‘We’re going to have to do something about this,’ she said.
EIGHT
It was morning again. The phone was ringing.
Cynthia reached over and picked it up. ‘Yeah?’ There was a pause and then she sat up. ‘Helen! Where are you? How’d you know I was here?’
I climbed out of bed and wandered into the toilet. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale and round and unshaven, with a head of long tangled hair. Not even enough fat there to look sleek. Just flab. What was the appeal? Cynthia’s body was better. It was solid and strong and indulgent. I didn’t feel comfortable with slim women. Somehow a well maintained body suggested a dubious preoccupation with good living. There had to be room in a life for drinking too much and eating badly and lying around in front of TV for days on end ... fitness was a curse.
I pissed and went back out to the bed, curled up next to Cynthia. I waited for the phone conversation to end. She was laughing. When she finally hung up she said, ‘I can’t believe it! Helen is in Brisbane.’
Helen, it turned out, was an old friend of Cynthia’s from Melbourne. They had shared a house for a time. Helen was up in Queensland for a two-week holiday, with her boyfriend. She’d tracked Cynthia down through the agents who were selling the house.
Cynthia was excited. They had arranged to meet in the City for lunch. ‘You’ll come, won’t you? You’ll like Helen and Dave.’
‘Well, I should really get over to Social Security at some stage. Before the weekend. After that, though, I’ll be free.’
Cynthia, knowing all about Social Security, predicted they’d keep me there for at least a few hours. We decided that she would bring Helen and Dave back to the hotel room after lunch. I could catch up with them then.
There was a knock on the door. A man’s voice called out Cynthia’s name.
‘Shit,’ she said, ‘it’s Dad. Quick, get in the bathroom.’
‘Is he really going to mind that much?’
‘No, I just don’t feel like doing it now. Go on.’
I went and stood in the bathroom, feeling foolish. Cynthia opened the door. My clothes were still spread all over the carpet. There was a man in this room, any father could see that, any major could see that. The man was hiding in the shower, he was raping a major’s daughter in an army hotel room. The major’s daughter was raping him in an army hotel room. The major’s daughter was taking photographs of it ...
I waited. I could hear them talking in the doorway, but not what they were saying. There were no yells, no threats. Then she came back. ‘They’re going out for the day and wanted to see if I was interested. I told them about Helen.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m sorry about hiding you.’
‘It’s probably for the best.’
We got dressed. I went out to my car. I drove back to my flat, had some toast for lunch, then gathered up the Social Security forms.
Social Security.
The Department of Social Security.
They made me nervous, they weren’t like the C.E.S. The C.E.S. didn’t care what you did. The C.E.S. had forty times more people on their lists than they had jobs. Eighty times more people. They knew they were losing it day by day.
Social Security, though, was different. They were dealing with money, they knew they were important. They wanted to know what you were up to. Their application form was five or six pages long. I filled it out. The questions were detailed and disturbing. I appreciated the necessity, but that was all. I told them I wasn’t married, wasn’t de facto, had no dependants, no disabilities, no savings, no investments, no hope ... but I still didn’t have the three forms of identification. This was a more serious problem than I’d expected. I couldn’t prove who I was. A licence and a bankbook — I was only two-thirds in existence.
I started going through drawers and boxes around the flat. I found my tax file number. That was useful, but it didn’t count as ID. I dug deeper. I found old poems, old stories, old letters. I read some of them, lost track of the time. I was there for a couple of hours. All I came up with was a copy of my senior year school results. Report cards. Why did I still have things like that? Why didn’t I keep anything I needed? Where were my tax records, my rent receipts, a pay slip with a current address? I went back to the list. It was a miracle. There, at the very bottom, it said that academic results, while not preferred, were an acceptable proof of identity. I’d stumbled over the line. The years of education had meant something after all.
I packed it up and drove into the Valley.
The Valley Social Security office was in a big blue, almost windowless building. There were four or five people hanging around on the footpath outside, smoking and talking. They were all under twenty. They watched me walk in with my paperwork. They had a bored, competent air. They knew what it was all about. They probably knew how to get by without any ID. I didn’t. I was soft. I’d had it easy for the last six years.
Inside the place was crowded, non-smoking and partly desperate. Most people were there just to lodge their fortnightly forms, but there was a strong percentage, maybe a third, who were there to confront the system, to work it. There was money available. The system freely gave out a certain amount, but these people wanted more, needed more; you could see their minds working over it. And there were ways. There was provision in the Social Security code for Special Benefits above and beyond the standard payments. And these people knew that. The stories were running round in their heads ... my money got stolen, I got robbed, they’re kicking me out of my home, I need the money now, I’ve gotta eat, haven’t I? I gotta survive.
None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was proof. The Social Security staff weren’t fools. There was a large sign over the counter. ‘Normal living expenses — including rent and food — are not considered sufficient cause to be eligible for Special Benefits.’
I joined one of two queues, ten or fifteen back from the counter. It was moving slowly. Apart from the queues, there were twenty or thirty people sitting around in the plastic chairs. They were waiting for interviews in the booths. Being a first-time applicant I was destined for a booth, for my preliminary interview. Cynthia had warned me that this was where I’d be held up for an hour or two. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was already mid-afternoon. I was going to be late getting back to her hotel.
The queue shuffled forward. Most people just handed over the regular form and left. A few had more complex requests or complaints. They argued, listened, got rejected or got waved over to the chairs to wait. They slowed things down.
Finally I arrived. The woman was waiting. I said, ‘I’d like to apply for unemployment benefits.’ I pushed the forms across to her.
She took them, glanced through. ‘ID?’
I gave them to her. She looked at the licence, and the bankbook, and then at the school results. She looked at me.
‘This isn’t really much good ...’
‘Sorry. It’s all I could find. It’s on the list.’
‘Haven’t you got a birth certificate?’
‘I lost it. I could get a new copy of it, I suppose.’
‘New copies won’t do.’
‘Well?’
She drummed her fingers. She sighed. ‘Okay. Look. Try to find something better before you come back for your interview. I’ll make you an appointment for Monday.’
‘Monday?’
‘We can’t fit you in today. Look at the place.’
‘Oh ...’
‘Read these,’ she said. She pushed some leaflets forward. Then another form. ‘And fill this out if you think you need to. It’s the Special Benefits form. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I picked it all up. She filled out another card saying that my appointment was for eleven a.m., Monday.
I moved aside, walked back out on the street. The smokers were there, watching me, reading me. I still felt that they knew something I didn’t. I hadn’t walked out with any money. I hadn’t even walked out with the promise of any mone
y. That couldn’t be good.
I got to my car, climbed in, and drove back to Cynthia’s hotel.
NINE
Cynthia and Helen and Dave were all in the room when I arrived. Helen was a nurse and Dave was an unemployed mechanic. Helen was about thirty-five. Dave was younger, maybe mid-twenties. He rode a bike, a Ducati. The two of them were taking it up the east coast. The introductions were made. We settled down over some beer. Helen and Dave weren’t terribly happy with the way their holiday was going.
‘I can’t believe this place doesn’t have any beaches,’ Helen said. ‘I always thought Brisbane was a surfing town, a beach town, but all it’s got is Moreton Bay. Moreton Bay and mud flats.’
I said, ‘The Gold Coast is the surfing town. Surfers Paradise. Coolangatta. It’s only an hour away. That’s where the beaches are.’
‘I know, we’ve already been there. It’s disgusting. It’s so commercial.’
‘Yes. They’ve done very well.’
‘Even Melbourne has better beaches than you do.’
‘You might be right. Brisbane does have mangroves, though.’
‘Mangroves? What can you do with mangroves?’
‘You can walk through them. Have you ever done that?’
‘No.’
‘Well. Wait until late in the afternoon, just around sunset. And take lots of insect repellent.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘You might like it more than Surfers Paradise.’
Time passed. I finished my second can of beer. The conversation got around to what we should do for the rest of the day.
‘I could get us some acid,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve got some friends up here who might have some.’
Cynthia jumped up. ‘Acid! I haven’t had acid in ages. Gordon, you want some acid?’
‘What exactly is acid?’
‘You don’t know? You really don’t know? It’s LSD. Haven’t you ever tried it?’
‘No. No one has ever offered me any. I’ve led a very sheltered life.’
‘Well, do you want to? Tripping is one of the best things ...’
‘Sure. Yes.’
‘I don’t have the guy’s number on me,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll have to go back over to our place.’
Dave and Helen were staying at Helen’s sister’s house in Spring Hill. We all climbed in the Kingswood and drove over.
‘Look at this city,’ Helen yelled from the back seat. There’s nothing happening. There’s no one on the streets. How do you stand it?’
‘Things are happening, you just have to look a little harder. At least no one bothers you. There’s worse places than Brisbane.’
‘There’s better:
‘We almost had the tallest building in the world. That would’ve been something, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean almost?’
‘There was a huge public outcry when the government announced the proposal. People were terrified by the idea. It would’ve been three times the height of the other local skyscrapers. They thought it would ruin the balance of things — the rest of the CBD would looked ridiculous, the whole city would look ridiculous. And it would interfere with radio reception, and TV reception, and it’d put half the suburbs into permanent shade, planes were going to crash into it, the airport would have to be re-arranged, the land underneath would subside into the river ... lobby groups were screaming, it was a nightmare. Finally the Supreme Court ruled the whole thing was illegal. The developers backed down. Now they’re not building anything. They’ve just left a great big hole in the ground.’
‘Christ. Queenslanders.’
‘I agree with them up to a point. The city really would’ve looked ridiculous. But that, of course, is exactly why they should’ve built it. It would’ve been an appropriate statement. About Brisbane. About cities in general.’
We got to Spring Hill, found the sister’s place. It was a renovated terrace house, overlooking the city centre. Inside it was dark and cool and sparse. The sister had taste. We had the place to ourselves, she was away for the weekend. We settled into the lounge as Dave made the call.
He waited for a while, letting it ring. ‘There’s no answer.’
‘Damn!’ Cynthia looked at us all. ‘What now?’
‘I know some people,’ said Helen. ‘I could try them.’
Dave handed her the phone, left the room.
I leaned over to Cynthia and said, ‘They have a lot of contacts here for two people that live in Melbourne.’
‘It’s the drug crowd. You just get to know people. All over the place.’
‘Do you know any dealers in Brisbane?’
‘I might. But I came here to give that up. I didn’t try to keep track of anyone.’
We waited. Dave came back in with a bottle of beer and some glasses. He filled them up. Helen got off the phone. ‘No acid,’ she said. ‘We can get some smack though.’
‘Smack?’ I asked.
‘Heroin,’ said Cynthia.
‘Oh.’
‘Well,’ said Helen, ‘What d’you think?’
Dave was handing out the beers. ‘Sounds okay to me,’ he said. ‘Cynthia?’
‘No, I swore I wouldn’t go back to it. But you guys go ahead if you want.’ She looked at me.
I looked back. Well, I’ve never tried it — I wouldn’t mind. But not if it’s going to bother you.’
‘No, I don’t mind. Go on, it’s certainly worth trying, at least once. I’ll be okay.’
It was settled. Helen rang back and made arrangements to meet in a pub for the sale.
‘How much will it cost?’ I asked her.
‘Well, if it’s only your first time, you won’t need much, probably only a third of a gram. Fifty dollars should cover it.’ I took out my wallet, gave her the money.
Cynthia watched us. ‘Oh fuck it,’ she said. What the hell. Count me in.’
Helen looked at her. ‘You sure you want to?’
‘I’d go crazy watching you guys.’
‘Okay. Oh, Gordon, can you buy syringes over the counter in Queensland, do you know?’
‘You can. They changed the law just a while ago.’
‘Great. You wanna come along, Cynthia?’
‘Okay. We can take Gordon’s car.’
‘You want me to come?’ I said.
Cynthia held out her hand for the keys. ‘No. You’d look guilty. You’d have I’m buying heroin written all over your face.’
I gave her the keys.
Dave and I were left alone. We sipped on the beer and talked some more about Melbourne and Brisbane, Victoria and Queensland, and how they compared. It was a pointless discussion, but it passed the time. I liked Dave. He was short and ugly, very softly spoken, with a rich quiet laugh.
‘You only just met Cynthia, huh?’ he asked.
‘A couple of weeks ago. It’s a pity she’s leaving so soon.’
‘Yeah. She doesn’t sound so happy about it herself.’
‘Darwin is no place to rush off to, if you think Brisbane is boring.’
An hour went by. We wondered about the girls. They had planned to buy two grams all told. I tried to remember what the laws were in Queensland about heroin. I knew they’d been strengthened at the same time that they’d legalised syringes. Mandatory life sentence for possession of a certain amount or above. I didn’t think it was as small as two grams, but I wasn’t sure. I’d have to front up to the major. I’m sorry sir, your daughter’s been arrested. She was caught buying some smack. For me. Who am I? I’m the no-good bum she found out in the bottle shop. What’s smack? Well, it’s heroin, sir. Fifteen or twenty years is all she’ll get, but then she knew the risks. She used to be a junkie, didn’t you know?
The girls got back twenty minutes later. It’d all gone okay. There were no problems.
‘But Christ, they were sleazy people,’ said Cynthia. ‘They looked evil. They made us play pool with them first. They really dragged it out. None of my dealers in Sydney were like that.’
We went into Helen and Dave’s room and sat on the bed. Helen brought out a small, folded square of paper, four syringes, a few vials of distilled water, a belt, and a shot glass. The equipment.
She made the preparations. She unfolded the paper and tipped the powder into the glass. She followed it with the distilled water. The powder dissolved. Cynthia drew the mixture into the syringes. Smaller doses for myself and her, about double that amount for Helen and Dave.
‘Okay,’ she said, laying the syringes out in a row. ‘Who’s first?’
Dave volunteered.
‘Doing it yourself?’
‘No. I’ll let the nurse handle it.’
Helen got up off the floor and sat next to him. She wrapped the belt around his upper arm and pulled it tight. The veins on his arms bulged. She took one of the syringes, rubbed one of the bulges with her fingers. Then she slid the needle in. She pulled the plunger backwards, drew enough blood to satisfy her, then shoved it back down. It touched bottom. She pulled it out. Dave put his finger on the puncture and folded his arm up to his chest. Helen took the belt away.
We all watched him. He looked at his arm. He nodded. ‘It’s not bad.’
‘Good.’
Helen did herself, and then Cynthia.
‘I love this stuff,’ Cynthia said, watching her arm. ‘It’s like coming and coming for hours.’ She lay back, taking deep breaths.
Helen came at me with the last syringe. ‘Your turn.’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ said Cynthia, sitting up again. ‘I’m okay.’
She wrapped the belt around my arm and stroked the veins until they rose. I watched her face, looked at the syringe.
‘How long since you’ve done this?’
‘It isn’t that long.’
She slid the needle in. I watched my blood seep up into the syringe. It mingled with the heroin. I thought about chemical reactions. The blood would be buzzing, the blood was already stoned. ‘Now look at me,’ she said, ‘and keep looking at me.’
‘Why?’
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