I went into my room and dug it out. I put it on. It was far too heavy—thick and black and zippered. It looked ridiculous with shorts, bare feet and a T-shirt. Still, I was pleased. I hadn’t brought it all this way for nothing. I went back out on the verandah.
‘Hey, cool,’ said Wayne.
Stacy was smiling. ‘That’s one mean jacket. Isn’t it a little hot?’
I pushed the sleeves up as far as possible, ‘No. As long I don’t move around too much. Don’t work up a sweat.’
We sat and drank. Wayne and Stacy went off for the 9 p.m. observation, came back. I moved around in my chair. The jacket was too hot, but it was the first time I’d ever worn it without feeling self-conscious. It was so out of place that it couldn’t be taken seriously. And besides, I was a smoker now. Dangling a cigarette from the lips gave you all sorts of credibility.
‘Do you guys smoke pot?’ Stacy asked after a while.
‘Sure,’ said Wayne, ‘But we ran out weeks ago.’
‘I’ve got some, back in the house.’
‘Well good.’
‘Is it alright if I invite Vince? I don’t wanna leave him alone over there.’
Wayne nodded. ‘I’m not sure he smokes though. He might not approve of it in his national park.’
‘Vince? He’s an old hippy, can’t you tell? Of course he’ll smoke.’
She went off. Ten minutes later she was back, Vince in tow. He had a bottle of scotch and was smiling, tight-lipped. Out of his own territory he seemed sad and vulnerable. We squeezed a fourth chair on the verandah and he sat down. Looked out.
He said, ‘I’ve never been over here at night before.’
I felt guilty. We could’ve asked him to at least one dinner at our place. I said, ‘We always thought your house was better for entertaining.’
He nodded. ‘I notice you’ve got a hole in your table anyway.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘What about all the stuff on the walls?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No.’
Stacy brought out a large bag of marijuana and began rolling. She mixed it with tobacco from the clove cigarettes. Vince watched but said nothing. When it was ready he took his turn and sucked in a long, almost relieved drag.
‘You know,’ said Wayne, ‘We had bags of the stuff when we first arrived here.’
Vince eyed him. ‘Then it’s lucky I didn’t know.’
It was my turn. The cloves in the mix made it smooth and sweet tasting. It was an improvement. I took big puffs, held them down in my lungs. Wayne broke out the bourbon. The night began to grow hazy. The conversation flowed between the other three. That was fine. I always had trouble with conversation when I was stoned. The others didn’t seem to. They laughed, talked, sounded happy. I drank bourbon and stared out at the stars.
Another joint went round. More bourbon. I was getting very drunk. Stuttering when I spoke. After a long time I felt a faint stir of nausea. I poured myself a drink, then got up and wandered down the hall. I wanted space and air. I went down the front steps, out into the compound. I walked over to the weather shack, looked in. I had only one more observation to make, the 3 a.m. It was finally all over.
I went in, sat down, listened to the wails from the radio. There were no voices. Maybe there never had been. I looked at the spiders. The instruments. After six months the room was almost exactly as we had found it. Dust in the same places. Old leaves and other rubbish in the corners. The same posters on the walls. We’d left no mark at all.
I looked at the clock. One a.m. How had it gotten so late? I went out, gazed up at the sky. The moon was brighter tonight, the stars pale, the lighthouse beam faded to nothing. The nausea wasn’t going away. I had trouble standing up straight. Why did I always do this? Drink too much. Smoke too much. It always went beyond pleasure into illness. There was no control. I walked some more, sipping at the bourbon.
I ended up coming round the side of our house to the back. I looked up at the crumbled verandah. The other three were still there, talking.
Vince saw me. ‘What are you doing down there?’
‘Just looking around.’
They went back to their conversation. I didn’t listen. A few yards from the verandah was a rectangular wooden arch, the base of it set in concrete. It was all that remained of the back stairs. I stood beneath it, leaning on one of the posts. I watched Wayne and Vince and Stacy. I was depressed. I didn’t know the reason.
I raised my hands, caught hold of the crossbeam. I swayed back and forth, testing my weight. I liked the way the jacket moved around my shoulders. I felt big and impressive. Strong. I lifted myself, lowered myself. Very strong. I lifted myself again, raised my legs, flipped myself upside down.
‘Gordon, what are you doing?’ It was Wayne’s voice.
I curled my head around. They were all looking at me.
‘It’s alright,’ I said, ‘I can do this.’
I hung there. Then they were talking again. I kept hanging. Then suddenly I didn’t feel strong anymore, only stupid. This was the sort of thing five-year olds did, for attention. I went to uncurl myself. I fell. I slammed into the ground. There was a slap of pain from my head and neck and shoulders. It was bracing, it cut nicely through the alcohol.
‘Shit,’ Wayne said, ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine. I’m just gonna lie here a while.’
‘Okay.’
I lay there. This was ridiculous. I never did things like this. I got up again. Found my glass, handed it up through the verandah.
‘Could I have some more bourbon?’
‘You sure?’ Vince asked.
‘I’m sure.’
They filled my glass. I wandered off again, towards Russel and Eve’s house. Their lights were off, they’d be long asleep by now. I went on by, down to the water tank. I looked up at it, at the ladder that climbed the frame. It hit me again. I couldn’t help myself. I climbed up the ladder. Something in me was determined to do these things. It was difficult, I was climbing one-handed, keeping my drink level. I swayed and slipped, clung on. I got to the top, sat on the platform. It was higher than I’d thought. I looked out. The distant ocean was silver beneath the moon, the bush and the mangroves a blur of grey and black.
I could see the others on the verandah. I felt sure they couldn’t see me. That was comforting. I didn’t want to be seen. I stayed there, sipping on my drink. I smoked a cigarette. I muttered to myself, even sang. Then I noticed Vince standing up. He appeared to be saying goodnight to Wayne and Stacy. He disappeared inside, then appeared again out front, heading towards his house. Wayne and Stacy remained alone on the chairs. I watched until I finished my drink. Smoked another cigarette.
Time to get down, I thought. I needed more bourbon. Towards the bottom of the ladder I missed a step and fell the rest of the way. This time I landed on my back. The jolt of pain was sharp and clear. Good, I thought, getting up, Good.
I turned towards the house, looked at the verandah. Wayne and Stacy were gone. There were just the four empty chairs, slightly askew, and a collection of beer cans and glasses. It was a terrible, ugly sight. I didn’t know what to do. I hurried round to the front of the house, up the stairs, down the hall. The dining room was empty. I went out to the verandah. No one was there. I went back inside, down the hall. The door to Wayne’s room was closed. I stared at it. It couldn’t be.
I went back to the fridge, found the cask of wine. I opened it, poured a glass. I felt a sick fear. It couldn’t be. Back out to the verandah. I sat down. Drank. I looked over towards the water tank. The platform at the top was easily visible. They would’ve all known I was there. They would’ve seen me, clutching my drink, curled around myself, sulking. In my leather jacket.
I got up. I stared down the hall. The ceiling fans whirred. Open that door and come out, I thought, Open that door and come out. Nothing happened. I began creeping down the hall. I hated myself for it, couldn’t stop. What did it matter what they were doing in ther
e? It had nothing to do with me. But it did. Wayne was in there. Wayne had everything to do with me.
I got to the door. Listened intently. I heard nothing. Were they even in there? Maybe they’d gone for a walk. Maybe Stacy had gone home and Wayne had simply gone to bed. I waited. There was a mutter, Wayne’s voice, and then a low laugh, female. The world froze. My heart thumped painfully. I kept listening. More mutters, more laughs, something hitting the floor. Then silence. Then moving sounds, and then, very faint—an intake of breath? A gasp?
I couldn’t stand it. I backed away. They were in there, they were doing it, they were fucking. How could they be. It was horrific. I got back to the verandah, quaffed wine. I was breathing fast, panicked. I tried to rationalise things. If they saw fit to fuck for an evening, it was their good fortune. I wasn’t involved. I didn’t need to feel anything.
But it wouldn’t go away. I drank more wine. Had a cigarette. Thought. It made no sense. Why was I doing this to myself? I had no interest in Stacy, no sexual interest. I hadn’t even thought about her that way, until now. How could I be jealous of Wayne for something I didn’t want. So furiously jealous.
But my mind wouldn’t stop. The images kept coming. The big double bed in Wayne’s room. Clothes coming off. Stacy, slim and naked, laying Wayne down. Wayne, slim himself, that long expanse of soft, white skin along the bed. The muscles in his chest stretched out, his arms over his head. Stacy sliding down, her hands running from his face to his neck, down across his breasts, to the dip of his stomach. His penis.
I could see it. Pale, slim, erect. Her fingers moving lightly up the shaft, down. Her mouth hovering near it, her hands moving, fingering his balls, tugging, gathering them in. Fine white hairs around the sac. Then her mouth coming down, lips parting around the head. Swallowing it lightly, her tongue barely touching. Wayne stiffening, hardening. The heat of his prick, soft, hard, him, filling her mouth, my mouth . . .
No. It was too much, far too much. I was shaking. I had an erection. For who I didn’t know anymore. I got up. I took one of the kitchen chairs, carried it inside. I hurled it down the hall. It bounced and clattered, rapped against Wayne’s door. Come out fuck it, come out.
He didn’t. They didn’t. I couldn’t stay there. I went out, past his door, out into the night. I staggered across the compound. The lighthouse, the streetlights. I spotted the track. It plunged down into utter blackness, the jungle. I took it. I was walking fast, almost running. I needed to exhaust myself. Suddenly my legs were gone. I hit the ground, hard. I was drunk, appallingly drunk. I was up again, reeling along. Gravel, I thought. I’d probably scratched the jacket.
Good. The jacket was ridiculous. Shiny and new and ridiculous. It needed scratches. It needed to be worn down, beaten. I began to run. Really run. Down along the track, jet black on either side. My legs went again. I hit the stones, skidding, cracked my head. The pain was knifekeen and beautiful. I saw it all suddenly.
Pain was the key. There was something huge inside me. Something dark and tight and swollen. A giant boil. Pusridden with denial. Pain was the only way to burst it, get rid of it forever. I was up again, running. I fell. Deliberately this time. I threw myself at the ground, felt gravel tearing on skin. It still wasn’t enough. I did it again. And again. Running blindly. Battering at the shit in me, feeling it rise, ready to gush, to spew out . . .
I stopped. I was sprawled in sand. It was soft, useless. I was at the bay. I stood up, swaying, stared at the sea. It seemed darker now, the silver was gone. The mangroves were all around me, waiting silently. Everything hurt. My lip was swollen, bleeding. I hadn’t got there. There was no release. Nothing had worked.
I gulped air. The mangroves watched. Waves lapped on the beach. Time passed. There was nothing in my mind. Eventually I was cold. I began walking home, slowly. I stepped carefully and didn’t fall over. I didn’t want to. The pain wasn’t good anymore. I reached the compound, climbed the stairs of our house. Wayne’s door was still closed. I didn’t care. I went to my room, shut my own door, and fell into bed.
FORTY-ONE
Pain. I awoke to it everywhere. Every joint, all down my left side, my mouth. My head. Inside it there was a hangover headache, outside it was something like concussion. And asthma too. I hadn’t taken any of the drugs. I sat up, coughed and wheezed and winced. Nausea swung in. I hung there, stupefied. A body couldn’t feel this bad. I looked down at it. I was still fully dressed. I eased the jacket off, examined the leather. I began, dimly, to remember. There were scuff marks on the elbows, down one side. No serious damage.
Then I saw blood on my T-shirt. I lifted it. It came away crustily from my left side. The skin was all red, a massive gravel rash. I’d pulled away the scabs with the shirt. Blood was oozing out in long, wide welts. I pulled off my shorts. Another red scrape ran along one thigh. My knees were the same. Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ.
I looked around, out the French windows. It was full daylight, maybe around mid-morning. I blinked at it. Nothing was making much sense. I thought about the weather, remembered it was Stacy’s job now. Then I remembered Wayne and Stacy. Everything that I’d done. The chair I’d thrown, the way it bounced down the hall. I sat there, feeling the full weight of self-disgust. Then suddenly I was thinking about the observations again. I’d been on the 3 a.m. I strove to remember. Had I done it? No, I hadn’t. I’d missed my very last observation.
The nausea swelled again. I fought it for a moment. Then I was up. Through the French windows, out onto the verandah, on my raw knees, hanging over edge. Vomiting, naked, bleeding in the hot, bright sun.
Later I made it out into the kitchen. Wayne was there. He looked ruffled and tired and ill. He looked me over in turn. I assumed I was worse.
‘What happened to your knees?’ he said.
‘I fell down. On the track.’
‘Did you throw a chair at my door last night?’
I nodded. I was hunting around the kitchen for Panadol. ‘Sorry. I went a bit crazy.’
‘You were really pissed. What were you doing up the water tank?’
‘I don’t know.’ I found the Panadol, took three. The water swished dangerously in my stomach, then settled. ‘So, you and Stacy have fun last night?’
Wayne shrugged, smiled. ‘Well, we were both pretty pissed too.’
‘Did she take over the weather at nine?’
‘Yep. I missed my six. Either way, we’re finished with it.’
Indeed we were. I went back to bed and suffered for a time, then gave up on sleep. I began packing. I threw the alarm clock in the rubbish, stacked things in boxes. I moved very slowly. I progressed onto the dining room. Wayne was packing up his own gear. We put the boxes on the front verandah. We were silent. I didn’t want to ask him any more about Stacy. I didn’t want to know anything about the previous night at all.
I recovered enough to get some toast down. The asthma remained bad. I had a cigarette. At the first few puffs I gagged and coughed up heavy, dark phlegm. After that I felt better. The body was an impressive thing. I lay on the bed, watched the ceiling fan spin, dozed. Late in the afternoon Vince came over, caught me on the front verandah.
‘You guys gonna be ready tomorrow?’
I nodded. Our plane was due around midday.
‘You alright?’ he asked, ‘You were way out of your depth last night.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, hope you’re okay for tonight. I’m cooking up a special one for your goodbye dinner.’
I’d forgotten that. A goodbye dinner. I wasn’t going to be allowed to crawl away from Cape Don quietly. ‘We’ll be there,’ I said.
He went off. I wondered if he knew about Wayne and Stacy. I doubted he’d care anyway. Wayne didn’t matter to Vince, Wayne was leaving. I went inside, sat in the bathtub under the slow, warm water, and waited.
We were at Vince’s by seven. We had the very last of the beer and the wine. I didn’t drink much. I wasn’t up to it. The headache seemed to be getting worse
. I sat on the couch, not talking often. My bottom lip was badly swollen, my words felt slurred. I’d fingered all of my scalp. There were several large lumps, but no splits.
The meal was the standard roast. Vince was lively enough, but everyone else seemed low. Even Stacy. She smoked steadily, didn’t speak. She and Wayne barely acknowledged each other. Maybe they hadn’t had it so great, after all. I kept watching the clock, even though there was no need. At twenty to nine it was Stacy who got up and went out to the weather shack.
At eleven I packed it in, made the goodnights. I walked back across the compound. I didn’t look at anything, see anything. Once in the house I took more Panadol, the asthma drugs, and went to bed. I lay there for some time, trying for sleep. It was maybe an hour or two before I heard Wayne come in. By the sounds of it, he was alone.
By eleven the next morning we were fully packed. Our gear was loaded into the Toyota. We’d given all our leftover food to Vince and Stacy. I wandered through the house, checking for anything we’d missed. I felt almost healthy again. The headache was gone, most of the major aches. I should’ve been feeling very good. It was another beautiful day, and we were getting out at last. By nightfall we’d be in Darwin, in a bar, in the real world again.
I didn’t feel good, only depressed. The house didn’t help. It had never looked occupied, even with all our stuff around, now it looked completely derelict. The lone table with its scorched hole in the middle. The chairs out the back. My desk with its mirror facing down, the single iron-framed bed. Wayne was walking about the place, taking photos with Stacy’s camera. I supposed in several years I might’ve wanted some reminder of the place. I didn’t just then.
Vince was with the Toyota. ‘Might as well come and wait over at my place,’ he said, ‘No need to hang around here.’
We went. We sat on his front verandah, in his deck chairs. The four of us, staring out, waiting for the plane in the sky. The plane was late. Midday went by. Then one o’clock, then two. It was one last, drawn out piece of agony. Cape Don’s way of saying goodbye. At half past three the plane appeared and did the circuit. We stood up, made for the stairs.
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