by Sean Rabin
Lucian gently passed a hand over the cover of Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset. Softly fanned its pages and inhaled their scent. Smiled. Still smells of Portugal, he said. Angela Carter sent this to me after she read The Bombardier. She was working at the University of Adelaide and wrote to her London publisher to buy me a copy on her behalf. But by the time it reached me, and by the time I got around to reading it, she had passed away. Stupid, childish mistake. Imagine not thanking the person who introduces you to such an incredible book. One of my biggest regrets.
78.
Jesus, it’s cold.
Paul reached behind and pulled Carl even closer. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck, and toes burrowed into the bottom of his feet. He should have been up half an hour ago, but fear that this might be the last morning Carl spent in his bed made him reluctant to move. For the past week Paul had been counting the days until Carl became a permanent resident of Wood Green. Yet now the date of Tim and Maureen’s departure had arrived he wished he could delay it a little longer. He knew that as soon as Carl had a warm house of his own it would be impossible to convince him to spend the night in his poorly heated attic bedroom. Cancelling out the one and only contribution he currently made to their relationship. Carl was already the wealthier of the two. The better educated. Wider travelled. And unquestionably more attractive. His body was refined. Firm. Preposterously strong, with stomach muscles that fascinated Paul’s fingertips. Together they had capsized the pub owner’s common sense. Propelling him into a reality where he was absent-minded, guileless in conversation and susceptible to crippling bouts of self doubt that exaggerated every tiny fault. How would the two of them ever develop a lasting relationship when they were so uneven? The thought left Paul agitated. Feeling corpulent. Angry that his beauty was insufficient. And determined to better himself. He stopped snacking during the day. Drinking full-fat milk. And refused to use the stool behind the bar in the hope that if he sat down less often he might lose more weight. The effect of which was that his feet and legs ached, he was hungry all the time, uncharacteristically irritable, and oversensitive to the way Penny bristled whenever he mentioned Carl’s name. Yes, he could sometimes be pompous and a little too distracted by his mobile phone, but on the other hand Paul liked Carl’s audacity, and perseverance to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. Paul knew he needed to develop something similar in himself, and if that meant suppressing other parts of his personality then it was a small price to pay. For the consolation was no longer being alone. Maybe that was what Penny was so upset about. Did she detect his happiness and feel threatened by it? Was she scared that he and Carl were falling in love and it was going to leave her alone with Matthew? Was Carl simply too inconvenient for Penny? Paul’s thoughts digressed further and further until the carnal movements of Carl’s hands returned him to the present. All the happiness he had felt upon waking suddenly rematerialised and dispelled his anxiety about thick ankles and getting up late. He was just thankful for everything he had, and reached behind to pull Carl even closer.
79.
This going as well luv?
Maureen turned to the perspiring man pointing at the Formica table. Heavy feet were still moving in the room above her head, though it appeared the removalists were about to start work on the kitchen. She nodded, then returned to staring at the backyard and feeling betrayed. The note Maureen had placed inside Lucian’s pocket had invited him to pay a final late-night visit, and it was 2am by the time she realised his silhouette was not going to appear behind the frosted glass in the back door. The secret hole in the wall beside the rosemary shrub where they had previously left all correspondence was also empty, leaving Maureen to conclude that in spite of all the effort she had invested in their relationship, Lucian’s icy reserve remained intact. It clearly existed somewhere deep beneath his skin. So his hands and prick were warm enough to enjoy her tits and arse, while his vital organs remained insulated from her touch. Maureen stepped into the drizzle to farewell the chickens. Carl had reluctantly agreed to take over their care, and she assumed it would be a matter of only weeks before one of them ended up in the oven. Hope that Lucian would appear from the scrub behind the coop was quickly usurped by a fear that perhaps something had gone wrong. Had Lucian fallen down in the dark? Was he lying in the bush somewhere waiting for help to arrive? Wondering why Maureen had not organised a search party to comb the forest? His leg had better be broken, she thought, otherwise he was being particularly spineless and cruel.
This going as well?
Maureen returned to the kitchen and found the biggest, hairiest removalist about to wheel out the refrigerator. No, sorry, that’s staying. Look, let me show you what needs to go.
As she passed through the house noting how small it looked without any furniture, Maureen lamented the way every detail would eventually fade from her memory, just like all the other houses she had lived in. The thought perturbed her, and she looked about the shop – the only room left undisturbed – to try to memorise its features. The counter. The till. The fridge doors and coffee machine. The bell above the front door whose tinkle infiltrated her dreams. She knew she would also miss the potbellied stove – its smell of hot iron and ash, and the late-night warmth that had made her feel more content and happy than at any other time in her life.
Through the shop window Maureen saw a small crowd gathered in front of Paul’s pub. Half the people she would never think of again, while saying goodbye to the other half was sure to make her cry. If only Lucian has been braver, Maureen thought. She wanted to put this period of her life behind her, yet knew it would be impossible to untangle herself from Wood Green until Lucian had bestowed a parting kiss. Did he know this as well? By not turning up was Lucian somehow saying he wanted her to stay? But that, Maureen acknowledged, was probably the most sentimental thought she had had all morning.
This too luv?
She turned. Yes thanks. That too.
80.
The dozen people standing beneath the rusted awning at the front of Paul’s pub shuffled slowly back and forth to keep warm and avoid the drizzle being blown sideways by the wind. They had congregated to give Tim and Maureen a community farewell, but their patience was waning as the removalists continued to load out what seemed to be an endless supply of boxes and furniture. Some had already returned to their stools saying they had never liked that prick Tim anyway, and were boasting about how they still owed the shop twenty-five dollars. Fuck’s chance of getting it now, they said with a laugh at how clever they had been.
Matthew stood inside his mother’s coat with her arms folded across his chest, and looked up as Michael made small talk about the lunch menu.
I’d recommend the curry today, Penny said. It’ll keep you warm all afternoon.
You live with Lucian, don’t you? asked Matthew.
That’s right. Are you helping your mum in the kitchen today?
Matthew nodded. I made the hamburgers.
Well maybe I’ll have one of those instead.
You get chips with it.
Sounds too good to resist.
Matthew scrunched up his nose. But the curry is better.
Penny beamed and kissed her son’s crown. This is Matthew.
Good to meet you Matthew. How old are you?
Nine, but I’ll be ten in January. Do you like Lego? I’ve got six Lego figures from the Batman series. But I’m going to buy two more at the end of the school holidays.
You know I do like Lego. But I don’t get much of an opportunity to play with it these days.
You could come to our house. I’ve got heaps.
Thanks. I might take you up on that. Maybe not today though, I’ve got to get back to work. But another day for sure, okay?
Okay. Any time you want.
There he goes, said Paul as Carl crossed the street.
Shouldn’t be long now, said Michael.
Finally the truck roared to life and the removalists began to negotiate the winding road
down the side of Mount Wellington. With the large vehicle gone everyone could see inside the shop as Tim handed over the keys to Carl.
Is Lucian coming down? asked Penny.
No, he’s in bed with a cold.
Where are Tim and Maureen going? asked Matthew.
We don’t know yet, his mother answered. They’re staying in Hobart for a few nights, then I think Tim is flying to Melbourne.
But who’s going to help Carl?
We all are, said Paul.
I’m not giving that prick my money, murmured a voice from within the crowd.
Paul tried to pretend he had not heard it, and felt the birth of a suspicion that Penny had already begun her campaign for a boycott of Carl’s business.
The front door opened and Tim walked into the middle of the road to look back at the general store. Those waiting at the front of the pub could see he was enjoying a moment of reflection, but it was too cold to indulge him for long.
Hey Tim you bastard, you still owe me a beer.
Tim held up his wallet and announced he was buying everyone a drink.
The crowd gave up a cheer as Paul said, Bloody hell, and dashed inside to man the taps.
Maureen did not look back as she crossed the road. A Mars bar and two rolls of Life Savers appeared from her pocket as she winked at Matthew and handed him the booty. Stole ’em.
Matthew checked with his mum, whose smile confirmed that Maureen was only joking and it was fine for him to accept the gift.
Lucian is still sick, Michael blurted out before she could ask.
Well tell him I hope he feels better, and give him this from me. Maureen kissed Michael on the side of his mouth.
Best of luck, he said.
You too.
Michael then walked inside the pub to say goodbye to Tim and order a take-away lunch for two.
Meanwhile Penny and Maureen made promises to keep in touch and visit one another, which both of them suspected they were never going to keep.
81.
How are you feeling?
I think I might have the same thing you had. All I want to do is sleep. And I ache all over. Like my whole body is being squeezed in a vice.
Well just rest and you’ll probably feel better tomorrow. Lucian leaned into the room and placed a cup of herbal tea at the head of the daybed where Michael lay prone. Have you taken any aspirin?
Yes, thanks. Sorry about this. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking after you.
Nonsense. I can still take care of myself.
I’ll get up and do some work in a couple of hours. All I need is a little more sleep.
Forget the work. Just get better and we’ll catch up over the next few days.
Michael nodded, pulled the blankets to his chin and shut his eyes.
Lucian closed the office door and returned to the sitting room where Sadie dozed in front of a cheerful fire, and everything needed for an extravagant spliff had been arranged on the table between the two armchairs. Lucian knew he should probably eat lunch first, but all he wanted was to wallow in his thoughts while watching the flames grow animated. No music. No reading. Snow lay thick on the ground outside and more was forecast for later that evening. The roads would be closed for at least forty-eight hours. No cars or newspapers. No need to step outside except for a breath of fresh air. As he assembled his joint Lucian noticed the skin of his fingers was dry and thin; growing translucent so he could watch his life force slowly draining away. Though his sprained ankle had healed enough for him to walk, it still hurt most days, and Lucian could tell that his balance would never be the same again. So he willed it to become even worse as he inhaled deeply on his spliff. The task for the afternoon was to discover just how high he could become. An idea so enticing that Lucian considered rolling a second joint even as his respiration grew constricted and his blood pressure stepped off a cliff. Fortunately he was already sitting down so there was nowhere to collapse except further into his chair. It reminded Lucian of the day Maureen had found him face down in the backyard. Despite his veneer of indifference, her departure from Wood Green had left an ache inside his chest that he could neither dismiss nor ignore. The decision to end their affair had been necessary to protect Maureen from the calamity of what he was about to go through, but sometimes the misfortune of not meeting her earlier in his life felt too cruel to bear. If only he had had a few more years then Lucian was certain he would have proposed. But to burden such a bewitching beauty with an old man whose memory was disintegrating felt immoral. The fortifications of Lucian’s reality began to crumble and his thoughts wandered to Grace and the question of whether she still lived in Pisa. Or had she returned to Galway to look after her ageing parents? More than likely they were dead by now, along with Patricia’s mother and father. A fraternity Lucian would be joining in the not too distant future. It was not so bad, he thought. As long as he managed to finish his latest book he did not really want for much more. And even if he did, he would not allow childish longing to undermine the pleasure of his remaining days. He had recently arrived at the reassuring revelation that the world did not depend on him to exist. In his absence, all the things he loved in life would continue to flourish. And it made his approaching departure feel more tranquil. It had been a strange life. And at no point could he remember ever feeling in control of it. It had never been boring. There had been plenty of laughter, ample love, and though writing had exacted a terrible price, Lucian could think of no occupation he might otherwise have dedicated himself to. Unwittingly, he realised that he was content, and his traditional bag of worries were not worthy of further consideration. After all of life’s struggles and sacrifices he was able to sit on top of a mountain, or on the side of it at least, and have a happy death. The idea caught him so unawares that he wondered if he was merely being frivolous. Would he have felt an equivalent epiphany without a skull full of THC? He reminded himself that he still had a book to finish. That it was necessary to maintain the fire in his belly right until the end. But he could not deny the interior transformation that had taken place. At last he felt ready to take the next step without regret or despondence. What was there to fear? The others had done it this way, and now it was his turn. And anyway, how could he avoid it? Why on earth would anyone wish to do so? At this stage, dying was what he was meant to do. And it felt closer to living life to the full than some strange wish for immortality in a world that was done with you. Twenty years was twenty years, and this was just part of the bargain. A necessary process for things to move forward. The most logical progression.
82.
Michael could feel himself laughing with Ursula as he looked down at her sock covered with mud. Without explanation he knew her gumboot had become stuck in the field and she had stepped out of it by accident. There were two teeth missing from the front of her mouth, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail that reminded him of their mother. Plovers standing like sentinels of the vacant lot flew up into the air as Ursula lost her balance and toppled over. When he reached forward to help her up, her face changed into a Vietnamese girl whose terrified expression vanished as a bullet tore though the side of her head. He saw John Driscoll lower his rifle without emotion and insist they had no time to take prisoners. The small hand fell from his grasp as his father stood at the back door and called for them to come inside and get clean. He recognised the house he had grown up in, and the cellar door he had hid behind to set alight pieces of paper rolled into pretend cigarettes. He could hear his aunt running around above his head yelling, Fire, Fire, while two policemen entered through the side gate to club a large water rat curled into the corner of their back fence. When the show was over they returned to a Sunday lunch noticeably lacking in meat. So he took Ursula fishing at Blackmans Bay. The wind kept blowing his line into the shore but a man sitting outside the shops offered to buy them fish and chips if Ursula would come for a drive in his car. She said it wasn’t fair that he got to go away to Vietnam while she had to stay in Tasmania. Their father sto
od at the back of the crowd and touched the brim of his hat as tugboats steered the ship away from the pier. He tasted the salt of the ocean and saw before him a table strewn with lemon wedges and an empty bottle of tequila. Outside the sun was raging and he knew it was time to leave for work. His stomach hurt and he walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Except there was too much sand piled in front of the refrigerator door. He pulled so hard the handle broke off and he fell into the mud next to his sister, laughing at the mess they had made of themselves.
83.
Michael woke in pain. The aspirin he had swallowed before going to bed had run its course and now his body lay entirely unprotected from the symptoms of the virus. He tried to go back to sleep, but the disturbing images still sloshing about his brain, and the menace of the ache humming along his skeleton would not be ignored. He had been working too hard. Why else would he be dreaming about Lucian’s life? Michael tried to banish all memory of the dead Vietnamese girl, and Ursula’s smile as she sat in the car eating fish and chips. How did he even know what Ursula looked like at that age? He didn’t of course. It was just a dream. A stupid dream. No matter how convincing it had all seemed, none of it was real. Michael told himself to open his eyes. He was feverish. Surprised to find himself damp with sweat. Unsure if he was able even to move. In the hours since lying down gravity appeared to have become heavier and more hateful. Michael started to pant with fear. This did not feel like any flu he had suffered before. He forced himself to sit up. Ignore the tenderness in his legs. And stand, no matter how dangerously he swayed, or close he came to colliding with boxes. The house was dark but he could find the bathroom without turning on a light. The glowing embers in the sitting room fireplace revealed Lucian slumped in an armchair. The familiar reek explained the situation perfectly, but Michael felt too frail to assist the aged stoner into bed. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor soothed his bare feet as his fingers located nail scissors, tweezers and dental floss. However the aspirin proved elusive and forced him to pull the cord for the small light above the medicine cabinet. Its brightness stung his eyes and he hurriedly located the large rectangular box of pills. An excessive dose measured out, Michael bent to the tap to wash it down. He then shut the mirrored door and saw skin with no colour, teeth in urgent need of brushing, and eyeballs red and sore. Captivated by a face he scarcely recognised, Michael prodded his chin and nose to confirm they were indeed his own. Despairing, he turned off the light, took another sip of water and shuffled back through the house. He must have woken Sadie as he could hear her claws tapping the floorboards behind him. When he lay down she leapt onto the bed and settled on top of his feet. Michael appreciated the additional warmth and impatiently willed the aspirin to blunt his pain so he could drift back to sleep and have dreams that this time would hopefully reference people and places from his own life.