“You’re so hot. Fuck me hard, Drum.” She said that like she’d rehearsed it. There wasn’t a real emotion in it, other than desperation.
He put both hands on her shoulders and held her away. “You’ve never even asked my proper name.”
“You’re a private guy. I get that.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you. I don’t want to be part of your family.”
She folded her lips into her mouth. She was trying to choose a reaction. She could be insulted and call him every foul name there was, she could throw herself at him, or she could make him wish he was back in the cave. Given he’d never stopped wanting that, it wasn’t much of a contest.
She put her hands over her face and cried.
Oh shit. Crying, he’d made her cry. And now he thought about Foley and wondered how much, how long he’d made her cry leaving her like that, so fucking cold and brutal. Colleen Adderton, Harold Ameden, Swen Aslog.
He got Melissa to sit. He got her to talk.
“I don’t know what to do. This is too hard. I knew you didn’t want me. You’d have been in my bed that first night I cooked for you. That’s what they’re all like. I thought you were different. You were worth it. My boys need a father figure or they’re going to end up dead or in jail. I need work and there isn’t any. All I have is my body. I’m just trying to get by and it’s not good enough.”
He’d learned everything he could about the three hundred and eighty-seven, but he’d done nothing to help their families; the law, the board prevented him from creating that kind of liability.
He’d hung around with other homeless and kept himself ignorant of their circumstances. He didn’t know why Clint slept rough and couldn’t get enough to eat. He hadn’t wanted to get involved, to care. He’d been so focused on not doing anything to cause anyone any harm, shutting himself away, making himself Foley’s hermit squatter, he’d ignored his personal capacity to do good.
He could change Melissa’s life for the better in an instant. All he needed to do was hang around, support her, nudge the boys in a better direction. He could hardly do a worse job than Alan. He could be like Benny. That was a worthy thing to do, and it was better than running.
He sat on the grass at Melissa’s feet and when she touched his shoulder he let her. “We could barbeque the fish,” she said. “I’ll make potato salad. The boys will love it.”
He was agreeing to more than dinner.
They barbequed at the beach and she talked about saving to move to a bigger town where there was a better chance to get work and more for the boys to do. When it came time to go home, she looked at him with such hope and expectation it was difficult to say no to her hot coffee and her warm bed, but he needed to sit with this decision, to work out what his new rules would be. He went back to the tent.
Sometime in the night while he slept, she came to him, softly creeping, invading his space. She didn’t speak, but she touched him, and before he could protest she was kissing him and fuck, fuck, he was kissing her back and he wanted her, missed her like she was thought and reason. And she wanted him too, like he’d never rejected her. He wouldn’t run anymore. He would do something good. He would stay, stay and make her believe he loved her.
She touched him all over, hands in his hair, on his face, firmly stroking his dick, and he let her have her way, let her tongue lick and teeth nip. She was hot and naked and so was he and she felt so wet he knew this would be quick. He could smell her soap and shampoo and there was wine on her lips. Without opening his eyes he could see her, the swell of her hips as she straddled him, the tip of a breast, a glint in moonlight. He put his tongue to it, tugged it with his teeth and felt the hard metal in the soft, tight point.
He woke with a start, alone, disoriented from the dream. He thought he’d heard someone sobbing. The after-effect of his vision was sticky on his belly. And if there was crying it was his own.
Colleen Adderton, Harold Ameden, Swen Aslog.
He left the tent. It was too clunky to carry, too hard to disassemble in the dark. He left Melissa an envelope of money. It wouldn’t solve her problems but it would help her relocate, rent her a nice house for a few years, give her a new start.
He got on a train, he’d go further up the line. Like Melissa, he needed a bigger town that was easier to get lost in.
The carriage was empty until a seniors group got on. Mostly women, a school of grey hair, sensible shoes and glasses. He was surrounded. They had hot drinks in thermoses and sandwiches and fruitcake in plastic containers. One of them offered him an Anzac biscuit and it was still warm from the oven. His quiet was gone but it was amusing to listen in. They were full of chatter. Mostly it was grandkids, bad hips and dodgy knees. Occasionally some scandal or worries about the super running out. He could hear the two directly in front of him best.
“Bill had another affair you know, at his age, and Ellen took him back.”
“Why did she do that? Was it the money thing, too hard to separate?”
“She says she loves him.”
There was a pause, appropriately weighty for the proclamation then, “It’s humiliating. I can’t imagine.”
“You don’t, you know, with Carl?”
“Oh, he’s all right, but he’s not out there pretending he’s thirty either.”
Drum held his book up higher so if they should turn and see him smiling he’d have a cover.
“Ellen doesn’t care. And now Bill has dementia and she’s so worried about him. Says she’s part nurse, part wild animal keeper.”
“Terrible thing. I can’t imagine.”
“She wasn’t sleeping at all, always had a cold, but I put her onto that pill, you know Circulon.”
He almost dropped the book.
“That’s a frypan.”
“Is it? Well, it’s called something like that.”
He gripped the bottom of the seat. He wanted to leave but the man sitting next to him was big and awkward with a walking prong held between his knees and he was pinned in against the window.
“Anyway it’s marvellous. I’ve used it, Derrick has. They prescribed it for Lisbeth when she was so stressed about her exams. You’re sure it’s not called Circulon?”
Circa. God. There was nothing else it could be. He wanted to leap the seat and tell them to stop, it was dangerous; they shouldn’t use it, ever.
“Sounds like one of those Transformer toys that goes from a frypan to a flying saucer. Eric would like one of those to go with his Optimus Prime.”
Drum’s knees wouldn’t work. He opened his mouth to shout at them.
“Are you okay, son?” The man beside him looked at him with concern.
From in front. “Circa, that’s what it’s called. Circa. Ellen says it saved her life.”
He was breathing too hard, too much lavender fabric softener and baked goods, he was choking.
“Son, are you all right there? Anyone got any water?”
A new voice said, “It is called Circa. It is excellent. Nothing worse than not being able to sleep. Fixes you right up, it does.”
The man put a disposable plastic cup in his hand. “Drink that, make you feel better.”
He lifted the cup to his mouth and another voice from across the aisle said, “Yes. I’ve used it too. After my hip replacement when I was all over the place, not sleeping then frightened of falling again. It really helped. My daughter uses it when she’s travelling to get over the jet lag quicker.”
He gulped the water.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, son. You should take it easy.”
He’d seen three hundred and eighty-seven ghosts and they’d given him tunnel vision, but what he was hearing was that half the carriage had used Circa and benefited from it. He was trapped in a live focus group and there was no way to unhear what was being said, to unsee the evidence of Circa’s proficiency.
He’d heard it all before, of course. He’d ordered study after study looking for answers. Why did it help some people and le
ad others to their death? How was that acceptable?
“Son, son. Do you need help? I’m a doctor, retired, but tell me what’s wrong. I can help you.”
He looked at the man. “That pill they’re talking about, it kills people.”
The two women in front swivelled their heads around to look at him. “Is he talking about the sleeping pill, George?” one said.
“Are you talking about Circa, son? He’s right, some people have had bad experiences,” said George.
Drum crushed the plastic cup in his hand. “They didn’t have bad experiences, they died.”
“George?”
“Yes, that’s true, but before you go crazy, Helen, those people might’ve taken a wrong dose or combined it with other meds. The drug is safe. I was prescribing it before I sold the practice and I know the new doc prescribes it too. Never saw any problems.”
“You should make them stop. You should all stop.” He stood up. He needed to get out of the seat, away from these people.
“You seem to have some experience with this,” said George.
“I—” How did he explain it? He’d made himself the focus of attention. “I used to work for the company.” He sat again. Both women in the seat in front were kneeling up to look at him.
“If it’s that bad, why are they still in business?” said Helen.
He squeezed the broken plastic tight in his fist. “It’s legal, it’s all legal, but it’s not acceptable. Not one death is acceptable because someone tried to get a good night’s sleep.”
“It’s not acceptable that I have a face full of wrinkles but that’s apparently legal too,” said Helen.
“My father drank himself to death and that wasn’t much good but it was legal,” said the other woman. She turned to Helen. “You know Alberto from the deli. He drove his car into a pole because he had insomnia. Did it deliberately, said he’d do anything to sleep. He wore a neck brace for years after that.”
“Sleep is critical to health,” said George. “Our systems are severely compromised without it. That’s the reason sleep deprivation has been used as torture.”
“People who used it died,” Drum said. Why couldn’t they see it like he did? Foley hadn’t seen it either.
“That’s terribly sad,” said Helen’s friend.
“All drugs have risks. I’d be dead without my blood pressure pills but they’ve made me fat,” said Helen.
“That’s right. All drugs have side effects and risks,” said George. He laughed. “With my arthritis, getting out of bed is a risk. The drugs that stay on the market are the ones that do the best job for the majority of people.”
“It’s not enough.”
“When you look at it like that, it’s not, but it’s the best we’ve been able to come up with as human beings, and really, it’s a lot better than the alternative.”
“I’d be dead, half of us in this carriage would be dead,” said Helen.
“Riding backwards is making me sick,” said her friend. She sat around in her seat, facing the way the train was going, and all Drum could see of her was her sparse hair.
“I can see this affects you badly, son. Absolutes are always the hardest to deal with.”
“Absolutes?” He turned back to George. Death was an absolute. So was failing to prevent it.
“The black or white of things. It’s rarely that simple, even though we’d like to think it is. The older I’ve gotten the more I realise it’s really all about the shades in between and how we navigate them.”
Helen said. “I think we all deserve a cup of tea. Because the older I get the more I believe it’s about doing the best you can and being kind to each other. That’s all anyone can do.”
They gave him tea and sandwiches. He talked more to George about the things he’d seen in his practice, the trust he had that on the whole, modern drugs did good work, made people’s lives better.
When he got off the train it was with a piece of fruitcake in his hand. He had a quiet notion, small and uncertain, about accepting more grey, about being kind to people instead of shutting himself off from them.
He’d once collected strays. Maybe he could collect them again. It would mean a new edge, a new set of rules. It scared the piss out of him. He didn’t know if it was possible to fight his way to somewhere different, somewhere he might be worthy of Foley, all he knew was he was on the wrong train, going in the wrong direction from the chance to.
33: High Road
Foley’s email pinged. Adro: Coffee.
She looked over at his workstation; he made his eyebrows dance. She typed back: Half an hour.
Can’t wait that long.
Uh-oh. She went for her wallet and her phone chimed. Text from Nat: Want 2 talk abt Walter. Call me.
Walter had a new issue to champion. Off leash dog parks. He wanted more of them. Adro stood in front of her desk, a bored expression on his face. He’d been enthusiastically unenthusiastic about work since losing out on the Opera House job. She texted back: Dog Parks. Not happening. Talk 2 Gab.
Adro said, “Coffee, coffee, coffee. Need it nooow.”
She picked up her wallet and slipped her phone in her pocket. Gabriella was on a call but she’d see them leaving the office together. The polite thing would be to ask if she wanted a coffee brought back. Yeah.
The office front door had barely shushed closed and Adro said, “I quit.” He kept walking and let out a big sigh. “Oh, I’m so happy I said it.” He had to turn back. Foley hadn’t followed him. “Hey.”
She caught up and they fell into step together. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. But I can’t stand it anymore. I have to get out.”
“You want to quit without a job to go to, don’t be daft.”
“I’ll get a job. I’m going to travel first. I can move in with my sister for a while, no rent. It’ll be fine. Anyway, I thought you were going to quit, you’ve been so strange lately.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Because she hadn’t mustered the energy to look for something new yet and that was all tied up with abandoning Hugh somehow and the dent her confidence had taken after Drum. “I thought I was doing better?” She asked that without any illusion Adro was going to agree, but she’d been making a huge effort not to cause any ripples. That wasn’t the same as making a huge effort to get along with Gabriella, but it was better than the subtle guerilla warfare they’d had going on.
He made a hmm sound, and that was the best she was going to get.
“Are you leaving because of me?” She had to know.
He stopped walking. “Of course not. I don’t like the way Gab runs the team. She micromanages and she plays favourites. And I’m not one of them. I’m not happy anymore. You can’t change that.”
Hugh could. “What about a transfer to another department?”
“We talked about this. About going to Hugh and honestly, if I thought there was something else I wanted to do, I’d go to him.”
So this was really it. “Oh my God,” she bopped her forehead on his bicep. “I’m going to miss you.”
She made Adro shout the coffee and got another text from Nat: Walter Lam is a creation of council. Y/N? She put her phone back in her pocket and pretended she hadn’t seen that. It would be so easy to text Y and watch what happened. Gabriella uncovered, cautioned, asked to leave and paid out, which was another version of sacking her. Foley would put her hand up for the job and offer Adro hers and her professional planetary realignment would be complete.
Y would be bliss.
It was giving her smile muscles a workout. She took the phone out of her pocket and opened the text message. It was one letter. It would never come back at her. Nat already knew the question, it was a good bet she knew the answer as well and only needed confirmation. That’s all it would be, not so much informing as confirming.
“Here.” Adro held her coffee out. She needed a third hand. She closed the text and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Adro had a two week notice per
iod. She could think about this at, least overnight.
“I know I have to resign to Gab officially. But I wanted to tell you first. I’ll tell her tomorrow,” he said.
They talked travel destinations the rest of the journey back to the office and found Hugh standing in the department. “Here they are.” He clapped his hands for attention. “Just wanted to let you know Roger had a call from the premier’s office.”
The hush got deeper and no one moved.
“There’ll be no amalgamation.”
Foley whooped and there was embarrassed laughter.
Hugh grinned at her and went on. “Premier and cabinet have taken the strategy off the table, for the life of this government at least.”
There was a smatter of clapping and Foley looked at Gabriella, whose arms were resolutely crossed. Her texting finger twitched. Pressing Y felt like the right thing to do now. With the amalgamation off the agenda, any supposedly special experience Gabriella had was redundant.
As if the walls of her brain had their own ears and those ears were connected to Nat’s fingers, there was another text; it simply said: Answer?
Should she bring this to Hugh? By rights she should bring it to Gabriella, but insubordination felt like so much more fun.
She waited for Hugh to leave the department, head up the corridor to his office and she followed. Gabriella watched. Foley’s texting finger positively glowed with power. Y. Y. Y. Y.
She took one look at Hugh, slumped at his desk, honourable and steadfast and looking worried and knew it was N. N. N. N. Didn’t matter how much she wanted Gabriella out, somehow texting Y was descending to the level of dickhead and she couldn’t do it.
Hugh put both hands on his head. Not a good sign. “What’s wrong?”
“Close the door.”
He was spooking her out. She took a seat opposite him and waited.
“I have to make a big decision.” He brought his hands down and rubbed his face. “I thought I’d made it, but now we’re off the hook for the amalgamation it changes things.” He frowned at her. “You’re not saying anything?”
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