by Garth Wade
‘No problems,’ said Syd, ‘but I think that may be a problem in itself. What do you think, Riley?’
The girl took a deep breath, moved towards Syd and swung her feet to the ground.
‘You wanna know what I think?’ She squinted at Syd and Cam. ‘I think my mother has sent you two in here ‘cause she has, like, no idea what to do with me. And I think she, like, worries herself stupid since I took a heap of her Zoloft. But I don’t wanna, like, let down my dad anymore ‘cause, like, he gives me everything and I do wanna be a good daughter. And I think I’ve gotta not be so … like, like …’
‘Indecisive?’ asked Syd, unable to help himself.
‘Fat!’
‘Oh Jesus spare the world, you are not fat.’
‘Yeah, that’s what my friends say but when I look in the mirror all I see is a huge fat pig!’
Syd took a deep breath. ‘Two more questions before I go and get your mum and we head off, Riley. Just relax, there is nothing to be stressed about right now. So, firstly, how have you been sleeping lately?’
‘I, like, sleep as much as I can. As soon as I get home I go to sleep. It’s been like that, like, for a year or maybe longer.’
‘And have you taken any medications that aren’t prescribed to you, or any drugs or alcohol in the last twenty-four hours?’ Syd asked.
‘Nope. Just my Fluoxetine. I haven’t touched Mum’s stuff. No other drugs. I don’t wanna be like that druggo girl, the one that smashes it just to get guys. And alcohol, like, I’m allowed to drink what I want, like, my friends think it’s weird, and I don’t even really, like ... like it, so I don’t drink much. My parents think if they let me, like, have it when I want, that I won’t do it behind their backs.’
‘Thank you, Riley. I’ll go and get your mum, and hopefully we can find you someone to chat with.’
Syd thought it unnecessary to push her about drug use, and particularly the alcohol these parents were happily letting their child consume. He would not bring it up with the mother, just the counsellor. Syd had no idea what the repercussions would be for parents who allowed a thirteen-year-old child to drink alcohol, albeit in the privacy of their own home, but, like Riley’s friends, he thought it, ‘like’, weird.
... karmic counterweights
22:15 hrs - Bradley
Bradley awoke in his car as if from a bad dream. He was sweating profusely and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He felt stabbing pains in his chest and stomach. He raced home, unsure what to do next.
The front door crashed open as he surged through, keys jangling to the percussion of his hyperventilation. Sweat beaded his forehead. He paced past the purple octopus print in the hallway and into the kitchen.
He half-filled a dirty glass with bourbon and slammed most of it down in one gulp. He felt it instantly calm his nerves, as it had frequently throughout his life.
He gazed through the kitchen window at the neighbouring fence and considered his options.
Possibility one: Ken was merely injured and down $7000, stolen by his drug dealer. Surely he wouldn’t report that? Ken had been the Assistant to the Minister for Health for such a short time, surely his job and reputation would be the most important things to him?
Possibility two: Ken was merely injured and down $7000, stolen by someone. He reports it saying he’s never seen the assailant before but gives an accurate - if general - description of his drug dealer, who the police may or may not know.
Possibility three: Ken is injured badly, maybe dead, and down $7000, which his wife may or may not know about. She may or may not have known about the deal. She may or may not have told someone else. Or maybe someone else could have seen the whole thing. Maybe.
Bradley realised each possibility led to endless further possibilities, particularly when he didn’t know how seriously injured Ken was.
The lack of information unnerved him.
He threw down another half glass of liquor. His hands shook as he plugged a cigarette between his lips and attempted to light it. After four failed attempts with the flint scratching and sparking, Bradley worked out that the lighter was empty and threw it against the kitchen wall with a frustrated ‘Fuck!’
Still shaken over having just stabbed a man, Bradley agitatedly marched around his house, trying to calm down while wondering where he could get a simple thing like fire. He longed for a nicotine hit to accompany the bourbon, but also knew there were no more lighters in the house.
Bradley noticed the boxy portable butane gas stove, which looked out of place in his otherwise neat white kitchen. ‘That’ll work,’ he said aloud. He had been using it for the last two days after smelling gas leaking from the stove. He had switched the gas off at the main and called the local gas technicians who were booked for tomorrow.
Bradley turned the knob, heard the click and saw the spitting butane flame. He lit the cigarette, concentrating on steadying his hands. Bradley drew in hard, then exhaled, shoving the kitchen window open to air the room.
The cigarette wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted a different feeling. The alcohol had done as much as it could to his brain. Now he wanted to escape reality altogether. Without a second thought, he walked to his bedroom safe, opened it and grabbed the small black plastic case, slamming the safe shut, unaware of anything unusual. Even if there were signs of Lorraine’s intrusion, Bradley would not have recognised them in the state he was in.
He needed it. Now.
Strangely, Bradley did not make a habit of shooting heroin. He enjoyed the relaxing effects of the drug a few times a year and only used it when he truly needed to escape reality.
He had tried most drugs at an early age but felt as though he was in control of his drug use, otherwise it got in the way of his business ventures. He constantly proved his inner strength by not letting the drugs take him over. His life had been funded - but not ruled - by illegal drugs for as long as he could remember, and he knew no better. But he did know the importance of money, and wanted to make a lot of it.
Over the last six months Lorraine had been ‘keeping him in check’; she had forced him to reduce the risks he took by only dealing to a little over half of his normal clientele. If he had an office, there would be a sign hanging on the door saying: We are not taking any new clients for now. We apologise for the inconvenience. This, for the time being, made Lorraine much happier. Bradley knew his mates thought he was pussy-whipped, but he didn’t mind. He felt his life was on track with Lorraine around. Almost like feeling happy for the first time.
He strode into the neat lounge room and set down the black container. Despite having drunk a full glass of bourbon, Bradley was able to focus on the fact that he was still without fire, essential for cooking heroin. He racked his brain over where he could find a lighter.
Humans prioritise things, and smokers prioritise everything relating to smoking. Smokers may not know how much coffee they have in their house, even if they particularly enjoy coffee, but they will always know where all their tobacco products are hidden or even subconsciously ‘forgotten’ about around the house.
Bradley knew. He knew that last weekend Lorraine screamed the house down because he had been smoking inside (his own house) again, after she kindly asked (told) him not to. He knew she’d turned the place upside-down and found every cigarette, tobacco product, bong, cone, lighter and rolling paper, and thrown them all in the rubbish.
At the time, he didn’t mind. He loved her. He’d never had a woman like her. She cared. She had sass. She had attitude. She was the start-up phase of the permutation that his life required. He enjoyed her strength, her self-respect – it had been a rarity in his past romances. He would do anything for her. And, even though it had been an absolute failure, tonight’s deal was what Bradley would describe as a ‘step in the right direction’.
None of that helped him cook his heroin though.
Then he remembered the butane stove.
Meanwhile, the draught from the open window had pushed the flame
against the butane canister and Bradley was lucky he’d left the room when the gas bottle detonated. Flames ran up the curtain, spread across the walls and lapped at the ceiling.
Bradley raced to the kitchen, sobering up as he took in the flaming kitchen. His thoughts went to his secret storage place in the kitchen ceiling where he stored his nest egg. The small safe bolted to a ceiling strut required a six-digit code, which only he knew. No drugs, just cash. And at last count he had $22,000 in used notes. This was a substantial amount to Bradley, and under no circumstances could he lose it.
He rushed to the laundry, grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall, and clumsily doused the burning ceiling. The flames were surging toward the manhole that covered the access to the safe. He sprayed the fire but the small extinguisher seemed to be no match for the flames. He needed to get to that manhole. After another thirty seconds of wetting the ceiling, the flames finally appeared to be submitting.
He fumbled with the extinguisher several times before dropping it to the floor, grabbing a kitchen stool and shoving it under the dripping manhole cover. He then leapt onto the stool and pushed out the manhole cover, reaching for the safe which was another arm’s length beyond his fingertips.
The air from his movements fanned the guttering flame on the wall which crept up the hot, charred window frame and spread over the ceiling.
Bradley was so focused on getting to his money that he heard and felt nothing. With his head inside the ceiling space, tapping the safe code digits as quickly as he could, he was oblivious until the flame whooshed up through the manhole and hit him in the face. He fell off the stool as skin reddened and swelled on his forehead and nose. Fortunately for Bradley, he missed all the bench corners and other objects in the kitchen, but he was knocked out cold when his head hit the tiled floor.
When Bradley came to, the kitchen was fully alight. Each breath he took was searing hot, filling his lungs with smoke and ash.
His head hurt. His face stung. He touched his nose and winced, looking at his fingers and seeing red, wet, sticking skin. He felt dizzy. The room was full of dark smoke and the roof was well alight.
He struggled to his feet, and stared one last time at his nest egg as it went up in flames. It never occurred to him that the contents of the safe would probably survive the fire he had inadvertently created. He fell to his knees, fighting the smoke, and eyed the long hallway ahead, his only chance of escape. Bradley crawled, falling to his stomach, creeping past the four framed prints on the hallway wall; he finally reached the front door. Bradley collapsed as he pulled open the door and breathed in the luscious fresh air.
The keys, still in the door, chinked together, the last thing he heard before he passed out.
Change of subject
22:35 hrs – Princess Alexandra Hospital Mental Health Facility
Syd left Riley and her mother in capable hands at mental health reception. They were under no obligation to stay. It was, in essence, a place for people who wanted someone to chat to, rather than the ‘treatment’ areas and seclusion rooms which were immediately next door, under heavy surveillance.
The hospital still seemed unreasonably calm for an evening, and Syd felt a little eerie as he strolled down the long, white hallway. The squeaks of his boots echoed. This particular section of the hospital was quite old, most likely steeped in history and, Syd expected, stories of the most eerie and haunting. A tingle down his spine made him pick up his pace as he imagined a scream echoing down the long narrow corridor.
He giggled nervously – he was being silly – but he still increased his speed. When his access pass beeped him into the emergency department, he gave a tiny startled jump.
He swung the door open and could feel his heart rate immediately drop fifteen beats a minute. The sight of emergency department nurses buzzing around was reassuring and the familiar hospital sounds were music to his ears. He smiled at the administration clerk and she smiled back.
‘Brrr, it’s cold in there,’ he said to her.
‘Maybe it’s all the ghosts,’ she said, still smiling.
‘I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that. I think there may actually be ghosts in there you know,’ Syd said, faking a scared look. She smiled. ‘Are you able to tell me which bed Sebastian Silva is in?’
‘Sure,’ she licked her lips and, after a few mouse clicks, said, ‘he’s still in ED awaiting surgery. Bed ten.’
‘Thank you, Bronte.’
She looked surprised that Syd knew her name, and maybe embarrassed she didn’t know his. ‘Have a nice night.’ She watched discreetly, maybe interested, as he walked away from her.
As Syd turned the corner to visit Sebastian, he ran into Cameron leaving the tea room munching crisps by the handful. Crisps flew everywhere as the bag tumbled out of his hands. Cam stood stunned, his mouth open, looking at Syd. At exactly the same time, Syd thought he saw Amber’s unmistakable red ponytail through the thin curtains further up the busy hallway.
For a second, Syd looked as bewildered as Cam.
‘Jeez man, look out where you’re goin’ would you!’ Cam’s accent thickened when primitive emotions were stirred.
‘Ah shit, sorry mate, I’ll get you another one, I … just … want to go and see if …’ Syd didn’t pay any attention to the crisps, or the floor; mesmerised by the possibility of seeing Amber.
He hurried to bed ten, peered in and saw Sebastian sitting up and alert.
‘Hola amigo. Do you know when you’ll be operated on?’ Syd asked. The Argentinian smiled and opened his arms.
‘Hola! Sydney! Mate! How are you? I do not know yet when will they operate. Hopefully soon, eh?’
‘Hey, I’ll be back in a minute; I have to go and see someone.’
‘No worries man.’
Syd let go of the curtain, and he and Amber locked eyes as she walked out of the consultants room with her doctor friend Marcia. She hesitated at the doorway as Syd walked towards her smiling.
‘Hey! What are you doing here? I thought you were at Marcia’s tonight?’
Marcia smiled uncomfortably at Syd and made herself scarce.
‘Well … Marcia got a call up, and … her car is at the mechanics … so I drove her in. I thought I’d come and say hello,’ she said, twirling her hair.
‘Okay, I was just popping through to see a patient from earlier tonight.’ Syd swayed back and pointed toward Sebastian’s space.
Silence. That silence again. Cogs turning
‘How are you feeling about the stabbing?’ she said with genuine concern.
‘Jeez, news travels fast doesn’t it? Well I haven’t had that much time to think about it really. Maybe once this nightshift is done I can process it a little. It is sad though.’ He looked around, wanting to change the subject. ‘I can’t believe how few people are here tonight. I’ve never seen it this qui—’
‘Ah! Don’t say it!’ Amber interrupted. ‘Never say it’s the Q word, because soon it won’t be, and it’ll be your fault.’
‘Oh, yes. Oops.’ Syd covered his mouth jokingly. ‘What’s it to you? You’re not working.’
‘I’m doing it for my colleagues, Sydney.’
They both smiled.
‘Hey, I’m going to go, we’ve been here a while now. Comms will be hounding us soon,’ he half turned, then added casually, ‘I thought I saw you coming out of one of the beds up there …’
‘Yeah, I thought Marcia was treating someone in there and I needed to see her before I left.’
‘The tib-fib? The Argentinian? Ah, that’s cool, you could practise your Spanish with him.’
Amber gave a forced, tight-lipped smile, her head bowed.
‘I’m joking, Amber,’ said Syd, misreading the body language.
‘Okay, so I’m not as good as you at speaking Spanish!’
‘Oh god, this is getting boring, Amber. It’s not necessary you know.’ Syd paused, stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘Is there something wrong? Seriously? On the phone, earlier ton
ight, didn’t you say we needed to talk?’ He spoke directly and with no spite.
She looked around, then took his hand and said, ‘Come with me.’ She led him around a corner and buzzed them both into the clean linen room.
As soon as she shut and locked the door, Amber slammed Syd around against the wall, standing on tiptoes to reach his mouth in a passionate kiss. He could taste chocolate on her lips and smell masses of clean government laundry.
‘What the fuck? If we get caught—’
‘Be quick then,’ she said lasciviously.
Syd caught the look in her eyes – desire, arousal, control – a look he had grown accustomed to seeing and one that he knew required prompt attention.
He cupped her face and pressed his other hand against her lower back, pulling her close to him, kissing her deeply. She undid three of his shirt buttons and stroked his body, rubbing her petite fingers through his hair while she ground against his thigh.
He moved his hand down and squeezed her arse, forcing her to grind even harder. He breathed against her cheek and felt her breath in his ear. Syd leaned back against the wall, propping himself up and creating an almost horizontal pole with his thigh, so that Amber could rub herself against him. She kept both her hands inside his shirt, squeezing his muscles and occasionally pulling at his hair.
He could feel her wetness coming through both their pants.
Amber breathed more and more quickly, rubbing and pushing and moaning. Soon she put all her weight on his thigh and fucked harder and faster. Then in one almighty shove she came in a torrent of shuddering and suppressed cries, crawling closer to Syd’s body, wanting to be held.
He pulled her close.
‘Fuck you’re good,’ she said.
‘Hmm, you did most of the—’
‘Shhh.’ She hugged him, then grabbed his face and kissed him hard.
‘Let’s see how quick you can make it,’ she said, touching Syd’s wet thigh. She unclipped his work belt as if she’d engineered it, then unbuttoned his pants and unzipped his fly. Her fingers crept down his balls, palm pressed firmly against his shaft. He shuddered as she tickled him lightly, feeling her rise with his cock in her dominant left hand. She pushed him back so he was bolt upright against the wall, then she turned, grabbed a hospital blanket, and threw it on the ground between his legs. It took him a moment to understand, then he struggled to hide a huge grin.