Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  A few blocks on I know I’m close to Easton’s gardens. Buildings disappear and next to me is a twenty-foot fence of metal bars. Beyond it is dense, green foliage. I find the main entrance. A mossy colossus of wrought iron and brick. A wide, tiled path leads into the belly of the park. There are two guards standing nearby, who eye me as I enter.

  “How are you, sir?” asks the more muscular guard.

  “I’m very well,” I reply. “How does this morning find you, gentleman? Has it been a long night?”

  They both look at each other.

  “Shift’s almost over,” says the skinnier one.

  “I bet you’re looking forward to putting your feet up,” I reply.

  The two guards look at each other again.

  The muscular one asks, “Have you been drinking tonight, buddy?”

  “No, no, I don’t drink actually. I’m a fitness tragic. Hence this morning stroll.”

  “Are you from around here?” asks the skinnier one. “You have an accent?”

  “I’ve lived in a lot of places, so my voice is now a blend.”

  “Well… enjoy the gardens, sir,” says the skinnier one.

  “Much appreciated,” I smile and walk past them up the path.

  I follow the brick road for about a hundred metres. I pass a small courtyard with tables, chairs and sun umbrellas. All vacant. There’s a brick kiosk with its metal roller door closed and locked.

  I arrive at a three-pronged fork in the road. The trees and lower foliage from the edge of the park are quite dense now and I can’t see what lies up each of the three options. They’re identical widths, curling and disappearing very quickly. Next to the far left path is a low sign that says Adams Park. A park is what I seek.

  Walls of thick, green leaves rise on either side of me as I casually wander between the sculptured undergrowth. The trees that tower above me seem old. Some are truly gargantuan. A minute later and the path opens into a wide clearing. Adams Park. In the morning sunslight I can see how vivid and maintained the grass is. Every blade as it should be. I reach down and run my hand across it to determine if it’s even real. A few shade trees are planted across the lawn, each with a small set of picnic tables and benches beneath.

  Adams Park stretches a great distance and the surrounding plants are a showcase of coloured blooms. Birds dart from branch to branch. Some hang from the lower shrubs, sticking their beaks into wide, easy flowers, their weight bending the appendage till it almost touches the ground. Butterflies. Bees. Even some fruit trees. The whole scene, almost everywhere you look, seems like paradise. Ordered and constructed tranquility.

  I’m the only person here. It’s early, but you would think a locale as superb as this would at least draw a few morning joggers. Or revelers who refuse to go to bed. This would be the perfect place to watch the suns rise.

  I step in the direction of the far side of Adams Park. It appears that the mouth of another path leads deeper into the gardens. A quarter of the way across the expanse of grass, I see something on the edge of my periphery. Ahead, on my right, near the edge of the surrounding foliage, is a shape. It looks like a person. Someone lying on the grass. Motionless.

  I move closer, trying to get a better view of the human-sized object. I walk silently towards it, staring in the growing light. I’m close enough to see that it’s a girl. She’s wearing a black tank top and denim shorts, and lies like an angel with legs and arms outstretched. I should leave her alone and go on my way, but she’s so still. I wonder if it’s a cadaver.

  I step closer and closer, the girl never moving. If her chest is rising in breaths, then it’s too slow to determine. She’s very pretty, but her most attractive days are behind her. Her face is young and round, like a cherub’s. The girl’s eyes are open. Staring blankly at the sky. Her hair is brown and unkempt. There’s a silver chain around her neck. The locket lies on the grass next to her throat.

  “Hey,” I say, quietly. “Are you okay?”

  There’s no response. The realisation that she’s dead washes over me. I kneel down next to her. Her bare arms and legs are covered in pink, weeping sores. They polka dot her limbs. Picked at and unhealed. The suns are appearing above the tree line, illuminating this forest world. Her skin is white and she’s very thin. Her pale complexion only exaggerates the craters on her arms and legs. The perfect blades of grass reach up and hold on to her.

  I’m startled when she speaks. “I’m floating,” she says. It’s raspy and barely audible.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, leaning close. “I’m going to go and get someone.”

  “I’m floating,” she says again. Her red, milky eyes never leave the sky.

  Over to our right, twenty feet away in the surrounding flora, I hear something move. I can’t see anything, but it makes birds burst from their branches and launch away in fear. I stare into the shrubs and see nothing. Another bird shoots into the air. I keep staring, frozen. There’s just shadows. No danger beneath the continuous, chirping soundtrack.

  When I turn back to the girl, she’s looking at me. Her eyes wide now, but no less bloodshot. Her body remains limp. But I don’t know if she’s looking at me. If she even knows I’m here. She’s empty.

  I get to my feet. “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Will you be okay?”

  Her eyes return to the sky, as if they never moved. I watch her chest and I don’t think I’ve seen it rise once. I don’t think she’s breathing.

  I turn and dash across the grass towards the entrance to Adams Park, hoping the guards remain at their post. I take the path and am a short distance along its bricked surface when I hear a scream. Its piercing sound rattles me. The whole world seems to gasp in one shocked inhalation. I turn back, looking up the path, which curls around out of sight. My feet don’t want to move, but I give them little choice. I run, returning to the grass and across it, in the direction of the star-shaped girl. I look around, sprinting to where I left her. I’m out in the centre of the clearing, my eyes darting all around me. There’s no one here. She’s gone. I rush over to the right side of the park, looking around the perimeter. The girl is not here. I keep moving, looking into the shrubs on the edge of the grass. Then I see something ahead of me, about fifteen feet away. It looks like a bruise. A patch of colour on the ground. Moving closer I see that it’s blood. Dark and almost purple. There’s a concentration of it in one area and then it smears away. As if she has been dragged into the undergrowth.

  A rustle makes my eyes turn to the near foliage. I sense there’s something there. It’s looking back at me and it’s daring me to come after it. I take three steps toward it and hear a low growl. The suns are more prominent now, heating everything. The shadows are darker. I take another cautious step towards the edge of the park and another rustle emanates from the branches. I think I can see two eyes, wide and yellow, glowing. There could be white rows of teeth somewhere beneath. But the wall of twisted leaves and branches is so visually complex, that my imagination could conjure anything from its dense and twisted patterns.

  I take a deep breath, sobered by the knowledge that I have to investigate. I have to find the girl. I step to the edge of the clearing and start pushing back branches, moving off the grass and on to the dry, dirty garden bed. I look around, allowing my eyes to adjust to the shadows. I can see more blood, small streaks and dots, moving off to the right. I keep my hands in front of me, pushing away the stinging scratch of the plants.

  The shrubs recede, allowing a small area where I can stand up. I’m at the trunk of one of the mammoth trees. I see a dark shape. Something is sitting on the other side of the tree’s base. I think it’s a person, maybe the girl, seated with legs pulled up to their chest. A low, huddled ball.

  “Hello?” I ask, not sure what response I expect.

  Keeping a small distance, I step around to get a better look at the shape. It’s not a human. Not what I expected.

  It’s an acoustic guitar.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I wake up in
a tent. As most people at a music festival do. The suns have risen and the temperature has skyrocketed. I can hear music thumping through amplifiers, echoing in the distance. All around is the sound of revelers frolicking. Waking up, drinking and preparing for their day. I’m a long way from the backstage area.

  The tent is a light yellow and I can see shadows walking past in each direction, their elongated shapes shifting back and forth. Laughing, chatting.

  On either side of me is a naked girl. I recognise them both. One is a brunette named Annabelle, who is lying on her stomach. The other is a redheaded girl who I do remember meeting, but I can’t recall her name. She’s lying on her back, with a thick crimson sleeping bag protecting her modesty from the waist down. Two large, exposed and firm breasts rise and fall in peaceful slumber. I gently lift up the sleeping bag and take a look downstairs. Nothing out of the ordinary. The girl doesn’t stir.

  I’m lying naked under a thin sheet. There’s a bunched sleeping bag at my feet, which I must have kicked off in my sleep. I perch on my elbows and notice my jeans, t-shirt and slip-on shoes are just inside the tent’s zipped exit.

  I could walk very briskly back to our cabin and hope everyone is too involved in their mornings to notice me. Kids will be busy figuring out ways to sneak their drugs and alcohol into the festival. They’ve probably got their timetables out, circling which acts they “just have to see”.

  When it comes to sneaking drugs into a music festival, females are born with a distinct advantage. A front pouch. In fact, it would be near impossible to design a more suitable compartment for the specific purpose of drug smuggling. However, if a girl offers to smuggle drugs into a festival for you, using her custom-built orifice, don’t hand her too large a quantity. She’s likely to be offended. A few pills are fine, but don’t ask her to sneak in a can of rum and cola. That pushes the friendship.

  I lie down for a few minutes, plotting my escape. I could call someone. Maybe Amelia. She couldn’t arrange for our van to pick me up, as the tents are too close together, but maybe one of the festival’s small buggies could collect me. They’re similar to the golf carts on Earth. But that would draw a lot of attention. If I’m on foot and I keep my head down, I have a better chance of remaining inconspicuous.

  I slip the sheet off and quietly reach for my jeans. As I move on the blow-up mattress below us, the two girls begin to stir. I can see that my artist lanyard is still in my jeans pocket. I had a memory of offering it to someone in exchange for a tab of lysergen, but it’s possible I was dreaming.

  The redhead opens her eyes and she notices me. She smiles and rolls on to her side, pulling up the sleeping bag to cover her modesty.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Uh… hi,” I reply, feeling a rush of eloquence.

  “You look terrible,” she smiles.

  “That’s very kind.”

  “You still look good though.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, reaching for my jeans, “I’m too scattered to oblige contradictory opinions.”

  “You look like you’ve been up all night partying,” says the redhead.

  “Weird.”

  She smiles.

  “I don’t have much recollection of last night,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say, looking through the contents of my pockets. Cigarettes. Lanyard. Cigarette lighter. A small, sealed plastic bag of pills. It looks like there’s cane in there too. I can’t find my wallet but I’m certain I chose not to bring it with me. And Norman is in my back pocket. Norman is in the building.

  “So you don’t remember anything from last night?” she asks.

  “Very little. Did I have sex with you?”

  “Sort of,” she says.

  “Oh,” I reply. “That’s never good.”

  “You were in a very hectic state of mind when we got you back to the tent.”

  “This tent?”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad was I?”

  “Well, you were very casual to begin with. Then you feigned interest for about five minutes. Then you passed out for a little bit. Then you came around and you were very amorous.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you maintained an erection long enough for us to make you blow.”

  “Excellent,” I say.

  “For a long time it seemed like it wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Oh… well, thank you for persevering.”

  “You were very... high.”

  “Do you have painkillers?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Look in there,” she replies, pointing to a handbag.

  I sit up and rifle through it. With my back turned to my friendly new acquaintance, I quickly open her wallet to see her identification. Her name is Krystal. I then locate the painkillers. They’re good ones too.

  “Do you have any water?” I ask.

  “Don’t think so. I think there’s some spirit left in a bottle somewhere.”

  I find a bottle of dark brown liquid, which is some random spirit without a label. I use the warm contents to wash down three painkillers. I then lay back to let them take effect.

  “So you probably don’t remember telling me and Annabelle that you’d take us backstage to hang out with you,” says Krystal.

  “Ha,” I say. “Sweetheart, I’ve heard every trick in the book.”

  “So you don’t believe me?”

  “Not really.”

  Krystal reaches for a mobile phone. She scans through it and then plays a video. I shouldn’t be too surprised to see that it’s me. I’m sitting in this tent with what appears to be a pink, lacey pair of women’s underwear draped across my head. I’m holding a hand to my chest.

  “I sincerely swear, with the power invested in me by this garment on my head, that I will take Krystal and Anna backstage tomorrow,” I mumble. “Assuming that Krystal… and Anna… are the names of drugs.”

  From off camera a female hand slaps me on the chest and the two girls laugh. Annabelle then pulls the panties from my head with her teeth and pushes me downward. She appears to be half naked as she straddles me. The video stops.

  “That could be anyone,” I shrug.

  “It looks like you,” smiles Krystal.

  “Hmm,” I say, happy to be lying down. “I’ll admit the footage is compelling. I suppose you two can venture with me.”

  “When do you have to leave?” she asks.

  “No time soon,” I say. Big Bang Theory is headlining the main stage tonight. Our set doesn’t start for another eleven hours.

  “Good,” says Krystal.

  She then leans down and kisses me. My friendly new acquaintance runs her hands across my bare chest and then slowly pulls away the sheet. Soon her fingertips are gently grazing my flaccid cock and it doesn’t waste any time in responding to her touch. Krystal’s sleeping bag is pushed off and she rolls half of her body on top of me, her thigh lying across my own.

  Annabelle stirs and opens her eyes. When she sees Krystal draped across and stroking me, and pushing her tongue into my mouth, she smiles and says, “Are you two at it again?”

  Krystal stops kissing me and laughs. “Well I couldn’t wait for you to wake up,” she says.

  “Well I’m awake now,” says Annabelle, sitting up.

  “Get involved,” I smile.

  I call Amelia from Norman and she is relieved to hear my voice. I don’t know where I am, but Krystal and Annabelle are able to explain our location to my manager. She sends a buggy and a few plain-clothed security guards. I quickly get dressed and precariously poke my head from the tent, looking around for the small vehicle. Festival goers are buzzing all around us, so I make sure the flap entrance of the tent is covering half my face.

  Soon I hear the sound of tyres on a gravel path. When I peer out again I see the cart about fifty metres away. I give my new acquaintances Norman’s number and promise that if they call me I will take them backstage. I am, after all, a man of my word.

  I take a deep
breath and step from the tent, almost jogging to the waiting buggy. Amelia is sitting on the back and she hurriedly hands me a pair of dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat. It makes me look like a farmer with expensive taste in sunglasses.

  “Is this really necessary?” I say, pointing at the hat as Amelia and I move to the middle seats of the buggy. Two security guards take the back seat. There are two more in the front, one of which is driving.

  “It’s a hat that no one would expect you to wear,” she says, sternly.

  “Did you kill a greenskeeper?” I ask.

  “Just be quiet and keep your head down,” she hisses.

  Peering from under the brim, I can see people stopping to look at our cart as we roll through the campground. Punters know that artists are transported in these carts. At a festival they can draw the same attention as a limousine.

  We roll through the festival site and up a path that leads to the large double gate entry of the backstage area. That is where the artists’ dressing rooms, cabins and communal area are and where my band members stayed last night. We could have slept in a fancy hotel in one of the major cities and been flown out here in a helivehicle, but we like to get amongst it. Soak up the atmosphere like willing sponges. Absorb the vibrations. Share the pleasure of company. Allow the joyous nature of the event to permeate our essence. In other words, take drugs and shag groupies. Such activities fertilise the soul.

  The main festival area is still quite empty. As the day heats up and smaller bands are playing on the various stages, punters remain near their tents and allow the juices to flow. So far my cart ride remains relatively unhindered. We pass a few food stalls selling breakfast wraps and coffee and the smells trigger a mild jolt in my recovering stomach.

  As the backstage gate appears, it is partly obscured by a large mob. There’s a white vehicle. Paramedics. There must be a hundred people gawking at something. Probably a poor sucker who got the recipe wrong.