Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  Lorrie put her hands on her hips. ‘If you’d told me I could have organised it.’

  When the bus arrived she took charge arranging and loading the bags.

  ‘I don’t have a ticket,’ I said.

  ‘See?’ Lorrie raised a finger at Chris. He pushed her hand out of the way and handed a crumpled hundred rupee note to the driver who waved me aboard.

  ‘No problem,’ Chris told Lorrie.

  The bus was like a shelter shed with delirium tremens – a giant, clanky, junky, tin cabin strapped to a washing machine motor. The road was impossibly narrow. As the bus lurched around the corners, I clung to the seat in front of me and tried not to vomit. Out one side was sheer mountain face, on the other was a sheer drop. Nobody else seemed to notice. Giorgio and Belinda sat up the back locked in the advanced stages of foreplay. Noah read so he wouldn’t have to look at them, as did Sarah. Matt snored. I was glad – if he was asleep he couldn’t remember and reveal me. Chris had his legs hooked over the back of his seat as he adjudicated a shouting match between Jeremy and Lorrie. It went something like this:

  Lorrie: ‘You don’t understand, you’re not a mother.’

  Jeremy: ‘Neither are you!’

  Lorrie: ‘I’m a woman. I empathise!’

  Jeremy: ‘Stop trying to leverage your position as a so-called minority to take the moral high-ground.’

  Lorrie: ‘Chris!’ She appealed to the group leader.

  Chris told Jeremy he was being a twat. He caught me watching and winked.

  Bored with the fight, he shifted seats to talk to Noah. I peered at the pair of them over the top of my book. Chris fidgeted with his watch. It was a chunky gold Rolex he had inherited when his father died. He was squeezing the triggers on the band to release it, sliding it off and rolling it over in his fingers, then sliding it back on again and closing the clasp with a snap, before repeating the process. I was mesmerised by his fingers. I imagined the calloused tips pressing into my skin. He stopped to laugh and scratch his beard. I wondered if it was course or soft and how it would feel against my cheek.

  On his arm was a new addition – a tattoo at the midpoint between elbow and wrist, showing the young incarnation of Buddha. It was etched into his skin in the exact shade of cinnabar. A piece of coral hung around his neck on a length of leather. I touched the coral pendant around my neck and wondered what Harry was doing.

  I was jolted from my day dream by a pot hole. The bus jerked, sending me flying half a foot off the seat.

  ‘Whoa!’ The passengers all tittered nervously.

  Chris was frowning as Noah waved his hands around to illustrate his points. Chris argued back. Noah pinched the bone between his eyes in frustration.

  There was a seat near them. I wanted to move but I couldn’t. I gave myself a lecture: You’ve come half way around the world to see Chris Campbell, two more metres shouldn’t be a problem. I picked up my daypack and took the vacant spot across the aisle from them.

  ‘So pursue a music career.’ Noah spoke in a tone that suggested they’d had this conversation many times over already.

  ‘Music’s not a career. How many people succeed in music?’

  ‘Back me up, Violet,’ said Noah. ‘Chris keeps whining about how loathsome it is working in accounting in Hong Kong, but he hasn’t got the guts to do anything about it. I say, if you’re not going to change it, you’re banned from complaining about it.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Chris said. ‘Maybe if I’d started years ago …’

  ‘You know you’re just making excuses,’ said Noah.

  I nodded. ‘There are a lot of people who have successful careers in music. Perhaps they don’t play to stadiums, but they’re still in the field.’

  ‘Everyone said, “You could do anything”.’ Chris was picking at the wooden back of the seat in front of him.

  ‘This is the problem with children of the advertising generation, where the life lessons are to buy up and maximise pleasure through consumerism,’ said Noah. ‘Make it count. And use your Visa at twelve percent per annum to do it.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m acting like an entitled brat?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  Chris grimaced. ‘Well, exactly. I’ve got all this privilege, a natural advantage. I should be making the most of it, doing something that fulfils me, but that also says, “Hey world, hey universe – have something back. Thanks for giving me such a sweet ride.”’

  ‘Mate, I’ve heard your music. I think being an accountant is a great way for you to say thanks to the universe.’

  Chris took a swipe at Noah. ‘Dad refused to let me study music. And now what have I got? A license to count. To tabulate and shift figures around. To measure other people’s money.’

  ‘You’re being a bit melodramatic, Christopher,’ Noah said. ‘There’s still time.’

  ‘You can’t talk. You’ve locked down the next fifty years of your life.’

  ‘Exactly. Because I’ve followed my passion.’

  ‘It’s easy when your passion is prestigious and lucrative.’

  ‘I’d be an underpaid country GP working seventy hours just as happily as I’d be a high flying neurosurgeon. It’s not about what other people think, or how much money you make. I’m pursuing medicine because I love it, not because I think it’s the fastest route to a yacht club membership.’

  I chimed in. ‘Accountants do really important things. You need good accountants to make sure charities run efficiently, to monitor the distribution of funds in government departments. Even parents can ensure they provide the best they can for their kids if they have someone to help them manage their income well.’

  ‘You’re sweet, Vy,’ Chris said.

  ‘You’re fucked no matter what you do,’ Noah said. ‘People like you are miserable because you’ve spent your whole lives being told you’re wonderful. It’s the burden of expectation.’

  ‘But if you pick something you love, you’ll excel in it,’ I said, echoing something Cass had said to me once when I had whined that I didn’t know what I wanted to do.

  ‘I really want to be a musician,’ said Chris. ‘But I kind of get where my old man was coming from when he said it wasn’t a serious career. Not one you could raise a family on.’

  Noah rolled his eyes but I had to smother the look of pleasure on my face. A fountain of pure joy was welling up inside me – Chris Campbell thought about having a family.

  Noah shook his head, leaned back against the hard seat and pulled his beanie down over his eyes. ‘You can’t have it all,’ he said. ‘If passion guaranteed security the world would be nothing but guitarists and chefs.’

  ‘I used to love your music,’ I told Chris, leaning closer.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah … Dah-dah-DAH-DAH-dah-da-da-daah,’ I sang the beat I’d played over and over on a grainy cassette he’d made for me in high school.

  ‘I can’t believe you remember that song. I wrote that.’

  ‘I know. “Driving Time”. It was my favourite. And there was “The Captain of the Almosts”, “Famous Daze” … I remember them all.’

  The song titles had been written out in biro on the tape cover in Chris’s own hand, and I’d been as fanatical about his band as any normal teen was over the Backstreet Boys or Pearl Jam.

  ‘Part of me thought, I’ll get into finance,’ said Chris, ‘make some money and, set myself up, then start pursuing something music-related with a little security behind me. But I hate it, Vy, I really hate every second of it. And I’m hardly making any money. I have to wait tables to cover the weeks I haven’t got work.’

  He put his hand on my forearm. I looked at his fingers, then up at his face.

  ‘My last manager wouldn’t even let me have a beard. Said it looked unprofessional.’ He tugged at the hair on his chin.

  ‘Is it itchy?’ I wanted to bury my hand in it and rub the corners of his chin.

  Chris shook his head. ‘Nah’.

  He was talking to me, but
he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fixed at a vague spot in the middle distance. I swallowed. I needed to be bold. I reached out towards him. I was about to say, ‘Let me see,’ and caress his face when –

  ‘Hey Chris,’ Lorrie landed heavily on the seat next to him. ‘What are we going to do about finding a bed for Violet?’

  By the time the road flattened out beneath us and the shuddering engine finally stopped, the sun had disappeared behind the colony of mountain peaks. Sarah invited me to share her room. Chris was sleeping in a dorm with the other guys. He put his hand on my back and walked me to my door.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when you said you were coming to Hong Kong,’ Chris said. ‘And that you were in India! What are the chances?’

  My eyes darted around, searching for Matt. He’d dropped his pack and was standing on the edge of the road, where it fell away, his arms flung open, his blond dreadlocks released.

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ he shouted into the great cavernous valley.

  I laughed nervously, assessing Chris’s voice for traces of suspicion. ‘It’s not that strange. Hong Kong’s a great place for expats to find work in Asia. And who wouldn’t want to see India?’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said and gave my arm another squeeze. ‘And I love that you remembered my songs.’

  It felt like my heart was doing cartwheels. I had taken a gamble and it had paid off. I was intrepid! I was brave! And I was in love!

  The cabins were basic, like something a Christian missionary would have lived in during the 1950s. They had cement floors, white-washed walls, and hard beds covered in harder blankets. Sarah was kneeling on the floor, unpacking a wooden box.

  ‘This place feels very spiritual, don’t you think?’

  She was arranging a little makeshift shrine. She removed prayer cards and statues and placed them on the lid of the box. She unrolled a yoga mat that she settled herself on. Then, instead of meditating, she started to knit.

  ‘Won’t you join me?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you praying?’

  ‘Meditating. And knitting. I like doing something while I meditate,’ she told me. ‘Scarves are the only thing I can make.’ She held up a wonky length of knitted pink wool.

  ‘I don’t think I’d know how.’

  ‘Start by putting your bottom here.’ Sarah scooted over and made space for me on her mat.

  I could feel the ground through the mat. I tried not to wriggle. I was eager to join the others in the homestead.

  ‘Imagine yourself on an empty beach,’ Sarah began. ‘Or in a sunny park. Anywhere you feel safe. Anywhere you feel happy.’

  I scanned my internal GPS. Just over a month ago, my safe haven was the warm lounge room I had shared with Michael and my housemates. We had a bar heater mounted on one wall that Michael and I would sit in front of when it was extra cold, sprawled across a red and gold rug that had been one of his concessions to my pleas to decorate our cheap rental in a homely way.

  My eyes snapped open. I felt momentarily breathless. My throat tightened. I shook my head and wiped my hands over my face.

  After the break-up my safe place had become my childhood bedroom, with Cass next door intoning Russian from a textbook. But that had only been temporary.

  I thought about creating new safe places with Chris. His comment about raising a family was playing on loop in my head. I balled my fists and squeezed. I needed to rid myself of the bullet of anxiety that was ricocheting around in my chest like an out-of-control pinball.

  ‘Okay.’ Sarah hopped up after a while. ‘Let’s party.’

  We headed down to the homestead, which was pulsing to a bass beat. The group had taken over two raised platforms that were lit by the glow of an open fireplace. Matt was distributing baggies of pot from his hemp backpack. He hummed as he worked. I was relieved to see he would soon be numbing his mind, lowering the chances he’d twig who I was and shout it across the room.

  He and Giorgio started smoking pipes painted with psychedelic patterns. Noah had a guitar in his lap, and Jeremy had a bongo drum tucked under one arm. A grey-green hash cloud hung over the room.

  ‘Hey!’ Noah greeted us with a wave. The circle of people widened to let us in.

  ‘Good to see you,’ Jez said to me.

  I positioned myself where Matt wouldn’t be looking directly at me. Then I slid an elastic band off my wrist and gathered my hair into a high ponytail. I needed to disguise myself as best I could. I was terrified he was going to suddenly blurt out –‘You’re that girl who was looking for Chris Campbell in Hong Kong.’ The thought made me shudder and shrink into myself a little. All of these free spirits would look at me, astounded. Lorrie would shake her head and mutter something about the decline of feminism.

  ‘Where’s Chris?’ I coughed through the haze.

  ‘He went for a run. Here, try this.’ Someone pushed a little clay cup into my hand. I tasted it and coughed. It burned. More rice wine, bitter and strong.

  ‘So what’s your story, Violet?’ Jeremy asked settling in next to me.

  ‘Give the girl two minutes before you start hitting on her,’ said Lorrie.

  ‘I’m not!’ Jeremy cried in his defence.

  ‘You’re such a misogynist!’

  ‘Oh, here we go, Germaine-sodding-Greer’s back.’

  I settled into my cushion and nursed my cup of spirits, now that Jeremy had been safely distracted from his original question. He rolled a cigarette, sucked it lovingly, and blew a plume into the air above our heads.

  ‘They should make tobacco-flavoured food,’ he said.

  ‘Tobacco would poison you if you ate it,’ Lorrie snapped.

  ‘I didn’t say people should eat tobacco, I said they should make food flavoured with it. Chips, meat pies … I don’t know, whatever.’ He took another thoughtful drag. ‘People are always telling me I’ve got to quit, but I love that roasted flavour.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to eat cigarette-flavoured potato chips?’

  ‘Not cigarette, tobacco. You can synthesise any flavour. You can get the taste of a honey-glazed ham into tiny little granules. Why not tobacco?’

  ‘Or pot,’ said Giorgio.

  Jeremy’s eyebrows flew up ‘Pus–’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Lorrie clamped her hand over his mouth. ‘You’re disgusting,’ she muttered.

  Giorgio chuckled.

  ‘Cyanide flavour,’ said Matt slowly. ‘You could eat something that tastes like deadly poison.’

  Lorrie glared at him. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Matt slurred. ‘The experience.’

  He pulled a plastic Tupperware container from his backpack and peeled open its tin foil covering to reveal a pile of brownies. ‘Here,’ he passed one to me. I could taste the grass.

  ‘This is already pot-flavoured,’ I said, as I took another bite.

  ‘It’s good, no?’

  ‘Nothing’s happening.’

  ‘Give it time.’

  I finished it and tried another. I picked a piece with plenty of the gooey icing to dull the taste of the drug.

  ‘Careful,’ said Jez, pinching a corner off my brownie for himself. ‘It’ll hit you hard.’

  ‘I’ve never had hash brownies,’ I said. ‘How will I know when they start to work?’

  As I asked the question I realised my view of the room was starting to distort, as if I was looking at it through a fun park mirror. In my peripheral vision I saw Chris enter the room. He was sweaty from his run. He seemed to be glowing. His edges were blurred.

  I straightened my back. I didn’t want to be the first to go and speak to him. Besides, I was having too much fun on my little cushion island. Though my mouth felt like it was full of wet cement. I reached for more rice wine to loosen it up.

  ‘Vy, how are you enjoying the soiree?’ He was suddenly beside me.

  ‘Chris,’ I smiled up at him. ‘Chriisssss. Chrissssss.’

  He laughed. ‘Having fun?’
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  ‘We loosened her up,’ Jeremy said from a million miles away. He was down the end of a tunnel. And that tunnel was swirling.

  Chris laughed. ‘I’m a bit fragrant.’ He lifted his arm and screwed up his face at the smell. ‘Might take a quick shower. Back in a mo.’

  ‘Aren’t you cold, mate?’ Noah tossed a blanket at him. Outside giant snowflakes were drifting to earth.

  I watched Chris leave again. His back vanished into the white flurry. Some snowflakes snuck in the door before it fell closed and evaporated in the warm air. And even though I could see Noah rubbing his arms and breathing hot breath into his palms, and Jeremy shivering before pulling a blanket over his shoulders, I started to sweat. I touched my cheek and felt the skin was clammy. My forehead was dripping.

  ‘Are you okay, hon?’ Sarah’s face appeared before me.

  ‘Why are you swaying?’ I reached out towards her.

  ‘Here.’ She held a blanket up for me. ‘Wrap yourself in this.’ It had a brick-like red and brown pattern.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ I said, as the wool bricks moved and changed like an Escher staircase.

  ‘Lie down.’

  The last thing I remember seeing was Lorrie and Jeremy locked in a passionate embrace. At some point I was taken to my room and put to bed. When I came to, the light was off and I was soaked in sweat.

  ‘It’s hot,’ I said to nobody, kicking off the blankets.

  Sarah came to my side. ‘It gets really cold up here.’ She swaddled me in blankets again. ‘Just lie still and go to sleep.’

  I shook my head, feeling faintly delirious. ‘It’s meningococcal isn’t it?’ I whimpered. ‘Give it to me straight, I can handle it.’

  ‘Shh.’ Sarah lay her palm across my forehead. I closed my eyes.

  The next thing I knew I was alone again, sitting bolt upright. I wanted to be sick. Whatever was in my stomach was making me feel awful, and if I purged myself of it, I was sure I’d feel better. The chills would recede and the tremors would calm.

  I climbed out of bed. The mercury had dropped. The concrete floor had reached a sub-zero temperature. I wrapped the brown blanket – which felt like it was made from tree bark – around my shoulders and went to the bathroom. I tried to vomit but nothing happened. Whatever was in my stomach was still swirling around in there, making me feel nauseous. I stuck my finger down my throat. But it was a trick I’d never been able to pull off.