by Kirsty Eagar
‘Yeah, you’re not rabid at all.’ Blondie calmly moved the bag she’d dumped at her feet so he could see her shoes—black Docs—then let his gaze travel higher: black stockings; black knee-length skirt; a white blouse, which, thanks to Georgie, had an extra two buttons undone; her made-up face; the cigarette tucked behind her ear. ‘Oh, we’re a working girl. That’s an interesting identity.’
The second connotation was intended. Jess gave him an unimpressed look.
‘So how was work?’ he asked. ‘At the Queensland Performing Arts Centre.’ Jess was thrown for a second, then remembered he’d seen her apron. ‘Remind me to catch a show sometime,’ he added. ‘You can serve me.’
‘Wow, you’re like a double-entendre machine. Listen, I’ve got a problem. I don’t know what to call you anymore. It can’t be Blondie, not now you’re so pink. And Killer’s stupid. I’m thinking of Mitchell Crawford. How do you like that for a name? Because I’m pretty sure it is your name, unless of course it’s Julian Lloyd. Hard to know really.’
Blondie’s face changed—a kind of closing off. ‘Easier than you’d think.’
‘I’d say Mitch. You don’t look like a Julian. And most of those clothes were tagged as Mitchell’s. It was only the jersey that said Julian. Do you want to know how I figured it out? You were doing your whites when I saw you in the laundry. And people always do their colours first, so it must have been your second trip. When I remembered that particular detail, it all made sense.’
A muscle twitched beneath his eye. ‘You’re quite the detective.’
‘I was impressed. It’s not often you meet a man who separates.’
Blondie shook his head. ‘You and your mouth.’
‘What’s the problem? Don’t like lippy women?’
‘Only if they’re sucking my cock.’
It was such an ugly thing to say. Which, of course, was why he’d said it.
‘You know what? You’re boring.’ Jess grabbed her bag, about to walk off, but Blondie gripped her arm.
‘What’d you do with it? The jersey.’
Jess was startled by his intensity. ‘It was the prize for …’ She waved a hand at his hair. ‘And I didn’t win. What’s the big deal? It’s just a jersey. Is this Julian guy giving you grief over it or something?’
Blondie opened his mouth, then just shook his head. They had reached an impasse.
It was broken by a third party. The guy, in his mid-twenties and probably the only person in the RE wearing a suit, was tall and thin, with a thick mop of dark brown hair. If he felt hot, it didn’t show, his skin pale and freckled. His sudden appearance was startling, like receiving a surprise visit from an undertaker.
‘I’m going,’ he said, his gaze on Blondie, the statement delivered as a demand.
‘And?’ Blondie asked, aggression to spare.
‘And do you need a lift?’
‘Nuh.’
The newcomer waited—perhaps for Blondie to grow up. Evidently, he realised it might be a while, because he looked pointedly at the glass in Blondie’s hand, and then at Jess, radiating disapproval, and said, ‘So, straight back on the horse, are we? Good to see you haven’t learned a fucking thing.’ With that, he left, shaking his head.
Blondie stared after him, glassy-eyed, anger leaching the colour from his face. ‘It’s a Coke!’ he shouted in a strangled voice.
‘And I am not a horse!’ Jess shouted, just as angrily. To Blondie: ‘I’m going.’
‘What do you want? A round of applause?’ His gaze raked over her. ‘You’ll find the ferals out the back.’
CHAPTER 12
SHUT UP AND LET ME GO
Jess charged into the beer garden feeling like she wanted to start a war. Most of the Unity crowd—her people, the bunch of state-schooled, regionally grown, subversive, disorderly individuals that she called friends and Blondie called ferals—were clustered around two tables near the bar. She spotted Brendan among a satellite clump of skinny-jeaned, flannie-clad Unity old boys just a short distance away, and a second later, as though he’d somehow sensed her presence, he saw her, and glowered. It made Jess feel slightly sick, but not enough to leave. If he wanted to make a scene, well, good. She was in the right mood for it. Still, she gave him a wide berth as she pushed through the crowd. Then someone kicked her in the back of the knee, making her leg buckle and pulling her up short.
‘Hola!’ Leanne held up a beer jug in salute.
‘Just once, can you greet me with something other than violence?’
‘It’s how I show I like you. You want cerveza, little girl?’ Jess glanced at her rum, realising she’d finished it. Leanne was already tipping the jug over her glass, crowing, ‘Look at the head on that!’ She was obviously in one of her maniac moods. Her red hair was slicked back, and her T-shirt read: Never Trust a Ginger. Jess didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed—there was every chance Leanne could have chosen to wear the Knights jersey. With Blondie in the vicinity, it might have proved interesting.
Jess sliced the froth off her beer with a finger. ‘Where’s Allie?’
‘Where do you think?’ Leanne said.
‘Really? Azzopardi?’
‘Yeah, he’s gonna have a party. In Allie’s pants.’
Jess glanced around, spotting Allie at the end of the neighbouring table, playing on her phone. Mikey had his arm around her shoulders, and was busy conducting a conversation with another guy over Allie’s head. ‘I thought they were done. She seemed pretty down the day after the toga party.’
‘That’s ’cause she found a used condom in his bin. She went round to his room the morning after. Knew he was at lectures.’
‘Whoa. That’s pretty …’
‘A-grade disturbing,’ Leanne finished for her.
‘Yeah, and not fair,’ Jess said. ‘I mean, Mikey can’t read situations at the best of times, let alone minds. He’s not a bad person, he’s just … Mikey.’
‘Now, now. Much easier to have sex with someone than to tell them you like them,’ Leanne pointed out. ‘That’s why she put up that selfie. Told ya—rages inside.’
Jess knew the one Leanne meant: No tan lines! Allie had posted it late in the afternoon of the same day. It was her sunbathing on the roof, her hair framing her face in a freshly washed golden cloud, her lipstick red and matt, her white teeth gleaming. You couldn’t see her eyes, though—she’d been wearing sunglasses. Jess had noticed the shot when she’d gone back on Instagram to block users from her account.
‘Not that I judge,’ Leanne added with a smirk.
The smirk annoyed Jess. ‘What’s Allie at uni for again?’
‘Multimedia design.’
‘No, but what does she want to do afterwards? Job wise.’
‘She wants to get into the educational market. Design learning games and stuff for kids. Likes them for some reason.’
‘Well, see, I didn’t know any of that.’
‘So?’
‘So why don’t you stop acting?’
‘Oh.’ Leanne’s eyes widened in amusement. ‘Smiley’s getting disillusioned.’
‘I know you care,’ Jess told her. But if Leanne did, she’d never admit it. It wasn’t the Unity way, a code that seemed to fit Leanne to a T: care, but not too much; observe, but don’t get involved; irony over earnestness, at all times.
Don’t judge, but don’t give a shit either—say it in Latin and you had a motto.
Jess sighed. ‘You’re annoying, and I’ve got to sit down. I’ve been standing up all day.’
She found a seat beside Callum, who interrupted the conversation he was having to nudge her with his shoulder. ‘How are you travelling, little fella?’
‘Yeah, okay, considering Brendan’s here. Notice how he’s specially cut out the neck of his T-shirt? Yes, okay, we get it—you’ve got tattoos!’ Jess grimaced. ‘Sorry. There goes my dignified silence.’
Callum shrugged, not particularly bothered. ‘It’s a messy situation. But you know I’m here if you eve
r need to talk about it. I told him the same thing. He’s just hurtin’, that’s all. He was so far gone on you that it’ll take him a while to come back.’
Jess smiled. Callum always made her feel better. It might have been the slow, lilting way he talked, or because he was gentle, an irony-free zone—she thought he was anyway; she was never quite sure what irony actually was. She gave him a wink. ‘Are you offering your counselling services?’
‘What?’ Callum said, puzzled. Then his eyes widened behind his glasses and he said, ‘Hoh!’ He gave an embarrassed laugh and his baby face flushed. ‘Did Farren tell you? Don’t ever bring it up in front of Davey Walters, hey. Things between him and me got pretty rocky there for a while.’
Jess frowned. ‘She only did it because he’d slept with someone else.’
‘Yeah, but still …’ Callum shook his head. ‘How would you feel if one of your best mates did that to you?’ He was visibly upset and it pulled Jess up short. That’s what Unity did to you, she realised. Made you treat everything as a joke. And in his own quiet way, Callum was pointing out that this joke wasn’t funny. ‘Pretty big, hey? Forgiving your mate for that. I’ve got to wear that, too.’
‘Sorry, Callum,’ Jess said, flushed, distressed.
Callum ruffled her hair, relaxed once more. ‘Don’t worry about it, Jess. I know you. We’re friends. You didn’t mean anything by it.’
Jess frowned. ‘We are real friends, aren’t we? You’re not just doing it because you think familiarity will give you an advantage?’
Callum looked confused. ‘Have I done something?’
Jess laughed, squeezing his shoulders. ‘No. I was just settling an argument.’
He looked past her, the expression on his face changing to one she didn’t understand until she realised Brendan had joined them. It was a wonder she hadn’t felt the vibrations, all those wires pulled tight. Callum slipped away, joining the other Z-floor guys. Leanne and Farren were there, too, and Leanne glanced back at Jess, her face amused. Observing, but not getting involved.
‘Hey, Brendan,’ Jess said in a subdued voice.
She wanted him to look at her, but he kept his head bowed, his face hidden by his long fringe. The same old pattern. Withholding. Making her draw him out. He’d removed his ear gauge, and the sight of his flaccid, holey lobe made her feel sick. She reminded herself that she didn’t have to play—she could even leave if she wanted. But there was a difference between knowing it and owning it, and that difference was habit.
‘How do you think that made me feel, Jess?’ Brendan asked suddenly, his voice low, compressed with feeling. ‘Seeing you leave with another guy.’
‘It wasn’t what you think! It was for—’
‘Why won’t you answer my calls? My texts, emails?’
Jess didn’t answer, crushed by a familiar sense of claustrophobia. Because if I keep responding you’ll never, ever let go, she thought. And she couldn’t understand how someone would rather you pretended to care than be truthful.
Brendan pulled a wad of paper out of his pocket. ‘I wrote this for you.’
But when he tried to hand it to her, Jess leaned back, refusing to take it. He was still for a moment, then he drew his fringe back in that careful way of his, and there was the shock of his pretty green eyes. He was crying. Jess felt worse than she had when she’d broken it off with him in the first place. When he’d gone, she realised she was holding her breath.
•
After that, Jess made a solid attempt at getting drunk, joining in with the T-floor jug rounds. It didn’t work, only left her feeling numb, no longer a participant in the night but outside it somehow, sitting on the table, playing with her Zippo. Farren arrived and told her to buck up, plucking the cigarette from behind Jess’s ear and breaking it into small pieces. But she rubbed Jess’s arm while she listened to a blow-by-blow of the exchange with Brendan. Then she left for The Zoo with Davey and the Z-floor guys, after trying to convince Jess to join them. Shortly afterwards, Jess noticed Allie and Michael Azzopardi kissing—messily—while behind them a couple of guys started to push each other around, and the whole night took on a slow inevitability that made her hope the other T-floor girls would get bored soon so she could go home. But when Michael approached the table, everything about him suggesting a strong headwind—his braced shoulders and lifted chest, the way he bounced on the balls of his feet rather than rolling from the heel—she straightened, suddenly alert.
‘Mikey!’ Jess grabbed his shirt sleeve as he passed. ‘Where’s Allie gone?’
‘Bathroom,’ he told her, startled. Then he recovered. ‘Michael. You know I hate you guys calling me that.’
‘Just come here.’ She pulled him down until they were face level. ‘What’s the score with you guys?’ she hissed urgently. ‘Have you talked about what’s happening?’
‘Aw, come on, Flash. No need for that.’ Michael gave her an embarrassed grin, pushing at his glasses, which were fashionable and suited him. ‘We’re good.’
Jess dragged him closer. ‘You need to listen to me,’ she told him, speaking slowly and enunciating her words as if he was hearing impaired, not just alcohol-affected. ‘Just because someone acts like it’s casual, doesn’t always mean that to them it is just casual. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
Michael’s eyes went up, Michael’s eyes went down, Michael’s eyes went side to side. He finally focused on her, frowning. ‘I think so.’
‘Good.’ Jess released him abruptly. ‘Now get away from me. She can’t see us talking.’ Ignoring the wounded look he gave her, she lay back on the table, hands behind her head, the movement causing a slight dizziness that made the stars above her wheel. It occurred to her that she might be drunk after all, but when people started jumping to The Ting Tings, it didn’t feel like drunk enough.
It was then Jess noticed the people on the balcony, primarily because most of them were wearing Hawaiian shirts. Blondie was the odd man out. Not only had he failed the dress code, he was standing apart from his friends—back from the railing. He was staring down at her, his expression the one people have when they’re looking at you, but thinking about something else. Jess met his gaze, showing no surprise, no reaction at all. And for one curious moment the world was still.
‘Bit awkward for you. Him being here.’
Jess tilted her head back to see Michael’s upside-down face. He was standing on the other side of the table, behind her, and must have witnessed the exchange.
Michael glanced back up at Blondie. ‘If he gives you any trouble, let me know. Can’t stand the arrogant prick.’
‘You know him?’
‘Yeah, from rugby—the inter-college comp. I actually didn’t think he’d come back, you know.’
‘Come back from what? His year off?’
Michael frowned down at her. ‘You don’t know? I thought somebody would’ve told you.’
Jess sat up, twisting around to see him properly. ‘What are you talking about?’
But Michael was staring at a point somewhere beyond her right shoulder, deep in thought. ‘I’d love to know if he’s playing again this year. Did he say anything to you?’ He pushed at his glasses. ‘You know he played for Uni, right?’
‘We didn’t talk about rugby, Michael. We didn’t even get around to names. Is he Mitchell Crawford or Julian Lloyd?’
Michael’s eyes snapped back to Jess. ‘Well, he can’t be Julian Lloyd.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Julian Lloyd is dead. That’s Mitch Crawford. They’re both from Bundaberg. Went to school together, used to play rugby together. Best mates. Julian died in a car crash while they were home for the Christmas holidays. Mitch took last year off because of it.’
Jess gripped the table, feeling like she was in free fall. Finally, she understood why Blondie—why Mitch—had kept asking her about the jersey. She looked up at the balcony, meeting his gaze. When he saw her face, he obviously realised what Michael had told her, because he turned
away and started pushing his way through the crowd.
Jess stood, grabbing her bag. ‘Oh, God. This is so bad.’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it. If he didn’t tell you, how were you supposed to know?’
Jess took off without saying anything. Michael didn’t know whose jersey she’d stolen. No one did. Because she’d taken the tag off. By the time she reached him, Mitch was nearly at the door.
‘Mitch!’ The impropriety of using his name, like she was trespassing.
He turned back automatically, frowning when he saw her, one hand held up to ward her off. And then someone grabbed Jess’s arm, spinning her around.
‘So you are doing him now.’ Brendan. In a frenzy, drunk and ridiculous, spraying her face with spittle. ‘Don’t forget to check his laptop’s closed. What I want to know is, who’d you fuck back in Rockhampton, Jess? Who broke us up?’
Jess gaped, feeling the attention they’d gathered press down on her. All those eyes. She glanced at the doorway, hoping Mitch had gone, but he’d stopped to watch too, his face completely devoid of anything approaching empathy. ‘No one,’ she finally managed. ‘You’re being—’ She reeled backwards as he flicked her in the face with the letter he’d written. ‘Brendan!’
‘Who?’
Jess stared at him, beyond humiliation now, her cheeks and neck burning. ‘Everybody,’ she hissed. ‘The whole damn town. All eighty thousand of them. Now leave me alone, you fucking psychopath.’
Her words vibrated through the air, drawing coughed laughter from the assembled peanut gallery. Brendan’s eyes grew slitted, mean. He turned from her, heading for Mitch, swaying slightly, and for one wild moment Jess thought he was about to throw a punch. Mitch looked to have reached the same conclusion, his arms held slightly away from the sides of his body. He was much bigger than Brendan.