by Joy Dettman
She looked at the bundle of white wool on the table as she dragged a chair close to the high cupboard over the stove; then she walked back to the table, picking up the near completed jacket. The wool that had followed her to the door had been rewound. Someone had been here.
Quickly she stepped up to the chair, reaching for her light globe stash, wanting light now.
And she heard the toilet flush, and the words, ‘You need a few extra inches, kiddo.’
She snatched the globe, knocked two others onto the stove and jumped to the floor. ‘What are –’
‘Just passing. Thought I’d drop in and use the facilities.’ He reached for the chair, but she held it before her.
‘Most people wait for an invitation.’
‘Since when have we been most people?’ He picked up the near completed baby jacket. ‘You have hidden talents. What else are you hiding, Sall?’
She looked at the give-away white thing, watched him toss it to the table. ‘You know where the door is.’
‘No drink? Just for old times’ sake.’ He offered his endearing shrug, his lifted eyebrow and half-smile, but long contact with infection built immunity. ‘I’ve missed this place like you wouldn’t believe, Sall.’
‘Go home to your boys. They’re probably missing you.’
The slatted light from the street lamp lit his face, his shirt. Striped Matt. Segmented Matt. She wanted him gone.
‘A drink. One drink and I’ll go. Promise.’ The space between the table and the bench was slim. No way around him.
‘It’s over, Matt.’
‘It’s not over until I say it’s over, Sall, and it doesn’t need to be over. She’s left me. Packed up and gone home to Daddy.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s your problem.’
‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No. It’s your problem.’ He snatched the chair from her and tossed it across the room, and when she tried to go past him, he smiled. Then he punched her, low in the stomach.
She had seen the smile. She hadn’t seen his closed fist that stole her breath and her pride away. As she doubled over, grasping the table for support, he calmly walked to the television and turned the volume high.
Her lungs howled for air; her mouth opened, trying to give them what they needed while she stared at him, stared without recognition. He grasped her hair, lifted her, then aimed a second blow at her baby. As she fell forward he caught her arm and tossed her to the bed.
Blood in her head, the pain of his fist growing. It swallowed her. Too late she tried to scream. No air. Only vomit rose to her throat.
This was nightmare time. Screams had always become lost in the nightmare time; refused exit, they had seeped away unscreamed. Her eyes not understanding stared at the venetian blind now creating cage bars of light behind something dark and cruel, some spitting nightmare beast she couldn’t run from.
‘Planning to hit me with a maintenance order somewhere down the track, Sall? Was that your little game?’
My baby. My baby. Little Sally, born new, born into love. Stay with me, baby. Got a Papa for you. Got uncles to love you. Hold onto me. It’s just another nightmare. We can count it away. Count our fingers. Ten and ten more. Twenty. Count the bad dream away. Count our toes. Ten and ten more. I’ll breathe for you, baby. I’ll push the pain down for you, baby. Count the bars of the city beast’s cage. Count his claws. Count his teeth. We’ll count him away. Just stay with me, baby.
He stood looking down at the short grey skirt, dragged high, and at the slim thigh, the knee. And his loins stirred.
His hand reached for his zip, slid it down.
‘Just one more for the road, kiddo. What do you say?’
She didn’t say no. Curled up, waiting for it, on that bed he knew so well, knees to her chin, the white of her briefs just visible. Child-like. Charity child. His to do with as he would. He laughed as his hand reached for her knee. It played there, slid higher.
The present was separating from the past. She couldn’t keep the numbers marching in line. Couldn’t ride the pain anymore. Wanted the past and the safe old nightmares back.
But an ambulance or cops were outside her window, screaming off to some new emergency. People out there, all going about their business. Old gay guy downstairs with his new partner. Not home as often these days.
Outside that door there were people. Outside that door. Had to gather enough air to scream. Someone might hear it.
But the television was loud and her scream too small. No scream at all. Barely a whisper.
‘Bastard.’ Wasted air.
His smile vanished. The word grated, spoiled his game. This one had possessed no venom. She’d been laughter for a while – his own little whore in fantasy land. Always ready for him – a playful child in a woman’s body. But not tonight. Couldn’t have her tonight, so he slapped her mouth, reinforcing his control.
‘Keep it nice, kiddo.’
Pain had become an ocean’s waves, gathering way down in the deep black then washing in to swamp her. But ebbing. She waited for the ebb-tides, found their rhythm and learned to ride the waves, sucking air deep when the tide ebbed.
Rap-a-tap-tap.
Had she heard it? But no time to wonder, she was wallowing in the swamp of pain and it sucked her mind down, trying to drain the last of her will away.
Then what would be left of her? What would be left of her Sally baby?
Had to count. Keep on counting. Not lose her place. Not lose her one chance. If chance came.
Two hundred and seven. Two hundred and eight.
Concentrate on the bars of light and on the beast who had looked like Matt. Watch that half-face.
This is what happened when you traced a black beast to his lair and exposed him.
Shouldn’t have gone to Hallam.
Shouldn’t have left the baby’s jacket on the table.
Funny how an entire life can become one long ‘shouldn’t have’.
Shouldn’t have left the door open.
Shouldn’t have –
Knuckles against the door now. Hard. ‘De Rooster. Turn that bloody television down.’
This time she heard him.
And the black beast heard him. He turned his face, and she saw the camouflage stripes on his hide. Big bad wolf in borrowed clothing, come to gobble her up. But he stepped back, and her face turned to follow him, looked past him to the television.
Raucous thing on its red plastic box, marking time. How much time had gone? How much time to the next ebb-tide? Television commercial clusters, three minutes long. She’d counted them once, then counted the five minutes of sitcom, complete with canned laughter, slotted in between the important business of selling.
What if we promised to watch twelve minutes of commercials? Would they give us the fifteen minutes of sitcom unbroken? Would anyone keep their promise?
Probably not.
She sucked air, waiting for the lull between laughter and commercial, and for the ebb-tide. Soon they would intersect. Only let it be soon or she’d die of pain.
Wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die. No name waiting ready on a tombstone for Sally Ann De Rooze. Three fat, stupid cherubs keeping watch over the boys.
Shane would have hated them. He would have wanted a Superman stone. Mummy might have wanted to share a grave with Daddy, but Sally had never wanted to share those cherubs. Too many places she hadn’t seen. Too many songs she wanted to sing.
Silence. The television had taken a breath and he was leaning over the bed.
She screamed as she uncoiled and lashed out at him with her high heels. Got him hard. Got him good. Caught him unready, unsteady. He lost his balance, and she screamed out the pain that swamped her as she kicked him again, then she rolled from the bed, hit the floor, rolled, and crouched against the window wall, ready to spring.
Fists pounding the door now.
‘Help me!’ she screamed. Loud. High. Long. A singer’s scream.
The bikie was outside the door. Always around when she n
eeded him; she had to hang on for just a little longer. Long enough to let him in.
Pushing up, her back to the wall, her left hand reaching out for support rocked the old bookshelves. Ornaments tumbled, and on the television an audience laughed from its can while the door of Number 11 shuddered in its frame.
One hand on the floor, her fingers searched, feeling old, familiar shapes.
The black beast stood between door and window, frowning now. This wasn’t the way he’d planned it, because he hadn’t planned it. Just driving by, thought he’d drop in. Not a smart move.
He’d always been smart. Smart at school. Smart at home. He’d talked his way out of trouble more times than he could recall. Twelve that first time and he’d had to talk hard.
‘He could sell ice to an Eskimo,’ old Gramps had said.
‘Innocent as a little angel,’ his mother, the holy bitch, had replied.
‘Cunning as a bloody fox.’ Lieutenant Marsden had known. ‘Whip-smart little bastard.’
Whip smart?
Whipped smart.
He smiled. He’d talk his way out of this one too. So she’d fallen. Climbed on the chair to get a new globe and fallen. He’d dial 000. Had to think smart now, think fast. Who’d believe that dumb little bitch if he got his story in first? No-one. He’d popped in to give her some financial advice, found her on the floor.
But why had he closed the front door?
He stepped back, thinking on that one as his hand searched beneath his shirt for blood. The kicking little alley cat bitch had hurt him. He’d have more bruises to explain at home.
One of the boys must have done it when they were playing. Or he’d walked into that tree in the back yard. Have to prune it this year.
He’d been good these past months. Home early. Football with the boys. But good had always been a bore. He looked from the phone to the crouched form before the window, and he saw her right hand rise.
Saw the haze of white. And pink.
He frowned as the goose girl struck him. Struck him between eye and ear. Head to the side, he looked with interest at china fallen to the floor, and he looked at his knees as they began to fold. He swayed, and his eyes didn’t understand.
Had to get home. Hadn’t meant to be so late. Had to play the good boy.
Then he fell to the side, silently. Hit the edge of the bed, silently. His legs were not listening, not obeying his command to get away, live to play another day.
And he fell, still not understanding. To the floor.
While the television played on.
Blood was crawling like a blind black worm into the cave of his ear, then changing its mind, altering its course down to the collar of his business shirt. The shaft of light from the bathroom created its own piece of modern art on her biege carpet. A polished shoe, a light sock, a black-clad leg amid the shards of china. Lustrous light on the goose’s bill. Goose girl’s hand empty, her basket of eggs flung away. And where was her pink and gold hat?
No time to look for it now. Had to get by that shaft of light, get to the door, and there was only one way to go.
Should have got a bigger flat, Sall old girl.
She was crawling across the bed when the door burst open and a blur came through, shoulder first. Trod on the black beast, tripped on the black beast and sprawled to the floor.
‘Jesus H Christ, De Rooster!’
She looked at the long hair, and at the dark face and the wide eyes, and at the shattered goose girl, and she gasped in air, moaned it out as pain gripped her womb, squeezed it.
Hot that first dragging rush of blood, but she made it to the bathroom, leaving a trail of red pearls to bead the white tiled floor. She made it to the toilet seat.
Little Sally baby all gone away down the toilet bowl.
Better for it.
Cramps rolling in, rolling over her. Couldn’t move if she wanted to and she didn’t want to, so she stared at the red on white, stared too long.
‘Are you all right in there?’
Was anyone ever all right? She considered saying, I’m okay, but couldn’t find a lull in the pain to place it. He came to the door when she didn’t reply, and stood there, face turned, his hair like clean black silk beneath the light. But he saw the blood, and he stepped away to use his mobile phone.
Should have closed the bathroom door.
Should have done a lot of things and shouldn’t have done a lot more.
Empty now.
Emptied.
Little crocheted jacket, almost done, tiny booties not begun. On the floor.
Too weak to stand. To weak to sit. The naked globe was weaving circles overhead, so she stopped looking up and looked down. Down at the hand, still wearing the ring. A glass bauble. Gewgaw for a fool.
It slipped off easily but it left its mark behind. Light against the dark.
Banded.
Branded.
She’d seen him and she’d wanted him. She’d set her trap for a black swan, but caught a black wolf by the tail.
Got bitten. Got bitten bad.
Eyes staring at the golden heart, stone-cold in the palm of her hand. Television silent now. Only the bikie talking to his mobile phone.
Her legs spread and with a slight turn of her hand the ring dropped into the bloody bowl, tinkling as it fell. She reached around and flushed the toilet.
Couldn’t stand. She tried to. She wadded toilet paper to hold the bleeding, lots of paper. Used the last of the roll. She inched up her briefs to hold the paper, first one side, then the other, but when she tried to stand she fell to her knees, and all the while the room was dancing.
The bikie came back to the door. A worried face didn’t suit him. ‘The ambulance is on its way, De Rooster.’
‘Shut the door.’
He walked to her, stood before her. ‘I’ve seen it all before. I’ve got a bunch of sisters.’
Friend? Neighbour? Their relationship had been hard built, its foundations in insults and humour. No humour in this scene. Her hand pushing him away, she tried to stand, to straighten her skirt, but she fell against him. He lifted her so easily.
‘I can –’
‘You’re only a bantamweight,’ he said, and he placed her on the bed, and when she wanted to sit, he eased her back. ‘Head down. Let the blood get to your brain.’ He brushed her hair from her face and his dark hand felt cool. It stilled the ceiling’s waltz. It took away some of the pain.
She turned to the clock. Only 7.55. How can you live a thousand years in moments? A glance at the television for verification. Cartoon faces with no voice trying to sell her Tetleys Tea. She preferred coffee, black coffee.
He had drawn the quilt over her, and now he stood between her and that dark thing on the floor. She lifted her head, looking past him to the flinch of an expensive black shoe.
‘Relax and keep your head down. The ambulance won’t be long.’
He had a good face. Strong. And warm, honest eyes; she could see right through them, see right on down to his soul. There were no words she could say to him, but she had to say something. Never been lost for a few smart words, not for her bikie, right from the days of their fight over the parking bay and those notes she’d Blu-Tacked to his Harley. She was just Sally with him, and no apology. A feisty little bantam, he’d called her. De Rooster, he’d called her.
‘He’ll be okay. He’s coming around.’
‘Better aim . . . with a . . . with a cricket ball,’ she said.
Black and White
She’d packed her old case, she’d cleaned out her drawers and wardrobe. She’d wrapped the ornaments again, wrapped them well in newspaper. No goose girl to wrap first this time. She’d always wrapped that one first. The bikie had locked up her flat on the night the ambulance came. He’d picked up the scattered china and tossed it in the garbage bin.
But she’d wrapped the lady with the broken neck and the boy with the hiatus elbow, the elephant and his red-turbanned rider, chip off the old turban. They were all packed up ag
ain in their supermarket carton, ready for the little Asian guy with the white kombi van who’d offered to move her junk out to Joyce and Mike’s bungalow, in East Burwood.
So much she’d accumulated in only a year. The battered old chest of drawers, the bookshelves, empty now. She glanced at the bed, second-hand when she’d purchased it from the Trading Post. She hated that bed. Its bloodstained quilt and pink quilt cover had been tossed in the rubbish bin.
She’d outgrown pink.
Her long black overcoat lay with a pile of discards in the corner. She picked it up, shook it, smelt it, then pushed it quickly into a bag earmarked for the op shop. It reminded her of time best forgotten. She hadn’t charged Matt. His wife and sons had enough problems.
She sighed, shrugged, then worked on. All of the cartons had been labelled, all of the bags; experienced packer, Sally De Rooze. The three 8 × 10 photographs were in a separate bag. They’d go with her in the taxi.
At noon, a bag of rubbish in each hand, she was heading out the door when the bikie walked from his unit, his bedroll and backpack over one shoulder.
‘What are you doing lifting stuff, De Rooster? Give it here.’
‘Go on, flaunt your muscles again,’ she said.
‘If you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em, I say.’
He took the bags, and she leaned against the wall. ‘You’re still heading off today?’
‘Flying north with the birds. Got a sister in Brisbane I’ll stay with for a while. Another winter in Melbourne and I’ll lose my suntan.’ He laughed, his teeth so white.
‘Half your luck,’ she said.
She didn’t want to see him go. Who else did she have to talk with about everything and nothing?
‘You decided not to take a new lease?’
‘New lease? Here!’ Her voice was high. ‘No way known to mankind.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Joyce and Mike. For a while. I’ve got to get a decent job, buy another car.’
‘You’ve got to sing, De Rooster.’