Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “Look,” I reply, walking over to turn on the ensuite light. I pull the door closed until it’s ajar, the thin beam illuminating my bedroom with its mild glow. “If neither of you trust me, you can tie my hands to the bedpost. Sound fair?”

  Rose and Jennifer allow themselves to smile and walk over to the bed. After all, it’s extremely comfortable and quite spacious. They sit at the head, propped up on my array of pillows. I lie across the foot of the bed, exhaustion and inebriation weighing heavily on me. Rose seems tired too, but Jennifer shows more enthusiasm. Probably due to the cane in her system.

  “So how did you do it then?” asks Rose.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Make that girl breathe again?”

  “It’s called the kiss of life,” I say. “Want me to demonstrate?”

  I sit up on the bed and motion for Rose to come closer. She looks uncertainly at Jennifer, but her new friend just nods with encouragement. Rose looks back at me and crawls to the centre of the bed.

  “What do I do?” she asks.

  “Just lie on your back,” I say. Rose complies. “Now the thing about the kiss of life is that you don’t have an endless window of opportunity. If you’re not really fast, the person can die or can suffer brain damage once the brain has been starved of too much air.”

  “So that girl hadn’t been dead for long?” asks Jennifer.

  “She wasn’t dead,” I say. “She had only stopped breathing. Her heart was still beating. She was just in respiratory arrest.”

  “So you kickstarted her lungs?” asks Rose.

  “Exactly,” I say. “Firstly, when someone has stopped breathing, you need to get them into the recovery position, which is like this.” I bend Rose’s knees upward and pull one of her arms across her chest. Rose remains limp, allowing me to manipulate her. I roll her on to her side. Now she is facing Jennifer. “Now you need to check the person’s airway. If they’ve been underwater, it’s possible there’s debris in there. Sometimes your own tongue can retract and block your windpipe.”

  I lean over Rose, my face now close to hers. She slowly opens her mouth. In the dim light I can see her eyes looking into my own. “Everything looks fine,” I say, quietly. Rose closes her mouth and smiles. I then roll her back over so she’s facing the ceiling again. “Then you pinch the person’s nose so that air can’t escape and then you breathe into their mouth as hard as you can.” I take Rose’s nose between thumb and forefinger, only softly, and then lean down and put my mouth to hers. Rather than forcing air into her lungs, I let Rose kiss me. She does instinctively. I taste her lips and suddenly remember what it was like the last time she was in this bed with me. I pull away. “Then you give one breath every five seconds until they start breathing on their own. I lean down and kiss Rose again. This time her tongue appears and finds my own.

  “Nice demonstration,” says Jennifer. “I think it’s my turn.”

  My body is melting into sleep, sinking into my refractory period. Rose and Jennifer are sitting on either side of me, leaning back on pillows, passing a bottle of red wine between them.

  “I’m so glad I’ve got a day off tomorrow,” says Jennifer.

  “You’re not working on any new movies?” asks Rose.

  “I start pre-production on a new project next week.”

  “Really?” inquires Rose. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a horror movie,” says Jennifer.

  “I love horror movies,” replies Rose. “I know it’s really weird but the worse they are, the more I love them.”

  “Well, this one is pretty gross,” says Jennifer.

  “You’re becoming a bit of a scream queen,” I mumble, eyes shut. Jennifer’s been in quite a few scary flicks in the past two years.

  “I thought you were asleep,” says Jennifer. Then to Rose, she asks, “Why do men always fall asleep after sex? They just pass right out.”

  “They’ve got what they want,” shrugs Rose. “No point staying awake.”

  “Actually, it’s more to do with the release of chemicals in the brain post-orgasm. Like the hormone prolactin, and oxytocin and vasopressin,” I reply.

  “You’re making that up,” says Jennifer.

  “How could I possibly make that up?”

  “So tell me more about your movie,” says Rose.

  “It’s called Cleaver,” says Jennifer. “I actually have to get naked in the first scene. There’s a nude scene in practically every script I get sent now. My agent just tells them to add an extra million on my fee.”

  I open my eyes and glance at Jennifer, who is currently naked. I ponder whether tonight will cost me anything.

  “Why do you get naked?” asks Rose.

  “In the opening scene I’m in bed with this guy.”

  “Who plays the guy?”

  “His name’s Anton. He’s a model, he doesn’t do much acting.”

  “Well at least your nudity is in context,” I say. “At least it’s not gratuitous.”

  “No, not at all,” says Jennifer, wryly.

  “Ignore him,” smiles Rose. “What happens?”

  “Well, in the opening scene, we’re in bed. Then he goes downstairs to get some wine from the kitchen and he doesn’t come back.”

  “He goes downstairs? Is that a euphemism?” I ask. “Because it was very eloquent.”

  “You are so funny,” says Jennifer.

  “How long do you wait for him before you go downstairs to see where he is?” I ask. “And how is that depicted on screen? Is it a shot of you naked for a few minutes? Just waiting there in bed?”

  “Shut up,” says Jennifer. Then to Rose, “When I go downstairs, all I find is his spleen sitting on the kitchen counter.”

  “Wow,” says Rose. “That’s pretty disturbing.”

  “Why the spleen?” I query. “That’s a fairly specific organ to leave behind. It’s only about eleven centimetres long. Wouldn’t it be more gross to leave the heart or the liver or something?”

  “The killer doesn’t want to leave the heart or the liver. He just leaves the spleen.”

  “The movie should be called Spleen,” I say. “Or The Spleenster.”

  “But he kills with a cleaver. So it’s called Cleaver,” retorts Jennifer.

  “Is he an ex-butcher? What’s his motivation?”

  “Who cares? He kills teenagers. It’s a stupid horror movie,” says Jennifer, swigging on the red wine.

  “Did someone steal his spleen?” I ask. “That would give his calling card some emotional significance.”

  I wake to a scratching sound. It’s desperate and distinct. A trapped animal clawing wildly. Is it trying to escape or get in? I open my eyes. It’s in my head. A nightmare. The suns haven’t risen yet. Jennifer and Rose are asleep. I’m flanked by two beauties. I sit up slowly, trying not to disturb them. Then I hear scratching. There’s something behind the bedroom door. I listen for another sound. I can hear something soft. Deep intakes of air. Heavy breathing. It’s not coming from one of my bedfellows. I roll forward, crawl to the end of the bed and step softly on to the carpet. I listen again. Nothing. Then outside my bedroom I hear a door close. Someone’s in my apartment.

  I move to the bedroom door, listening again. Nothing. I throw it open and look into the dark. There’s a black silhouette at the end of the hallway, in my living room. Frozen. Staring back at me. My stomach locks as I stand there, confronted by this intruder that’s barely distinguishable from the shadows of my unlit apartment. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I squint again. I’m sure there’s a shadow there. I lean forward through the doorway and switch on the hall lights. The flash reveals no one. The hall ends with an empty living room. I step forward, quietly closing the bedroom door behind me. I look down and there are no scratches on its exterior.

  Naked, I step into the bathroom and switch on the light. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m a bit scrawny these days. A pale reflection of the athletic individual I used to be. I don’t eat much anymore. My
body’s a wiry array of raw muscles and veins. My abdominals muscles, the rectus abdominis and obliques, are more pronounced than they used to be. I lean forward, inspecting the skin on my face, then turn and look at my back. There’s talon marks on both of my shoulders, which means there’s likely to be skin under Jennifer’s manicured fingernails. On the left side of my neck is a bruise. A bite mark. I find more fingernail marks inside my right thigh. When I turn around there’s another jagged scratch on my left buttock. All war wounds that one might display proudly. Injuries received in the line of duty. I need a shave.

  I have a quick shower and then walk out to the kitchen. I retrieve a container of instant coffee from my cupboard and as I mix it with hot water from the tap I consider my promise to turn myself in. I stand there, sipping the strong, bitter liquid, wondering what will happen to me.

  The suns start to rise outside as I sit on the couch, sipping my caffeine hit. I turn on the television to a morning news program. There’s a bulletin about a drive-by shooting on a public school playground. Only one boy was hit and has survived. It’s the first shooting at a school in nearly two decades.

  Then there’s another news story about an uprising in a foreign country I’ve never been to. Soldiers are threatening to shoot civilians who are peacefully protesting in a public square. Snipers are ready to pick off the protestors from nearby buildings. The country’s leader has ordered his military to destroy anyone that questions him. Diplomacy and peaceful intervention are being used to resolve the situation.

  The next story is about me. Surprise, surprise. The female reporter says that the search for the missing girls continues and that my management continues to help police with their inquiries. It’s believed I’m living in a secret location, to avoid scrutiny. It then cuts to a reporter who is speaking to the camera, perched in the back of a helicopter. It’s night. The camera swings and is now pointing at the side of an apartment building, lit up with a giant white searchlight. It looks a lot like my balcony. The National News Network. Fuckers. This footage could have been playing all night. Broadcast across the nation. Pinpointing my very recognisable building.

  In my bathroom, I find a pair of jeans on the floor and slip them on. I then put my apartment keys in my pocket and let myself out. I ride the elevator down to the foyer. When it opens I’m instantly greeted by two security staff. They’re wearing crisp blue jackets and black pants. Gold nametags read Marc and Christopher. They’re wearing small communicative earpieces.

  “Jack, how are you?” says Christopher.

  “Good,” I say. “What’s happening?”

  I step out of the elevator and glance to the right. The glass front of my building is wide and tall, tinted so that no one can see in. Beyond the thick glass are fans. They don’t just fill the footpath, but they spill out into the road to the opposite footpath and then around the corner. A marauding swarm of blind admiration. They’re both male and female, though mostly the latter. They’re holding placards and wearing Big Bang Theory paraphernalia.

  “Sir, we recommend at this point in time to return to your apartment. We have called the police and they’re already trying to move everybody on. We’re currently in lockdown, so they can’t get in,” says Marc.

  “I was hoping to go for a morning stroll, guys. Could I sneak out the back?”

  “They have the building completely surrounded,” says Christopher.

  I glance back at the horde outside, their faces pressed against the glass, pawing and pushing to try to get in. They can smell that I’m here. They can sense it. They’re working on the entrance, trying to pry the broad doors open. Their voices gel into an exasperated hum.

  There are a few residents milling around the foyer, clearly hoping to get out. One man is dressed as if he’s on his way to work. He hasn’t seen me standing outside the elevator.

  “This is completely ridiculous,” I can hear him say to another security guard. “It’s Jack they want. Just send him out there and they’ll leave us alone!”

  “They can’t get in can they?” I ask the guards. “The doors will hold?”

  “We believe so, yes,” says Marc.

  “Oh well, there goes my leisurely wander.”

  “It is best you stay inside, sir. If you go out there, you’ll be eaten alive,” says Marc.

  “Don’t you guys have an armoured personnel carrier or something? A piece of heavy gear to use for my protection?”

  “An APC?” asks Christopher. He looks at Marc.

  “Yeah? You must have something parked in the garage. Otherwise I’m a fucking prisoner here. What happens if I run out of… I don’t know, cheese or something. What if my satellite television connection cuts out?”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something for you,” says Marc. “I’ll get my boss to contact the military and have them bring something over.”

  “Nice work,” I smile. “I knew I could count on you two. Something about your clean-cut appearance filled me with indisputable confidence.”

  Christopher and Marc both nod politely as I return to the elevator. Before the doors close, I point to the businessman who wanted to throw me to the wolves. “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “That’s Mr Blackburn,” says Marc.

  “Ah yes, I thought I recognised him. What apartment does he live in again?”

  They both think for a moment. “I believe he’s in 1201,” replies Christopher.

  “Of course,” I smile. The elevator doors close.

  Before returning to my floor, I stop at the twelfth floor and locate apartment number one. I then urinate on the door and return to the elevator. Inside my apartment, Jennifer is awake and standing in my kitchen making a coffee. Her hair is disheveled and she’s wearing her black tights and her equally black bra.

  “Where’d you sneak off to?” she smiles.

  I lean casually next to her on the kitchen counter. “I was just heading out to get some fruit juice.”

  “I thought maybe you’d crept away again, like last time… but then I remembered that I’m in your apartment,” says Jennifer.

  “I had an early appointment last time,” I say. “I apologised for that.”

  “Yes, I suppose you did,” she says, taking a spoon from the drawer and stirring her mug of liquid. “Rose is nice,” she adds.

  “She is,” I say.

  “Very beautiful,” says Jennifer.

  “No argument here.”

  “She’s messed up though.”

  “I think she’s just very religious,” I say.

  “Did you know how religious she was?” asks Jennifer.

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe in all of that religious crap,” says Jennifer.

  “So there’s no Earth?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, no,” says Jennifer.

  “So what happens to us when we die?”

  “I die when people stop watching my movies. You die when people stop listening to your songs.”

  “What about when you die physically?”

  “That means people have stopped offering me work.”

  “So you don’t believe in anything?”

  “I try not to believe in anything that’s based only on faith. When you want to believe something badly enough, your brain can… misunderstand.”

  “So you see signs of something that isn’t really there?”

  “Yep.”

  “It can’t be like that all the time.”

  “You’d be surprised just how much the mind can invent when you want it to.”

  “Maybe,” I smile.

  “You really ditched me after the McCarthy Awards,” says Jennifer.

  “Did I? I didn’t think we went together.”

  “Have it your way, Jack.”

  I sigh. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t meet up with you at the party… but… what do you want me to say?”

  “Who was that girl you left with? She looked familiar.”

  “Her name’s Natalie.”

  “She
really got her hooks into you.”

  “It was either her hooks or yours.”

  “If you’d played your cards right, it could have been both.”

  “I don’t think she likes to share.”

  “So she’s my competition, huh?”

  “No, not really.”

  “So where’s the juice?”

  “I didn’t get any.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “This apartment was actually on live television last night. Filmed from a NNN helicopter.”

  “The chopper was…?”

  “Media.”

  “So, outside right now…”

  “Thousands of people. More are turning up by the minute.”

  “I see,” says Jennifer, sipping her coffee. “Well, we’ll just have to get rid of them.”

  “They can smell blood in the water. They’re not going anywhere,”

  “Well, we’ll just drop some blood in a different ocean,” says Jennifer. “There’s a pool on the roof, yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Grab some towels and we’ll go for a swim.”

  Miraculously, the roof is deserted. The pool glistens in the morning’s sunslight. Vacant deckchairs are scattered over the broad grey tiles. An abandoned red and white striped towel hangs over one of them. A twiggy hedge lines one side of the pool area. The view stretches beyond the eye’s reach.

  “Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” says Jennifer, holding her mobile phone.

  “I’m always wary when you say that.”

  Jennifer just smiles and walks towards the ladder into the shallow end of the pool. Still in her black leggings and bra, she carefully steps in and holds her phone safely above the water. “C’mon, are you waiting for an invitation?”

  In my small cotton shorts, I follow her in. We wade out till the cool water is just above our waist. Jennifer puts her arm around me, holds the phone up, pointing it down at us and says, “Smile.”

  She takes three or four photos of us looking up into her phone’s camera. Jennifer then examines them on the screen. “That’s not much of a smile, Jack.”