Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘I have to say, Afshan, I’m rather shocked by your cynicism.’

  He shrugged, then tipped his head to the screen, as if that settled the argument. I turned to see footage of Bruce Copeland being shoved into a police car and driven away.

  7

  ASCOT VALE’S heartland was subdued. My neighbours were a sedate bunch. After work, there was a civilised queue to buy beer at the supermarket, which I joined. And later, with a six-pack and a family-sized pizza, I plodded up Roxburgh Street and went up to my flat to contemplate my existence.

  The 7pm ABC news covered an assortment of the day’s happenings. Train to the airport? Not so fast. Bandicoots extinct? No, they’re making a comeback. Tie up your trampolines, more storms imminent.

  Then came a bikie funeral for a chap discovered facedown in a bath in a derelict house bursting with hydroponic flora. The late Ricky Peck had been a popular fellow. Outside the church, his mates pelted the journalists with golf balls. It was the least they could do. Cops were still making inquiries. Cut to a woman I recognised — a mature journalist, with a permanently serious face, and wicked cheekbones. ‘Bunny Slipper reporting in Braybrook.’

  Back to the studio, where the newsreader added, ‘Tune in on Sunday night for part one of Bunny Slipper’s three-part documentary on the escalating activities of outlaw motorcycle gangs in Australia.’ Segue to Bruce Copeland — the detective inspector had been interviewed by police for a second time and released.

  Sprawled on my lounge room floor, full of pizza and beer, I could bear no more. I flicked through the channels and found a movie full of suffering and violence and Leonardo DiCaprio delivering his lines in a nifty South African accent. A linguistic feat like that deserved an Oscar, surely. He was negotiating with a warlord: a plane full of grenade launchers for diamonds. The warlord gives Leo a bag of crap. Leo tells him no deal, he will have to use old AK-47s against the government troops. Good luck with that, warlord, I thought. Then a knock on my door ruined the moment.

  I hit the remote and discovered that my left leg had fallen asleep. I dragged myself upright and made it to the door without falling down. I put my eye to the aperture. Framed in my peephole was a short person in a rubber mask.

  Some blame the Americans, some the Irish, but after a slow start, Halloween had arrived in Melbourne and was now a thing. It was half-arsed compared to the US version. Here it was more a last-minute ransacking of two-dollar shops. Plastic masks, cut-up pillowcases, and cardboard hats. It lacked the authenticity of tradition, having been introduced in my lifetime, so I felt comfortable ignoring it. During my childhood, no filament of fake cobweb had been spread across a single fake tombstone in any Australian front yard.

  The masked child bounced excitedly from foot to foot, no doubt anticipating her glycaemic hit. As far as I could tell, she had come as what I could only describe as an ugly old woman. I felt I should not reward that kind of thing.

  ‘I know you’re in there, Stella!’ the child shouted. ‘I heard your TV. You’re watching Blood Diamond.’

  Who was this kid, Margaret Pomeranz? ‘Just a minute.’ In my pantry, I found a small, unopened packet of sweet airline biscuits that I had must have stashed after a flight. I twisted my deadbolt and pushed the door back.

  ‘Trick or t—’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Here.’ I thrust the biscuits in her little hand.

  The eyes within the mask took in the impoverished offering, then moved to my face and narrowed. ‘I should egg your flat.’

  I tried to snatch the biscuits back, but she yanked her hand away.

  ‘If one egg hits my door, just one, I’ll hunt you down, you shrunken hag.’ But she had fled, no doubt using her witch powers to fly down the three flights to ground level.

  ‘Thanks, Stella,’ a maternal voice called from the stairwell.

  I mumbled something neighbourly and shut the door. Blood Diamond was over. I hit the remote and my lounge room began to emit ultraviolet rays of boredom. Ennui filled every corner, and my weary soul soaked it up like a sponge. As ever lately, my thoughts turned to Brophy. He needed time to himself to work. It was a completely reasonable request, and one I had agreed to. I was a mature, independent woman after all. I had the self-sufficient emotional poise of a religious hermit. Usually in times such as these I’d have gone to bed with a good book.

  But these times were not usual. He was gambolling about his studio with a naked woman twenty years my junior.

  And so, as I found my car keys and put on my spray jacket, I reminded myself that I’d never said anything about not driving slowly past his place. Late at night. Several times.

  I made it to the car park just as the elements exploded in a biblical deluge. Again with the lightning. Spring storms were frequent in Melbourne, but this was beyond a joke. I started the Mazda and cranked up the heater. A sappy love song came on the radio. I changed the station: Pugh droning on. I snapped it off, roared down my street, and cracked a left turn in third gear. It was not me but some mad woman driving across the Maribyrnong with a smouldering ache in her chest. Suspicion gnawed away in there like a starved rodent.

  This so-called Felicity, she was no muse. A cerebral lightweight with delusions of profundity, a spray-tanned false prophet, a pretentious boyfriend-stealing goddamn interloper. He said she inspired him. Oh God, Brophy, what were you doing with her?

  8

  THE HEATER gave it everything, but cold came in from a hole in the floor. The rain fell as if being tipped on the world from a million swimming pools. As I got closer to his street, my teeth started chattering. First, I did a slow circuit of the block, eyes on the light in his studio. No movement up there. I parked behind his building and pulled up the hood on my jacket. I passed under his windows, where it would be impossible for him to see me. Not many people about, except for a couple of men dashing down the street, huddled under a raincoat. A woman sat slumped at the bus shelter playing on her phone — then she turned to me and spoke. ‘Stella.’

  ‘What the?’

  ‘It’s time we had a talk, don’t you think?’

  ‘Jesus, Felicity. No.’

  ‘I know this is awkward for you. It’s awkward for me, too.’

  ‘Stop saying “awkward”. What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I’ve finished sitting for him for tonight.’

  Sitting, posing, seducing. ‘Then I might go up.’

  ‘He’s working on backgrounds. Probably for the whole night. I wouldn’t disturb him.’

  I resented this. ‘Then we should both go home.’

  ‘I’m meeting some friends for a drink. Why don’t you come along? We can have a heart-to-heart, what do you say?’

  An evening of claptrap with this ditsy nong. ‘Hmm, sounds tempting, but no.’

  ‘One drink.’ She was unyielding. It made her seem older somehow, and made me feel infantile, like I was the princess here.

  ‘Fine. I’ll meet you there.’ I would be unable to find the venue.

  ‘I don’t have a car. You can give me a lift.’

  She was a determined adversary, I’d give her that. And I doubted her invitation was spontaneous. If it was a tactic, then, much as she irked me, it would be to my advantage to find out what this schemer was up to. ‘One drink wouldn’t hurt, I guess. Car’s over here.’ I pointed to the alley.

  As we buckled up, I said, ‘Shouldn’t you be dressed as a cowgirl, out knocking on doors and asking for sweets?’

  ‘Halloween is not about sweets. The commercialisation is a recent degradation of an ancient festival that actually has its roots in pre-Christian Ireland.’

  ‘Gosh, Felicity, that is so interesting.’

  She tilted her head, blinked, then went on.

  ‘Traditionally on Halloween the gateways between the living and the dead are for a short time open. And while the modern-day zombie costumes send up death, w
e can’t escape it — death awaits us all. According to one study, grief seeks to stay with lost loved ones, not distance them. Even as time goes on, people yearn for closer ties to the dead.’

  I thought of my father. Time hadn’t brought any closure, whatever that was. His crop-dusting plane crashed when I was a teenager, and his presence was still palpable, even now.

  ‘The popularity of Halloween,’ Felicity went on, ‘has more to do with anxiety about death. Imagine if we were able to really relate to the dead! It happens in Mexico and Japan — in lots of places — and in the lighting of candles to the ancestors in Chinese Confucian and Buddhist traditions. The souls of the dead return home.’

  ‘What are you, some kind of a pagan?’

  ‘No, I did a semester on comparative religion. Turn right, here.’

  I turned into Victoria Street, heading south to Seddon. A flock of little witches dashed under a shop awning. I thought of Cuong and how Phuong had said his concerns were not about random ghosts. A single, specific spirit haunted that poor man. A ghost with a grudge.

  ‘Here it is, The Drunken Tweet.’

  The place was a single-fronted shop converted into a disinterested and therefore on-trend wine bar. Felicity made an earnest study of the cocktail list. ‘One MFW, no ice,’ she told the waiter. ‘Stella?’

  ‘Two.’

  I glanced at the blackboard menu. The ‘MFW’ stood for ‘Mad Fucking Witch’, a cocktail of fruit-based liqueurs. It was too late, I supposed, to change my order.

  Felicity regarded me with blunt scrutiny; I could almost hear her tiny brain calculating. I didn’t like it one bit. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s your day been?’

  She acted dismayed.

  ‘So,’ I continued. ‘Mine’s been tops, thanks for asking. Bowling. Cake. It had everything.’

  ‘I haven’t fucked him.’

  Ah, candour as a shock tactic, designed to catch me off-guard. What she didn’t know was that I was always on guard. And normally I’d have given her a pasting. However, I had no doubt that this conversation would get back to Brophy, so I had to hold my fire. ‘I don’t care either way,’ I replied blithely.

  She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. I feared she was about to make a speech. I had a fear of public speaking. Not my own, other people’s. What if I became bored and started to panic?

  ‘We haven’t even kissed, but I think you should know —’

  ‘Stop. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.’

  She put up her hands in mild exasperation. ‘I thought we could talk, adult to adult.’

  Two jars of toilet-blue liquid appeared, each with a striped straw. I seized one and consumed half, sweet as drupe, and alcoholically warming. Oh boy, could I get stuck into these. ‘Alright then, let’s talk. What are your grand plans?’

  She held the jar near her lips. ‘Plans? You mean with Peter Brophy?’

  ‘I mean your studies.’ Dummy! ‘Your future.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ she said, clearly exasperated. ‘I’m trying to tell you that even though I’m not interested in Peter sexually —’

  ‘I heard you, okay? He’s a free agent,’ I said. Perhaps I’d have more luck using that undergraduate conjectural language she obviously traded in. ‘I don’t believe in tying people down. Monogamy is a construction of patriarchy. People are free to love whomever they feel like.’

  Felicity went stern. ‘That’s nice, in theory,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think relationships work that way, Stella. We form attachments. It’s only human. We need love and family and we feel very protective of those we love.’

  Bloody hell. The situation was hopeless. I sipped my Mad Witch juice.

  ‘Are you familiar with Eris? In the Iliad, she’s Enyo; she’s the goddess of strife, discord, and …’ She paused for effect. ‘Jealousy.’

  ‘A lesson in the classics. Thanks for enlightening me.’

  ‘There’re certain rituals you can perform that can appease an angry goddess.’

  I nearly sprayed the table blue. ‘What the heck are you on about?’

  She sat back. ‘We all have a bit of Eris in us, don’t you think? Petty jealousies, competitive instincts turned to bitter rivalry?’

  This was what she had to tell me? I’d show her a goddess. I’d make up one of my own — a cold, hard bitch who flouted propriety and good manners. The awesome power of righteousness in a bat-shit, bad-arse, crazy mother—

  There was an abrupt dingdong in my pocket. I acted apologetic as I pulled out my phone. Felicity bowed her head.

  Phuong: Where r u

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to Felicity. ‘It’s urgent.’

  An indulgent hand came out of her sleeve and waved. ‘Go ahead.’

  Me: Help! I’m being held hostage at the Drunken Tweet

  Phuong: Run! I’m at Cuong’s

  Me: 15 mins

  ‘Well, this has been all very edifying,’ I said, draining my juice.

  Felicity bestowed a slow blink upon me, like a cat in love. ‘It has, hasn’t it?’

  I dropped a lobster on the table, Christ only knew what a witch juice set one back these days. ‘I have to see a man about a ghost.’

  As exits went, it was rip, shit, and bust. I jumped in the Mazda and gunned it.

  9

  CUONG BUZZED me into his flat. Candles again, despite the power being operational, and that familiar trace of sandalwood incense that had an instant calming effect. It was tempting to ask if I could hang around, have a week-long retreat, right here in his flat. I spied Phuong, hunched over her phone in the kitchenette, and gave her a thumbs-up.

  He lit a bunch of incense sticks and went outside. I followed him onto the balcony. A small wooden structure was set up on the floor, about the size of a doll’s house, and near it offerings of oranges, a packet of Hero-brand cigarettes, a can of beer. And, on either side, red glowing battery-powered candles.

  He bowed with the incense, intoning in muted Vietnamese.

  ‘How’s work?’ I asked lamely. ‘Software development, is it?’

  ‘Nah, economics,’ he said without looking up. ‘It’s okay. No dramas.’

  ‘So … you’re okay?’

  He placed the incense in a bowl filled with sand. ‘Halloween is not a problem for me.’

  I looked askance at him.

  ‘Phuong told me you were worried for me,’ Cuong said.

  ‘The dead are supposed to come home, that could be upsetting for anyone.’

  ‘Nah.’

  Phuong came to the balcony. Her face was drawn. ‘Bruce was on the news tonight.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Phuong sighed. ‘Come inside. Want some tea?’

  ‘Tea? No. Thanks.’ I moved some of Cuong’s books off the sofa. ‘Has he been charged?’

  ‘Suspended.’ Phuong flicked on a lamp and draped herself on the armchair. ‘It’s a joke. The stolen-evidence claim is baseless and circumstantial.’

  ‘The enquiry sounds like a mess.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I know, right? They’re under intense political pressure to sort it out quickly, so they’re panicking, letting criminals testify, chasing every claim and counter-claim.’

  Cuong, I noticed, was in the kitchenette, his head inclined at an eavesdropping angle.

  ‘How’s Bruce coping?’ I asked.

  ‘Not well. He’s laying low, helping his dad with his boat-hire business in Somers.’

  Suspended and hiding. The situation was an order of magnitude more serious than it had been yesterday. How could a bunch of idiot bikies wreak this much havoc in the upper ranks of the police? ‘I saw that bikie’s funeral on the news tonight.’

  She rolled her head towards her shoulder, and a bone cracked. ‘Ricky Peck was a violent criminal, with enemies. People like him don’t drift away in a bath,
they die in a hail of bullets.’

  I appreciated her scepticism, but surely even violent people sometimes suffered deaths of quiet misfortune. But now was not the time to debate such things. The moment called for something reassuring. ‘Phuong …’

  ‘You can’t help. I understand. It was wrong to ask you. There are certain places that the average person should not voluntarily go.’

  Average? Average? ‘I go to places, all sorts of places.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t have the first clue about those druggy people, how to talk the language.’

  ‘I speak druggy.’

  She sighed like she hadn’t heard me.

  ‘Have you had dinner, Stella?’ Cuong was beside us, resting a hand on my shoulder.

  Phuong sat up, bright again. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Me too.’ Pizza didn’t count; it was a snack food.

  ‘Let’s get some phở.’

  Food was an excellent idea. The witch juice had made me unsteady. And I suspected Phuong and Cuong had once again been nudging the cognac. Cuong was smiling strangely at me, and Phuong seemed slightly manic. I would need to keep an eye on her.

  10

  THE RAIN had stopped for now, leaving the drains gargling and the road shimmering. Phuong, Cuong, and I skirted the idle souls loitering on the shopping-centre steps and made for a row of phở places further along Hampshire Road. Cuong ushered us into one that was busy. Above the tank of writhing fish at the back of the restaurant: greyhound racing on a mute TV.

  I didn’t order phở because of the beef stock, and the beef. Instead, I ordered a plain vegetable soup with tofu. The choice impressed Cuong, and he asked me if I was Buddhist.

  ‘A better one than your slack-arse cousin over here.’ A nod at Phuong.

  She sighed loudly. ‘Eating meat is not against Buddhism.’

  I scoffed and winked at Cuong, but he had turned away, and was staring dull-eyed at the races. We had some strange customs in this country. Twice a year, Australians came together to stop and reflect: once to remember the war dead, and once to watch a horse race. I guessed he’d think that was kind of cool.