Jez puts on some gloves like a doctor would, but these are not the white ones you see on TV; these are black. He strokes my skin and I can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin latex. And God, it’s so clichéd, but his touch on my skin, the warmth of his breath so close to my – I want to keep it matey, keep it funny, but my breath catches when I say, ‘What are you doing, perv?’
He pats me on the hip, like I’m just a slab of pork waiting to roast. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, because you’re a professional?’
‘You’re not the first, B.’ And it’s weird because that kind of hurts me.
Jez rolls up his sleeves. On the inside of his left arm, wrist to elbow, the twists of rope he drew are raised and scabbing. ‘I’ve been practising. Thought it would be easy enough to hide if it was shit.’
‘Can I touch it?’
Jez squirts some of that hand sanitiser stuff on my palms, and for a second the alcohol overpowers the paint in the room. ‘Clean hands; you need to remember it’s like a cut, OK?’
His skin is warm and raised around the ink, like mine after Kēhua scratches me. His body must be trying to rid itself of the ink. How long before it gives up? How long before it accepts it as its own?
‘It’s itchy as. But don’t scratch it; you’ll ruin it.’
‘You’ve been scratching.’
‘I know; that’s because I’m a fuck-up.’
‘Shut up. Would I let a fuck-up scar me for life?’
It’s meant to be reassuring, but Jez goes quiet. He rolls his chair over to the desk and finds a purple felt-tip pen. He pops the lid. The tip of the pen is cool on my skin. He’s drawing the rabbit on me. ‘This would look cool if I could shade it like it was a brush stroke or something.’
My eyes are closed. The flick flick flick of the pen is gathering weird tingles at the base of my spine, and I have to concentrate so I don’t moan. ‘Then do it.’
‘I’m just learning how to line, B.’ He stops drawing, and rests his hands on my hip. The tingles stop with a shiver. ‘Maybe we should go into town, get someone more experienced to do it.’
I prop myself up on my elbows, suddenly pissed at him for some reason. ‘I want you to do it, Jez; not some random.’
‘Maybe we should wait, until I’m better …’
‘It’s gotta be now. Or I’ll chicken out.’ I grab his hand – gloved, it feels like it is someone else’s. ‘Please don’t stop.’
‘OK. But I’m just going to do a really fine outline. I’ll finish it when I know what I’m doing.’
A promise: a promise that Jez will still be in my future – the real Jez, not the make-believe Jez who keeps my flat for me, makes me tea. Not the shadow of Jez, whose existence hinges on me. A Jez with his own skills, his own ambitions. I should be glad, that he’s planning a life of his own, but it’s kind of disappointing that I’m not the centre of it.
Spoilt brat.
I flop back down on the bed. The towel shifts a little, and I clamp my hands down on it, like I have some modesty left.
Jez leans over me again. His hand stretches my skin as he draws; his breath is stirring those tingles again, and I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed that I feel this way – he’s not my boyfriend! – that my body is all porn star at his touch, and that he might be able to smell me. I’m worried about fish and chicken, even though to me I smell sweet and potato-y.
‘B, you have to keep still.’
‘Sorry, it tickles.’
‘I haven’t even started yet.’
‘It tickles?’
‘Yeah, tickles like a thousand bee stings.’
Bzzz …
The sound a rabbit makes when it presses down.
Bzzz …
The sound a rabbit makes as it bites.
Bzzz …
The sound a rabbit makes as it works its way under my skin, a black warren protected by a dam of my flesh.
It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
I closed my eyes when he started, held my breath.
‘It’s gonna take ages, B. If you hold your breath, you’re gonna pass out.’
So I started breathing like women do when they’re in labour on TV: that weird shallow pant they do as the nurse dabs at their brow and they squeeze their husband’s hand to breaking point.
Jez stopped the gun. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Breathing.’
‘Don’t breathe like a dick – you’re twitching all over the place. Just be normal; it’s no big deal.’
I closed my eyes and breathed in through my nose and out of my mouth, trying to let it still me, calm me. The first bite of the needle was sore, but not bad, and as it drones on it’s not like it doesn’t hurt any more, but more like I’m used to it. Like when you dive into the lake and it’s really frickin’ cold but then you’re fine, not cold at all – until you haul yourself onto the raft or back onto the stones on shore. It’s then that you really feel it: the cold that has turned your lips blue, that makes goosebumps on your arm. The cold that hangs around after you’ve put your clothes back on; the drip, drip of cold water down your spine from your wet ponytail, tiny pinprick reminders of pain …
But this pinprick is heat, heat, not cold. It is the scratch of kōura on the side of the pot as it boils, the desperation of life, the final fuck you before they succumb.
I look down and expect to see blood, but the stuff Jez is wiping away is black, not red. I can feel tears rolling down my face. Maybe I should wipe them away, but I like their coolness on my skin.
He stops and looks at me. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Of course it fuckin’ hurts.’
‘We can stop.’
Warm yourself up on the raft, before plunging head first back into the cold.
‘I’m fine, Jez.’
The drone starts again and I close my eyes, willing myself to just go with it. I wonder how Sleeping Beauty could fall asleep under the prick of a needle. That must have been some hard-core magic. So I try to conjure her, lying with my hands across my chest: I’m sleeping, just sleeping. For a hundred years.
And my dreams are of thorns and swords and dragon fire.
And the kiss that will awaken me …
‘B.’ Jez is leaning over me. Let’s not pretend any more; let’s not pretend. ‘You fell asleep.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did. Your snores drowned out the gun.’ He wipes my hip again, this time with a wet wipe, chasing away the last of the ink that sits on the surface. My skin is red and black and shiny. It hums with the memory of the buzz from the gun. Jez puts some clear gel on my skin; it is cool for a second before it warms to the heat of my wound. He rubs it in, like you would for sunburn, generously and gently. And part of me wants his hand to slip, to keep rubbing. My hip tips up a little and he lifts his hand away, pushes his chair back.
My face burns hotter than the skin on my hip. I struggle to pull my undies back up.
‘B.’ He slides towards me. ‘B …’
‘I’m OK.’
‘You need to put a dressing on that …’
‘It’s fine.’ My undies are up, and I swing my legs to the floor. I’m bending over to put my jeans on. ‘I’ll do it when I get home.’ I pull up my jeans, kind of jumping as I pull up the zip. The stretch of the denim, of my skin – it feels like it’s tearing. And I’m tearing; my face is wet with shame. And that’s not the only thing that’s wet, eh, Bugs?
I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want him to look at me; I don’t want to look at him, because he’s my friend, the one who will make me tea, and clap, and give me away. Not the one who’ll …
The rabbit kicks and kicks; its back foot goes thump, thump, thump. Time to run.
Run.
‘See you later, OK?’
‘B, wait.’ He snaps off the gloves and grabs my wrist. ‘Where are you going?’
His hand feels moist and different. ‘Home. I’ve got to go.’
I want to r
un, but with each step the rabbit kicks and claws.
When I get home, I’m sweaty and gross. No, mainly gross. Because, fuck, why did I have to make it weird? Like it wasn’t weird enough being half-naked on the bed of my best friend …
I turn on the shower, strip off my shirt and bra, slowly take off my jeans. My undies have fused to my skin like they’re some sort of chastity belt, so I have to wear them in the shower, peeling them off as the water softens the bond between fabric and skin. I want the water to wash away these feelings: the mistake, the embarrassment, but it can’t.
I shield my hip from the water, even though the water can’t shift it. It’s permanent.
15
Remember, remember the fifth of November …
When I was a little kid, Mum would take me to see the fireworks at Owen Delany Park. We’d sit on an old wool blanket and have a picnic while we waited for the night to get dark. By the time the fireworks started, I’d be snuggled up to Mum, because I was cold and a bit tired. She’d put her arms around me and I would lie back to look at the sky. She’d hug me a little closer with each Bang! Bang! Bang! Then I got a bit bigger, and didn’t want her arms around me any more; it felt too close, too protective.
We haven’t been in ages. Not that I’d want to go with Mum anyway. But even if I did, she’s always got work.
Beep. Beeeeep!
I look out to the driveway and, surprise, surprise, there’s Stone Cold’s shitty red car. Of course Stone Cold never does anything on the down-low, not when she can announce to the whole frickin’ neighbourhood that she’s arrived.
Beep! Beep!
I stand at the window and slice a finger across my throat at her – kill it, chick. She knows how long it takes me to lock up this house: the sliding locks in the windows, the broomstick in the ranch slider track, the back door, the back gate …
‘C’mon, Bugs, I want to get there early!’ She leans across and opens the passenger door for me. ‘Just chuck that in the back.’
I lift up the bag on the seat. ‘What’s in here?’
‘Just some clothes and things.’ Like rocks or concrete? ‘Mum and I had … words. Hey, can I stay here tonight?’
‘Won’t your mum have “words” to say about that? I know my mum will.’ I’m trying to push the stupid bag through the gap between the front seats, but it won’t budge. And neither will Stone Cold.
‘Bugs, I have nowhere else to go.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. She just doesn’t get me. Can I stay tonight?’
I finally push the bag through, and it lands on a big box of fireworks on the back seat. ‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Mum’s having a party and I bailed. She won’t even notice it.’
A hundred-dollar box and she won’t notice? Shit.
‘We can’t take it into Owen Delany Park; they’ll confiscate it.’ I’m out of the car, opening the back door. ‘Pop the boot.’
‘Bugs, c’mon …’
‘Why are you in a hurry, anyway? They probably just opened the gates. It’s just families and picnics and a lame band until dark.’ I jiggle the hatch; she still hasn’t released it. I bang on the hatch. ‘Pop it.’ She releases the door and it opens with a sigh. ‘What the fuck is all this?’ The boot is filled with boxes.
‘Just some things.’
More ‘things’?
‘Jez asked me to hold on to them.’
‘What are they?’
She shrugs as she looks at me in the rear-view mirror.
If I rearrange the boxes a bit I can fit this one in too. I push one to the side and the top pops open: Jez’s clothes, some art supplies, all randomly shoved in a box like someone did it in a hurry. This isn’t some of his things; this is all of his things. I push the fireworks box in sideways between the other ones. I slide myself back into the front seat, feeling as weird as that shiny, foil-covered box looks between the old wine and nappy boxes in the boot. Stone Cold checks her mirrors before she pulls out, all concerned about obeying the Road Code, ignoring the fact that she’s carrying a passenger. I wriggle in my seat; the rabbit on my hip is itchy. It would be OK if it was just there – I could subtly rub the side of my hip with my elbow. But it’s everywhere: my pubes have started to grow back in, popping out all over the place like those leaves in spring that seem to suddenly appear when your back is turned.
‘Have you seen Jez?’
‘No, Bugs, his stuff just magically appeared in my car.’ Sarky bitch. ‘I picked this stuff up before. It was strange – all piled up on the lawn.’
‘Why?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t say.’
‘How is he?’
‘Have you guys had a lovers’ tiff or something?’
‘He’s not my …’
‘Jokes, OK? Jokes? I know he’s not. He just asked the same thing about you. Weird that you guys aren’t talking.’
Weird that he’s packed up his whole life into your car.
‘It’s only been a couple days.’
‘What did you guys fight about?’
‘We didn’t have a fight, it was … it was nothing, OK?’
‘That’s dumb, then. Falling out over nothing.’
‘Kinda like “words”, eh?’
‘That’s totally different.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
I rub my hip with the heel of my palm; it’s itchy and sore at the same time. The rabbit kick, kicks. I should have called him. It’s my fault that it got weird. I should apologise for – I don’t know, freaking out? Not knowing how to deal?
‘God, Bugs, if you keep frowning like that you’re gonna have to get Botox between your eyes.’ Better than a bullet. ‘Why are you so grumpy? It’s Guy Fawkes!’
‘A, I’m not grumpy and B, Guy Fawkes is fucked up – celebrating the execution of …’
‘Blah, blah, blah, grump, grump, grump.’ I’m sure she took that corner wide so I’d bump my head. ‘We get to hang out after dark and blow shit up. It’s fun. You don’t have to think too hard about it.’
But isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we celebrate it; why we remember the day, centuries after? So we do think about it; think hard about our place in society; think about the fact that if you try to push the world, it’ll push back, even squash you. Then they’ll make a holiday of your death and dance drunk around a bonfire while a replica of you burns.
‘He was a terrorist anyway, we learnt that in history.’
‘History is written by the victors …’Yes, I did just quote Churchill.
‘Oh God, you’re not one of those people, are you?’
‘What people?’
‘Conspiracy geeks. The ones who think aliens probe them and that 9/11 was an inside job.’
‘No, I just don’t think we can trust everything …’
‘GEEEEEEEE –’ Stone Cold brays like a donkey – ‘EEEEEK!’
I smash her in the arm. ‘Shut up.’
‘You’re so uptight! You could do with a good probing.’ She bunny-hops the car on purpose so we’re bucked in our seats.
‘Says Charmaine the porn star,’ I say, and she moans like a whore.
We crack up – we laugh and laugh – but I kill it. ‘You’ll get pulled over.’
Stone Cold sits up straight and checks her mirrors again. ‘God. Then Mum will go spare again.’
‘She’ll have “words”?’
‘Yeah, words like “boarding school”.’
‘Are they still going on about that?’
‘They haven’t stopped.’
I put my hand on hers as she changes gear. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘If it wasn’t for you I’d probably already be at boarding school, or worse.’ Her voice has gone all shaky, and I know she’s heading for a dark place.
‘Cheer up, otherwise we’ll both have to get Botox. And that would fuck up your acting career.’
Stone Cold laughs. ‘Not if I go to Hollywood.’
�
��Yeah, you’d just have to look pretty and get your tits out.’
‘And then I’d just have to ug up for a movie and I’d get an Oscar.’
‘Would you thank me?’
‘Of course.’ She squeezes my hand before letting it go. ‘You and Jez will be there with me.’
So, the only future either of us can imagine for Jez is dimly lit by the edge of our spotlight. We’re up on stage accepting a degree, accepting an award, and Jez is there clapping and clapping like a wind-up monkey.
When we pull up to Jez’s it looks like his mum is throwing a party too. Out the front on fold-up chairs and chilly bins are the boys: Havoc the Cock’s boys. Oh great, I bet he’s here too. Guys like the Cock aren’t lone wolves. They’re pack animals. One of them offers us a can from the slab. I push Stone Cold inside. ‘She’s driving.’
Stone Cold has stopped in the hallway. She sniffs. ‘It smells like paint.’
‘They’re moving out.’
‘Why would you redecorate when you move out?’
‘To get their bond back.’ Though if the boys are here and they’ve already started drinking, there’s not much hope of that.
Stone Cold makes her hand into a gun, tosses her head and pokes out a hip. ‘Bond, Jez Bond.’ She’s clueless, but she is a crack-up.
At the back of the flat, in Jez’s room, I can hear a familiar sound.
Buzz …
Bites the rabbit …
Buzz …
And it kicks.
I knock on the door, like I’ve never been here before; like I’m a stranger. Stranger still is when Jez says, ‘Who is it?’ Because who else could it be, except me, me, me …?
‘Char.’ Stone Cold has flattened herself against the door like she’s trying to press her voice through it. ‘And Bugs.’
The door opens a crack and Jez looks out at us. ‘I’m kinda busy right now …’
‘Let them in,’ a voice says from his room. ‘I don’t care.’
Jez opens the door and lets us in. His room has been totally painted; the thick white paint has covered every last part of what made this room Jez’s. It could be anyone’s, anywhere. His bed is still covered with the sheet, still protecting the duvet from splatters. Lying on the bed, naked to the waist, is the Cock. Jez has drawn on his broad, brown back with the same purple felt-tip he used on me.
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