He was also happy because the crystal wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. Once upon a time under these circumstances, when he was living in Redfern and ripping through his father’s money, he would’ve thought nothing of cabbing it to the Cross to buy a pipe, finding a doorway away from the surveillance cameras, and smoking it straightaway. It would’ve seemed the most thrilling thing in the world to do. But now he didn’t care. It was as though he had cured himself with a casual taste, like taking antivenom.
He walked towards the wooded area, past two guys leaning against the wide trunk of a Moreton Bay fig. He hadn’t had sex since arriving back in Sydney over a month ago. It was a ridiculously long time to go without. In the deeper hush, he began to get excited. Silhouettes wandered across the grass. He walked past a dark guy, they looked at each other, then Leon set out with the man following. They moved into the shadows of a giant fig; he could see the guy’s eyes, molten black, short black beard. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, he had his dick out. He was beautiful. Leon reached out to stroke his chest, then there was a flash and he was blinded. He saw a video camera, floodlights, and laughed at the man, thinking it was some kind of joke, feeling at the same time pissed off — how could anyone think they could just come in here and make a movie — but the man was panicking, looking left and right. Beneath his visored hand Leon made out police officers in a line, walking towards them, and other guys caught, some literally with their pants down. What the fuck ... ? Somebody was running, a policeman pursuing; there were shouts, an American accent, sound of a dog panting, one of the police had a dog.
The line of police was abreast. They were in combat boots and caps, sleeves rolled up. One of them called out, ‘Righto, sit down, please, hands behind your head.’
‘You gotta be joking,’ Leon said in what he thought was a low voice. His pick-up began to whimper and fumble with his crotch.
‘No, we’re not.’ A brawny cop walked over. ‘I said sit down.’
Leon and the man dropped to the ground.
‘Hands behind your head.’
They obeyed.
Leon looked sideways and saw the man still unbuttoned and a wet patch on his jeans. Cheap Kmart jeans, cheap synthetic shirt and shoes, the man rigid with fear. Put your fucking dick away, mate, Leon thought with furious contempt. A female cop walked over with the dog and joined the male standing over them, two capped silhouettes with their legs apart, the light picking out a halo of red hair down the male cop’s neck, bleached spikes on the woman’s. Both of them wore blue latex gloves. ‘Empty your pockets, please. Name and address?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Got any ID? All of your pockets, thanks.’
Leon was aware of similar interactions in the vicinity. There must have been about twenty police, standing over men who half an hour earlier had felt free and hidden from the world. Two with video cameras roamed around filming. Leon kept his head down. He had an unnerving intellectual lacuna, suddenly thinking homosexuality must be illegal, as though time had moved backwards and he were a criminal.
The male police officer had the dark man’s mobile phone in his hand and was pressing buttons. ‘Which one’s your wife’s number, should I call her?’
The dog was sitting right next to him, and Leon wanted to hug it for comfort. In a state of confusion, he worked his way through his jeans and jacket pockets. His fingers touched the little plastic bag of crystal, and the joint, and he wanted to laugh for the absurd bad luck of this night. He handed his wallet, phone and keys to the female cop, rattled off his mother’s address.
‘This is a Queensland licence. Can you explain that?’
‘I live there.’
‘So you’re visiting Sydney?’
‘Sort of. I’m not sure.’
‘Ell-ah-ja.’ The male cop was reading the dark man’s ID. The man muttered back an Arabic word, chin to chest.
‘You’re not sure?’ Light caught the edge of the cop’s face. She looked barely twenty. Probably a dyke with that bleached cropped hair. Incredulous betrayal stabbed Leon. ‘Any other pockets?’
His fingers touched the plastic bags again. The dog remained seated before him, gazing up faithfully. He loved dogs.
‘This the only ID you’ve got, Ell-ah?’
‘Can we see what’s in there?’
Leon pulled the bags out. ‘It’s just dregs.’
She took them with her latex-gloved hands and showed them to her partner. He snorted knowingly. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From a friend.’
‘And who might he be? Or is it a she?’
Leon said nothing.
‘Are you a citizen? Resident?’ the male cop was saying to the Arab.
‘You can say it here, and make it easier. Or we keep talking down at the station.’
Leon said nothing. The Arabic man hung his head also, the questions from both police continuing, and Leon felt briefly united with him, each feeding off the other’s silence.
‘Okay. You’re coming with us.’
‘You must be joking,’ Leon said scornfully.
‘No joke, mate. You have to come down to the station.’
Leon saw someone being led away by two police. The Arabic man was getting to his feet.
The female cop reached out for Leon. ‘Stand up, please.’
‘Get your fucking hands off me.’ Leon slapped her away.
She stepped forward, grabbed his wrists and handcuffed him with unbelievable speed. Her grip was strong. The male cop glared at him. Leon’s heart began to beat wildly, as though he’d just had two pipes in a row.
He walked slightly ahead of the female, trying to hide his face from the camera with his shoulder, but every time he hunched, her grip on his arm tightened. Fucking dyke bitch. Around the corner there was a paddy wagon. Another man was getting inside, next went the Arab. The female cop handed Leon to her partner and walked away with the dog. When they were alone, the male cop spoke out of the corner of his mouth, ‘You blokes deserves AIDS, y’know. You take this crap then think you’re God and spread it around. Then you expect taxpayers to look after you.’
Leon kept his head down as he climbed into the paddy wagon. It was too ridiculous; he just wanted to laugh. Inside, he wondered vaguely how the guys that got away had gotten away, because there sure were loads more men at the beat than in this van now. He should have just run. As they drove back onto the roadway, he looked around at his companions, silent, ignoring each other, a sorrier bunch of fuckers you couldn’t find. The sorriest of all, his Arabic pick-up, huddled in the corner, blinking rapidly as if he was crying. It was pathetic.
The world viewed through mesh was surreal. People and buses and cars all moving with specific intent, carrying out their various tasks. And the traffic lights changing colour indefatigably all through the night, even when there was no one there. So much autonomy was dizzying. Leon could smell the sweat of every single person that had been locked up in this paddy wagon; he felt like he was somebody else and everything would slot back into place as soon as he had a chance to explain. He imagined telling the story over a beer at the party at the cricket stands, a circle of blokes looking at him in admiration.
They fingerprinted him then put him in a cell half the length of his body. He was painfully alert but wanted to lie down, but there wasn’t enough room. The fluoro lighting felt like a chemical soup drowning him. Through the bars of his cell, he could see into two offices and part of the front counter — all the police going about their business.
The one who had arrested him eventually walked over. ‘Ready to tell us where you got the stuff, and what you were doing there?’
‘Can I have my phone back?’
The policeman smiled with mock sadness. ‘No.’
‘I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?’
‘You ready to talk to us?’
‘I want my phone call.’
The policeman walked away, shaking his head in disgust.
L
eon waited. He was dying for a leak. He saw one of the men that had been in the paddy wagon leave the station. There was someone in the cell adjacent making a lot of noise. The police looked over every so often, registering both him and the loud man, who they seemed to know. Leon could hear him muttering, You fucking cunts didn’t fucking tell me fucking bitch cunt. He began to chew his nails. The policewoman walked over.
‘Right, we’re going to do a video interview.’
Leon panicked. ‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘You’d make it easier for all of us including yourself if you talked.’
‘I haven’t got anything to say. I want my phone. I want my phone call.’
Leon was just mouthing words he had heard on television. He didn’t know if he was due a phone call, and if he was he didn’t know who he would ring. George sprang to mind, but he cringed at the thought. Whereas Leon had always loved the unpredictability of beats and the sort of straight man you found there, George thought they were sleazy, desperate places for closets. Leon was ashamed he was now in a police cell next to a raving alcoholic.
The policewoman looked at her partner, who was laughing at the alcoholic. ‘Shut the fuck up, Reg.’
Leon chewed his nails down to raw flesh. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he asked to be taken to the toilet. He found himself in a filthy room with one toilet seat in the corner, the urinal along the wall stinking. The policeman stood at the door watching him while he pissed.
The psychotic man was screaming when Leon went back to his cell: Lemme out! Lemme out! Fucking cunts, cunts, CUNTS!
The policeman picked up his baton and smashed it along the bars of the man’s cell, silencing him. Leon sat down facing the wall. He tried to remember how much money he’d had in his wallet before they had taken it, what was in his phone that could incriminate him. Fuck, he had photos of George in there, naked, holding a hard-on. He realised how crucial his phone had become, as crucial as his wallet. Even clothed, he felt so naked divested of his possessions.
Daylight crept along the corridor. Leon stood and hung on the barred door until he had the attention of the male cop. ‘Am I allowed my phone call? When are you going to let me out of here?’
‘In due course.’ The cop turned away.
‘I have to visit my mother in hospital,’ Leon called out, vexed.
‘That’s original.’
‘Look her up! She’s got cancer, she’s in the RPA, and I have to go and see her this morning.’
The cop turned. ‘Yeah, my mum’s got cancer too.’
Again Leon had the sense of rough stony heat inside his forehead, pressing behind his eyes. He realised that he wanted to cry.
The police finally let him go at ten o’clock and Leon caught a taxi to his ute. Parking ticket, $179, great, perfect, icing on the cake. He drove to the hospital in a black mood, allayed somewhat by the fluke find of a free park near Missenden Road. He saw a paddy wagon near the hospital entrance and stiffened with anger. He went to the cafeteria for a coffee and muffin, then in the bathroom gave his armpits a cursory wash. In the lift a wave of exhaustion came over him. He fancied he could smell George in his beard, sought the scent like a drug, then lost it. He felt loose, rangy and combative as he strolled down the corridor. Possession, indecent exposure, indecent language, resisting arrest. His mother wasn’t in her room. A Chinese woman told him she was on the verandah. Leon walked out and saw her down the end. He saw with a jolt that somebody was shaving her head and he almost shouted at her to stop, then remembered his mother talking about her intention to have this done. It was obviously the tattoo artist. He walked quickly towards them.
Marie smiled. ‘Well, well, I hadn’t expected to see you this early!’
Through the grey fuzz, Leon could see bald patches. And the bones in his mother’s face, how her ears stuck out. She had aged so much in just one week. She looked like a prisoner, at once tough and fragile, her eyes enormous violets pooling the sky. Leon pulled up a chair as the clippering finished, and Marie introduced him to Rhys, who smiled as she flicked a soft brush over Marie’s upturned face. ‘How are things at Sirius Cove?’
‘I haven’t been in the garden much. I’ve been doing Susan’s. But the xanthorrhea has scale.’
Marie looked crestfallen.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t notice it.’ His remark seemed to float towards her in slow motion, like a missile. Now he had sat down, Leon felt unable to ever get up again, let alone make an attempt to retract this casual cruelty. ‘It looks like it’s been there for a while. I sprayed it with white oil, but it’s pretty entrenched.’
Marie wondered what else she hadn’t noticed. Rhys removed the sheet and the air bit her neck. Leon looked bad, unkempt. He even smelt bad. There was an irritable redness in his eyes that reminded Marie of Ross when he’d been drinking, and made her a little afraid. It seemed such a terrible portent that Leon’s totem plant was diseased, the bugs multiplying under her nose all this time. He lolled in his chair stroking his beard, aware of his powerful good looks.
‘I’m sure you can cure it. Leon’s a gardener, Rhys. He’s been a great help.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Leon liked the look of Rhys, running a broom around their feet to collect his mother’s hair.
I’ve heard it’s good to burn them,’ she said. ‘That’s what Stew did with his.’
‘Stew’s a friend from the studio,’ Marie explained. She felt exhausted. Willing a connection between Rhys and Leon. A sense of futility about that. Let alone the garden.
Rhys packed up her clippers. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘You’re not going? I thought we were having brunch together.’
Rhys hesitated, glanced at Leon. ‘I can go and get you something and bring it back up.’
‘It’s alright. I’m about to go down,’ Leon said, then remembered he had run out of money, and that the cafeteria was unlikely to have EFTPOS. He felt increasingly prickly and fragile.
‘I really should get going,’ said Rhys.
‘Nice meeting you.’
Marie shivered and asked Leon to fetch a scarf from her room. ‘And the blanket,’ she called after him. ‘It’s on the chair.’
Getting up took an age, his thighs hurt with every step, there was a faint ache in his balls. He stopped in the bathroom to splash water on his eyes and drink from the tap. He draped the blanket around his mother’s shoulders and helped tie the scarf around her head. He wanted to do these things for her, but he felt mechanical and knew it showed.
‘I must look a bit of a fright,’ Marie said.
‘You look fine. But I thought you’d get that done at the hairdresser’s or something.’ Again the curt tone. At that moment, Leon hated himself.
‘At Mosman Junction?’ Marie gave him that unnerving violet stare. ‘I wasn’t game. I wanted to have it done by someone I trusted, in private.’
‘It’s not very private out here,’ Leon said, indicating the Chinese woman he had spoken to earlier, settling her gaunt, bald companion at the end of the verandah.
‘She doesn’t care. She’s dying of ovarian cancer,’ Marie said coldly. ‘And she’s the same age as you.’
Leon looked at the ground. Marie wanted him to look at her. She was disgusted with her love for this selfish boy-man, and filled with a bitter pride at her deformities. She wanted him to look at her. ‘Would you have shaved your mother’s head, Leon?’
‘Of course I would,’ he said in a small voice.
‘You can hardly bear to look at me. Is it because I’m sick? Or is it the tattoos? Or is it just because I’m a woman?’
When Leon finally lifted his eyes, she saw they were filled with tears.
Brian knocked after dinner to see if Marie wanted to come down to the television room. He was still in a ward with three others whereas Marie was now alone in a double room, her neighbour having left that day. She was hours after a pethidine shot, trying to last as long as possible, an
d more alert than she had been all day. She was watching the late news on her own television and invited Brian to join her. He had his hipflask, and into the little plastic cups he poured them a nip. He took out a joint.
‘Next to the window,’ said Marie, getting out of bed.
They smoked the joint in silence, looking out at the night sky. A half-moon was rising. Marie felt fuzzy when she went back to bed: a warm blanket had spread over the aches and pains and the nausea was gone. As Brian sat beside her, his gown rode up, revealing the leg tattoo. He saw her stealing glances at it.
‘It’s called a pe’a.’ He pronounced the vowels distinct yet close as though separated by a pane of glass, then spelt it. ‘They tep the ink in with chisels. You wanna see me other work?’
‘Yes.’
He took off his gown and stood in his boxer shorts while she angled the light towards him. He was like an ancient tapestry, worn and embroidered over the decades. He pointed out different tattoos and told their stories. The first, from his adolescence in Auckland, was a whale rising murkily over the left pec. Around it were prison scratcher’s lines and crosses. The names of his three wives were on his left arm, one after another. On his right arm and back were a skull, a dragon and a naked woman done by a favourite tattooist in Casula whenever he was free and Brian had the money. For his son, he’d had a carp tattooed on his stomach.
‘The pe’a is my favourite,’ said Marie, admiring what she could of the black organic shapes and fine gridding: unlike the other tattoos, Brian made no effort to show it. The left one rose in a curve over the hip, the right was much lower. Marie remarked on this.
‘It’s not finished,’ Brian muttered.
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