Merciless Gods

by Christos Tsiolkas

  I sense the outrage in his voice. I don’t move. I keep going. ‘And you’re dumb. Dumb as dogshit.’

  ‘I said, enough!’

  I keep taunting him. Call him more names, give in to my anger, call him a poofter, call him a loser, call him a bore, I keep yelling until he bolts up and it happens so fast that I don’t have time to run, not even time to plead, though I hear myself screaming something before he’s hurtling into me and I’m kicking but he’s stronger and bigger and tougher and knows how to fight and he cracks me sharp across my face and as I fall his knee crashes into my stomach and that’s it, I’m crying, flat on my arse and it’s not even that it hurts very much until he punches me in the middle of the mouth so my teeth bite on my tongue, I’m tasting blood, and he turns me over and twists my arm up my back and with his free hand he pulls at my hair, banging my head on the carpet until he hears something break and he lets go and I slump on the floor.

  Then he pulls my shorts down to my knees and sticks his fingers up my arse, so hard it’s like a punch going right up me, in me, through me, and he tries to push his cock in and I’m struggling, squirming, screaming so he bangs my head down on the carpet again and again until I’ve shut up.

  The first five thrusts,

  I’m counting them because they’re slicing through my gut, it feels like a blade has torn through my bowels and up into my stomach.

  All I do is grunt like a pig and then the thrusts become a pounding.

  And I prefer the hammer to the blade because the pain is duller and I’m waiting for it to finish, the television is on and a cop is running after some white kid who’s been dealing drugs on a housing estate, out of nowhere I’m hearing a shit Bryan Adams song in my head, and as the thrusts become more rapid he is throwing himself deeper into me and all I’m thinking is please god, don’t let me shit, oh please god please don’t let me shit please god don’t let me shit.

  He comes, goes soft inside me, and falls heavily onto me. There is wetness on the back of my neck, maybe his tears, but probably just spit.

  The cop gets the white kid.

  •

  Neither of us makes a sound. I’d be sick if he tried to talk to me. There’s not a word. All I’m aware of is the acrid stink of the alcohol. There’s blood in my mouth. I spit it out.

  I watch the television, watch the red dial on the video recorder clock count down the time to midnight. He’s falling asleep. I won’t move till I’m sure it’s deep sleep. I’m fixed on the red digits. I hear the muffled snores, they shudder along my neck. Slowly, carefully, I shift from under him; though he stirs, he rolls over and is back to sleep. I’m dripping blood all over the carpet, over him.

  I get up and wash my face in the bathroom sink. In the mirror my face is bloated, bloody. I move quickly through the house, taking the alarm clock I lent him, grabbing the book I’m reading, taking my shirts, my socks, my underwear. I’m erasing myself from this house.

  I pause at the three strips of photos pinned to the bedroom mirror. Black-and-whites from a photo booth. I take one strip, shove everything into a plastic bag and leave the bedroom. But then I turn and go back, to take the picture of Jessica Lange. I’m making it mine.

  The television is playing the news. Trade conference in Asia. He’s still asleep, heavy, congested drunk snoring. I lean over him. His black hair is sweat-plastered to his forehead. I can still see it, still fucking see it: his face is sweet. I lean closer, trying to get through and back to him. I try to smell him but I can only make out the alcohol, the mouldy yeast of beer. I am, finally, repelled.

  •

  The first taxi driver takes one look at me and speeds off. The second takes me, but won’t talk to me. I don’t mind. I sit in the back, hugging myself tight to stop the shivering.

  The cat is crying for food. I feed her fish and notice the slugs. One monster in particular. Its thick slimy body has climbed over the rim and sits inside the bowl oozing filth. I grab a tissue, pick it up, holding it far away from me. The cat ignores me, she’s lapping up her food. I take the slug, wrapped in tissue, into the loo and throw it in the toilet bowl. I piss and I make sure I aim my stream directly at the slug, torch it with my urine. When I’m finished I flush, watch the water, the tissue, the slug spin round, round, round. Then all of it, abruptly, is gone.

  The upstairs room is hot and I open the window. The street comes rushing in: dance music from across the road, the squeals and horns of cars, a crazy man is yelling out obscenities, teenagers are laughing. My mouth is hurting, swelling. My gut, my arse, they are fire.

  I retrieve the picture of Jessica Lange from the plastic bag. I run my thumb over its shredded edges. Shaking, I light a cigarette and put the smouldering tip through the picture. I watch the hole expand, burning her mouth, her chin, her angry eyes. As the picture becomes flame I throw it in an ashtray, mash it up, turn it to ash, to dust.

  I sit and watch the traffic flow. The night is warm, but a breeze is blowing in from the south, off the ocean. I lean out the window. I’m still fire. I pack ice into a glass, fill it up with water. Again. It’s no good. Nothing helps to cool me down.

  The Disco at the End of Communism

  IT WAS SAVERIO’S WEEK TO DO the shopping. Trying to fit the key into the front door lock, both hands laden with supermarket bags, he noticed the shadowy form of his wife coming towards him in the cloudy beer-bottle glass of the door pane, rushing to open it for him. He was about to kiss her, to ask her to help him unload the other bags from the car, but froze when he saw her expression. He didn’t drop the bags or cry out, but he could not speak for fear of what she was about to say.

  ‘It’s not the kids—they’re fine.’ Rachel grabbed some bags from him and ushered him into the house, leading him by the hand. When they got to the kitchen, she put down her bags and took his hands. ‘Julian rang while you were at the market. I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘It’s Leo. He had a stroke this morning. He’s dead.’ She gently shook her head. ‘There’s nothing anyone could have done, Sav. It must have been quick, he wouldn’t have suffered.’

  His first thought was to protect her, to banish the fear and confusion from her eyes. He did so by gripping her hands tighter. She started to cry. Instantly he envied her ability to exhibit all the appropriate signs of grief. It had been well over a decade since she had last seen Leo.

  ‘Julian’s left a mobile number. He wants you to call him back straight away.’

  ‘I’ll unpack the groceries.’

  She shook her head again. ‘I’ll do that, baby. You call Julian.’

  Julian answered on the first ring, his voice surprisingly youthful and clear. Saverio had always liked Julian, had considered him good for Leo and had been distressed when he’d heard that they had split up. But Julian had remained loyal to the friendship, and Saverio was not surprised that he’d been the one there at Leo’s end. Julian was assuming all the responsibilities that, in the normal course of events, should now be Saverio’s. But Leo had never been one for the normal course of events.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’ Julian sounded astonished.

  ‘For being there.’

  There was silence, then a rapidly muttered, ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Rachel said that it was immediate, thank God.’

  ‘Yes.’ He could hear a match being struck, the long inhalation of smoke. ‘He’s been pretty crook, his liver has been giving him trouble for some time now.’ Julian hesitated, then said quickly, ‘I might as well be straight with you, Sav. He was pretty drunk when it happened—he was shooting up amphetamines.’

  Saverio watched as Rachel methodically stacked the groceries on the kitchen table: toiletries for the bathroom, food and drinks for the kitchen and pantry, cat food and detergents for the laundry. Every now and then she would throw a quick glance over at him. Her eyes were still swollen and red.

  He died shooting up speed, Rachel, he wanted to mouth at her. The dickhead was shooting up speed at fifty-t
wo. The stupid, stupid fool.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Sometime last night.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘There’s a woman close by who keeps an eye on him. She’s a good soul. She rang the police and then she rang me.’

  ‘Are you there already?’

  ‘Nah, nah, mate, I’m still in Sydney. I’m flying up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Does the coroner have to deal with it?’

  ‘No. I’ve talked to the local cops and they say it’s all straightforward.’

  That was it. Saverio was out of questions.

  Julian cleared his throat. ‘I’ll arrange the funeral from Demons Creek. I’ve already got a copy of Leo’s will, he wants to be buried up there. Sav, I want you to come up for it.’

  Rachel wasn’t concentrating. The dishwashing liquid was in the pile with the laundry stuff.

  ‘Of course I’ll come.’

  Saverio caught the relief in her eyes, and felt it as well in Julian’s affectionate farewell. He hung up, wanting to slam the phone against the wall, wanting to explode in anger like a child.

  At that moment, shirtless, with his pyjama bottoms hanging half off his arse, Matthew shuffled into the kitchen, greeting his parents with a muffled grunt. Saverio checked the clock. It was just past noon. The useless prick had been clubbing all night, wasting his money, probably doing the same stupid drugs that had just killed Leo.

  ‘Cazzo! This is not a civilised hour to crawl out of bed, you lazy shit!’

  Rachel’s eyebrows arched and her mouth fell open, but she said nothing.

  Matthew, who was peering into the fridge, swung around. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  Rachel came and stood beside Saverio, placing her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shrug it off.

  ‘Matty, we’ve just heard that your uncle Leo has died.’

  There was a moment of incomprehension and then Matthew sheepishly hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  Saverio couldn’t speak. He felt wretched. He wasn’t sorry that his brother was dead, he could only feel relief.

  It was over.

  •

  In the end Rachel did not fly up north with him. She had been on higher duties since the beginning of the year, taking over the management of her unit from Gloria, who was on long-service leave. The extra money had been useful, allowed them to pay Matthew’s university fees upfront, but it had meant Rachel working longer hours, bringing work home on the weekends and having to fly regularly to Canberra to assist the minister while parliament was sitting. Saverio felt as if he had hardly seen her over the last month; she had worked late every night organising an international conference on industrial relations. In response to his complaints she had booked a four-day retreat for them at Mount Hotham after the conference. Saverio was a keen skier but it was years since they had visited the snow. On the night they’d heard the news about Leo, she had come into the bedroom and announced that she was going to cancel the retreat.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t go to both Leo’s funeral and the snow. I just don’t have the time.’

  ‘I want to go to Mount Hotham with you.’ He beckoned her over and pulled her onto the bed. Her hand was greasy with the lotion she’d been rubbing into her arms. ‘I really want this holiday. You don’t have to come to the funeral. I just want to bury him, say my goodbyes and that’s it. I’d rather go alone.’

  Her eyes were searching his face. She didn’t believe him. Or didn’t want to believe him. ‘I think I should be there.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he groaned. ‘As if Leo would have given a fuck if you were there or not.’

  Her hand slipped out of his. Her eyes were cold, distant.

  ‘More than anything,’ he continued, lowering his voice, introducing a note of pleading, ‘I want to be away with you, just you. That’s what I’m going to need after the funeral.’

  She gave no answer, just kissed him on the forehead and went back into the ensuite. In the mirror he watched her finish applying her creams, watched her floss and brush her teeth, grinned as she slid the door shut to take a pee, enjoying as he always did the fact that even after so many years she could still be shy with him. He’d also caught the hint of relief in her expression. She would have willingly come to say her farewell to Leo. He had always made her laugh. But Saverio knew she would have been dreading the idea of spending time with any of Leo’s old friends.

  •

  As the plane began its descent into Coolangatta, Saverio took out his earphones and looked down at the splendour of the Pacific and the ugly town thrusting out of the lush green landscape.

  Matthew had been rendered almost dumb by the news of his uncle’s death; not from any personal shock or grief, for he had very few memories of Leo, but rather out of fear of having to communicate somehow with a supposedly mourning father. He had created a playlist on Saverio’s MP3 player filled with uncomplicated rock-and-roll from the late seventies and early eighties. A tinny whisper of ‘Brass in Pocket’ still seeped softly from the earphones as an unsmiling stewardess leaned over to scold him. ‘Please turn it off, sir, we are about to land.’

  Saverio settled back in his seat. He did appreciate Matty’s clumsy effort at sympathy; it was a loving, masculine gesture. Words would have been impossible between them. Saverio didn’t dare confess to his son his ambivalence about Leo’s death. He had always been more comfortable with his daughter. On hearing the news, Adelaide had rushed to him and clutched him tight, whispering, I know it’s difficult, I know it must be. It had been exactly the right thing to say. He had marvelled at her innate wisdom: only two years older than her brother and, no matter how much Saverio still tried to deny it, undoubtedly an adult.

  He gritted his teeth and held tight to the armrests as the aeroplane surged. In a few seconds the wheels would touch earth, the moment he always feared, the point where the hubris of this mass of steel and wire defying gravity would end in calamity for all on board. The bronzed gentleman farmer sitting next to him, with the open-necked polo shirt and the clearly expensive Italian loafers, stifled a yawn. The wheels of the craft touched asphalt, the plane pogoed, swayed from side to side, then righted itself and screeched forward on the runway. They were safe.

  The drive from Coolangatta to Mullumbimby cut through some of the loveliest forest in the country. Saverio could see that if one believed in deities, one could call it God’s country, could imagine that the hills and coves and vast open space were the garden and sky of Eden. From time to time, as the rental car climbed into the hinterland, he would catch sight of the ocean sparkling in the rear-view mirror, the silvery light of the sky touching the glimmer of the sea. It was beautiful. No wonder his brother had made this part of the world home. But as he veered off the highway onto Demons Creek Road, Saverio felt a knotting in his stomach. He tightened his grip on the wheel.

  Money had clearly been put into the communities that dotted the verdant hills. Eleven years ago the road had still been gravel. Now it was shiny black bitumen. Architect-designed houses jutted out of the greenery, all with prominent verandahs overlooking the sea.

  When Leo had first moved there in the early nineties there still existed the remnants of a commune, the property itself owned by a septet of academics who had been radicalised as students at universities in Sydney and Melbourne. The commune had disbanded soon after Leo had moved there with Julian but, nostalgically loyal to their old politics, the landlords had all agreed that Leo could live and paint there rent-free. Saverio and Rachel had urged him to buy some land when it was still going cheap, but Leo had scoffed at their capitalist avarice. To the end he had refused any of the money left to him by his parents.

  ‘I don’t believe in inheritance,’ he had said brutally to Rachel when she phoned after his father had finally died and they needed to know what to do with the portion of the estate left to Leo.

  ‘But what do you want to do with the money?’
she persisted.

  The answer had come a week later in the form of a letter. Half of the money, it stated, was to go to the Aboriginal community centre in Redfern, the rest to an outreach centre in Kings Cross.

  The lawyer had raised her eyebrows on reading the letter and whistled out loud. ‘Are you sure your brother is fully cognisant of his responsibilities?’ It was intended as a joke but they did not miss the appeal in her question.

  ‘Just do whatever he says,’ Saverio had replied. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to speak to the prick.’

  The car nosed its way up the dirt drive to the cottage. Eleven years before there had been an immaculately maintained herb garden, a fig tree, and lime and lemon trees. The garden was now overrun by weeds, and rotting fruit covered the ground underneath the untamed foliage of the trees. Saverio wasn’t surprised. The garden had been Julian’s project and once he’d gone Leo wouldn’t have had the gumption to keep it together.

  The chassis of the car scraped along the ground as the front left wheel sank into a pothole. Frigging Leo, Saverio thought, he couldn’t look after anything. Five or six cars were already parked haphazardly across the yard.

  There was music coming from the cottage and Saverio could see people standing and sitting on the wide verandah. He felt as though every eye was on him, and his hand trembled as he turned off the ignition. The sun was setting behind the mountain and the crowd on the verandah was in shade. He was dreading the small talk, the hours to come. For a moment he contemplated simply turning back, weaving down the mountain back to the coast, to get the last plane home to Melbourne. The seatbelt was still buckled up, his foot still rested on the accelerator.

  He started at a tap on the window. Julian’s cheery tanned face was smiling down at him—some grey stubble on the chin, the buzz-cut hair speckled salt-white at the temples, but his skin still smooth and his shining eyes still youthful.

  Julian opened the door and the two men hugged awkwardly. Saverio couldn’t help thinking, what are we to each other? Not really friends; ex in-laws? Was there a new language, as yet undiscovered by himself and Rachel, that covered such relationships? He was relieved when Julian stepped back.