Shutterspeed (10 page)

The reality of being in her room overwhelms him. This is more than he'd expected. The walls are pale blue and smell of fresh paint. The double bed is half-made. Clothes are slung over the bedend. CD cases are lying open beside the stereo. On a shelf, there's make-up, notepads, tampons, a Bendigo Bank statement and a half-used candle. Undies lie on the floor, and it's the sight of them that makes him stop and take a breath. He's not supposed to be here. He feels a rush of blood to the head.

From the back of his mind, comes the whisper of a word —
stalker
.

He walks down the stairs to the bright red kitchen with yellow flowers. Colours bounce from surfaces. He takes in everything: the fruit in the blue bowl (fuji apples, passionfruit, grapefruit); the magnets and notes on the fridge door; magazines on the sofa; a striped mug and bowl in the sink; Fairtrade coffee beside the plunger. He understands all of her.

As he goes to leave, his eyes snag on a diary lying open on
a table. He probably shouldn't look, but there's nothing to stop him. There's so much to know of her, at his fingertips.

Today is marked with pencilled reminders:
lawn bowls shoot 11am, press meeting 3pm, Jo and Sal for drinks at Sail and Anchor 6pm, BikeMania 8pm
. He picks it up and flicks through the previous two months, intrigued by the number of motorbike stores written in like appointments. She must be more obsessed than he is.

His mobile phone tells him it's almost six. Leroy pushes and purrs against his legs as Dustin considers his choices. There is no choice.

He locks the front door behind him, throws a leg over his bike and hammers it hard for Freo.

The sunset to his right — that meaningless pink-blue blur — is nothing but a backdrop. None of it matters to Dustin — not the beach, not Jasmine, not Nugget. Everything is peripheral. He passes Leighton Beach and the sun finally sets without fuss. He stretches to turn his front light on, but the battery's entirely dead. He rides on anyway.

There's a noisy throng of people outside the Old Shanghai foodcourt in Freo. He chains his bike to a pole, then breezes past the bouncer of the Sail and Anchor pub. She doesn't blink. Dustin looks at least eighteen and tonight he has the
confidence of a thirty-year-old. He scans the bar downstairs before bounding up the steps to the first floor. He walks outside, along the L-shaped balcony where couples converse across low-set tables. She's not there.

Terri Pavish is inside, eased into a red chair, flanked by two women on sofas. A white wine is in her right hand.

He orders a pale ale and taps out rhythms onto the bar as he waits for the change. When it arrives, the beer focuses him, giving him something to do. Relax, he tells himself. It's okay. She's not going anywhere.

He notices how much in this room could be photographed. Overhead lights hang low, setting shadows onto faces underneath. People are framed by red walls and red furniture. The short barman with a goatee chats up a girl ordering a soy cappuccino. Slouched to the side, two older guys fondle their pints of Guinness and don't talk. In a corner, a man holds a woman's hand as she plays with a ring on her little finger. He speaks; she looks at her shoes. Each image is simmering with stories.

Engrossed in her triangular world of conversation, Terri Pavish is the participant, not the spectator. It's her life that's unfolding right now, without the knowledge that she — Terri Pavish the photographer, the friend, the elusive motorcyclist — is the one being watched.

‘Tell me you're not getting another motorbike licence!' the brunette says. ‘I was so glad when you lost that thing.'

‘Get a Corolla,' says the blonde. ‘My Carol's been great.'

‘Motorbikes are so dangerous,' the brunette says. ‘I'd get a scooter maybe … maybe … but not a real motorbike like you used to have.'

‘It's okay, she's past that. You can try out my Carol if you like. It's so cheap on fuel.'

‘No, buses are fine for now, thanks,' Terri Pavish says.

And so they talk on — about the blonde's new shag and how they have sex in her Corolla because they're both still living with their parents.

But Dustin's not so easily fooled. He knows Terri Pavish is telling lies behind that wine glass and that half-smile. He finishes his pale ale while the mobile phone in his pocket vibrates against his leg. He feels it, but doesn't answer. He sets the pint glass on the bar and considers ordering another.

Terri Pavish looks at her watch and stretches her neck to both sides, as though stiff. She's keen to go; he knows it. He leaves first, pre-empting her next move.

Across the road from BikeMania, Dustin watches a couple of salesmen knock back cans of Solo. There are new bikes inside under fluorescent lights and another dozen second-hand ones
outside. He's been here before to buy magazines and pick up brochures. The store's not particularly good, and he wonders what would bring Terri Pavish here.

She arrives by foot and the salesmen greet her with a vague familiarity. Under a fluoro, she pulls a newspaper ad from her bag and asks questions. From Dustin's position on the street, he can see their expressions but only guess what they're saying. The men walk her to a bike close to the door and she runs her hand along the seat of a yellow Ducati like it's an old friend. She asks more questions and the men look at each other before answering.

The younger guy points to a used Suzuki GSX-R750 out the front but she shakes her head, her attention coming back to the Ducati. It's a beautiful machine: a Supersport 750, sleek, sharp nose, narrow frame and lightweight V-twin engine.

Terri Pavish swings her right leg over the leather seat. She runs her palms along the smooth dash and lets her feet find the foot pegs. She straightens her back and grins. Dustin takes her photo. He takes three more.

The three of them walk the bike to the entrance, not far from where Dustin stands in the darkness. He can hear them now, as a salesman tells her she can try it until closing, and that's all the instruction she needs. In the time Terri Pavish
takes to buckle up her helmet, rev the throttle and take off, Dustin is able to take another five photos in quick succession. A salesman watches the back of her disappear and Dustin grins, knowing how he feels.

She's uncatchable now. That machine was built for speed, able to get to 257kph if she'll let it. She'll probably be in Rockingham in fifteen minutes, or testing corners at Woodman Point. Rather than wait outside the shop for an hour, he fastens his own helmet and begins the cycle north, to her house. He's in no rush.

He pedals casually on the bike path over the Fremantle traffic bridge. Halfway along, soft voices below lure him to the edge. He leans the bike against the railings and bends over. In the darkness below, two kids sit on a concrete landing which juts out from the bridge's support. They fish with handlines. Apart from them, the river is empty.

Somewhere around here is where the Swan River meets the Indian Ocean. It's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. It probably doesn't matter; it's all saltwater and fish; tides and rips. Ten metres below, the water slops and
murmurs, speaking its own language. There's a fine line, he thinks, between fear and desire. People are only afraid of heights because they know they could be tempted to jump.

Behind him, a freight truck rumbles the bridge's foundations. It's followed by a motorbike and he knows it's her without turning around. A Ducati — a 90-degree fuel-injected V-twin — has a commanding sound, more of a roar than a purr. What's she doing here?

He watches the tail-light head north, expecting her to speed it up Curtin Avenue for a decent run. But suddenly she brakes fifty metres ahead, indicating right at the Tydeman Road traffic lights. She's going to North Freo. There are no other vehicles, just Terri Pavish with her red helmet and the borrowed yellow Ducati. Her indicator winks at him. This isn't what he'd expected.

The light changes to green. She revs, then takes the turn, and Dustin feels himself get sucked into her slipstream. He pushes off after the Ducati, unable and unwilling to alter the course she sets for him. He's one-tracked, tracing each of her turns. He's got to be near her to feel something. Does she know this?

He's on his bike but even so he can't lose her. Here, all roads lead to the river. He hears her going uphill into Turton Street and he pursues her, lured by the sound.

Harvest Road leads him to a dead end, and to Terri Pavish.

At the bottom of the cul-de-sac he steps off his bike. He smells the sharpness of fuel and notices the yellow Ducati, half-hidden against the limestone cliff face. Beyond the thick jumble of tea-trees is a clearing to the Swan River.

He catches only a flash of white skin as her body slips from the rocks and into the water without a splash. She surfaces metres away, hair flattened against her head.

This swimming spot — loud with the splashing of families during summer holidays — is calm right now. The river is wide here and dark, all the way across to the rows of house lights along the southern shore of East Fremantle. Terri Pavish is alone in it, floating on her back, looking up at the heavy cloudiness of sky. She's out at a distance and he wonders what she's thinking. He wants to see the look on her face, to know. That's when he feels the camera at the bottom of his bag dig into his back.

And so he watches her, close up. And when he takes the first photo, he rests the camera on his knee so he can get a four-second shutter speed with no flash. He doesn't know how it'll turn out, but it feels like it could be right. Taking another shot, he remembers other things Mrs Blackler has told him:
Some moments are too important to let slide. Some
people deserve to be remembered.
The frame counter rolls on.

Leaning against a tree at the base of the cliff, he watches as Terri Pavish's face floats on liquid darkness. He's reminded of the way faces materialise in a darkroom — features drifting up from the black, materialising into something real. He watches her float, and he sinks into the earth, grounded and immobile.

When she eventually turns and breaststrokes for shore, he takes his cue to leave. He moves slowly along the cliff, through the enclosure of tea-trees, and back out into Harvest Road. Zipping the camera into his backpack, he mounts his bike. But he gets only halfway up the road before he hears the sound of the Ducati engine, struggling. It's trying to kick over, but falters. It tries again, and dies. Then nothing.

He waits in the gutter, the options ticking in his head.

Should he? Shouldn't he?

Should he rescue her?

Does he have a choice?

He lets his brake off, turns the Avanti 180 degrees, and lets the pull of gravity lead him back down to the cul-de-sac. Once more he leans his mountain bike beside the cliff, where he hears her swearing.

‘Come on, you fucker.'

He could fix it, he thinks.

It'd be wrong to leave her stranded here, with a borrowed bike and ten minutes to closing time. She'd have to explain where she'd been, and how could she justify this to a motorbike salesman?

‘Don't do this to me now!'

But that would mean speaking to her. Could he?

‘Come on!'

His pulse races as he treads the leafy track to where she is, deeper in the enclosure this time. It's too dark to see her face clearly, but he can tell that her hair's wet and slick with river water. Her clothes are damp.

Should he?

He must.

‘Hi,' he says.

She freezes.

He's thankful for the anonymity of night. He's grateful to be standing so close to her, uncluttered by daylight and the crap that goes with it. Night is for instinct.

‘Who is it?'

‘I can help you.'

‘Help what?' She sounds defensive, afraid.

‘It sounds like the starter motor … I can fix it.'

‘Were you watching me?' She can feel her dark eyes upon him.

‘I live there,' he motions, ‘in the first house on the corner. I heard the engine and thought it might be kids.'

And with that, she sighs and gives in. ‘It's broken.'

‘I can help.' He crouches beside the 750 and feels the heat of it.

‘If you could …'

It's still warm. He runs his hands along its body, aware that this is the first time he's actually touched a Ducati. His motorbiking experience is nothing more than the cumulation of years of reading magazines and helping Nugget's dad fix old Hondas. But he knows the first step means checking the wiring to see if the starter's secure. His fingers shake when he does it.

‘Do I know you?' she says.

‘I don't know, do you?'

‘Maybe. Perth's not big enough for strangers.'

‘I'm new here,' he lies, as easily as she can.

‘You sound familiar. Should we push the bike to your house so you can see better?'

‘It's all right, I know what I'm doing.'

‘You're the boss. I've got to make a quick phone call, okay?'

She moves away, back to the edge of the river. He concentrates, remembering the sound the engine made when
it cut out. No, it wasn't the starter motor. He slides his fingers up underneath the carburettors and finds the fuel line instead. He pulls it loose and knows what the problem is.

He hears her speaking by the river and can guess what the motorbike salesman is saying on the other end of the phone. She lies, saying she's run out of fuel and is at a servo in South Freo now. There's a pause, and then, ‘Tomorrow morning's okay? Oh god, all right then. Didn't you realise the fuel gauge was low? I don't think you should be sending people out on test rides if they're going to get stranded. Yeah, for next time … all right … See you at eight then.'

Carefully, Dustin blows through the fuel line, clearing it of crap that'd built up after shitty fuel and months of not being taken out on a decent ride. He secures the tube again and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He removes the spark plugs and inspects the thread with his fingers, cleaning each one with his shirt. He's biding time; there's no rush anymore.