Tigerland

by Sean Kennedy

  The sun was warm, but not hot. In fact, the wind coming off the water was cold and overrode any heat the sun was giving out. I reached forward and grabbed Dec’s hand. It pulled him back a little, and he turned, surprised. Then he smiled, a smile so full of love and tenderness it seemed to be brighter than everything around us—the white sand, the sun reflecting off the surface of the waves—it could envelop me and swallow me whole. The mantra I often repeat to myself in one of these rare moments of PDA begins: This is for those times when I want to take his hand, or he wants to take mine, but we don’t feel safe enough. This is for those times other couples get to take for granted, but we have to snatch in limited amounts when they become available to us. This is for those times when I can’t do such a simple thing as hold the hand of Dec as the tiniest gesture of affection and to show him how much I love him.

  We stopped for a rest, sitting beneath a rocky outcropping that sheltered us from the full force of the wind. We huddled together for warmth, Dec wrapping his arm around my thigh and resting his head on my shoulder.

  “You could almost think we’d stepped back in time,” Dec said.

  “This was a prime whaling area. On that basis alone, I think now is much better.”

  “True. Plus, we wouldn’t have been able to get a hotel room together at all.”

  “I don’t know. People weren’t as suspicious back then. I think the fear of the dreaded gay is a more modern affliction. I mean, you read Moby Dick and it’s almost like a gay romance, what with all the bed sharing and cuddling they got up to below decks.”

  “Maybe it was,” Dec laughed, staring out over the sea. “We could build a house here. Then we would never have to leave.”

  “I doubt we’d be able to buy government land,” I said, ever the pessimist. “Even if we did, we’d have to leave to consult architects, hire builders, and everything else.”

  “Shatter that dream, Simon.”

  “Sorry. It’s a nice dream, though.”

  “Can you imagine having this as your view every day?”

  It would certainly be breathtaking. The skies were darkening now, and the wind was picking up, causing the now-grey waves to hurl themselves upon the sand with a force that was to be reckoned with. The friendly sea had turned into a monster, but it was still a beautiful one.

  “It would be fantastic,” I said, “but you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I like our life back in Melbourne, recent Heyward drama notwithstanding. I like our balcony overlooking the river. I like the fact that Abe, and now probably Lisa again, live a few floors down, or that Fran and Roger only live a couple of suburbs away. That we’re within walking distance to Etihad, and a short tram ride from the MCG, and that even if we’re not at a game we can still hear how a team is going by the way the crowd is roaring. It’s a good life.”

  “It is,” Dec said, and kissed me. “That’s why I love you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when you put your mind to it, you know the perfect thing to say.”

  “I suppose that’s a pretty good reason,” I said, although I was more prone to putting my foot in my mouth than giving inspirational speeches. Maybe love was blind.

  “It’s one of many.” Dec shivered, shrinking back within his jacket.

  “You’re freezing. Let’s go back to the car.”

  We were about to stand, when Dec cried out in wonder. I looked out to where he was pointing, and at first I couldn’t see it. For all I knew a giant alien mother ship could be out on the horizon ready to scoop us up as food, but there was nothing I could see but white sand, grey waves, and silver foam. Dec must have been tired of me gaping like an idiot because he physically grabbed my head and twisted it in the right direction. His hands remained on my cheeks, and I wanted them to remain there just because it was so cold.

  And then I saw it.

  A small geyser erupting above the surface of the waves, followed by a broad, expansive back of flesh so dark blue it was almost black. Even though it was close to the beach, the whale was still far enough away that we could only see the broadest of features with a faint shimmer of barnacles running along the surface of its skin.

  We stood there, stunned, watching it breach the surface again and again. It would dive for a while, and we would be disappointed, thinking it had swum on and left us, and it would then break the waves again, almost in exactly the same position, water shooting from its fluke into the sky, as if it was there to entertain us.

  The rain and the icy winds that blew straight up from Antarctica no longer bothered us. There was no other word but magical to describe the sensation of seeing such a giant of the ocean so close and in its natural element. In all my human arrogance I could believe that it had come here, at this time, just for us. For Dec and I to share this moment, to be reminded again of the beauty that could be had in the world. Or maybe I was just being my usual wanky self.

  But in that passage of time we stood soaked to the skin, our arms wrapped around each other, laughing and cheering as we were reminded that we were not just an infinitesimal part of this world, but that we were a part of its beauty as well.

  WE PAID for a night at a slightly less dishevelled motel in Warrnambool, and this time there was no problem with the room as a double bed stared back at us as soon as we entered. We wasted no time in stripping off our wet clothes and jumping in the shower together, our wet and goose bumped skin crying out for the relief of hot water. We were charged by what had happened to us on that beach, and kisses vacillated between deep and slow, and frenetic and passionate. Hands were slipping all over each other’s bodies, and elbows and backs kept getting hit by faucets and threatening to leave bruises. As Dec peppered my chest with kisses, I ran my hands over his shaved head and couldn’t help but think of what had caused him to do it. Even after that almost mystic experience on the beach, it didn’t take much to bring it crashing down again. I lifted Dec’s head up so I could stare into his eyes, wiping those thoughts clear and bringing back the magic again. These were the moments we lived for, real world be damned.

  Later, tangled up in each other, I could sense he was awake.

  “What’s up?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” he asked, running his foot up my leg and causing me to shiver.

  “I’m too tired to be funny.”

  “Then why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “Not really. You asked me what’s up. That could have been anything, depending on the context.”

  “Now you’re being funny.” I rolled over to face him, which took some doing, seeing as we were currently positioned like we had collapsed while playing Twister.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  He sighed. “I’m sure you can guess.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I had pretended to myself that going away would stop us thinking about Heyward, and although our little escape had been a much needed mental holiday, he had never been far away from our thoughts.

  “This has been brilliant. We had to do it, but we know what it’s going to be like when we get back.”

  I could already imagine it. The publicity for Heyward’s book would be ramping up. There would be more profiles of Heyward in the newspapers and in the magazines, and eventually there would probably be excerpts from the book itself. At least then we would know exactly what Heyward was saying about his life with Dec, but it would also mean that the media would be camped out on our doorstep again, waiting for the next installment in the soap opera that was now our lives.

  “I hate what he’s doing to us.” I’m sure that feeling was in every reaction of mine, even when I thought I was being cool, calm, and collected, but it was another thing to actually voice it.

  “Hey,” Dec whispered, pulling me close. “We’re fine.”

  “I know we’re fine, but nothing else really is.”

  “That’s an exaggeration. A lot of things are going badly at the momen
t, but there are a lot of good ones as well.”

  “Name some.”

  “Okay, my beloved pessimist. Good friends.”

  “Who are going through terrible times themselves.”

  “Well, not Abe and Lisa. They seem to be getting back on track.”

  “I’ll need official confirmation on that before I move them into the ‘good thing’ column.”

  Dec sighed. “Us.”

  “That’s a given. Next.”

  “Way to go, taking us for granted.”

  I nipped him on the shoulder. “You’re tasty.”

  He ignored me. “Maggie.”

  “Also a given. You’re not really trying.”

  “Cherry choc tops at the Nova.”

  “Oh, now you’re talking.”

  “Your family.”

  I nipped him again. His skin was still warm from the shower, and smelled like the overly perfumey body wash the motel had supplied. “You’re asking for it.”

  But he had me laughing as we disappeared beneath the sheets and forgot about the world again.

  THERE’S always a sinking feeling when you return from a holiday and see your city looming up ahead of you, even if it is a short holiday and your city is one you normally love more than anything. For some reason the fact that it was a grey, windy, and grimy day only made you love Melbourne all the more.

  “Here goes,” I said to Dec, pulling my mobile out of the glove box and turning it on.

  Immediately my phone started to ping with messages.

  Dec grimaced. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I bet yours is worse.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  I scrolled through. Heaps of missed calls from Roger, Fran, and both of our families. A few from Abe, Lisa, Coby, and a lot of unregistered numbers. Work and journalists, probably. The text messages were pretty much the same, just everybody telling us to have a good time and let us know when we were coming back.

  The phone vibrating with an incoming call made me jump, and Fran’s face appeared on the screen.

  “Might as well pick up,” Dec said.

  “That means the holiday is over.”

  “The holiday was over as soon as we started driving back,” Dec reminded me.

  I sighed and accepted the call. “Hey, Fran.”

  “Finally!” she cried, her end buzzing with interference. “Where are you guys?”

  “We’re just getting to the Westgate.”

  “Come here to our house.”

  All I wanted was to see my own home again. “Can’t we catch up later? We’re dead.”

  “I just came from your place, feeding Maggie. And it’s lucky I was dressed pretty much like a bag lady so they had no idea I was connected to you guys. Your place is swamped with journos.”

  Dec’s eyes were upon me—he knew something was developing.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, even though I knew she wasn’t. “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. It’s probably just better you wait until you get here.”

  “Fran, you’re kind of starting to freak me out.”

  “Sorry. I was hoping that maybe you were stopped off somewhere having breakfast.”

  “Well, I’m not the one driving.”

  “I hope not. Driving and talking on the mobile is very dangerous.”

  “Yes, Mum. Fran, come on.”

  She hesitated, and I heard Roger in the background hiss at her. “Just tell him!”

  “Fine,” she said softly, and I heard the phone brush against her cheek as she moved it to speak to me again. “Heyward did another interview while you guys were gone. Simon, he said you’re the reason him and Dec broke up.”

  Chapter 11

  “YOU know it’s not true, Simon!”

  We were standing in Fran and Roger’s living room, all four of us too stressed to even sit down. Declan was chewing at his thumbnail, unable to look at me.

  It was Fran who had cried that out, and I knew Dec most of all was waiting for my reaction. That’s why he couldn’t look at me. Because he was scared I didn’t believe him.

  I took a deep breath. “Of course I know it’s not true.”

  The tension in the air lessened, and Roger and Fran sank down into separate chairs, like deflated but relieved balloons.

  And I did know it was true. I had never doubted it. I was just unable to really respond to Dec when I had finally gotten off the phone from Fran and told him the latest. He had almost swerved off the road, he was so pissed off.

  I thought back to when Dec and I first started seeing each other. His were not the actions of a man who had another boyfriend. And sure, those that did usually covered up their tracks pretty well, but before Dec had started giving me the details of his last relationship, I had already heard snippets from both him and Abe (and Lisa helpfully filling in some of the blanks) to know that Dec and Heyward had broken up over a year before Dec and I started seeing each other. Heyward was part of the reason why Dec had willingly signed up with the Devils and set up base in Tasmania, putting a whole sea between them so he wouldn’t ever be stupid enough to think of going back to him.

  Jesus, Heyward had cheated on him, and that was why they had broken up! Such a huge thing like that really fucked with Dec’s self-esteem even more than the games Heyward had been playing when they were supposedly a couple in a relationship.

  “You look mad,” Roger said.

  “Of course I’m mad!” I exploded. “I want to go find that fucker, and rip his fucking head off, and bounce it down the fucking street until it’s a bloody fucking smear!”

  “That’s a lot of fucking there,” Roger replied, trying to defuse me but in return getting the glare of death.

  “Remember what I said about murdering people?” Dec asked me.

  Yes, that he wanted me to stick around. It really didn’t help, though.

  “That’s a conversation you have to have a lot with Simon,” Fran mused. She expected to get the glare from me as well, but I was too tired. All my anger had drained my battery, and I slumped down onto the couch.

  “Want to hit the road again?” Dec asked me.

  “Only if we never come back.”

  He sat beside me and took my hand. “It’s just another setback.”

  “Really? That’s what you’re going to call it?” And whoosh, like that, I was recharged. “He’s lying about us, Declan! Fuck knows what he’ll come up with next, if he thinks he can get away with it all the time!”

  “Ooh, Simon drove the sub that picked up Harold Holt!” Fran cried.

  “He poisoned Phar Lap!” Roger added.

  “Yeah, and I also killed the Somerton man in the Taman Shud case.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Roger said.

  “Stop encouraging him,” Dec said.

  “Stop encouraging me?” I cried. “What about stop encouraging Heyward?”

  And just like that, the atmosphere was strained again.

  “How, exactly, am I encouraging Heyward?” Dec asked.

  I made some melodramatic moan of frustration. My mother would have been proud. “By not saying anything yourself! How many times do we have to go through this, Dec?”

  “If I start having a slanging match with him in public that will be encouraging him.”

  “He’s doing it no matter what we do! So why not confront him?”

  “What, shall I book us an interview with Who?” Dec asked. “Try and get a spot on Today Tonight? You’d hate that.”

  “I hate this,” I said.

  Words you can never take back, just hanging there between you.

  “I’m going to go,” Dec said, picking his car keys off the coffee table.

  “Dec,” Fran said, but got no further as he kissed her good-bye. She gave him as best a hug she could without getting up from the couch. Roger stared at me as they initiated some guy-fist-bump thing. They usually hugged as well, but it seemed Roger had been put in the naughty corner with me.

  “What, should
I just stay here?” I asked.

  “Are you coming?”

  I said my good-byes to Roger and Fran as well. This was going to be a fun drive home.

  EVEN though it wasn’t that long a drive back to the Docklands from Fran and Roger’s if you got on the freeway, it seemed pretty dragged out now. Dec didn’t even put the stereo on, so we drove in silence, the only sound coming from the engines of the other cars in the lanes on either side of us. It was accentuated into an almost deafening roar when we passed the sound barriers meant to protect the suburbs from the racket, but which only seemed to funnel it into a more direct source. I had never heard it like that before.

  The sculpture affectionately known as “the cheese stick,” because of its bright yellow beams, loomed up ahead, and no sooner had I seen it than we passed beneath it and into the bowels of the city. I loved driving under it at night, when the beams were aglow and they took on a beauty that the nickname “the cheese stick” seemed to denigrate.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” I finally asked Dec.

  “What’s there to say?” He breathed heavily, betraying that he was still upset.

  “Obviously nothing,” I threw back at him, and he almost flinched.

  I hated that we were fighting each other when it should have been us teaming together against Heyward. But I was also fighting Dec’s stubbornness and, admittedly, his fucking pride. Maybe I wasn’t one to talk, because I admit I have a healthy dose of pride that also happens to have a chip on its shoulder, but what we were doing now wasn’t working. We had to rethink our strategy.

  A few journalists were waiting by the garage door, and as we waited for it to roll open they crowded around the windows screaming questions at us. Dec just stared ahead, waiting for there to be enough clearance to get in there as fast as possible. I found myself staring at one journo in particular, who I had dealt with on a couple of occasions for publicity for CTV. Back then I had been a colleague. Now I was a story, and his spittle was hitting my window as he continued to yell at me.