Demons

by Wayne Macauley

  Where are you? she asked. He was at home, in the garage. Please come, she said; I need you. There was a silence. It’s all right, she said, he’s not here, he’s working late.

  At the door she all but tore the clothes from his body. He could see she was far gone, her eyes were rolling, she kept falling onto him. Her kisses were wet and misdirected. But he couldn’t deny it, the idea of taking her like this was already making him hard. He knew he’d have to extricate himself from this mess sooner or later but right now it didn’t matter.

  It was seven o’clock when Jay at last untied her, removed the blindfold and kissed her on the forehead. I have to go, he said. Carly Ashburton lay spread and naked, drifting in and out of a half-sleep. She was still lying like that when the phone rang. It rang off into the answering machine, then a few seconds later it rang again. Carly stirred. The church was dark. She staggered downstairs. The answering machine cut in again; she lifted the phone. Yes? she said. With the receiver still held to her ear she sank to the floor, repulsed at the way her naked body creased itself into folds of fat flesh. There was a pause, then a sombre, official-sounding voice. Hello? Is that Mrs Ashburton? it said.

  She knew she shouldn’t be driving, but who was she going to ring? She thought for a second of Lidia, Jay’s mother, but just as quickly dismissed it. Instead she concentrated on the task of keeping the car to the left-hand side of the broken white line. She got to the city, found the hospital, and walked through the front doors a little after nine.

  Two policewomen were standing outside the door to her husband’s room. They straightened up and clasped their hands in front of them as she approached. I’m Carly Ashburton, she said. One of them opened the door for her, like a footman. It was a single-bed room, dimly lit. Her husband seemed to be sleeping. There were tubes coming out of him, his lower body was suspended in some kind of traction, with steel wires and counterweights connected to the ceiling above. Carly turned away: she didn’t want to be there, didn’t know why she’d come. On top of the wine and the pills and the stench of the hospital the sight of her husband made her nauseous.

  You can talk to him, said a voice from behind.

  Carly? said her husband from the bed. She turned around, a doctor had followed her in; he smiled and gestured to move close. He’s very weak, he said.

  She felt like she might vomit all over the patient as she moved to the side of the bed and leaned over. His eyes were half-open; the left side of his face, from the temple to the chin, was so swollen that it looked as if it had been attached there by someone, as a joke. His right eye, the one closest to her, widened.

  Carly, Tim whispered, I’m sorry. Carly looked at him, this ugly, broken, helpless thing. I tried to kill myself, he said, but here I am, I survived, I don’t know how, I don’t know why. He tried to smile but he couldn’t. I’ve been having an affair, he said, straining with the effort. Tell me Carly, please, is something going on with you too?

  Carly Ashburton held her nerve. She could hear the hum of the medical equipment and feel the presence of the doctor behind her. Yes, she said, something happened, but it was just a kiss; I wanted to go on with it but I couldn’t, Tim, I couldn’t. Tim held her gaze (and in that moment Carly Ashburton believed her lie as if it were the truth) then he let out a sigh and sank back into the pillows.

  He’ll be all right, said the doctor, drawing her over to the other side of the room, but it’s going to take time. He will need care, and lots of it. His body will heal but—and here the doctor paused—there is a complication. You’ve seen the police outside; they will speak to you in a moment. They’re still trying to work out the exact circumstances but, well, the fact is, according to witnesses, he jumped from a long way up. About twenty floors, we’re estimating. Normally this would be enough to kill a person. But the thing is, Mrs Ashburton, there was someone walking below, a woman—and, well, your husband landed on her; she broke his fall. Your husband doesn’t know any of this yet, of course, but, well, the fact is, she was killed by the impact, crushed, literally, and your husband is to be charged with manslaughter.

  The door opened. A hushed conversation took place between the doctor and one of the policewomen and Carly Ashburton was ushered to a windowless room down the corridor. She answered their questions—no, her husband’s fears were unfounded, she’d not been having an affair, and why her husband would want to do this, their guess was as good as hers. Although, she said, he had been on medication and did seem lately to have grown disillusioned with things generally and work especially. Perhaps it had all just got to him? No, she didn’t know what he was doing in that building, up there. She gave the police her contact details. They told her that, regrettably, her husband would have to be charged—but, they said, for some time yet he would remain in the care of the medical staff here.

  The woman killed, they said, was actually a work colleague, a woman by the name of Adele. Carly’s husband had no memory of the incident but he would have to be told eventually. The police had left it in the hands of the doctor as to the best time to do this. Counselling was available to her, Carly, through the hospital, should she feel the need; they suggested she follow this up.

  It was after midnight when Carly Ashburton crossed the hospital car park, pointed the remote and unlocked her car. She was tired, sore, hungry; her brain was a mess. She wanted to go home, sleep it off, but as soon as she thought about this, her bed, the image of what she’d left behind—a house strewn with the evidence of her dishonesty, not to say depravity—was too much for her. How could she revisit the shambles of her life? She sat for a long time thinking about all this, staring at the dark concrete wall in front of her. Then she locked the doors, lowered the seat, and slept.

  Everyone seemed to hold their breath, wondering had Lauren finished. She half shrugged as if to say: Yes.

  And did they get back together? asked Hannah.

  They did, said Lauren.

  Did he go to prison? asked Leon.

  For a while, said Lauren: yes.

  But how could they live with themselves? said Hannah.

  They should never have sold the house in Auburn, said Evan. That was the start of their troubles: everything would have been fine if they hadn’t sold the house. It always comes back to money with you, doesn’t it? said Lauren, but with a sort of smile. Evan drank his wine. Megan rolled her eyes.

  I just feel really sorry for them, said Hannah; it’s awful how things can go wrong sometimes and you have no control over it. You can’t blame either of them for what happened, can you, really? It’s like they were caught up in something bigger than them both. We don’t stop to make decisions any more. It’s like the decisions are making us. I don’t think that couple—or the marketing manager, or the carpenter—knew what they were doing, really, it was like someone had chucked them in a river that swept them downstream and all they could do was try to avoid the rocks. But it’s like that for all of us, isn’t it, a lot of the time, don’t you think? They weren’t making a real estate decision, Evan; I don’t think you think that either.

  Hannah speaks! said Evan. He was up off the couch, half standing, half sitting, his glass held high above his head. Everyone smiled. Evan lowered himself and looked around for approval. Leon, next to Hannah, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

 
It’s always tragic, said Leon, when a relationship goes bad. I had some messy ones too, you all know that. Megan, so did you. We’re all stumbling through this stuff, doing the best we can. It’s a sad story, Lauren; it’s a very, very sad story.

  But it’s a funny one too, said Adam. They all looked at him. The way things happen, he said. It’s sad, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve got to see the funny side.

  No, said Lauren.

  Everyone went quiet.

  There was the sound of a car outside and a flash of headlights on the window.

  Is he with Jackie? said Megan. Evan looked out, and shook his head. If he thinks he can still get something to eat then he can go fuck himself, she said. Marsh! said Evan, waving, but Marshall was already at the door.

  When he got to the top of the stairs he stood for a moment; pale, wavering; as if trying to find his balance. Have you got a drink? he said. That’s the Heathcote, said Evan. Marshall took a sip.

  Jackie’s brother Rylan’s just killed himself, he said. What? said Megan. Threw himself from a rooftop café, the fuckin’ exhibitionist. Asked his girlfriend to hold his drink. Can you believe that? Sorry, sorry. Hello everybody, sorry I’m late. Really. Evan, that’s good. Jackie couldn’t come. Go, go, she said; you go. I shouldn’t have come, I know—don’t look at me like that, please—but she told me to, she didn’t want me around. I won’t go into it, for God’s sake, please, don’t make me go into it. But maybe I will. This is good. How have you guys been? Have you eaten? I’ve got to tell you, before we start: things are not good between me and Jackie. I don’t know if you know that. She didn’t tell me to go, that was a lie. I just did. There’s no way I could be around that family while they cried their eyes out over that selfish little prick. Sorry. And you know why he did it? Why? Because he’d asked Mummy and Daddy for some money to start up a business—he wanted to do craft jewellery—but they said he had to match them dollar for dollar. So he went to his sister and asked her but she said the same: dollar for dollar or nothing, Rylan, even though she’d usually hand over fistfuls, but she didn’t want to disagree with me this time because, well. It’s been going on for months. A lazy little slug. Or was. Sorry. How are we all? Have you eaten?

  Marshall had recently won a seat in state parliament, last week he was on the news, but he looked like any ordinary person now. Clean-shaven, a boyish face, a few old-man lines, his hair just starting to turn.

  You shouldn’t have come, mate, said Leon. I know, I know, said Marshall; did you already start the stories? We did one, said Hannah. Maybe we should leave it, said Lauren. No, no, don’t worry about me, said Marshall; I’ll have a couple of drinks and I’ll be fine. I’ve already told mine, anyway, he said, smiling, about Rylan, the little toad. But we’re doing more than one though, yeah?

  Megan turned the dimmer up. There was an uncomfortable feeling in the room.

  I’ve got one, said Hannah. No-one was sure what to say. I might get that other bottle, said Evan. That’s weird, said Lauren. They all looked at her. My story had a jumper too. Don’t worry, said Adam, people are doing it all the time. Evan came back with the wine. Lauren wants us to score her story out of ten, said Adam. What? said Lauren. Hannah? said Evan. Before you start? Hannah held out her glass.

  Marsh, are you okay? asked Adam. That’s the other Heathcote, said Evan. Tilly’s in the car, said Marshall. What? said Megan, standing up.

  I had to bring her, he said. I told her it was just adults, she didn’t want to come inside. Everyone was staring at him. No, she’ll be right, he said, she’s got her phone, let’s leave her there, I’ll tell her to come in later, she can sleep in my room. All good, all good.

  The story stick was on the table, still damp and smelling of the sea. Hannah picked it up.

  Well, she said, my story is called Pan. Pan? said Marshall. Like dust pan? said Evan. Pan like the Greek god Pan, said Hannah, protector of sheep and goats. He was associated with wild places: forests, mountains. Pan means ‘all’, said Adam. That’s true, said Hannah, and even though Pan was a playful god he could sometimes suddenly turn and the vibe would change and everyone would get frightened and that’s where we get the word ‘panic’. But anyway, to the story.

  This is good, said Marshall.

  Lauren’s story made me think of it, said Hannah, how Carly wanted to get away, how we all want to get away somehow, somewhere. There’s always some dissatisfaction in us, isn’t there?

  Speak for yourself, said Evan. (Everyone laughed.)

  It’s about a girl I knew when I was younger, said Hannah, she wasn’t really my friend, just one of those girls who hung around on the edges of the group, hard to get to know. We were in our last year of school. Then one day she disappeared. I say one day because that’s what it felt like but actually what was happening was she was hanging around with us less and less then hardly at all and it was weeks since we’d seen her when one day we turned around, so to speak, and said: Where’s Elena? Her name was Elena. Anyway, I’ll tell you what happened.

  Hannah: Pan…

  Elena lived in a house not far from me with her mother and younger brother, Ty. Her parents had split up. It was an average-looking house, nice, suburban. None of us had ever been inside but my brother, Cody, he knew a kid who was a friend of Ty’s and this kid said the house was spotless—you had to take your shoes off at the door. There was every kind of electronic gadget and appliance in there imaginable. The father wasn’t rich, but he’d felt guilty about leaving the kids behind. Every night in those last weeks before the break-up he’d come home from work with something new: Ty got a TV, a computer, a PlayStation; Elena herself always had new clothes and things. Her hair was shiny, she seemed to have an endless supply of makeup. In fact, she was the complete opposite of what you would expect an outsider-type like her to be: pretty, sometimes really confident, although most of the time, when I think about it, quiet. When she first got sick and spent time away from school none of us took much notice. Someone one day said: Where’s Elena? Someone said she was away and that was it. She’s not well, the teachers said. But then she started staying away longer.

  The end of the year came—formal, muck-up day, exams—and we sort of forgot about her; we assumed she’d dropped out, and we had bigger things to care about. It wasn’t till years later, when I was in my mid-twenties, that I heard what had happened.

  Elena had got sick, then sicker. No-one really knew what was wrong with her. Her mother was working full-time and since the father disappeared she’d taken on overtime too, so Elena and her brother were pretty much left to themselves—which was why, at first, Elena did nothing about her illness but stay in bed and take Panadol. But eventually the message came back from the school that if she were to be given special consideration at exam time she would need to get a doctor’s certificate.

  Ty took the morning off and went with her on the bus. The doctor examined Elena top to bottom but couldn’t figure out what was wrong. He presumed it was viral, possibly even glandular fever, and sent her off for some tests. The tests came back inconclusive and she was sent off for more. Her brother accompanied her when he could—his teachers were losing patience too—to those funny medical places in converted suburban houses which might be your auntie’s place if it wasn’t for the sign in the front yard, the high counter with the brochures on it
and the water cooler in the corner. They’d sit on the bus, Elena with her X-rays or CAT scans in a big white envelope, Ty with his Game Boy. Music was Elena’s other companion; she took out her earphones for only as long as it took the specialist to say, for example, Please lift up your top, or, Get up on the bed, or, Here’s your referral.

  After a while Ty stopped coming and Elena did all this on her own. In between the bus trips and consultations she lay on her bed and listened to music or played on her computer. But closing in on all sides always was this awful lethargy, a queasy feeling in her stomach and a low buzz like from a faulty appliance somewhere up in her temples. She was sick, and it seemed as if nothing would make her better.

  It was a friend of the family’s, a woman called Anna, who suggested one day that maybe Elena should see an allergist. Her son, said Anna, had found out he was allergic to varnish. Elena’s mother was so struck by her friend Anna’s advice that she took a morning off work. The allergist was a couple of suburbs away in a house with a neat front yard. Elena’s mother saw her in, spoke to the receptionist, then left. Elena would make her own way home.

  She had only just picked up a lifestyle magazine and started flicking through it when out of the corner of her eye she saw the receptionist leaning over the high front counter, pointing at the door to her right. The allergist was waiting. Elena put the magazine down, took out her earphones, smiled at the receptionist and went in.