‘Is Franco there?’
‘Yes. Right now, he thinks I’m at a staff meeting.’
Clark began to simmer. ‘It won’t be like that when we’re together, Sylvia. We’re going to be honest. We’re going to be monogamous. And you’re not going to do any sex work.’
Sylvia swung around, her eyes wide. ‘Why do you always bring that up?’
‘I’m just jealous,’ Clark almost shouted. ‘It’s awful, I hate it, I’m sorry, but I can’t help it!’
‘I trusted you when I told you that. God! The last thing I need is your moralism.’
His heart shrivelled as though it had been thrown into a hot pan. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I had no right —’
She began to talk urgently. ‘Alright. You want honesty? I fell in love with you because I’m not fully satisfied where I am now. You know stuff, you tell me stuff. Franco isn’t much of an intellectual and he doesn’t make me laugh like you do, and like any long-term couple we don’t have much sex anymore.’ She was rearing back against the window staring at Clark with tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, I am. We’re both really stressed out and taking it out on each other which is counterproductive.’ He put his hand on her thigh. It felt like a glove on a block of wood. ‘I’m sorry, cheaptart. Okay? Forgive me?’
The pet name sounded lame and tawdry. Sylvia looked exhausted. ‘Let’s get into the back so we can cuddle.’
They climbed through the gap between the seats. She lay her head on his chest and he stroked her hair, its apple scent rising through his nicotine fingers. Sylvia touched his face. ‘I fell in love with you, Clark, and I’ve been on the verge of leaving Franco for you. But as much as we get on, we’re really different in some fundamental ways.’
Clark swallowed. He was terrified she would mention what he had done — nearly done — the night she had stayed. He was still carrying guilt about it, and it was unbearable. He wanted to pull his jumper over his head. He wanted to cut off his dick. He kept his face averted and his hand in Sylvia’s hair while she said what he had been afraid of her saying for a while, what he had been driving her towards, out along the bending branch, further and further to the thin end till the final snap came as a relief.
‘I can’t do this anymore, Clark. You know I love you, but we’re just too different. We’re beginning to really hurt each other and we have to stop.’ She sat up when she had finished speaking, her face hidden behind a curtain of hair.
‘I love you,’ said Clark.
‘I love you too.’ She held him for a long time.
Then she took his hand. ‘Listen, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of a walk alone on the beach, okay? Then I’m going to get the bus home. I feel pretty drained and I need to zone out for a bit.’
‘Sure.’ He got out of the car, walked around to her side, and opened the door for her.
The wind whipped her hair about her face. ‘You hang in there with your mother, okay?’
He didn’t watch her walk away. He went down to a bench on the esplanade facing the beach. The clouds had peeled away and the sky resumed its rinsed, fresh autumn blue of the morning. The swell was huge. Nobody was in the surf. You could die in a surf as big and wild as that. He had been swimming less as the weather turned even though the ocean was still twenty degrees. He must get back to it. Looking at the churning surf he thought, as he had so often before, that it was a miracle to have this on his doorstep. It was the most beautiful place in the world.
But nothing could lessen his desolation.
Half an hour later, Clark drove home. He had left all the windows of his flat open and it was chilly inside. Hailstones and water were strewn across the table, on the floor. His stomach felt like a screwed-up rag so he put the lunch in the fridge. He shut the windows, cleaned up, then switched on the computer and checked his email. He realised at some stage that he had a raging thirst and drank some water. Then he realised that he was late to pick up his mother. He ran down to the car and drove as fast as he could into town. At Centennial Park the traffic stalled. The hail was still banked in drifts around bushes. He switched on the radio. We’re all compulsive home renovators, said an announcer in a crisp white voice. Clark moved the dial. Sydney Afri-can community, said a fruity black voice, is goin’ dance this weekend, oooh yeah. Seun Kuti poured into the car, the music running over him like sunlight on stone.
He ran into Susan at the hospital entrance. ‘She’s gone,’ Susan said, flustered.
‘How? Who with?’ Clark didn’t know Susan was coming today. ‘Blanche? I thought she was working.’ Maybe Blanche had handed in her resignation today. He felt excited for her.
‘No, that tattoo woman.’ Susan touched her wrists.
‘Rhys,’ Clark affirmed. Although he had never met her, he had heard enough; and he had resented her so strongly he felt like he had met her. Susan looked around as though she were expecting someone, and Clark felt sorry for her. For better or worse, she was his mother’s oldest friend and she was still here, still looking in on her. He asked her the time and realised he was a whole hour late. He was glad that Rhys had been on hand and he found himself wanting to defend the tattoo artist against Susan. That this feeling was also an attack on his own previous animosity did not escape him. He took out his mobile. ‘How is she?’
‘I barely recognised her, she looked so small and frail. I’m finding it all extremely difficult.’
Clark pressed his mother’s number. ‘Yeah.’ He held the phone to his ear, not expecting anyone to pick up. ‘Where’re you parked, Susan?’
‘Over there. No. Bloody hell. I don’t know. I hate it around here.’
‘I’m that way. Why don’t you walk with me? You might remember.’
They set out across the road. ‘I hear Blanche is expecting. That’s exciting news. Louise said she’d been sick.’
‘Yeah, but she’s better now, her first trimester’s nearly over. The hormones’ll start kicking in soon.’
‘That’s wonderful news for Marie too, isn’t it. Grandchildren are such a delight.’
They entered the maze of laneways on the other side of Missenden Road. ‘God,’ said Clark. ‘We just had the most incredible hailstorm in Bondi. And nothing here.’
‘Oh, it hit Mosman. Bloody well damaged my car, actually. Leon’s still there trying to save the garden.’
Clark was wondering whether or not to invite Susan home. She might just come anyway. She had left a pot of vichyssoise on the patio a week ago. She was carrying a box of mints with her now: she never arrived without some sort of gift. And the cap — colourful, jaunty, almost a collusion with Marie’s latter-day self. Yes, invite her home, she’s been kind. A text came through and Clark whipped his phone open, but it wasn’t his mother, it was Sylvia. I had such a great time with you, Clark cheaptart. Thank you for everything, and sorry for everything too. Much love. xxo. Clark wanted to throw his phone on the ground and jump up and down on it.
‘Do you want to give these to your mother? Or should I come over?’
‘I, um, yeah! Come over. If she wants to go to bed, she’ll just go to bed.’
They arrived at a sleek new Peugeot with a pockmarked bonnet. ‘Oh, my car. Thank you, Clark.’
‘No worries.’
Susan fished into her bag for keys. ‘So I’ve finally seen Rhys,’ she mused. ‘She’s quite pretty underneath all that nonsense, isn’t she.’
Rhys didn’t stay long when they arrived at Sirius Cove. Marie was too tired and they knew the others would arrive soon. She took Marie’s bags up to her bedroom and they said goodbye. Marie was glad for the time alone.
Her house was like a palace, her bedroom a luxury suite. She sat on the bed and gathered strength, then slowly began to undress. Her body was tiny, the flesh drooping around her hips. The bones of her chest emerged and her breasts lolled, empty. She went into the ensuite. She took off Susan’s cap and moved closer to her looming head, the yellowing skin like an old cloth dropped onto the bones
of her face, the irises like beacons around diminished pupils. The tattoos were wrinkling but still looked beautiful, like crushed silk.
She smelt of the hospital. Of medication, antiseptic, piss, shit, bile. She could taste her foul breath. She was like a moonwalker, weightless in this wondrous alien world, crossing through the ensuite past the texture of clothes, gargling Listerine, moving to the shower, claw hands clutching a towel. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper shower. Trembling, she twisted the taps, and slowly adjusted them till water poured forth at the right temperature. The stench of chlorine filled the cubicle. They must be flushing germs from the low dams. She stepped beneath the shower, soaping herself carefully. She emerged glistening and triumphant as an athlete. I’m here, she thought. I’m still here.
She rubbed cream on the old bag of her body, struggling to reach her spine. Fatima had even left fresh pyjamas out. Bed, clean sheets, smell of white cotton. She had a day’s supply of painkillers until Carla arrived. She drank a dose of liquid morphine, unpeeled a fentanyl patch and stuck it on her thigh. She climbed beneath the covers and sank into darkness. Goodnight, goodnight. Outside, the sun was drawing below the horizon. Little patches of white glinting here and there in the garden were all that was left of the hailstorm. And the creaking of bark on deck, water slapping stone, and the screeching, screeching cockatoos.
She dozed, aware of someone looking in on her, people at the door, then the clock’s hands moving past midnight. These were the hours of creeping fear. So little flesh left that her knees scraped against one another like rocks. All night shifting a pillow between her legs, longing for her cat, longing for Brian. She sat up at one stage to take more morphine. Her neck hurt, her back hurt, her knees hurt, and her belly screamed over everything the loudest hurt of all.
She woke to the light thud of a cat jumping on the bed. Footsteps delicate up the covers towards her, but she couldn’t move. She lay trapped and distraught in the dark. Then a last desperate lunge and breaking through the weight she found herself alone in reality. She took two more tablets and drifted back into her memories.
Leon went to George’s to borrow a suit for his appointment with the barrister. He was surprised when the door was opened by George’s boyfriend. Linus was Dutch or something but had been here since he was a teenager and spoke without an accent. He was a couple of years younger than George but almost bald, not particularly fit. He had a homely look about him.
He shook Leon’s hand. ‘Hey, what a bummer.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty surreal.’ Leon entered the apartment shyly.
‘George is in the bedroom.’
Leon walked down the hall. Bruce was slumped against the wall halfway to the bedroom. ‘Bruce!’ The cat thumped his tail and Leon stooped to rub his knuckles along Bruce’s throat to receive the soothing vibrations.
George greeted him with a hearty hug and back slap. ‘Fucking bummer, mate.’
‘Yeah. Back to the 1950s.’
‘Like, full-on.’ George smelt of garlic. He was dressed for work. He had his wardrobe open and a few items of clothing laid out on the bed. ‘You’re actually more Linus’s size — you’re both a bit bigger than me. But I got these out anyway.’
‘Thanks, mate. I really appreciate it.’
‘You okay? You look a bit whacked.’
‘I’m not sleeping that well.’
‘I feel a bit guilty, to be honest.’
‘No. Why?’
‘Cos I kind of kicked you out.’
‘I kind of instigated that turn of events.’
‘Yeah, but, the drugs.’
‘It’s okay.’
More than the possession charge, Leon was worried about the one of indecent exposure. He didn’t want to talk to George about it: George’s sympathy was enough. In daylight, Leon could see the details of the room: shoes that obviously belonged to Linus in the corner, a photo of the two of them on the dresser. He was glad he hadn’t had sex with George in this room. Anywhere in the house, come to think of it.
‘You really need a suit for your appointment?’ said George.
‘No. But I can’t wear these jeans. And I’ll need a suit for court.’
‘Okay, go for it.’
Leon held the trousers against his body. They were probably too short. The suit looked intimidating, funereal or corporate, and he left it. He didn’t even have a suit in Brisbane but he did have a pair of black trousers and black leather shoes. Still, even if he had brought everything down to Sydney, he knew that almost his entire wardrobe was composed of scungy gardening clothes, or casual clothes. It made him feel insubstantial, an amoeba in the serious world of men and careers.
‘It’s the sort of thing I should own, isn’t it. I mean I’m going to need a suit for Mum’s funeral.’
‘I like getting into a suit now and then. Makes a man feel sharp.’
‘These brogues look spiffy.’
‘They’d fit you.’
Leon slipped off his jeans and trainers, angling himself away from George. The shy, chaste feeling that coated him on entry to the apartment lingered; he kept it on as protection. George, as though in tacit agreement, rifled through a drawer up the other end of the wardrobe. Leon put on the trousers and found that if he slung them low they were fine. The shoes fitted perfectly.
Linus came down the hall to use the bathroom and stuck his head in the door. ‘Smart!’
‘A fine upstanding citizen, if ever I saw one,’ George agreed.
Leon turned in the mirror. ‘D’you reckon I should shave? I really don’t want to.’
George walked him to the door. Leon described Carla, and George seemed to think it was the same nurse he had worked with in Ward 17. ‘She’s great. Can’t get better, really.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Will you keep me posted?’
‘Sure.’
George watched Leon walk out of the building. ‘Hey, are you moving back or what? Have you decided?’
Leon turned. ‘I guess so. I guess I’m here now.’
‘Well, that’s great.’
‘I have to get a job.’
‘What about your business?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wind it up. Hey, you know what my fees with this barrister are? Fifty a phone call, three-fifty a meeting, and three and a half thou for a day in court. Even if the hearing only takes ten minutes and the charges are dismissed, I still have to hire him for the day.’
‘Yep, barristers’ fees are like that.’
Leon shook his head. ‘Why can’t I charge that for a day in someone’s garden?’
‘Ditto, mate. But that’s what they cost.’
‘You need to tell me everything,’ Maurice Parker said. He looked like a guy called Rosten that Leon had gone to school with. Nutbrown eyes, skin of a rich paleness that would tan if given a chance; a suggestion of voluptuousness although he wasn’t overweight. His manner was unperturbed. ‘You never know what they can bring up in court, so we need to bring it up first if it needs to be brought up.’
‘What sort of things? I don’t have a record.’
‘Good.’ Maurice was taking notes. ‘Speeding fines? Parking fines?’
‘Um. Yeah.’
‘Paid up?’
‘I got a parking fine the same night, actually. Because I was in lock-up. I should send it to NSW Police.’
Maurice didn’t catch the joke. ‘Paid it?’
‘No.’
‘Pay it.’
‘Okay.’
Suddenly Maurice smiled. ‘When you get home.’
‘Okay. Sure.’
‘Habit of not paying your fines in general?’
Leon stroked his beard. He was pretty sure he’d skipped out on fines when leaving New South Wales. He sometimes visualised late-payment penalties floating into his old letterbox. Somehow, a glitch in the switch to a Queensland licence had let the fines fall through the net. But, from time to time, he remembered them and wondered if they w
ould catch up with him. Now they assumed monstrous proportions. He began to sweat.
Maurice read his mind. ‘You can find out online if you have any outstandings. So what happened on the night. Let’s go through it step by step.’
‘I went to a mate’s for a drink. We had a few beers and, um, indulged a bit — my mate was celebrating the end of exams, you know; it was a completely spur-of-the-moment one-off thing when he suggested to me that we indulge. I had no idea, really; I wasn’t expecting it.’
Maurice waited politely.
‘Anyway, George didn’t want to go out and he told me there was a party on, so I walked there cos I didn’t want to drive because I was over the limit.’ Leon hoped the responsibility in this decision shone through. ‘And it was across the park so that’s why they got me there.’
‘So the drugs were yours.’
‘No. George gave them to me —’
‘They had come into your possession. They were on your person.’
‘But I wasn’t even thinking about it, and George has nothing to do with this.’
Maurice listened, twiddling his pen while Leon talked about his innocence, the paltry amount, how stupid it all was. ‘Leon, we’re going to have to plead guilty to the possession charge. The drugs were in your pockets. Pleading guilty can make you look better in some circumstances. Section 10 — good citizen with no priors — you’ll have to get some character references. Can you think of anyone who can give you one?’
‘Um. I know the head of Triage at St Vincent’s.’
‘Great. What’s his name?’
‘George Shehadie.’ Leon smiled. ‘The guy who gave me the crystal.’
‘Leon, when I said, Tell me everything,’ Maurice said drily, ‘I didn’t mean everything.’
Leon’s eyes travelled across the law books on Maurice’s shelves. There must have been hundreds, probably all in small print. It was like looking at an enormous factory from the outside, hearing the grind of machinery through the walls, knowing you were about to be pushed in like meat into a mincer. Here he was, the son of a rich businessman, with the best education money could buy, almost halfway through his life, and he knew nothing about the system that governed him. There were no shackles on his limbs: he could get up and walk out of here right now if he wanted. But there was a shadow. And it had changed everything.
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