‘Rosie! Thanks for bringing those up,’ said Mrs Greenwood.
‘No worries,’ I said, dumping the salad bowls on the bench.
‘Hi.’ Kirstie waved one blue rubber glove in my direction and smiled sickly sweet. We’d been in first-year law together until I dropped out. I shot her a fake smile, then turned back to Mrs Greenwood, who looked more youthful than when I’d seen her last. Her hair was streaked with gold highlights and she was wearing a daring shade of hot pink on her lips which matched the giant hibiscuses on her dress. She was way more glamorous than Mum.
‘Kirstie and I were just talking about you,’ she said.
‘Really? That’s nice.’ It pissed me off no end to see them so chummy. I plonked myself down on a stool. ‘Good to have Scott back?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Greenwood, untying her apron. ‘I’ve missed washing his dirty footy socks, making his cooked breakfasts.’
‘I heard he had a girlfriend over there,’ said Kirstie. ‘Some Asian chick.’
A spurt of vomit came in my mouth but I swallowed it down, gripping the bench. Kirstie’s beady eyes vultured for a reaction but Mrs Greenwood, never wanting to cause a scene, came to the rescue.
‘He hasn’t mentioned anyone to me.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Besides, I can’t imagine Scott with an Asian, can you, Rosie?’
I shook my head and breathed. Good on ya, Mrs Greenwood. Nah, I can’t imagine Scott banging an Asian. No way. No fucking way. And even though I’d seen the photo, I believed her ’cause she was Mrs Greenwood and she was like my second mum.
Kirstie sniffed and turned back to the washing-up. ‘Well, that’s just what I heard.’ I scowled at the back of her small, peroxided head.
‘Anyone for bourbon?’ Mrs Greenwood pulled a tray of ice-cubes from the deep-freeze.
‘Better not,’ said Kirstie. ‘I’ve got to study this weekend.’
‘Rosie?’ Mrs Greenwood cracked the ice-tray against her thigh and bashed the cubes out onto the bench.
‘Sure.’ I jumped up off the stool, eager to talk more about Scott.
Armed with a bottle of Jim Beam, a litre of Coke and two glasses with ice, we went out to the front veranda. Mrs Greenwood lit a citronella candle for the mossies as I kicked back in a low-slung deck chair, my feet up on the railing. The night hummed around us. A streetlight flickered out front. The last train to Ipswich rattled in the distance. Mrs Greenwood mixed our drinks. I was wrecked before we even started. We chatted for a good hour or so about all kinds of rubbish. Like the new dress she was making to wear on Christmas Day, the best way to make pavlova, and her menopause. She told me all about the hot and cold flushes, the nausea and the periods of forgetfulness and neurotic behaviour. She said you could feel your eggs drying up inside you. It was strange how Mum never talked to me about these kinds of things. She was only a few years younger than Mrs Greenwood so she was probably due her menopause quite soon.
‘But listen to me droning on,’ Mrs Greenwood said, mixing herself another bourbon. ‘I’m starved for female conversation.’
‘We used to chat all the time.’
‘That’s right. Scott used to complain that I hogged you.’
‘So, d’ya reckon he’s changed much since he’s been overseas?’ I wheedled.
‘He’s got that dreadful beard.’
‘I don’t mind it.’
‘It’s terrible.’
‘What about what Kirstie said?’
‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said, patting my lap. ‘He’d have told me if there was anyone serious.’
‘But do you think… ’ I wanted more, some extra reassurance but I held back. ‘Do you think he’ll stay here for a while?’
‘If he so much as mentions going anywhere we’ll chain him to the bed!’
We laughed and, after finishing our second bourbon each, Mrs Greenwood yawned.
‘Nearly two!’ she said. ‘I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Do you want me to call you a cab?’
‘No… I’ll be alright.’ Why couldn’t I just stay over like all the other times when I slept in the spare room, sneaking downstairs to Scott’s bedroom once she’d hit the sack? What was different now? I felt cheated, like she’d been leading me on.
‘But how will you get home?’ She stood up. ‘You’ll be over the limit.’
A knot of steel twisted in my chest as it dawned on me that things were different between us. ‘Mum said she’d pick me up,’ I lied.
‘At this hour?’
‘Yeah, she doesn’t mind.’
‘Well, say hi to her for me.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
She said goodnight, bending over and kissing me on the cheek. Her lips were sticky with booze.
After she’d gone inside, I emptied the rest of the bourbon into the half-empty Coke bottle and went down the front steps, around through the side door and across the rumpus to Scott’s bedroom. I’d had a fair bit to drink but I felt alright considering. There were low voices and music coming from inside but the door was locked. In the past, Scott’d only locked the door when we were having sex, in case Mr Greenwood, mistaking grunts and groans for burglars, came downstairs swinging his riot baton. I rapped lightly. The music went dead, followed by hushed whispering and muffled footsteps across the carpet.
‘Who is it?’ An edgy whisper. His.
‘Rosie.’
A pause, then the door opened. Scott’s face appeared in the crack.
‘I thought you were Dad.’ His eyes were bloodshot and he was grinning.
‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
‘But we’re—’
I barged past him into the room. The curtains were pulled tight, held together by a clothes peg. The air was thick and hazy with smoke, the smell of pot overpowering. Bomber and Muzza sat cross-legged on the bed: Bomber puffing on the biggest joint I’d ever seen, Muzza smiling with his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wall. Kirstie had gone home.
Scott locked the door again, pressed play on the stereo with his big toe and sat down on a broken swivel chair, feet up on the desk. The suitcase had been shoved half under the bed. I thought about the photo, ripped to shreds down the side of the wall. There was nowhere to sit so I undid my strappies and sat on the floor with my legs stretched out, toes pointing in Scott’s direction, not daring to look at him. I stared at a square centimetre patch of murky-green carpet. Awkward silence filled the room. I took a slug on my Coke-bourbon combo.
‘So, you back for good?’ I said, shooting him a sneaky glance.
He shrugged, tipping back in his chair. ‘Hope not.’
‘You gonna get a job like your old man wants?’ Bomber sucked greedily on the joint, holding it in then opening his mouth wide as a goldfish, blowing smoke rings. His face swam in and out of focus.
Scott reached for the joint and Bomber passed it over. ‘I’ve got some debts to pay off. But I’m not staying in this shithole for long.’ He took a drag. ‘Tell me what there is to do here except go on slurpee runs to the seven-eleven.’
‘Man, it’s not that bad,’ said Muzza. ‘You should check out the Valley.’
‘Yeah, Woody,’ Bomber added, ‘there’s a big rave next Saturday at Arena. Oblivion or some shit like that. They’re headlining some decent DJs from Europe. I can hook us up with some A-class.’ Bomber thought he was the fucking business but he was just desperate to appear cool in front of Scott. But then, we were all a bit in awe of him just because he’d been living in London for two years.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Scott re-lit, toking hard to get it going. Before, he’d always been against drugs, even pot. I watched him inhale. No coughing or spluttering. Perhaps the Asian chick had got him into it. I pictured him fucking her stoned, rolling around in some king-sized hotel bed, and it made the bourbon bubble inside me.
‘Give us a go,’ I demanded, trying to focus on a stubbly patch of his jaw.
Looking straight at me, he took another puff, pinching the remaining stub between his thumb an
d middle finger. ‘Since when do you spliff?’ he said, exhaling smoothly.
‘Fair while. At work, mostly,’ I said, enjoying his attention.
‘The coffee shop?’
‘Yeah. Trish and me. When we’re bored or fucked off.’ It sounded like bullshit but it was the truth. ‘What about you? You never used to.’
‘Things change.’
‘We were wasted all the time over there,’ said Bomber, talking through the smoke. ‘Weren’t we, Woody? And not just weed. Every weekend, off our tits raving. It was mental. And the chicks… ’
I looked over at Scott but he was studying the carpet, picking fluff out of it with forced intent. I wanted to get up and shake him, until the truth about the Asian chick came tumbling out, but I sat there, my eyes boring into the top of his sandy head.
‘Yeah, man. We had ourselves some prime pommie pussy.’ Bomber jabbed at the air with his rapper fist. ‘Muzz, you sure missed out, man.’
‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me,’ said Muzza.
‘If it was so good, why didn’t you stay, then, Bomber?’ I flared, knocking back some more bourbon.
‘Too cold for him,’ said Scott, looking up at last. ‘He might look like a hard man but he couldn’t hack the winter, could ya, mate?’
‘That’s crap. I was skint.’
‘Yeah, that’s your story and you stick to it,’ Scott grinned.
‘Fuck yers all,’ said Bomber. ‘Just remember who gets your gear, hey?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got myself a new supplier.’ Scott kicked me gently. ‘Hey, babe?’
‘Who?’ said Muzz, confused.
Scott passed me his dying joint. ‘So, how good’s your shit?’
I sucked hard on the soggy end but it was dead. ‘What? Yeah. Not bad. Pretty good.’
‘Great, ’cause your shit’s shit, Bomber,’ said Scott. ‘All leaf. You should have tried the gear I was getting before I left. From this Paki guy who grew it in his basement. Fuck, I miss London.’ Scott turned to me. ‘So, can you get us some off this Trish girl?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘No problem.’ I didn’t know what Trish could get but in the next breath, I’d promised him ten ecstasy pills and a fifty bag of speed. Right then, I would’ve promised the heavens and oceans and all the fucking universes in between.
‘Fab.’ He bent down and kissed me on the cheek. His face was close enough for me to pash him. His mouth hovered on the edge of my vision like a gorgeous bird, his lips all glossy. I imagined reaching out, touching them, my finger tracing the top, then the bottom lip, slipping inside, his tongue soft and wet, warm and pink and lovely. In and out. Round and round. Scott was back in his chair, acres away from me.
I knocked back some more bourbon and wondered how long it’d be before Bomber and Muzza racked off.
‘Hey, Woody,’ Bomber said. ‘What happened to that Asian bitch you were doing?’
I swivelled my back to him, not wanting to hear it, but the bastard couldn’t help but revel.
‘Fuck off, Bomber,’ Scott said.
‘You should have seen her, Muzz, she was so fuck-ing nas-ty.’
‘Yeah?’ said Muzz, egging him on. ‘I heard some stories about her, alright.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Scott, dead serious.
‘Yeah, man. Bad like you wouldn’t believe. Great arse. Pins up to her cunt. You know it.’ Bomber jumped up on the bed and started air-fucking. ‘I could hear Woody banging her through the walls. She’d scream and carry on and shit like a filthy fucking chinky-whore.’
I looked over at Scott, wanting him to save me, to say it was all bullshit, but he was staring daggers at Bomber. ‘Fucking shut it or you’ll be sorry,’ was all he said.
‘Nah, Woody. Admit it. You were one lucky prick getting your cock into that every night. Oh, man, she had the tightest fucking arse I’d ever seen.’
Scott flashed past me, wrestling Bomber onto the bed, and pummelling him in the stomach. Muzza piled on top. They were all laughing, tangled on the bed like some fucking orgy to which I wasn’t invited. The room smudged and blurred a myriad dirty colours. A flaming comet of booze rocketed from my gut, burning up my oesophagus. I peeled myself off the floor and raced, arms streaming, feet thundering, out through the rumpus and the side door to the front lawn where I spewed all over Mrs Greenwood’s prize marigolds.
I lay down in the middle of the road, pretending to be dead. Even at that time of night the tarmac was warm as the beach. I pressed my ear to the ground and could hear tiny, groaning noises as the bitumen sighed off its heat. When Scott came out, he would see me lying like I was dead on the road, my legs crooked as if they’d been smashed and broken. Then he’d remember how he loved me, just like before. Just like after the car crash when we fucked in the wet grass and I came so hard I thought I was dying.
I could hear a car coming up the road. It approached slowly, its tyres crunching on the loose gravel. I lay still, holding my breath, pinned like a butterfly to the road, waiting for Scott to come flying off the lawn and whisk me up in his arms. The car rolled closer towards me, engine smooth and purring. I melted into the ground. The tar-baby screamed, ‘Get up! Get up!’ into my ear, but I closed my eyes and thought about dying, wondering how it would be. The crunch of my bones. The squelch of my skin popping under hot rubber. I smiled and sank further into the tarmac, just then quite happy to die. But the car braked sharply, gravel spraying over me. My body bathed in white headlight. The sulphur pong of unleaded petrol and the clean tang of new chrome filled my nostrils. I lay motionless, listening to my heartbeat, waiting for Scott to save me. Classical music was coming from somewhere, and I could feel heat from the radiator. He bent over me, scooping me off the tarmac. I was all floppy-flimsy as he carried me across the road in his strong arms and set me down on the lawn. The grass was cool and springy beneath my feet.
‘What the hell were you doing?’
The voice was familiar but it wasn’t Scott’s. I opened my eyes. A man, tall and dark, loomed over me. He was wearing a long, grey trench with silver buttons. His hands fluttered like white birds out from the cuffs of his coat. I peered into his face, but it was hidden behind a black curtain of tangled hair.
‘Danny?’
I turned at the crunch of footsteps on the drive. Scott was striding towards us. I wondered if he’d recognize Danny from school days.
‘Hey, Danny, how’s it going?’ Scott sounded casual, like he was talking to a mate.
Danny tucked his hair behind his ears. He stared at Scott, his black eyes huge and dilated despite the brilliant light. ‘I just got out,’ he said.
Scott was nodding. ‘Great.’ And then, as if searching for something else to say, ‘I’ve just got back from London.’
‘I just got out,’ Danny repeated as he stepped forwards and patted Scott on the shoulder.
‘Yeah?’ Scott glanced at Danny’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You just said that, mate.’
There was a mega-weird vibe in the air.
Danny withdrew his hand from Scott’s shoulder. ‘London, hey.’ His expression was blank. Suddenly, he burst into a kind of jig on the spot. ‘They’re changing the guards at Buckingham Palace. Christopher Robin went down on Alice.’ His voice was low and whimsical, spoken in fits and starts. ‘Did you visit Queenie?’
Scott cleared his throat as I grabbed his hand. ‘Nah.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But it was pretty wild.’
‘Wild.’ Danny repeated, deadpan. ‘Lots of girls?’
‘Yeah. Nah.’ Scott glanced at me. ‘I mean, we, me and Bomber, we had some crazy times. That’s all.’
‘And how is the old Bomber these days?’ Danny asked.
‘Not bad.’ Scott turned to me, lowering his voice. ‘Babe, you’d better go home now.’
But I didn’t want to go home. I clenched his hand tighter.
Scott nodded at Danny. ‘Mind giving her a lift?’
‘Sure.’ Danny turned and headed back to the car.
‘He�
�s a psycho,’ I whispered to Scott. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’
‘Fuck knows.’ Scott shrugged. ‘Go on. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘You coming, Rosie?’ Danny stood waiting, his arms draped over the open car door.
Scott shoved me forwards.
‘But what about… ’
‘The fellas are staying over,’ Scott said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I leaned over to kiss him but he turned his head and my lips caught on his stubbled cheek.
‘Prickles,’ I said.
‘I warned you.’ Scott backed away, giving Danny a wave. ‘See ya, mate.’
Danny nodded and ducked inside the car.
I stood in the middle of the road, watching Scott cross the lawn and disappear inside the house. Shielding my eyes from the headlights, I looked over at the car. Danny was sitting behind the steering wheel of Mr Bailey’s gun-metal Lexus. I wasn’t too keen about getting in the car with him. After all those years he was like a stranger to me.
When I’d last known him, he was a pretty normal fourteen-year-old, despite what he’d been through with his mum. When he first started high school, he used to have mates over all the time. Hollie and I would hear them downstairs, in the billiards room, getting drunk on his dad’s vintage. One time, when Hollie was having a bath, I crept downstairs with a kitchen stool and spied on them, through the glass panel above the door. At the time, I didn’t know their names. They were just Danny’s mates. The skinny one with glasses (Muzza) and the beefy one with dark, curly hair (Bomber). The freckly ginger one (Matty Taylor) and the tall, good-looking one with sandy hair (Scott). They sat cross-legged or stretched out on the carpet, drinking burgundy from the bottle, rap music playing low. Muzza puffed on a cigarette, before passing it over to Bomber. Danny sat to the side, his back against the wall, his knees bent up to his chest, watching his mates laugh at something on the telly. I focused on the screen but couldn’t make a picture from the pink fuzziness. The sound made no sense either, a series of grunts and groans but no words. I couldn’t work it out. The picture froze. Scott got up and went over to the telly, pointing with his finger at something in the middle. The others were all curled up in balls and rolling around, clutching their stomachs. Bomber knelt down and licked the screen with his tongue. That got them laughing even harder. I was desperate to know what was so funny, but Hollie was calling me so I leapt down off the stool and ran back upstairs.
The Dark Part of Me Page 7