Melbourne Calling
Silvia Brown
Kew Asylum, 1987
The events I am about to recount occurred a year ago. So much has changed since, I am no longer sure of the purpose of this exercise, whether it’s closure I’m seeking or one more chance to look into the alluring abyss. In truth, these words I write are my last chance at freedom. I must prove to them that I am whole when I am not. I must prove that the monsters no longer haunt me.
I used to wish I could be like everyone else, but I’ve never been able to be anything but who I am.
“It’s just a phase,” was my mother’s verdict. She looked at my father, expecting confirmation that every boy my age goes through such a thing. Clueless, he shrank his shoulders while she fussed over me, her hand on my forehead, checking my temperature. As if fever was a symptom of being queer. But my cheeks were burning hot for a very different reason.
“You’ll be late for training,” Dad said, giving me a cue to get out.
Returning to my room took what little I had left in me. I felt insignificant, every step on the stairs a task. My room was a junkyard. Grandiose piles of everything I had ever wished for loomed over my head. A sleeking tentacle ventured out from the depths of my closet as I reached for my cricket whites. The slimy extremities stretched all the way to where I stood, seeking me out in a threatening yet familiar way. I closed my eyes and counted to three like the psych had suggested and the vision went away, leaving a path of slime all over my shoes. Yuk. My mother waited at the bottom of the stairs and walked me out of the house before waving me goodbye.
Ferndale Park, our training oval, was a couple of blocks from our home in Glen Iris. Cricket was my father’s idea of a good time and I had nothing against it, but watching the game at home didn’t mean I wanted to join the school team. Not even remotely. I wasn’t built for the outdoors, with fair skin rapidly turning a bright shade of pink, and freckles that multiplied by the thousands. As I dragged my cricket bat on the pavement, I didn’t see our neighbour’s decadent houses in Valley Parade, but a desolate landscape; a vision of what was to come should the beast in my closet rise from its dormant state, and doom and sudden death become a more desirable prospect than my parent’s oblivion.
“Get out of the way, carrot head!” I heard Connor O’Brien behind me before he pushed me. I let go of my bat as I fell and Connor picked it up, laughing with his mates as he left me behind, my knees badly scratched from the fall.
Such an interaction was by no means new, but somehow it got to me a bit more than usual and I just sat there, feeling hopeless, while O’Brien got smaller and smaller in the distance until I could no longer see him.
“Are you alright?” Someone helped me up.
I blushed as the reason I kept going to practice materialised in the flesh right by my side. Captain Josh Teague. Six foot three, an A-class player and student, Josh was someone everybody looked up to. Even me.
Josh started stalking me not long after that. Day after day, he’d follow me home after cricket practice and stand by the fence, looking up to my window, before continuing on. But I wasn’t there. I’d been watching Josh for months as he grew taller and fitter, his voice deeper. From the moment he took notice of me, everything changed. The stalker became the ‘stalkee’. After getting home, I’d sneak into my father’s old shed to spy on him until he was gone.
One day I got home and he wasn’t behind me. Both relieved and disappointed, I assumed the chase was over and lay down on my beanbag in the shed. Pencil in hand, I turned the pages in my notebook. Recollections of the creatures that lurk in my visions when I feel at my lowest came alive on the pages. Drawing took the edge off these monsters, allowing me to, somehow, own them. A blank page stared back at me as I tried to recall what I saw earlier, but something wasn’t right. I felt observed. Paranoid, I expected my darkest thoughts to take monstrous shape and swallow me whole…until I saw them. Josh’s blue eyes stared at me through a crack in the wooden wall of the shed, giving me a fright. He came in, temporarily blinding me as the light came through behind him.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” He looked around and I grew self-conscious. The stained beanbags, the crinkled pages on my comics, the appalling state of my boom box. And what was that smell? God.
“It isn’t much,” I said. What the hell was I apologising for?
“You kidding? It’s grand,” he replied before making himself at home.
We spent weeks pretending to read comics and listen to music, stealing glances at each other while I filled my notebook with Josh’s features. The unbearable tension between us drove me nuts until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“You have to stop pretending,” I said, hesitant.
Josh seemed humoured at first, before he realised I was serious. Without warning, the drums and guitars hit in unison—London Calling—The Clash’s apocalyptic angst reflected my own.
“You’re right,” Josh said, and my heart sank. His pose shifted, his confidence nowhere to be seen. Hammering downbeat chords enfolded us. “You’re all I’ll never be,” he said. “Shit, that came out wrong. I…I wish I was more like you. You come as you are. You don’t pretend you’re something you’re not, and you shouldn’t have to.” Then he leaned forward and kissed me.
It was tentative at first, his lips pressing softly on mine. My skin prickled and something took us over. Our kiss grew deeper before disintegrating into smaller atoms until it was no more. The moment lingered as we opened our eyes to a brand new world. Us.
After our first kiss, we took every opportunity we had to be together. When school camp was announced, I was reticent to go but Josh sweet-talked me into it. He described nights under the stars, sharing a swag in the middle of the outback. As if the school would allow that. A place to reinvent ourselves, he whispered in my ear.
How could I resist?
We packed our bags and stole hair products from our mothers. Our wet hair was the perfect playground for the strong gel as we sung out the chorus, and London Calling soon became ‘Melbourne Calling’. Mirrorless, my fingers dived into Josh’s middle length hair, straightening it forward, while he spiked up my own. We experimented, until our upper-suburban haircuts resembled those of our idols: John Lydon. Glen Danzig. We were ready.
A run-down town in the outback was the chosen destination for the camp. On the first night, Josh and I sneaked out from our dorm and into the bathroom before we headed into town. We stripped off our uniforms and changed into our Salvos clothes—tight jeans and black leather pants—and styled each other’s hair. I replaced my collared shirt for a second-hand ‘God Save The Queen’ find. We giggled as we stood by the mirror, showing off our new personas. We were no longer the product of privileged trash. We were free.
Silence spread throughout the complex before the crickets started to cry out their warnings, but we didn’t listen. We were high on pheromones, our brains flooded, our bodies straightening as we shared the confidence of those who faced the world together. We were bold, two proud punks, in love.
The town didn’t expect us. Most businesses closed after sunset, and the empty streets seemed to change Josh’s state of mind. His hand slipped from mine, purposeless. Was that all I was to him, I wondered, a chance to prove himself?
Hurt, I walked on, picking up speed as my head spun with overwhelming thoughts I didn’t care to push away. Self-doubt consumed me as I approached the steps to the only store with lights on, a vintage shop. As I stood there our eyes locked. Josh’s disheartened pose disappeared as he read my mood, or so I hoped. He frowned, concerned, picking up the pace towards me, before I turned my back on him and crossed the shop threshold.
A collection of dolls welcomed me, their faces partly broken. Looking closer I noticed the spaces between the wreckage, the artisan work beneath. Intricate threads were holding the ceramic in place, covering up the darkness. My gaze had lingered on them for way too long, spooking me, when I heard the clanky little bell on the shop door ring. W
arm fingers found their way between my own, and Josh stood, close, right behind me. As his head leaned in towards my neck, every inch of my skin ached. As his breath, and then his lips, explored uncharted territory, I moaned, barely holding my balance. My hand accidentally hit the stand in front of me, sending one of the ceramic dolls onto the floor, breaking it into smithereens.
“Shit!” I cried, but Josh didn’t flinch. He turned me around and pushed himself against me. His hands worked their way under my shirt while his tongue conquered my upper neck, my ear. Electrical impulses made me jerk back, leaning on the stand while he continued his ruthless offensive. My head turned to the side to catch my breath. An old, speckled mirror on the wall reflected Josh’s determination and my struggle.
“Who’s there?” The voice made us jump back to the real world: the vintage store, the hot summer night. We couldn’t see the owner of the voice. High shelves stood between him and us. We straightened ourselves, our clothes, trying to appear normal while our tight pants told a different story.
Josh’s eyes sparked as he opened the shop door—“Don’t worry old man. We’re leaving!” he called—then closed it. He took my hand, dragging me to the side of the store, insisting we stay low to avoid being seen.
In a moment I realised his intention. He led me towards the front of the store and opened the little trap door that led into the window displays, facing onto the darkened street.
Inside a soft chaise longue embraced us as Josh’s soft kisses filled places inside me I never knew existed. Our tongues were intertwined when the music started. It was almost a whisper at first, buzzing in the background, but growing louder as an invisible hand pushed the volume to max.
“Can you hear that?” I mouthed, pointing to my ear. Using the distraction to take in much-needed oxygen. Josh nodded, sitting back. He reached under the chaise longue, digging out an old Walkman, with headphones, that was playing our song. Josh’s smile widened, made ecstatic by the discovery, while I wished I hadn’t said a word. Our moment was gone. I looked at Josh, pointing with my head toward the trap door that led back into the store. But he sat there instead, absorbed in our musical find, an object replacing the attention I previously had to myself. Suddenly angry, I left him behind to drool over the device, and made my way back into the store. The mirror I saw earlier reflected my frustration, mocking my ruined punk hair. I am a fool.
I removed the doorbell to avoid alerting the owner and stepped out into the street. Fresh air tingled on my skin, drying sweat. My fingers tapped impatiently on the store window, but Josh didn’t look up. His open hand was extended. WAIT?
“Wait for what?” I yelled, and pounded my fist on the glass.
Josh smiled at me as he lifted the vintage headphones over his head. He sat back on the chaise lounge as he did so, daring me to react, defiant. Damn you, Josh Teague.
A blast went off as the headphones snapped onto his ears. Flesh exploded. Glass and wood shattered. I spun my face away from the window, shards flying in all directions, digging into my exposed skin.
Ears ringing, I sat back in the street, covered in glass and blood. When my eyes could focus again I saw the broken window, the ruined chaise longue, and what was left of Josh, the pointy end of a shotgun still levelled at where his head had been.
The old man behind the gun looked me in the eye, seemingly indifferent to the loss of life and property. Soulless, he proceeded to reload the shotgun, and then point it right at me. His boots crushed glass as he walked slowly towards me, past Josh’s sprawled body, to where the Walkman lay—still playing—on the floor. The old man’s partly hidden features became more obvious as he moved into the light of the store window. His human face fell into a mass of feelers from the lips down, miniscule tentacles lurking in all directions.
Music roared in my head, past my temporary deafness. The Clash. “Fuck off!” I yelled as the volume increased, piercing my ears, until I couldn’t bear it anymore. I closed my eyes, held my head, and wished for it to stop, for everything to come to an end.
The tape stopped with a click.
The nurse announces visitors and I put my notebook down, exhausted. Josh’s mother stands by the door but she can’t bear to look at me. Her perfect makeup covering the paths of tears only visible up close.
“He would’ve wanted you to have it,” she mumbles, approaching me.
The Walkman sits on the bed, right where she left it. A modern set of headphones has been rolled around it. Torn, I calculate the damage it would do if I were to push it onto the floor. But there’s no use. Josh is all I can think about. His cheeky smile. I’ll do it for him. My hand reaches out. I can feel Josh by my side as I set the headphones on my ears. He dares me, ‘chicken’.
My fingers push play and The Clash takes over my senses, a song I’ve avoided for too long now. No visions of fantastic monsters haunt me as I weep. Deeply buried emotions resurface like calm waves smoothing the rugged sand of my soul. Sketches of us, our courtship, my father’s shed, every treasured moment, going through my mind. Melbourne Calling. I smile.
Colin
What the hell? I jump, taking the headphones off my ears. There is no one there. The muted music keeps playing in the background. I put the headphones back on and focus. Listening. Lyrics. Bass. Louder.
Colin!
Josh? Hands over my ears, I close my eyes. Trying to concentrate as if that will increase my ability to hear his voice. The tape stops with a click.
I open my eyes and darkness surrounds me. I’ve been here before, after the blast, but the voices brought me back. Nurses. My parents. Only this time no one is calling out for me. They have given up.
I am lost in limbo and I am not alone. I can feel the others, their bodies sharing our doomed confinement. I can’t move. I think I am going to be sick.
Then I feel him, Josh’s warm fingers threading their way between my own. His body standing close, his voice whispering in my ear: I missed you.
The music starts, louder than ever before. We sing each word from the top of our lungs and Josh tightens his grip on my hand as the chorus rises. Melbourne Calling. Ecstatic, I give in. Falling into the abyss.
Where the Madmen Meet
T. S. P. Sweeney
The door to my house was open. This wasn’t unusual in itself. I have a pair of teenagers, and both could be careless enough to forget to lock up properly. It was the middle of the day, and Danielle and Jonathan should have been at school. Jon had been caught skipping class a couple of times recently, though, and was just brazen enough to bring a girl home while I was supposed to be at work. There were plenty of logical reasons to summon up a twinge of anger at that point, but all I could feel was dread. I crept to the door, the hot summer sun suddenly oppressive. Every step was harder than the last, and by the time I reached the end of the path my heart was hammering against my ribs. I grasped the door handle and edged the door open the rest of the way, praying that the old brass hinges would not squeal.
A man sat on the couch in the living room, dressed in old maroon footy shorts and a grey singlet that showed off a sun-darkened, heavily muscled body. Dark brown eyes stared at me, crinkling in the corners, and his thick, scruffy beard was unable to hide a crooked grin.
I screamed.
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” my husband said as I threw myself at him.
“How…?” I managed to choke out, tears flowing as I clutched him to me. “How can you be here?”
“They flew us home early…” Tom trailed off as his arms encircled me, crushing me to his chest. “It doesn’t matter. I’m back now.”
I shifted around on his lap, bringing my face in line with his.
“I’m back,” he repeated, stroking my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “I’m back, Steph. For good.”
He kissed me.
My head was swimming. I had not seen my husband in almost a year. Tom had been deployed—supposedly to Afghanistan—but there had been almost no communication in the intervening months; just
a few letters here, a rare call there. The only constant in our lives had been that he would need to disappear sometimes and I would need to trust he would be okay.
And now he was home.
“How?” I asked again.
“Shhh,” he placed a finger over my lips, and the grin that had made me fall in love with him was back on his face. “Later.”
He kissed me again, harder this time. Hungrier.
“I missed you.” Tom smiled up at me from the bed.
“You missed this, you mean.” I cocked my hip, emphasising my nudity.
“Absolutely,” he laughed, running his fingers through his beard. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
I tied my hair up into my usual ponytail and changed the subject.
“What is that thing growing on your face, by the way?”
“It’s a bit hard to shave regularly where I was, love.” The smile slid from his face as he spoke. “Hard to do much of anything human.”
I felt his mood darkening.
“Well I bet you’re feeling pretty human right now,” I said, sauntering over and laying down next to him with as much exaggerated sex-appeal as I could muster.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice oddly cold. He didn’t look at me.
“Hello?” Jon’s voice rang out from the front of the house. “Mum? Why is the door open?”
“In the bedroom,” I called back, scuttling under the sheet and pulling it above my chest. At the last second I threw it over Tom, as well.
“Mum, why are you in bed…” he trailed off as he saw Tom, his school bag dropping from his shoulder onto the floorboards with a thud. I could see the thought process ticking over in his mind as he went from wondering why I was there, to why there was a strange, bearded man in the bed, to realising exactly who that strange, bearded man was. It was oddly satisfying to see my own reaction from earlier mirrored in our son.
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2 Page 15