I go hard for more than an hour, queen of the dancefloor. The club fills up a bit, but no one else is dancing yet. My favourite tracks keep coming. ‘Cream’ by Prince. ‘Tainted Love’ by Soft Cell. ‘Devil Inside’ by INXS. I spread my feet wide and shimmy low to the floor. When the chorus kicks in, I spring back up, whipping my hair around in circles, snapping my hips left and right, step-ball-changing and stretching my arms high above my head. I become aware of people around me, moving onto the dancefloor, but I ignore them and, as the beat quickens, I close my eyes. It’s like I’m swimming between the notes, diving down deep for the base, breaking the surface like a mermaid. I wish Hollie could see me now.
‘Hey, what d’ya know, it’s Gertie.’
I recognize the voice immediately and, when I open my eyes, there is Gavin leering at me with his pack of loser mates behind him.
‘Piss off,’ I say, turning away from him and dancing off towards the front edge of the floor. I scan the club, spread out below, and there’s something odd about it. Then it hits me that there’s no women – except the barmaids and me – just a sea of grey-haired suits and younger guys in polo shirts.
‘Love Shack’ starts up and I can’t resist doing my sixties moves, hopping from foot to foot, doing the swim, holding my nose like I’m going down underwater. I keep thinking I should go and get the last bus home but the music is addictive and my legs won’t stop. Someone touches me, hot fingers across my stomach. Gavin. I try to ignore him and just keep dancing, head flung back. The smell of cheap aftershave and stale beer fills the air. A hand clutches at my butt, holds it, squeezes hard. Fear snags in me. I stop dead. My arms drop to my sides. They’re all around me, winking and nodding, drunk from the Paddo. Dark jeans and checked shirts. Boots and plaited belts.
Gavin grins, fang-toothed.
‘Just fuck off, OK?’ I shout at him above the music, trying to act tough.
They laugh, mouths red and wide, but no sound comes out as they move in closer. I back away, off the dancefloor, into an alcove, but they follow me. I smack against a table. They crowd in, the press of hard legs against my body. A rasp of stubble burns my cheek. Gavin forces me down, back flat on the table. They’re laughing and chanting, over and over, ‘Show us yer tits, Gertie. Show us yer tits.’ I want to kick and bite and spit but I’ve clammed up. Gavin climbs up on the table. He straddles me, his thighs clenched either side of my waist. ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure is playing and it’s just about my favourite. I scream, this time for real, flailing my arms and kicking out with my legs. Gavin’s hand crawls up my skirt. I look over my shoulder, towards the dancefloor, but no one’s looking my way. In my head, I’m screaming. What happens now? This can’t be happening.
The music lurches to a halt and the house lights come up. Someone is shouting. Gavin steps back. The others look up. I twist my head to see what’s happening. The bar-girl with the vermilion undies is running across the dancefloor, the square-headed bouncer close behind.
‘Get the fuck off her,’ the bar-girl yells. The bouncer lurches in like an action hero, picking Gavin up and throwing him halfway across the floor. The others slink away gutless, as I peel myself off the table and bolt to the loos.
I’m standing, shaking against the wall. I catch my reflection blurred and tiny in a graffitied mirror opposite. I step up to it and I look just fine but not much like me either. Like they didn’t rape you or anything, I tell myself. The toilets are feral. I turn a tap on with my fingertips, splash water on my face. What a mess. I want to be home, tucked up in bed in my PJs. I re-apply my lippy and try to adjust my top to hide my cleavage. The foundation has melted off my face, exposing my freckles and the jagged white scar which sits above my right eyebrow. It’s past midnight and the last bus has gone and I don’t have enough money for a cab. I could call Mum to come and get me but it’s not worth the grief. A toilet flushes and I jump. From the cubicle, one long, blue Converse appears. I scan the room and catch the urinals in a bank along the wall. I’ve never seen a urinal before. Ha! I’m in the men’s. I head for the door.
‘You ’right?’
I wave a hand over my shoulder. ‘I’m fine.’
There’s a squeak of sandshoes across the floor.
‘You just prefer the men’s?’
I turn around. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. A shock of sun-bleached hair. He’s wearing faded Levi’s and a plain, red T-shirt. His arms are tanned, hairless and sinewy. He runs his hands under the water. Somehow, he looks familiar.
I smile back, just a little, and make my assessment of the men’s loos. ‘We’ve got better lighting and bigger mirrors, and it doesn’t smell so… ’
‘Rank?’
‘So bad of piss.’
He shakes his hands dry and wipes them on the front of his jeans. He looks up and flashes me a broad grin. His eyes aren’t blue but violet, the colour of squid ink or orchids, black grapes in sunlight. More shocking than beautiful. Something twists in me. I’m sure I know him from somewhere but the line is too cheesy to say. I step closer, drawn by his eyes, as if I might pluck one out to examine it.
‘They real?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Weird.’
He stares back at me. ‘You here with mates?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘I’m by myself.’
‘What? To pull?’
‘No. To dance.’
‘Nice seedy establishment you’ve chosen.’
‘If it’s so seedy what are you doing here?’
‘Buck’s night for some guy from uni. I’m supposed to meet them here.’ He checks his watch. ‘The strippers’ll be on soon.’ He winks and heads towards the door. ‘You coming, dancing girl?’
We stand at the back of the club. The dancefloor has been transformed into a stage. A girl about my age stands legs apart, completely naked save for a sparkly gold g-string and a long string of oversized pearls around her neck. Her body is child-thin, her skin milky white. Her breasts are small but pert. Something silver glints from the dark aureole of her right nipple and again from her belly-button. Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ starts up as the girl bangs her hips from side to side, blue-ish bone rippling under translucent skin. I lean back against the wall. I can’t help staring. As the lyrics kick in, she takes the pearls from her neck and swings them around and around like a lasso. She doesn’t smile, not once, just pouts and slides her small pink tongue over her front teeth. Men slouch back at tables and chairs around the stage, drinking beer, swapping sly glances with their mates. I spot the uni wankers crammed along the stage front, leaning forward like teenage groupies at a rock concert.
Gavin waves in our direction and Purple-eyes gives him the thumbs up.
‘Is he your mate?’
‘What, Garvo? Nah, not really. Mate of a mate. He got some chick preggers and he’s been conned into marriage by her oldies. Poor bastard. Nineteen and getting hitched. It’s his last night of freedom so we’re all out on the slash.’ He pauses, looks at me. ‘What, d’you know him?’
‘No.’
We stand in silence as I’m drawn back to the girl. She is rubbing the pearls, held taut with both hands, back and forth against her golden crotch.
‘What do you reckon?’ Purple-eyes nods towards the stage.
‘What?’
‘Does it turn you on?’
I shrug, non-committal, but the truth is, she does make me feel a bit sexy.
‘Tell you what, watch the rest with me then I’ll drive you home.’
For all I know he could be a complete psycho-murderer but then he seems harmless enough, like someone’s big brother, and I need a lift home and I’m still sure I know him from somewhere. Besides, he’s real hot.
‘What about your buck’s night?’
‘Got a big match tomorrow so I’m off the turps. Garvo’s so maggot he won’t notice.’
A slow clap starts up, wolf-whistles in-between. I look back to the stage. The girl has ditched
her g-string, showing off a hairless pussy. The pearls are gone, too. Sitar music is playing as she swivels her skinny hips like a belly dancer. She runs her hands over her breasts, then down her body, and sticks her fingers up inside. I wonder how many men, at that precise moment, have erections. The music stops and a hush falls over the room. A drum roll. The girl pushes her fingers further inside, her eyes closed, her mouth hanging open. Purple-eyes gulps. The drum roll finishes and the girl takes one large step forwards to the edge of the stage. She’s pulling something out of herself, something small, round and shiny which glistens under the spotlight. Then another shiny thing and another. I squint up at the stage. A roar goes up from the crowd. Loud, eager clapping and then I twig. The string of pearls. Each one coming out quicker now as the crowd goes wild and one man, rushing forwards, snatches the pearls and stuffs them in his mouth.
‘That’ll be Garvo,’ says Purple-eyes.
‘That’s disgusting!’
‘It’s not meant for chicks. Unless, of course, you’re a dyke. C’mon, want a lift or not?’
I hesitate. ‘But I don’t know your name.’
‘Scott.’
‘Rosie.’
He grabs my hand and kisses it like in the movies.
That night, Scott didn’t stop talking the whole way home, rattling off a compendium of ‘getting to know you’ facts about himself while I conscientiously took it all in like I was going to be tested. He told me he was nineteen, three years older than me. He’d just finished second year Human Movement Studies at Queensland Uni. He said his best mates were Bomber and Muzza and that he’d known them since kindergarten; he had an older brother called Nick who played in a band; his favourite colour was Kermit-the-frog green; and his favourite number was seven. He told me he was mad about sport, especially basketball, water polo and cricket; and his Mum’s beef lasagne was his favourite food, followed closely by Big Rooster’s chicken fillet fingers. By then, we were turning into my street.
‘Here’s fine.’ I pointed at the kerb, feeling like a little girl being driven home from school.
‘That your house?’ He pulled over, switching off the ignition.
‘Yep.’ I prayed Mum wouldn’t come storming out in her chenille.
‘Still scabbing off the oldies?’
‘Yeah,’ I admitted, trying to sound tough.
‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘Mum and Dad mind their own business, though. My bedroom’s downstairs so I pretty much do what I like.’ I pictured my tiny, pink room, smackers in the middle of the house, and my single bed.
We sat in the dark interior of his 1979 Gemini, listening to the engine contract, the cool night air slipping in around our bodies. I pressed my palms against the bare tops of my inner thighs. A new sensation burned in my gut. Sick excitement. I felt his eyes on my neck, my shoulders, my legs.
‘Lucky you don’t live far,’ I blurted out.
Scott grinned. ‘Lucky for what?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, burning up. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the lift.’ I fumbled with the door handle.
‘Door’s fucked from the inside. I’m afraid you’re stuck in here, babe. Unless of course you want to climb over me.’ His tone was light and playful but when I tried the door again it wouldn’t budge.
‘No kidding. This car’s a piece of shit.’ I thought about winding down the window and opening the door from the outside but instead I undid my seat-belt and, flipping onto my knees, crawled over the hand-brake. I wrapped my arms around his neck for leverage and hoisted myself on to his lap. The steering wheel dug into my back and my head butted against the ceiling. My chest was level with his nose. I turned to the door but it was locked, the button wedged beneath his elbow.
‘Move your elbow, please,’ I said. But his hand was behind my head, pulling me towards him. Our lips met and I was amazed at the softness of his mouth. He held the kiss then pushed his tongue inside, sliding it over my teeth and my gums. His mouth tasted sweet, of red cordial mingled with something even sweeter, like caramel. His tongue was smooth and slippery, gentle yet insistent. I pulled back.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
What’s up was that I hadn’t kissed anyone since I was nine. It was Friday morning cookery class when Frank Castelli, a chubby Italian boy, held the blunt side of a carving knife to my neck and poked his tongue in my gob while Mrs Hodge had her back turned rolling out pastry for our strawberry tarts.
‘I know this sounds silly but you look familiar,’ I said.
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’ We stared at each other, a beam of streetlight slicing between us.
‘Maybe out. Brisbane’s not that big, hey.’
‘No, that’s not it.’ I drummed my fingers against my temple. ‘Wait. It’ll come to me.’ A memory hook snagged in my brain. ‘I know! You were mates with Danny Bailey, weren’t you? You went to Grammar.’
‘Yeah. Nah.’ He tilted his head back, out of the light, and I couldn’t see his eyes. ‘Only for a bit.’ His voice had gone quieter, low and kind of distant.
‘I’m best friends with Hollie, his sister. God, I remember now. You used to come round to the house. That’s right. How funny.’ I thought back to the time, as a kid, I’d spied on them: Danny and his school mates, watching porno vids and drinking Mr Bailey’s vintage piss out of the cellar. But right then, I was too shy to mention it so I just smiled and blinked and tossed my hair back over my shoulder.
‘He’s still inside, isn’t he?’ Scott ran his fingers through his hair a few times. I still couldn’t see his eyes.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Were you there when it happened?’ Hollie had never told me who was there that night in the changing rooms after footy practice. The school and the parents had made sure that the boys’ names, except, of course, Matty Taylor’s, were kept well out of the papers.
‘Yeah, nah, but I wasn’t in on it.’ Scott cleared his throat and stretched out his legs. His face was back in the streetlight. He stared at me, tracing a finger down the side of my body, brushing against the edge of my breast, giving me awesome tingles. I could feel his erection against my thigh so I flashed him some bad-girl eye, but he’d spotted my scar. I turned away, patting my fringe down over it, but he pulled my hand off and ran a finger along the ridgy bit.
‘Don’t!’ I batted his hand away.
‘Whoa, sorry. What’s the big deal?’
‘I just don’t like it, alright? It’s ugly.’
‘Nah, scars are cool. It makes you look dangerous. Like you’ve been in a fight or something. How’d you get it?’
‘I fell off a bike when I was seven,’ I lied. ‘Nine stitches.’
‘Impressive.’
We pashed again. Our tongues synchronized better this time. He wrote my phone number in pen on the inside of his arm and I got out. He rolled the car backwards down the street without the engine on. I crept around the side of the house and climbed back through my bedroom window.
I stand in front of the cheval with my legs wide apart. There’s music in my head, a throbbing beat which starts slow but gets faster. I swing my hips from side to side, watching the bones ripple beneath my skin. My naked body excites and disgusts me. Last night, I met a boy with purple eyes.
Mum’s pearls are much smaller than the stripper’s; elegant, rosy buds which shimmer when I hold them up to the sunlight. She says she won’t ever wear them ever again because they were a present from Dad, but a few times I’ve caught her standing in the mirror with them on.
It’s easier than I thought getting them up inside me. I’d been worried it might hurt but it doesn’t. They sit up there nice and snug as I dance around my bedroom, flicking my hair and kicking out in my strappies. When I’ve had enough of that, I squat down on the floor, just like the stripper, and fish around for one end. As I pull them out, I pout and wink at the mirror and lick my lips. I imagine Scott watching me and I feel real bad, real sexy. I wonder what Hollie will say when I tell her I’ve pashed a real g
uy.
3
Even though I knew it was the last thing she’d want to hear, I couldn’t resist going round to tell Hollie that Scott was back. Since he’d been away, we’d slipped back into our old, childish habits of dressing up and doing Shakespeare and pashing in the cave. But with Scott back, all that would have to change. I thought it best to break it to her gently, or else she’d go all dark and gloomy.
I pulled up outside Hollie’s place, the last on the cul-de-sac which backed onto Mount Coot-tha national park. It sat, all dark brick and wrought-iron fancywork, like a fortress at the top of the hill. It couldn’t have been easy for her then, all alone in that big, draughty house with Danny locked up and Mr Bailey on business in the States half the time. As I got out of the car and walked up the steep drive, the bush was raucous with crickets getting loud and arsy as the sun went down. The gum trees quivered in the itchy heat as a crow, big as an eagle, broke through the scrub, swooping low and glinty-eyed to settle on top of the fence. My heart was tight and bursting with the thought of Scott, but I was sure Hollie wouldn’t be so ecstatic.
Before I met Scott, Hollie and I were inseparable. We did everything together. At All Hallows, the other girls thought we were weird. They used to call us names like ‘The Loony Lesbos’ and ‘The Dyke Duo’ but we didn’t care. We thought they were all dumb sluts anyway, destined to marry halfwitted men and spawn quarter-witted babies. Whereas Hollie and I, we’d set our sights loftily high. Hollie wanted a kind, gentle-natured fellow with soft, blond curls and deep-blue eyes who would read her Milton at bedtime and brush her hair. I fancied a darker, broodier Heathcliff type, who would die for me. Up in the cave, we’d close our eyes and practise pashing for hours, imagining each other as a fantasy lover. We thought love was like in the movies; all thumping hearts and sonnets and red roses. But that was all before I met Scott. Before I got thinking I wanted a taste of the real thing. From day one, Hollie never liked him. He didn’t fit our fantasy mould. Once I started going out with him, Hollie refused to see me. It wasn’t until Scott went overseas that we started hanging out again.
The Dark Part of Me Page 3