any more. Joseph looked more closely at his subject. Tom Leyton’s hair was long and fell in sandy waves over his ears. A full beard fanned out in streaks of grey below his mouth but elsewhere showed patches of reddy-brown, like tea stains. Slight bags formed small semi-circles of flesh below the eyes, making them seem smaller and narrower than his sister’s, and a tinge of red was visible in his complexion.

  Joseph was lost in his observations when Tom Leyton unexpectedly glanced up. For a second the man and the boy locked eyes before they both hurriedly looked down, Tom Leyton to his old spot on the faded carpet and Joseph to his sketchpad, where his pencil scratched haphazardly on the paper.

  So Joseph began his drawing of Tom Leyton, but his thoughts never strayed far from that first brief contact. As he peered into the dark caves of Tom Leyton’s eyes, a flash of emotion had blazed momentarily before coldness and shadow swamped it. If it had been a fire of hatred or anger or even some simmering unnamed evil that he had seen, at least he would have been better prepared. But it was something very different. Tom Leyton’s eyes had shown fear, and Joseph, fidgeting nervously before him, realised with amazement that he was the cause.

  The remainder of that first session of sketching passed without incident. It was mainly sounds that Joseph would later recall – the soft scraping of his pencil on the stiff white paper, the sloshing of water in Caroline’s steam iron and the occasional muffled sound of uneasy movement from the man before him.

  From time to time Caroline would ask an innocuous question, but Joseph could manage to put together only a few stumbling words before the room would sink back into deadening silence. At no time did Tom Leyton speak, nor did he react in any way to the smattering of conversation that struggled to survive that afternoon. Through it all Joseph kept drawing, not out of interest or passion, but merely for something to do that would make the time pass more easily and bring the moment of departure more quickly.

  After around an hour Joseph had made four rough sketches of Tom Leyton and was not keen to begin a fifth. The man was a difficult subject, for he stayed in one position, and Joseph had no intention of asking him to move. His averted eyes also made it hard to capture any personality, and so Joseph just tried to get the shape and the structure of the face as well as he could. But even this resulted in only a half-hearted effort, since his main concern was simply drawing enough to justify his leaving.

  Hoping to make it obvious to Caroline that it was time to go, Joseph began shuffling through the different sketches, pausing only to make minor changes here and there.

  Finally she asked cheerfully, ‘All finished?’

  Joseph nodded.

  ‘Mind if I have a look?’

  Caroline moved into the room and looked over Joseph’s shoulder at each of the rough pencil sketches. ‘Oh, very good. That’s great, Joseph. Well done.’

  But Joseph knew the drawings weren’t particularly good, and Caroline’s words sounded hollow and tainted with disappointment.

  ‘They’re just rough. Just to get an idea.’

  ‘Yes I know, but I think you’ve caught the likeness there. What do you think, Tom?’ And saying that, she picked up one of the sketches and held it out to her brother.

  For a terrible moment Tom Leyton remained still, and the page hung in the air like a threat. Then he raised his eyes slowly and stared at the crude portrait as if searching for some hidden meaning.

  ‘We’ve got a very talented young artist here.’

  Her brother’s eyes moved rapidly over the page, but he gave no indication of responding to Caroline’s claim.

  She let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘It really does look like you, don’t you think?’

  Tom Leyton hesitated, as if the question overwhelmed him. His reply, when it finally came, was brief and without emotion. ‘I don’t know.’

  It was the first time Joseph had heard Tom Leyton’s voice, and it lingered in the room like the deep rumble of shifting rock.

  ‘Well, I can see it even if you can’t,’ Caroline said triumphantly before turning away from her brother and addressing Joseph cheerfully. ‘Now, have you got all your equipment? We’d better not keep you too long. Mum might get worried.’

  Relieved at last to have something to do, Joseph quickly gathered his things together and began to feel a lightness come back to his body.

  ‘Oh, before I forget, I’ve got something for you to give to your mother if you don’t mind.’

  Caroline moved into the room where she had been ironing. Joseph followed and waited at the archway, glad at last to break free from his close encounter with Tom Leyton.

  ‘It’s just a dress pattern I borrowed some time ago. I’ve finished with it now, so thank your mum for me. Tell her it turned out well and I’ll model it for her sometime.’ She giggled slightly and Joseph couldn’t help but smile at her.

  When he turned back to the lounge room, the chair where Tom Leyton had been sitting was empty and he was nowhere to be seen. Joseph could tell that Caroline was embarrassed by her brother’s abrupt departure, but before she could offer some kind of explanation, a telephone rang from the front of the house.

  ‘Oh. I’d better get that. I’ve been expecting a call. Thank you so much for coming. I can’t tell you how much it means to me – to both of us,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I hope it wasn’t too daunting for you?’ The telephone continued to call impatiently. Caroline smiled helplessly. ‘Do you mind letting yourself out?’

  Joseph shook his head and Caroline moved down the corridor, but before she disappeared into a side room she stopped and said gently, ‘Joseph? Whatever you decide is fine, OK?’

  As he headed down the hallway towards the back steps, Joseph saw that the door to Tom Leyton’s room was wide open. When he drew level he slowed and glanced inside. Heavy curtains covered the windows and only a soft light glowed from the far end of the room. Joseph stopped in the hallway. When his eyes adjusted, he realised that he was looking at a silhouette of Tom Leyton’s back. He was sitting at a desk hunched over something that he was examining closely under the lamplight.

  There wasn’t much else to see, since most of the room was in shadow, and so Jo
seph took a step towards the back door. The shift in his weight, however, was accompanied by a barely audible moan from the floorboards. Joseph froze.

  At the far end of Tom Leyton’s room, his dark, bat-like shape swung around sharply.

  Although Joseph managed to stop himself from gasping in fright, he could not stop the babble of words that rushed from his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t … I didn’t mean … I was just leaving. I didn’t know anyone was there. Sorry …’

  No reply came from within the room. The light behind Tom Leyton shimmered around the outline of his head and shone through the fringes of his hair but left his face in shadow. Joseph had no idea what that face might be revealing. Only Tom Leyton’s breathing seeped through the silence.

  Looking back on it, Joseph realised that this was the moment when he could have walked out of Tom Leyton’s life for good. Instead it was the moment that started a chain of events that would end in St Jude’s Church with a pale coffin filled with death and secrets and his mother dressed in black beside him.

  Joseph made to turn and leave when he noticed that Tom Leyton had something in his hands, the same object that he had been examining under the light. He could see now that it was a cardboard shoebox, the lid of which was still on the desk. Joseph could just make out the cluster of random holes that were punched in it. A fleeting image of Tom Leyton by the mulberry tree flashed through his mind.

  ‘Are they silkworms? In the box?’

  Why he asked the question he couldn’t say. The chance that it would wither and die in the silence was very real. He waited with increasing unease until he felt certain that there would be no reply. Yet there was something beyond the shadows and silence of which Joseph was unaware. A link, like a fragile thread, was floating between man and boy, binding them with its delicate strength.

  Tom Leyton swivelled back around in his chair and placed the cardboard box on the desk. He pulled the lamp across so that its beam fell into the box. Then he edged his chair to the left and turned his head partly towards Joseph. The silent invitation was clear, and for the first time Joseph stepped into Tom Leyton’s room. He moved slowly forward with his eyes set on the pool of light that filled the box and spilled on to the desk.

  By the time he was standing beside Tom Leyton, Joseph thought that he was the victim of a bizarre joke, for the box appeared to be empty. Then he saw that dotting the sides and bottom of the box were hundreds of tiny eggs. Joseph leant closer. He looked carefully at the eggs. They were dark and oval-shaped rather than round, and they looked flattened as if they had been pressed firmly on to the cardboard surface.

  ‘Will they hatch? Are they still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’ This time there was no hesitation in Tom Leyton’s reply.

  ‘They look dead,’ Joseph said, almost to himself. ‘How long have you had them?’

  ‘Since last year.’

  Joseph stared in disbelief at the small lifeless forms. The closeness of Tom Leyton unnerved him, but he ventured one more question. ‘When do you think they will hatch?’

  ‘Soon … today,’ Tom Leyton replied flatly.

  Joseph’s apprehension grew. It felt as if the walls of the room were closing in from all sides and he was being drawn into the dead space of the shoebox. The man, unmoving and silent, suddenly felt close and menacing. The longer the silence continued the more Joseph felt that he was being bound to the spot, and a claustrophobic panic rose within him. He knew that he had to leave. He opened his mouth to speak, but a hoarse whisper came first from the mouth of Tom Leyton. ‘Don’t come back.’

  Joseph’s head was reeling. He didn’t understand the words he’d heard. He wasn’t even sure if he’d heard anything at all.

  ‘What? I’m sorry I …’

  ‘Don’t come back.’

  A confusion of emotions swirled inside Joseph. He had wanted nothing more than to escape the presence of Tom Leyton, but for some reason the words had stung him like a slap in the face. Thoughts of his father on the day he left for Bougainville rushed at him and he fought hard to drive them away. Angry tears threatened to cloud his eyes.

  Tom Leyton continued. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’ He paused again as if the effort to speak took all his energy and concentration. ‘I know my sister can be … very persuasive.’

  For the first time Tom Leyton spoke in more than just a throaty whisper. As the full, deep tone of his voice came through, Joseph was surprised by its warmth and richness. He turned to look at him, but his face was impassive, his eyes trained on the contents of the cardboard box.

  ‘Do you really think they will come out today?’

  Tom Leyton looked up at Joseph. The light from the desk caught one side of his face, but cast the other side in darkness.

  ‘Yes.’

  Joseph tried to read the man’s face, but once again was left confused and uncertain.

  Td better go …’

  ‘Could you leave one of the drawings?’ Tom Leyton cut in. His voice was steady and controlled, but a sense of urgency strained below the surface.

  The request was unexpected. Joseph was almost surprised to see that he still had his drawing pad and pencils in his hands. Quickly he selected the best of his efforts and handed it to Tom Leyton.

  ‘It’s not that good,’ he said apologetically as Tom Leyton angled the portrait into the light.

  ‘It’s just rough,’ Joseph added, but Tom Leyton seemed lost in a dream as his eyes wandered over the page before him.

  Joseph waited, but when it seemed unlikely that the man was going to speak again, he moved to the doorway.

  From behind him a voice whispered hoarsely, ‘Thank you.’

  Joseph looked out to where the bright sunshine from the back door spilled into the hall. Part of him longed to run into it and escape down the back stairs to the familiar and comfortable world outside. But part of him, too, was drawn towards the shadowy figure of Tom Leyton.

  Joseph placed his hand on the door frame and spoke without turning around. ‘If you want,’ he said, the words searching like tentative fingers in the dark, ‘I could pick some mulberry leaves and bring them with me … next time … if the eggs have hatched.’

  The reply was strange and halting. ‘Yes … you could … do that.’

  Joseph clambered down the old wooden steps two at a time and crossed the lawn, past the crumbling incinerator and the scraggly mulberry tree to the fence. Once there, he gently dropped his sketch pad into his own yard, placed both hands on the railing, and hoisted himself up and over. He paused and looked back to the curtained windows of Tom Leyton’s room.

  Already doubts had begun to roll in like fog. Why had he said anything to Tom Leyton about ‘next time’? Why did he even think Tom Leyton wanted him to come back? And why did he mention bringing mulberry leaves when for all he knew Tom Leyton was a madman who had kept those lifeless eggs for years, blindly believing every day that they would hatch?

  As Joseph arranged the rough sketches of Tom Leyton on his desk, he recalled his mother’s encouraging remarks when she saw them, but also the uncertainty that crept into her eyes as she took in the scruffy hair and beard and the closed, expressionless face. He knew when he returned home that his mother would be eager to hear every detail of the afternoon, but all he could find to say was that it was OK, and that Tom Leyton didn’t say much. More than that he was unsure of himself.

  He looked at the pencil images before him for some answers but found none. Then he heard footsteps coming up the back stairs and a voice saying, ‘Just thought I’d pop in …’

  Joseph rolled his eyes and shook his head. He guessed Mrs Mossop had been watching from across the street and waiting for his return. Now she had scurried over to have her suspicions confirmed – that Tom Leyton was a slobbering evil monster and Joseph had barely escaped from his slimy clutches. Joseph smiled to himself when he thought how disappointed she would be. But what did he really know about the man? He examined the sketches again, but they were little more than lines
on a page – shapes without substance. He knew that there was more to Tom Leyton. He had caught glimpses of it – the flash of fear in his eye, his strong hands cradling the silkworm box, and the full rich voice that still came through in spite of his coldness.

  Caroline had claimed that there was a good likeness in the drawings, but even if every line were perfect – the precise length, angle, position, shape – would it be enough to add up to the real man?

  If Mrs Mossop were the greatest artist in the world, which Tom Leyton would she recreate – the real one or the one in her mind?

  It was just like those pictures Joseph’s old art teacher, Mr De Groot, had shown of the first paintings by European settlers in Australia. The landscapes looked like English countryside and kangaroos looked like giant rabbits. Did they paint what they saw or what they thought they saw, or perhaps what they wanted to see?

  This was a favourite subject of Mr De Groot. ‘In order to paint what you see, you must truly see what you paint!’ he would exclaim, shaking one finger in the air and looking wildly around the class with his wiry eyebrows raised like exclamation marks and his head nodding in affirmation.

  ‘Who really paints the tree? The artist who has only seen the tree or the artist who has sat beneath its shade, the one who has smelt its flowers, crushed its leaves, felt its sticky sap on his skin, climbed into its branches and scraped his shins on its bark?’

  Mr De Groot would pause, push out his bottom lip and lower his bushy eyebrows as if he were stumped by his own question. After enough time had passed to underline the importance of what he was about to say, he would continue passionately. ‘Now both artists might be very skilled at their craft; however, the first will paint what everyone sees … but the second … the second will paint what the artist alone can see. And only one,’ he would conclude triumphantly, ‘will truly paint the tree.’

  At the time Joseph wondered if this were really true. He remembered now how others in the class had challenged these ideas. Mr De Groot had countered by explaining how the great masters such as Leonardo and Michelangelo had studied detailed anatomy in order to draw and sculpt the human body. ‘In order to paint or carve the outside shape – the surface – of the human form, they had to know what lay beneath. They may have been outlining the curve of the back with their charcoal or chisel, but they were thinking and feeling and knowing the muscle and tendon and blood flow that gave it life and humanity!’