Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 14, Issue 6

by Leigh Swinbourne

  Review of Australian Fiction, 14:6

  Volume Fourteen: Issue Six

  Leigh Swinbourne & Chris Somerville

  Zutiste, Inc.

  Review of Australian Fiction, 14:6 Copyright © 2015 by Authors.

  Contents

  Imprint

  Alana Leigh Swinbourne

  Grapefruit Chris Somerville

  Published by Review of Australian Fiction

  “Alana” Copyright © 2015 by Leigh Swinbourne

  “Grapefruit” Copyright © 2015 by Chris Somerville

  www.reviewofaustralianfiction.com

  Alana

  Leigh Swinbourne

  As soon as Luke set eyes on her, he was instantly, angrily aware of every other male in the room. Not that too many of these, he reasoned, trying to get a hold of himself, get a hold of the situation, constituted a serious threat. He cast a cursory, but well-trained, glance over the whole tricked-out faggoty lot of them, before inevitably returning to her. The guy she was chatting to was gay, but really gay, no doubt about it, so there was no hurry, he had a little time, to think, to prepare. Another sweep, bit slower. Actually there were a few contenders. And in one important respect he was out of his depth here, since it was a party he shouldn’t even be at.

  The party he should be at was way back down Davey Street at the Globe Hotel, his mate’s, Michael, but at some point Luke had wandered out bored and up the road and down a side street into this one. And this one was a scene, absolutely. Just look at these fuckers. So, what is a scene, Luke? Tell me. It’s bullshit. A collective mythology dreamed by every urban generation. Look around. Each conversation propelled by a tension, an anticipation that is never going to be fulfilled. Am I wearing the right clothes? Speaking to the right person? Saying the right things? Listening to the right music? A scene is always round the next corner. It’s the next person you’re going to meet, the next party you’re going to be asked to. None of these people are living, they’re waiting, waiting for something that’s never going to arrive. Under the glossy façade Luke knew they were just ordinary: ordinary and bored like him (well perhaps not quite like him), but too frightened to admit it.

  Keep all that in mind Luke, now make your move, now, while the gay guy’s still holding your spot.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry.’ In his haste he had bumped into a girl, knocking her drink. ‘Have I spilt any on you?’

  She was thin and awkward with quick nervy movements like a little bird, quite pretty, but her face was pinched, long curved nose, dark eyes, and her jet black hair looked natural. Some immigrant’s daughter and Daddy’s made good, even in fucking Hobart. She seemed strung as tight as a piano wire, even more wound up than him. That helped to relax him a little.

  ‘No, wouldn’t matter anyway, it’s only white. I was watching you looking over at Alana.’

  That’s the name. Alana. Perfect. ‘Yeah. I haven’t seen her in a while.’

  ‘I bet. She’s never been to Hobart before in her life. She’s my best friend. The two of us have just come down from Melbourne for this birthday party for her brother who’s studying down here who I also bet you haven’t seen in a while.’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘As a matter of fact you just came in off the street. Am I right?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Actually I didn’t know. Just guessed from the way you walked in the door and stood there checking everyone out.’

  His first mistake. Always be confident. Always bullshit. Nobody knows, nobody cares.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Luke.’ She didn’t care. She was checking him out. Alana’s best friend. Good contact.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A sweaty, burly, pasty-faced guy in an expensive suit. Couldn’t possibly be the brother. Wrong colouring.

  ‘Who do you know here?’

  His eyes drilled into Luke. The tone was threatening. He also knew.

  ‘Luke’s an old friend of mine, from Melbourne Uni days, living here now. I asked him along, George. Forgot to mention it. Sorry.’

  ‘No worries, Rachel.’

  He moved off.

  ‘Now you know my name.’

  Yeah, she was interested in him. What’s more, now he owed her, big time.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t get into a fight or nick the objets d’art.’

  ‘Speaking of which, whose unopened bottle of red is that beside you?’

  ‘Why don’t you open it and find out?’

  ‘I don’t have a glass.’

  ‘Have mine.’

  She picked up a paper napkin from one of the tables and wiped her lipstick from the rim. She was goading him. What the hell, in for a penny. He reached for the bottle—it was corked, which probably meant it was expensive—and there was a classy looking opener lying beside it. Luke eased out the cork, took the glass, and poured himself a full measure. Without thinking, he slipped the opener into his front jeans pocket.

  ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘I’ve had a bit. I’ll watch you drink for a while. We’ve been going since four. You need to catch up.’

  ‘Actually I’ve come from another party.’

  ‘Party crawling. Did you know anyone at that one?’

  ‘It’s at a pub down the road, the Globe, my best friend, Michael, is sort of the host.’

  ‘Now I would never do that to Alana.’

  Bullshit she wouldn’t. He flicked his eyes across. She was still chatting to the fruit.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’s there. Medical science should do an analysis on what actually goes on in a guy’s brain whenever they see Alana. It must be weird having your dick connected to your eyes.’

  Rachel was smart. Rachel was funny. Rachel was jealous. Rachel was drunk. He took a sniff and a goodly sip himself. Fantastic!

  ‘Like it, huh? You know how much that stuff costs?’

  ‘You read me like a book.’

  ‘Not so difficult, Luke. That’s your bad luck, isn’t it? Tell the truth, I like a bit of naivety. I’ve heard so much horseshit these last few hours.’

  ‘So, Rachel, what do you do in Melbourne?’

  ‘I’m an architect. What do you do in Hobart?’

  ‘Work in a bottle shop and play in a rock band.’

  ‘You’re way out of your element here.’

  ‘Who gives a shit.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So what do you think of what they’ve done to this place?’

  The house was an Italian Victorian terrace but the entire inside had been gutted and re-worked in early sixties retro-chic, spiral staircase, pop furniture, Andy Warhol photos, all very stylish but to Luke’s eyes totally wrong. Another man joined them; tall, thin, Luke felt he might have seen him somewhere before, but all these guys looked the same, slicked back black hair, smart black suit, paisley tie no less, and an expression on their faces like they owned the fucking world. He glared at Luke. Keen on Rachel perhaps? Who cares?

  ‘Actually Luke, I told a little fib. I’m an architect’s assistant and this is my boss, Joey.’

  Another Melbournite. Hence the paisley tie probably. Anyway, now he was here Luke could make his escape and move over on Alana.

  ‘Joey, Luke and I were just discussing the décor.’

  ‘Uh, huh. What do you think, mate?’

  Mate? ‘Smart, well done, but I think I’d prefer it as it was.’

  ‘Why?’ Joey said with sudden aggression. ‘I would’ve knocked the whole thing down. Pissy little terraces. Better to rebuild, I always say, than try and squeeze a twenty-first century lifestyle into a nine
teenth century building.’

  You could tell he did always say it.

  ‘… and this sixties stuff is so daggy.’

  ‘Sure, but what about preservation?’

  ‘These tired old suburbs are full of crumbling fossils, human and otherwise.’

  He was rude too. Good. More excuse to leave. He looked across and saw, shit, Alana was kissing this gay guy, like he wasn’t gay. Not a pash, but it looked like it might have a bit of something behind it. The guy walked off. Might mean nothing. If Luke was going to do something he would have to do it now.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to the décor. Excuse me.’

  He took a deep breath and walked right over.

  ‘You’re Alana.’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  Her beauty stunned him for a moment. Mustn’t lose his nerve.

  ‘No. Luke. I’ve just been chatting to Rachel. We’re old Uni mates.’

  ‘From Melbourne? I don’t remember you. What did you do?’

  What did he do? Think.

  ‘Hi Alana.’

  ‘Serge. Where have you been? This is Luke.’

  Serge looked like real competition. Tall and suave. Had to be expected with such a girl.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Serge.’

  ‘Serge has just produced a show at La Mama.’

  He’d heard of it. What the hell was it? That’s right, an experimental theatre space in Melbourne. Was anyone here from Hobart? ‘Yeah, I played there once myself. Not as an actor. In a band. Some rock theatre piece.’

  This was incredible bullshit. But he had to meet a guy like Serge on his own ground if he was to stand any chance.

  ‘And I play in a band here too.’

  ‘How did it go, Serge? Good houses?’

  ‘You can’t expect it for the type of work. Most people can’t deal with being confronted.’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t.’

  Alana giggled. Strike one.

  ‘What’s your band?’

  ‘The Snapdragons.’

  He could handle this guy. He was a cliché. Luke looked up at his arrogant close-cropped head. Jesus, they must have a fucking in-vitro production line for these shonks.

  ‘Wow!’ said Alana. ‘I even think I’ve heard of them.’

  Bullshit she had. Pissy little local band, and she didn’t even live here. He had won. Serge strolled off. Suddenly he noticed that she was slightly taller than him. Women are attracted to taller guys. Don’t be stupid. You’ve made a good start. Relax. Build on it.

  ‘You in town long? You could come and hear us play.’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind. I’d love to hear you though. Do you take it seriously?’

  ‘What, the band? Nah. The other two guys are studying and Julie is a wannabe actress. It’s just a hobby really.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘So what do you do, Alana?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, I’m a sort of secretary.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘Red Flag Publishers.’

  ‘Are they an old revolutionary collective or something? I know you take your politics seriously in Melbourne.’

  ‘No,’ she laughed, ‘a small film editing company.’

  ‘Is that what you’re interested in? Film?’

  ‘Sort of… yeah, I guess so, well that’s what I thought. I mean, I’d like to do something exciting, and I feel that I’ve got talent and everything, but I just don’t know what. My job sucks. Maybe I will stay in Hobart for a while. Do you live around here?’

  ‘I rent a bed-sitter near the Uni.’

  ‘Where do your parents live?’

  What kind of a fucking question was that? He was suddenly pissed off. He’d tell her the truth. Fuck them all.

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen my parents for about fifteen years, but I guess they’re in the same place.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘My father was, no doubt still is, a violent alcoholic, a fitter, and my mother’s a non-violent alcoholic, and a bit of a tart, out in the wilds of the Northern Suburbs. They booted me out of the house when I was fifteen, figured I was old enough to earn my own keep.’

  ‘Hey, that’s really unusual. I’ve never met anybody like that.’

  Never spoken to anyone like that, more like. ‘Well there’s plenty out there.’

  ‘You don’t sound very, I don’t know, working class.’

  ‘I don’t feel it.’ No, actually she seemed interested. Novelty value.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve just got to go to the loo, but don’t go away. I’ll be back.’

  She sounded like she meant it. What now? Back to Rachel? Forget it. Alana. She was everything he could never get his hands on. Style, elegance, beauty. She was just so desirable in that little black party dress with her long legs and long glossy chestnut hair and innocent girlish looks. When he’d first walked into the party and had just stood in the doorway looking over at her; he could hardly stand it. He thought he’d have to go and get drunk or smash something.

  He looked around at the crowd. He hated these people. He hated them so much. Frequently he had fantasies where he’d come into a room like this, brandishing an automatic weapon, and waste the whole fucking lot of them. They had everything, but they were nothing, and they were just so fucking full of themselves. He didn’t want to be one of them, he didn’t respect them enough for that, but for some reason he did want them to respect him.

  The other party, the one he’d actually been invited to, was really more his style—friendly, casual—and there were people there that he knew and liked, but after a while he just couldn’t handle being there. He’d have to go back. But not just yet, not when he was doing well. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else till Alana reappeared. He scoffed the rest of his wine and put down his glass. Rachel’s glass. Standing there doing nothing he felt very on edge and also very tired; he’d worked a night shift at the bottle shop and, truth to tell, the last time he had picked up a girl in this same state two weeks back he’d been impotent, and she had not been very understanding. Failure. Sometimes he felt it was his second name. He had nothing really, nothing, just a lot of vague dreams. Like Alana. Where was she?

  He wandered out the back door—he was starting to feel conspicuous—and into a narrow tiled yard that opened out onto some kind of public park. There was the guy Alana had kissed earlier, just standing there looking dopey. He was drunk probably. Luke would piss him off, get rid of him. He caught sight of Luke and looked at him like he was a fucking nobody and suddenly Luke was full of rage. He walked right up to the cunt, pulled the opener from his pocket, bent out the corkscrew and dragged it across his cheek. Blood welled from the tear. The idiot stared at him for a moment in horror—good, let him see what real anger looks like—then, hand clasped to cheek, he scampered off into the park without a sound. Good riddance. Hadn’t done anything like that in a while. He threw away the opener and returned to the party.

  Alana was nowhere to be seen, but Rachel walked right up to him. Could he settle for Rachel? Yes, but not while he knew Alana was around.

  ‘Hi Luke.’

  ‘Rachel. Any of that red left?’

  ‘Maybe. I see you’re putting in a bit of groundwork with the lovely Alana.’

  ‘Give me a break. I was just chatting to her, like I was with you.’

  ‘And the brother too.’

  ‘That Serge is her brother?’

  ‘No, out the back just now. I saw you talking to Alan. Alan and Alana. Pretty stupid, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You said it.’

  Grapefruit

  Chris Somerville

  My mother’s boyfriend Richard is in the backyard, picking oranges up off the lawn. I’m watching him through the kitchen window. Richard is wearing a blue tracksuit and it’s late spring. Although the orange tree is growing in the neighbour’s yard these oranges have fallen from the branches that hang over my mother’s fence.

  Richard had once outlined this to us w
hile we were watching television; who was the owner of the tree’s fruit when it came to rest on my mother’s lawn; who owns the air space between the branch and the ground, in which the orange will fall. He had brought up a recent news item, where a woman got her boyfriend to shoot a kite that was flying above her backyard, because she thought it had a camera attached to it, filming her.

  He’s waiting to deploy these arguments if the neighbours ever kick up a fuss about the oranges. This means when he collects them from the lawn he takes his time, inspecting each one, holding them up into the sunlight like he’s just stumbled across a diamond.

  He does this about once a week.

  My parents have never owned any guns, though my dad had told me he’d shot a kangaroo before. When I was fifteen my friend’s dad let us shoot a rifle, right before my mother banned me from seeing my friend. The rife was for shooting small animals, but my friend’s dad had made us shoot bottles that he’d balanced on top of his wheelie bin. He’d been nice about it, and encouraging, even when we didn’t hit anything.

  When Richard comes back inside he dumps the oranges into the kitchen sink. There’s not that many of them. My mother is upstairs, in her sensory deprivation tank, which she’s had installed in my father’s old studio.

  ‘Good going today,’ he says. ‘We should plant more fruit trees.’

  ‘There aren’t any fruit trees,’ I say.

  ‘A quarter of that garden could be dug up,’ he says. ‘It’s empty lawn there. Your mother’s not doing anything with it. It’s just waste.’

  While he talks he’s running the water into the sink, scrubbing at the pesticides he’s convinced the neighbours spray on everything.

  He has his own place, but he’s been living almost exclusively at my mother’s since they first started seeing each other. I’m living here too. I was out of money and wasn’t in love anymore, so I’d come back home to live with my mother. After Richard moved in my mother started doing aerobics in the pool, and now gets vegetables delivered to the door in a cardboard box. There’s also the deprivation tank, which I swear I can hear from every room, even when my mother insists that the whole point is that it’s silent.