After all the recent ducking and hiding, it surprises me when the doorbell rings and Harris is right there.
‘What’s going on?’ I pull him inside the cool hallway. ‘You look horrible.’
He’s sweating, pale-faced, with his hoodie up. His eyes look haunted. ‘I’ve just been at…’
He stops when Nani comes into the hall, hot on my heels. ‘Who is this? Amita, who is this strange boy in our house?’
‘He’s not a strange boy,’ I say firmly in English. Best to normalise it, speak with confidence. ‘Nani-ji, this is Harris. I know him from Ouyen. Harris, this is my grandmother, Amarjot Kaur.’
I demonstrate a namaste, and Harris copies me awkwardly, bobs his head. ‘Uh, hi.’
I turn to Nani. ‘Harris is living in Mildura now, and he was visiting a friend nearby but he started feeling sick on his way home. I told him to stop here until he felt better.’
‘Ohh, yes, the heat,’ Nani says, nodding. ‘The heat can make you see spots.’
‘Yeah.’ Harris wipes his hoodie sleeve across his eyes. God, he looks like he’s seeing ghosts as well as spots. ‘Yeah, it’s probably the heat.’
Nani nods some more then pulls on my arm. She yanks me down until my ear is close to her face. ‘He looks like a sadhu!’ she hisses, as if Harris isn’t standing two feet away and can’t hear every word she’s saying.
‘Nani!’ I make a shushing calming motion. ‘He’snota sadhu, okay? He’s just…he hasn’t had a bath for a while. But that’s not his fault.’
‘Can we discuss my personal hygiene standards later?’ Harris grimaces. ‘The car’s still parked right out front.’
‘Okay, okay…’ I feel like I’m being split in two. ‘Gimme your keys, I’ll sort out the car. Nani, why don’t you give Harris a drink or something, before he falls over. Just give me a sec.’
Snatching the keys Harris offers and extricating myself from Nani’s grip, I head outside. Harris’s car is parked sideways on the kerb, the driver’s seat still warm from him. I twist the key, the car coughs to life, lurches gingerly up off the bitumen and into the driveway. I ease it all the way up, into the carport.
The rear of the car is still obvious because of the racing stripes. I angst about what to do for a second until I see a folded pile of old bed sheets Hansa has stacked on a plastic storage box near the outhouse. One of the sheets covers the backside of the car nicely. It doesn’t look too weird, just someone who’s protected their car’s paintwork from the sun.
I run back inside, worrying about how Harris and Nani are getting on. Talk about worlds colliding.
They’re in the kitchen, of course. Nani is perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island and Harris is sitting beside her. Nani looks tiny next to him, like a nut-brown doll. Harris is sipping from a glass of mango cup stuffed with ice cubes, a sprig of mint floating on top.
Nani’s eyes are narrowed but she lifts her head to look at me. ‘He likes the mango cup.’ As if this is some sort of vindication of Harris’s character.
‘Everyone likes your mango cup, Nani.’ I smile at her. If I seem relaxed she’ll relax too. ‘I’ve sorted out the car.’
‘Thanks.’ Harris is getting some colour back, but his hand on the glass still trembles. ‘I’m sorry to call you, to come here –’
‘You must come,’ Nani says. ‘You cannot drive when you are sick. That is how accidents happen.’
Harris looks at her, presses his lips. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Thank you for the drink.’
Nani beams. ‘Mint settles the stomach.’
‘Harris, would you like to use the bathroom to wash your face?’ I suggest. ‘I can show you the way.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ He nods and rises, follows me down the hallway. I hear Nani bustling to refill his glass in his absence.
I push him in the door of the bathroom. ‘What the hell happened?’
He rubs the heel of his hand across his eyes. ‘I was in Tulane Road, picking up some cash for Leon. And samples – there were supposed to be samples of the new gear. And I got up the steps, and they were…’ He stops, steadies himself at the bathroom sink. When he speaks again, his voice is a harsh whisper. ‘They were alldead, Amie. Four people in the house, and they were all…’
My whole body chills. Harris leans over the sink like he’s going to be sick. But he’s just catching his breath before running the cold tap, full bore.
‘Some kind of execution.’ He plunges his hands under the water. ‘Gunshot wounds. Hardly any struggle, I think. Must’ve been someone they knew, or maybe they got them late at night.’
‘Jesus.’
