I just can’t get it up, I just can’t get it up.
She mimes masturbating a phantom as she yawns.
Michelle looks exactly the same.
People are meant to get older, wider. That’s generally what happens, Mona says.
I’m forty-five this year!
Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’re the youngest in the room.
I’m not sure if that makes me happy or depressed. Look, I’ve got to head off straight after this – it’s a bit of a hike. Are they always out in the sticks like this?
I’ve got to drive too. I didn’t tell Beñat I was coming.
Michelle slaps her.
You always did have a secretive streak.
Whatever happened to Danny?
Ended up working in a bank.
God.
And Jimmy?
Mona laughs at the shock of it.
Oh shit! Shit! I forgot. I’m so sorry.
Michelle squeezes her arm.
It’s a bit of a relief, actually. I’m so sick of talking to people who get this look on their face.
How’s Ro?
Mona gets out her phone. The boy’s face, fresh, unblinking to camera.
It’s a beautiful picture. Still doing art?
Teaching, mainly. And photography. I work in the bungalow now. Remember those nights we had? It’s a great little studio.
I’ll have to check you out on Instagram.
I’m taking a break from social media. My mind would click from I’m doing this to I’m going online to tell people I’m doing this. It was a weird way to be in the world.
I’ve never really gone on it much.
I miss out on what’s going on, though. What does Ro call it? FOMO? Fear of missing out.
You’re probably just back with the friends you had in the first place and it’s not so bad.
So what’s the latest with you? Mona asks.
I’m a single mum. Online dating … Times have changed.
Give me some vicarious Tinder pleasure. Dick pics?
All the time. I’m not sure how it’s meant to turn me on. They ask for vagina shots too.
Really! Have you done one?
I send them a pic of my hairy armpit. It’s a good way to do a quick cull.
Mona laughs so hard she spills champagne down her top, making it transparent.
Deal breaker.
In the toilets there are ugly lights and a queue of a few. Women take off layers of draping material, sweating dark onto the synthetics. Everyone is in fluoro with fake tan lines and long shaggy hair. She listens out for The Funny Girls as she sits in the cubicle. At New Order she was forced to go into the men’s toilets because Jimmy hadn’t come out. She’d missed her favourite song. ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’. He was nodding off. It took her ages to wake him up and the guys in the toilets thought it was hilarious.
While she washes her hands, the ladies scrape on foundation and eyeliner and lipstick. A woman is waving a pair of lace undies under the dryer.
I can’t believe it. I was so excited to see Bruce, I wet myself!
The woman steps her feet into the holes, wobbling, holding onto the wall for support. Mona hears the opening notes of ‘Close Up’ and dries her hands on her shirt as she leaves.
By the time Beñat steps up on stage the women have melted, butter-like, into their memories. Sparkling fumes. They dance like they once did and grab friends with the same looks on their faces. As Beñat starts to sing, a woman runs his mic cord through her fingers. He takes small steps backwards, jamming with the young guitarist, when the women try to touch him. Dressed in the black hoodie and T-shirt and jeans and boots that he always wears, he seems younger than the others.
The woman holding the mic cord strips down to a short blue-checked school uniform with names texta’d all over it, a high ponytail. She moans to Michelle.
He’s lost his hair. But he’s still hot. How old are you?
The woman doesn’t wait for an answer. Her purple lipstick has come off, leaving a dark wine ring around her mouth.
I used to love this band.
She comes in close to Mona, searching.
Do you think they have respect for us or just think we are really sad?
Mona laughs.
Most of them I wouldn’t recognise walking down the street.
Mona turns back to the stage. She can’t tell whether Beñat can see her. She can’t tell whether he can see anyone.
As Beñat does a cover of ‘Take On Me’, his voice pierces the stage smoke above her in falsetto. The woman with the wet undies grabs Mona’s arm, pulling her to the dance floor. She whiplashes Michelle with her hair as she twirls, as if she has some kind of contract with the band. She owns them and they owe her because she was there when it all started. She screams at Mona.
Who was your favourite?
Mona lies, pointing to the man on stage, who smiles a kiss-off smile.
Oh, I usually go to the toilet when he’s on. I always come to see Bruce. When I was a kid, it was only the wogs who were into Benny and Guy.
Mona laughs again. Her voice is sore from shouting above the sound.
I guess that makes me a wog, then.
Mona grabs Michelle’s arm while the women around them become wild things. They kick their shoes off. Robot dancing and getting into the groove and dancing in the summer rain and walking like an Egyptian. Seducing each other as the men watch, mystified. The song builds to the women’s rhythm of peaks and troughs, a ululation. A woman drags Beñat down to ground level and whispers in his ear. Mona hears him say, Shhhhh. The women throw off the night outside and look directly into the halo of the sun, the lights glowing above the stage. As they sing along with Beñat, Mona joins in with them and Michelle. The girls they once were. The secret spaces. She holds Michelle’s hand. It’s about knowing all the words. About knowing that they haven’t been forgotten.
Michelle’s phone rings and she moves away to answer it. Mona can see her friend’s children on the screen, lying on the couch, eyes glinting in the gloom.
Michelle turns the camera to film the stage and then turns back to the kids. They walk around, giving the camera a spin of their lounge room.
She wonders if they can see her over their mum’s shoulder.
Michelle looks at her, apologetic.
I keep getting emergency alerts on my phone. There’s a fire so I’m checking how close it’s getting. I’ve got a young babysitter. She can’t drive.
How far away is it? The fire?
About ten kilometres now.
Mona looks at her phone to see if she’s got an emergency alert. There’s nothing near Castlemaine.
Sorry, I think I’m gonna have to go.
The kids hang in the air, heads on a platter, as Michelle kisses Mona goodbye and carries her phone out to the car park.
A black velvet curtain draws the line between the band and the TAB. A woman sits alone, unlit fag in her mouth, watching the sports bets tally.
When the band finishes, the merch girls set themselves up in front of the curtain, laying out the CDs. They drink out of ’80s Gold stubby holders as if they’re underage.
Mona heads to the makeshift band room outside, a yellow shipping container like a chunk of cheese. Just big enough for a long table and a fridge full of beer.
It looks like it’s been plonked down from outer space. Freight trains rush past so close the container shudders in the night.
Beñat isn’t here and she hovers outside where the roadies and Bruce are having a fag in the humid air.
None of the men look at her or introduce themselves.
They have their phones out doing a dog-off. They take turns showing cute photos of their puppies. One of the dogs has a bandana around his neck.
He looks like a homo!
The roadie laughs. Bruce points at his chest.
You know, when they arrested those terrorists in Sydney, they were talking about beheading blond members of the public. I feel discrim
inated against!
Oh, here we go.
A small man turns up, stocky with a big head. He whacks Bruce.
Hey, remember me?
That’s what they all say.
Remember we were at the Prince of Wales and a girl called me a wog and so I punched her in the mouth?
Bruce laughs as he starts backing away.
You can’t do that, mate.
You thought it was funny at the time.
I don’t remember that at all.
I haven’t seen a band play live for ten years. It’s such a rush. How have you been?
Excuse me, mate. I’m absolutely exhausted by half-time. I had to do three songs in a row!
Two women turn up. The woman Bruce kissed from the stage. They continue on. She grabs his head while he touches her breasts.
Beñat comes up behind Mona.
So, this is awkward. How did I compare? he says.
I’d forgotten how good your voice is. I loved every minute of it.
He points in Bruce’s direction.
That’s Bruce’s wife.
Yeah, so I guessed.
Beñat laughs.
No, not her. The other one.
Beñat goes to the fridge. We’ve got beer … and beer.
I’ll get a wine inside.
Mona goes to get up but Bruce pulls her back down.
We need a call button. Don’t worry, I’ll just yell instead.
The hotel manager comes in wearing fluoro pink aerobics lycra and an Olivia Newton-John let’s-get-physical wig.
Beñat moves his chair closer and puts his arm around Mona’s shoulders.
Are you ready to meet your teen idol?
Scott Carne wanders in and peels off his black T-shirt and wriggles on another one. Another slogan. He uses a hairdryer and tips his head upside down to style his hair back up into lazy boyish scruff.
Mona pretends not to watch. The moment between when his shirt is off and when it’s on. Her time spent circumnavigating his middle in her soft-core phantasies. Her mouth on his neck. The frantic touch of a girl.
Beñat says her name and Scott’s, and all she can see is the space between what she knows about him and what he doesn’t know about her. Scott puts his glasses on. He can’t even see her.
She goes to shake his hand and then changes her mind.
A woman wobbles in and yells.
Tits out! Tits out! Tits out for the boys!
The men order steak and chips and chicken parmas and food that Mona hasn’t eaten for years.
A woman comes in and the room goes still. Bare legs, black mini, composed. All the men coordinate to help her find a chair.
I can’t believe I missed it! I didn’t think you’d be finished by ten!
She looks around the room and indicates to Beñat to sit next to her but he stays where he is.
Do you remember me?
Were you always blonde? Beñat asks.
She touches her dark hair, confused, stumbles.
I was many things, not always …
Sorry, I meant to say brunette!
Beñat looks at Mona and laughs.
I’m an old lady now. I’m forty-seven.
She looks around the room again, waiting for an effect.
Bruce comes in and sits next to her, pretending to listen, but she keeps looking at Beñat.
When I was in Canberra I saw The Funny Girls play, and we went back to the hotel room after the gig. I watched you having sex with a gorgeous girl with a blue mohawk. Do you remember?
Beñat says nothing, as if it’s a test of wills. Mona wants him to say something.
I was lying with the drummer, just spooning. This was the early eighties. It was such a different energy back then, you know. Everything was really pure.
Beñat puts his hand on Mona’s shoulder and the woman’s face turns.
I don’t think that was me – it sounds more like my brother.
Mona wants to hear the end of the story but Beñat leads her outside. Billy’s there, smoking a cigarette. Rubbing his hands as if it’s cold. She remembers the smell of his fingers.
Billy looks at Mona and she slides off at an angle. Then she faces him and waits. Unmistakable. Billy moves into shadow and lights another cigarette.
A woman, hair in black ringlets, has her mobile out, showing one of the merch girls pictures of her daughter. A first cheerleading contest.
Mona leans in to become part of the circle.
You wouldn’t believe the amount of work that’s involved. The instructions on make-up. The fake tans. It’s like the theatre. Everything has to be perfect.
Mona laughs.
I can’t believe they have to wear fake tans. How old is she? Mona says.
She’s just turned fourteen.
It seems so American, somehow.
The woman turns to Mona. The skin on her face is peppery and thin, stretched.
Are you Benny’s friend?
She pulls Mona back out of the circle. Her body is as frail as a small child’s.
This is the first time I’ve seen him play. He’s just getting back into it, Mona says.
Don’t go there. After fifteen years, all I want is for Billy to get out of it. Have you got kids?
A little boy.
You’re lucky.
She points at her phone.
I’m trying to instil values into our daughters, you know. When they look at Facebook, they see women writing things like Billy is a hornbag. He’s not a sex object, he’s a singer. You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be his wife, the way he’s treated, the way I’m treated. There’s just no respect.
I guess I’m going to find out the hard way …
At the last gig, a woman who was writing a book asked me if she could talk to him as I’m his manager. He told her he had lots of stories. I don’t want him talking about on-the-road stories. All these newly divorced single women, the disrespect.
She almost stabs Mona in the face with her cigarette.
If you’d had my life for fifteen years, you’d understand. I don’t mind him talking to the merch girls but not to the general public, open our lives to the media. I used to be quite open but now I’ve had enough. I hate the industry. It’s too much.
She spits the words out. Bitter olive pips.
These women, they live in a fantasy land. You’ve got no idea. But you’ll see. I’ve got the stories. One day I could write my own fucking book!
The one I love
A man.
Echo Point. Police chase.
He jumps out of the car.
The cops rush him to the edge. He
jumps.
But where he jumps.
Another platform underneath.
Breaks his legs.
He doesn’t get that far.
A woman.
Wentworth Falls. She climbs the fence. To take a selfie.
She sits on a rock. Overlooking the waterfall. She slips off it.
Falls straight down. Twenty metres. She smashes her head open. She doesn’t die at the scene. She is a tourist.
A family.
Mount Victoria. Mum snaps photos. Of Dad and their daughter. The dad takes a step backwards. He falls off the cliff. The daughter grabs at him.
She gets pulled over as well.
A woman.
Blackheath. Sitting in a creek line. Just near the waterfall.
The police come down. Talk her back from the edge.
As she moves back she slips. She falls a hundred metres.
They can’t find her body. She disappears into the void.
Into the veil of fog and mist of the waterfall.
A man.
Wentworth Falls. He sees it all. He sees the body break apart.
He is showered with parts and organs. He is walking along the cliff bottom. Almost killed by the falling body. Being hit by a limb. Like getting hit by a train. Similar sort of forces that generate.
A woman.
Megalong Valley. Reco
vering from a car accident. A man takes her to a lookout. For a picnic. They jump the fence.
They have a glass of wine. She needs to do a pee. She is on crutches. He turns his back. The ground is sloped. Pea-sized gravel. She screams. He turns around and she’s gone.
A woman.
Blackheath. Meditation Centre. She’s Varpashna’d.
The centre sandwiched. Between railway line and cliff line. She climbs the fence at sunset. They are all meditating. She falls off the lookout. A French woman.
A couple of hundred metres.
A woman.
A Japanese tourist. She comes to Katoomba. She’s heard it’s the place to come. The police know she’s Japanese.
She leaves her shoes at the clifftop. They all do.
A man.
St Peters. His shoes arrive in a parcel. Smelling of ash and fog. She leaves it unopened.
A rare plant.
Katoomba Falls. Ascending shrub with drooping branchlets. Near the waterfalls. On the side of the cliff.
The dwarf pine. Only grows in the spray zone.
BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE
Castlemaine, 1983
Jimmy brings his mother’s world to Kaz, wrapped up in paper: letters, diaries, scribblings and musings, budgets, lists (shopping, to do), cards, schoolwork, guardianship orders, State Trustees, notes on Aristotle, pages and pages of mathematical formulae.
Amy, it seems, kept everything that was written down.
The inked words smell of mould, damp carpets, cigarette smoke.
Kaz hears Amy’s voice, her many voices, from the letters, her diaries, her motivational speeches, her endless lists.
She hears about Amy’s prized possessions, a life reinvented.
Amy becomes a mythological beast and it’s hard to know the words that fit her best.
It seems to Kaz that she’s pleading for sanity.
Feed and Water Pets Here/Now. That’s normal.
Amy gives herself continual pep talks, reams of paper with the heading I ought to.
Her writing reads syncopated and rhythmic, like the words of the gospel. It moves along to drumming beats, texts strong and alive with conviction and connection.
The facts are hidden somewhere.
Amy refers more and more to her poor health. The state of her teeth, her burgeoning weight, her insomnia. She rarely sleeps at night and loses days, her medication making her muddled. Her hands shaky, speech unclear.
Almost a Mirror Page 17