Drowned Sprat and Other Stories

by Stephanie Johnson

  It was during the week before Christmas that Rick’s Christmas present made her first visit to the house, the house that has since been photographed and splashed all over every newspaper and news show in the country. A month ago Rick put it on the market; because of its infamy and views it’s bound to fetch about a million. She liked the Spanish arches around the front entrance, the yukkas in the beds of stones, the retro shagpile in the games room and Luke’s Persian cat. She touched all those things, and asked me for the word for them. She dipped her hand in the swimming pool and would have taken a mouthful of it, but I stopped her. The view from the picture window in the dining room, over the roofs to the harbour, transfixed her.

  ‘Sea,’ she said, pointing. ‘Boats.’ Above her face-veil her eyes crinkled, the skin around them pushed upwards by her curtained smile.

  Her response to the kitchen disappointed me. I thought she’d be pleased to see all the things I’d shown her pictures of in the brochures I’d taken to the motel, brochures I’d held on to since I’d bought the things years ago: the breadmaker, the dishwasher, the blender, the espresso machine, even the fridge and stove. She showed no desire to push any of the buttons, even though I’d given her rudimentary lessons in their operation. Instead she brought her hand up to her face, slipping it under her niqab, and stifled a bored yawn.

  The piano in the family room elicited more of a response — she pressed down several keys at once and listened carefully as the unharmonious chord jangled through the open-plan, harmonious-flow part of the house. She brought her left hand to join her right and explored the lower reaches, but the bass notes seemed to alarm her and she sprang away, hurried down the little flight of steps to the games room. I watched her take in Jimmy’s bed, the billiard table — she picked up a shiny white ball, carressed it, replaced it on the baize — but it was my exercycle that interested her more.

  Hooking her long dress into her knickers, she hoisted herself up, carefully placed her feet on the pedals and pedalled, slowly at first, then faster and faster, her lap a padded cushion of pumping, piled-up frock. I fancied she was smiling a little under her niqab, her eyes incandescent, black as treacle in the light diffused through my white nets, and I decided right then to buy her one of her very own for Christmas. We could come here in the late afternoons, face west to the gilding hills as the sun set and race away together, side by side, sweating a little, pumping on the moss-green Bremworth. Even though by then I had begun to suspect that Maryam wasn’t the full quid, that her simplicity somehow went beyond her peasant, refugee past, it never occurred to me that I should give her up. I thought we would get along just fine. I would have remained loyal to the contract.

  I never did get to see her on her exercycle, though I had bought it and hidden it in the garage, wrapped in swathes of bright paper. I was gone by the time she opened it, taken away on Christmas Eve, just after midnight.

  At eleven o’clock on the 24th of December I was in the kitchen, drying up the last of the dishes, when Rick emerged from his bedroom, his hair tousled, an intensely puzzled and somehow panicked expression on his face. After talking to me for a while, during which time his alarm vanished, to be replaced by what I call his salesman’s voice, a sing-song decisiveness, he rang the services.

  ‘My wife has lost her mind,’ I heard him say into the cordless, and I thought then of my cellphone in my bag and how I wished I could ring someone — but who? I could text the Minister of Immigration and try to make him understand that having Maryam to live with us was a two-way act of charity. But I couldn’t move; I felt turned to stone, my back wedged into the kitchen bench and a damp teatowel over my shoulder.

  With Maryam up and dressed and all her paperwork that Rick could gather from the hall stand, my top drawer and handbag assembled on the table, we waited quietly for other people to arrive. It was the only time we were all three knowingly alone together — though I’d been revelling in the thought privately all night since I’d gone to fetch her, ostensibly to the wine shop for some chardonnay. I’d snuck her in through the internal garage to the laundry, out the back door, up the side path and through the bedroom window. Never at any stage did she offer resistance; she showed no maidenly fear of her imminent intimacy with my husband — but then she was no virgin, our Maryam.

  One day at the motel she pointed at a photograph of me, young and milky, holding Stevie. She pointed at herself then, and mimicked rocking a baby in her arms.

  ‘I have baby,’ she said. ‘Son. In Turkey.’

  Now, I believe, Rick is making arrangements for her son to join them. We would never have become a cause célèbre if he hadn’t fallen in love. That last part of the story I can’t comment on, but it might be enough to get me out of here. If Rick accepts this wife and puts me away from him, then he has accepted that I did at least in part the right thing; that I have provided a future for him, even though he no longer wants me personally to be a part of it. It’s because of me he’s got Maryam.

  The only one of the kids I’ve seen lately is Jimmy, Rick having decided that as he’s nearly sixteen he’s old enough to decide if he wants to witness his mother in the nuthouse or not. Jimmy tells me it’s all in my mind, that Rick is not marrying Maryam now or ever, that he’s just taken on some of the responsibility for helping her to stay here, now that she is here, and to have her son with her.

  But I don’t believe him.

  Most of the time I just lose myself in my parallel life, the life that still goes on in my head, and perhaps also out there in the wealthy, placid eastern suburbs above the sea. In my favourite scene, one I return to again and again, Rick and I lie glistening with oil on our banana beds while Jimmy and Stevie and Luke run in a circle in the pool, setting up a whirligig they can surf on, briefly, before running again, the water swirling in a froth of chlorine and strong, tanned, young legs — and always, in this particular fantasy, on a spinning green flutterboard in the centre of their surging circle, is a fat brown baby sitting upright and cross-legged, gurgling and chortling, smacking the water with his fists, while a sleek head breaks the surface and Maryam swims towards her son, rolling onto her back with her face lifted to the sky and she’s laughing, and so are Rick and I and every single one of our trinity of sons.

  Maximum Turnover

  Her stiletto heels had jammed between two slats of the barbecue table. Yes, that must have been what happened. One moment she was spinning in the chill night air, kicking off the caterer’s plates, the red flare of her skirt billowing around her skinny thighs, one pale-nippled breast breaking free from her low-cut Lycra evening top, the hem of that top twisting and tightening at her waist, the glass beads her mother had given her as a going-away present flying out and catching her under the chin — then the next moment she was falling, graceless, arching, catching her spine on the rough edge of the bench seat.

  The skin on her back was stinging and there was a long, hot, jagged pain down one of her legs which pulsed once, twice, three times — had she severed a nerve, or a vein? — the pulsing in time with the beat of the music from inside, with the looping swinging of the tree that shaded the table, in time with the swaying of the giant flaming mushroom that was the patio heater and the rhythmic sharpening and softening of the edges of the silhouettes of other guests. She put her head between her knees.

  After a moment the world steadied and she stood up, carefully, smoothing down her clothes. Luckily no one had seen, or so it seemed, though surely some people might have — hadn’t she been the focus of the party when she was table-dancing? Had they all turned away just before she fell? Certainly nobody was looking at her now, least of all Leonard, the host, the frosty bisexual architect, who hours ago now had opened the door to her with a sneering curl to his upper lip.

  ‘You on your own?’ he’d asked, looking behind her for her friend Amber, whom he disliked possibly even more than he did Chelsea.

  ‘Yup,’ she’d said, opening her hand and showing him the little white pills, three of them as promised, st
anding on their edges in the crevice of her palm. Leonard let her in, taking the E from her.

  ‘Pay you later,’ he said.

  He still hadn’t. She could see him, on the other side of the open-plan living room, on his tiptoes to kiss a newcomer, a tall blonde with a red mouth and flashing teeth.

  One of the heels was snapped in half. She took off both of her shoes and threw them into the yuccas and ferns of Leonard’s professionally landscaped garden. There was a thud as they struck the dry-stone wall behind the plants, loud enough to make a guy sitting on his own under the patio heater look up. She smiled at him. He was good-looking in a boring, businessman kind of way, in a sports jacket no one wore any more who wasn’t over sixty, a maroon shirt and a bad haircut.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You just fell off the table.’

  ‘I’m okay.’ She took a step towards him and felt the muscles in her back move raw skin against the prickly, sparkly fabric of her top. ‘Maybe I’ve got a graze.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You a friend of Leonard’s?’

  ‘Went to school with him years ago.’

  She smiled again, feeling dizzy. Had she banged her head? She didn’t think so.

  ‘What about you?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’m Chelsea.’

  He smiled now, for the first time. He had a nice mouth, soft and cushiony.

  ‘And? You’re here why?’

  ‘Oh, I delivered some happy pills. I’m the courier.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The man looked around behind him, across the deck and through the glass that formed the northern wall of Leonard’s house. The host was standing with a group of men. None of them was talking — the music was too loud.

  ‘Tell him Blake’d like one.’

  ‘You look too straight for that kind of thing, Blake.’ She touched his jacket.

  ‘Not at all. Has the same effect on me as anyone else. Makes me interested in people who’d otherwise bore me shitless.’

  ‘Like me, for instance?’ She poked her hip out at him, wiggled her arse. Why would she want him to like her? she wondered. He reminded her of teachers at school, those memories still fresh, only two years old. She met his eyes. They were hard, appraising. And brown, she thought, leaning closer. Or possibly green.

  ‘So how does Leonard know you?’

  ‘Through my friend Amber. Her and Tip, her boyfriend. Tip’s a cook, you know.’ She waggled her eyebrows. It was hard to tell how old Blake was. She supposed he was Leonard’s age, if they’d gone through school together. Somewhere around thirty.

  ‘So what do you do?’ Blake asked her; wearily, she thought, as if he was following a script. ‘For a job?’

  ‘This and that. Whatever pays the rent.’

  ‘So you’ve got somewhere we could go?’

  He was quick, quicker than her. She’d only just got the idea.

  ‘Yeah. You got a car?’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘We’ll get a cab.’

  For a moment he looked as though it was all too difficult and he couldn’t be bothered, but then he sighed and stood up.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, not looking at her, jamming his hands in his pockets.

  On the other side of the glass wall the guests had started dancing. At Leonard’s parties no one ever danced in couples because Leonard detested people who came in pairs. It was like passing through an arrangement of life-size jiggle toys, those plastic figures strung with elastic that flopped and bounced when you depressed the button in the base. These jigglers were penguins, perhaps, or seals, all in black. Some of the dancers had their eyes closed.

  Outside, away from the patio heater, it was cold. A sou’easterly sliced up the gully from the motorway, fumy and watery. From down near the flyover a supermarket bag billowed end over end up the street towards them. It passed by determinedly, white and crackling, as if it knew where it was going — which was more than Chelsea did. Lots of girls did this just once or twice, she knew; they didn’t necessarily do it again. Besides, it couldn’t be all that bad because the Prime Minister, who was a woman, had made it legal, made it a career path. Chelsea didn’t think of it like that, though: it was just a quick solution if you were in a tight spot, like she was. Amber wasn’t talking to her because Tip had given her a smack in the eye for helping herself to his gear, which had all been Chelsea’s idea. He’d threatened to cut off Amber’s hands, like that samurai sword guy did to his girlfriend, if she didn’t get the money back — or the gear, he didn’t mind which. Whatever came first. The stuff she’d sold to Leonard was the last of what they’d nicked.

  Bugger it. She’d forgotten to get the money off him. She’d have to come back later.

  ‘Might have more luck if we go up onto Great North Road.’ She began to walk away from him. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it’d be safer and wiser just to stop in a doorway somewhere; maybe he wouldn’t fancy walking too far and want to go back inside to the party.

  ‘Hey.’ He was beside her. ‘You really taking me somewhere, or what?’

  ‘We could go down there if you like.’ She pointed down an alleyway that ran between a panelbeater’s and a video shop. ‘Thirty dollars.’

  Was that the right amount? Too much? Not enough? She watched him closely. It was beginning to rain properly now — a droplet landed on his eyelid, hung quivering on a lash before it fell, striping his cheek like a tear. He wiped it off, shook his head.

  ‘Nope. You take me where you take … whoever.’

  ‘Okay.’ She patted him on the arm, soothingly. He seemed agitated. ‘Okay — up here.’ She took his hand and led him up the hill.

  A taxi came along just as they reached the corner. There was a picture of Krishna on the dashboard and a smell of cigarettes and incense, or a heavy, flowered oil. Beside her in the back seat he sat quietly, looking out at the passing wet streets. The time had passed for her to find out any more about him. That opportunity had been at the party. What do you do? she could have asked him. Are you married? Kids? Got a girlfriend? How much do real hookers ask for?

  ‘You got any cash on you?’ She supposed that was the most important question. It was her father’s genes coming out in her — he was always good at collecting his debts. She pictured him at home now, in his big house above the sea, watching TV with his new wife and the twins. No — the twins would be in bed by now. She pictured them in their Winnie-the-Pooh-theme bedroom, their little cheeks flecked by the rain shadows on the window, the bears and Piglets and Roos swinging on mobiles and pinned to the walls, the soft hum of the air-conditioning. Suddenly, over the incense and stale cigarette pong, there was the smell of the twins after their baths, the crisp scent of their laundered pyjamas, their healthy skins and shiny hair, the privilege of their perfumed childhoods. Hers had been like that too, with a loving mother tucking her in every night. Her father’s absence hadn’t bothered her as much as it was supposed to, if you believed all the stuff about fatherless girls.

  She crossed her legs, lifted Blake’s nearest hand and brought it to lie in her lap. It was heavy and damp from more than just the rain. Was he nervous? Maybe he hadn’t done this before either. He seemed trustworthy, kind of sad and honest. Maybe it would be safe to take him back to her flat. Amber would be around at Tip’s place, doing whatever he or his mates asked of her, to keep him sweet. She would be waiting for Chelsea to show with the money. Leaning forward over Blake’s motionless hand she gave the cabby her address in Avondale.

  The people in one of the flats downstairs were having a party — there was a line of young men sitting on the low wall outside the building, swigging mixes. One of them offered a newly opened KGB to Chelsea as she went past.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, though it wasn’t. It was June.

  ‘Cheers.’ She swallowed half of it in one go while Blake paid the driver. She’d got out as soon as the cab had drawn to a halt so he’d had to come up with the fare.
Maximum turnover, she thought, that’s what was required from this enterprise.

  He followed her up the stairs.

  ‘Where’d you get that from?’ he asked, when she set the bottle down to rummage in her bag for the keys.

  She pointed through the floor towards the origin of the beat that thumped up through the boards.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

  ‘’S’worn off.’

  The door opened into the small, windowless living room that doubled as Chelsea’s bedroom. Her sleeping bag and pillow were heaped up on the small foam sofa, which was ripped, showing its crumbling yellow insides. Clothes swirled on the floor in coloured curds, crumpled tissues glowed white, the gold of an empty cigarette packet gleamed in the light from the bulb at the top of the stairs. A poster of J-Lo had come loose from its blu-tak and curled halfway up her semi-naked torso.

  There was a faint mewing and Amber’s kitten Matrix picked his way across the room.

  ‘Bit of a mess,’ Chelsea said apologetically, not looking at him, picking up the kitten.

  ‘Stinks,’ Blake agreed.

  Her bladder was bursting, but she didn’t want to leave him in case he turned around and left, in case he went back down the stairs and out into the night, taking his wallet with him. Matrix wriggled in her hands and she put him down again.

  In a jar on an upturned carton beside the sofa was a candle. She lit it and undressed quickly.

  ‘Where are we going to …’ he said, one foot on her black T-shirt, the one that had glittery letters on it that said ‘I’M WORTH IT’.

  ‘Here.’ She spread the sleeping bag over the sofa, straightened the pillow and lay down, her eyes on the candle. It was flickering and jumping in time to the beat from the downstairs party, which reminded her of something — a TV ad for a herbicide from when she was a kid, Round-Up was it, which had thistles that danced just like that, nodding their shaggy heads …