by E. M. Reapy
I didn’t know. My body creaked and was sensitive any time I moved, it hurt in at least five places. My head split with questions. I hoped Shane wasn’t feeling as shite as me. We had to take a stopover for the trucker to get a long sleep. Me and Fiona tried to get comfortable in the front seats when he went into his berth.
★
After we’d been back on the road for a while I saw a sign.
PERTH 500KM
I was relieved that we could be in a city and figure out what to do. We couldn’t talk properly while this Australian man was driving and singing and eating all the time.
Fiona was colouring in a different sketch.
‘Did you do that?’ I asked her. ‘Or did you buy it like that?’ It looked like a postcard of a sunset but bigger. It was class.
‘I drew it. Met this lovely older Australian couple a while ago who looked out for me. Really kind people. I know they’d never take money off me so I want to give them a gift. Something thoughtful.’
Thoughtful. That was Fiona. I wondered when was the last time someone could have said that about me.
‘Where you going in the city?’ the driver asked interrupting us.
Fiona looked at me blankly.
‘Em, I know a hostel, me and Shane stayed in it before. It’s on the other side of the bridge, out the road a bit. I’ll show ya.’ My mind couldn’t come up with anywhere else. If we checked into a double private room and decided in the morning what to do, it would be okay.
★
The trucker dropped us off at the backpackers just after midday. Fiona did the talking inside. I made eye contact with no one.
We went to the room and got into the bed together. She snuggled into me and she was so warm and soft that I nearly wept again. We passed out. A couple of hours later, she said she’d make us some dinner.
Left in the room, staring at a damp stain on the wall, I decided on some things.
I would give up drugs and I was giving up binge drinking. Just one or two drinks from now on.
I decided that I wouldn’t turn myself in over John Anthony or Hopper.
But I would do something really good though, for the world, like volunteer or something.
Fiona came back with a plate of steaming spag bol. The portion was enough to feed three people.
‘Here, eat this mister,’ she said.
‘It’s so fucked up, Fiona,’ I said.
She stayed quiet for a moment. ‘Are you going to talk about it?’
I just shook my head and sliced at the spaghetti. I devoured the dinner. There was sauce all over my face and I wiped at it with the back of my hand. My nose was still excruciating but Fiona had an inspection of it and said it definitely wasn’t broken, just a bad bruising.
‘You’d know if it was broken, that’s for sure,’ she said and touched the bridge of her own nose.
‘I can’t look at it. I can’t look at meself,’ I said. Except for the mushrooms that she had mixed in with the mince, the plate was empty when I handed it back to her.
She didn’t say anything. She gave me a sorry smile, took the plate and left. I sighed and lay back down looking at the stain and ran through the list of what I would and wouldn’t do again.
★
Fiona came back to the bedroom different. It was her body language or the way she wasn’t saying something. It was completely obvious she was holding back. It wasn’t a fearful distance, it was more a protective one.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked and sniffed, more blood globbing together and going down my throat.
She went to her rucksack and opened one of the compartments. She took out a washbag.
‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding strange.’
‘Ah come on, Fiona. Hasn’t everything since we’ve met been strange?’
She got out a baby wipe and started taking off her makeup, rubbing it around her eyes and over her cheeks.
‘Okay it’s strange because I’ve never met the lad. But ye told me I’d know him when I saw him. I don’t know why I think it but I think Hopper is downstairs, in the common room.’
I was frozen.
‘Look I could be wrong. I’ve never met him except for what ye’ve told me. I just, my instinct, I don’t know. Maybe this is fucking mental. I don’t know,’ she said and flicked the wipe into the bin.
I pulled a white t-shirt over my head, trying not to have it touch my nose. ‘I’m going down.’
★
As I walked down the stairs, each step sent an impact into my body, each impact punched my bruises, I effed and blinded but still I went as quickly as physically possible.
The commotion of another backpackers’ evening about to set in, hostel revelry and cheap partying hit my ears and sounded unbearable.
Still I kept going towards it, the din getting louder and louder. I walked to the common room and stuck my head in from the doorway. It felt like I was going to get the runs. My insides were squeezing and opening and wrenching.
In the corner with his back to me. A shiny blue tracksuit top. Knee length black shorts. Same height. Same hair but longer, it needed a cut, strands rested on his neck.
Hopper’s face at the doorway of the mango farm kitchen changed in my mind to Philly the French Canadian’s, it changed to Shane’s, it changed to the Germans’ and Scandinavians’ and English lads’ that we never talked to, a white face. Anyone’s face.
Bile threatened. Bile mixed with blood mixed with guilt mixed with something I couldn’t pin. Like fear or hate.
I looked over at him again and his body went hazy and I wiped my eyes. Hopper? It was him.
Was it him? It was the same stance. The same build. The druggie vibe. Had to be him. If he saw me and knew me, he’d ask about the farm. About the others. Was it him?
I should step into the room, go over, check properly but everything went blurrier. The thick sensation in my gut was rising, burning my windpipe.
Something was forcing me. I had to move. I rushed back to the bedroom.
Fiona was sitting on the bed, ‘Was it him? Your Hopper?’
I nodded yes at her. I paused for a second and shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Sweat was soaking my back. Everything was swishing yet hyper real. ‘I don’t know anymore.’ My voice was cracking.
‘Hold on, where are you going?’ Fiona asked as I lumped my clothes and charger into the rucksack.
‘Have to leave. Get out of here. I can’t be here. He’ll remind me of – Fiona – I won’t be able to forget that I – what I did – oh fuck, why’d I do it?’ I pushed her out of the way and tried to puke into the sink but had to catch it with my hands instead. Red. Bolognese.
Why did I do any of it?
Leaving Ireland. Leaving my parents. Leaving Melbourne. Leaving Hopper in the woods. Leaving Shane.
Fiona was rubbing my back as I retched over the toilet bowl. I never wanted her to stop. I spat and went to the sink. I soaked a towel and mopped my face and forgot about my stupid fucking nose and yelled when I pressed the towel against it.
‘Okay, it was him, yes?’ Fiona was still stroking my back. She took the towel away from me and wiped my face and neck gently with it.
‘I imagined him, Fiona. I used to see the shithead everywhere I went. I was obsessed. Am I fucking losing it? Am I losing my mind? The stuff that happened, the stuff I did, it wouldn’t have happened if I had known Hopper was fine. I don’t think it would have anyways. Not like that.’
She soothed me and wrapped her arms around me. I dragged her down to the floor so I didn’t have to see myself in the mirror. Just tucked my head into her shoulder. My hands clasped around her waist feeling the slight curve at the top of her arse, my middle fingers able to touch across her lower back.
Fiona said, ‘When I got here, I travelled around first. Had a big holiday. Thought I’d get a job easy but I didn’t. My parents loaned me money and they have fuck all. They’ve been scraping since the recession. Since before it. So I went to get the farming done,
hoping things would be okay. But there, I completely ran out of cash.’ Her voice changed to a slower tone. ‘It was bad. I was so skint. I’d nothing. I was stealing off my roommates. I agreed to something pretty low. I don’t want to say but I went somewhere in the bush with men and it was bad and I’m still trying to get over it.’
She was shaking.
‘But I’ll get over it. I have to. I know you’re lost. I see it. I feel it. I can feel it every time I look at you. Things are going to be okay though, they have to be.’
‘No. No, they won’t,’ I said and forgot everything else she’d just said. My breath fluttered. ‘I fucking stabbed John Anthony. I stabbed him and watched him die. What if his friends from the North come looking for me? You know the ones I mean. Everyone knows them lads even if nobody mentions them anymore. What if they get wind of this?’
She took a noisy inhale. ‘You – you stabbed him? Christ.’
‘What if Henk has told the police already? Or Shane? I don’t even know what he did to clean up. I never even checked.’
‘They won’t have. They were involved too.’ Her eyes were big and sad. ‘We’re all involved now.’
I cringed. ‘No. Not you, you’re not.’
‘Then why did ye bring me?’
I wanted to tell her the truth. I brought you to save myself but I sighed and said, ‘I’m going to go,’ in a low voice.
It was only when I felt the tears gathering underneath my chin that I realised I was crying.
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ll look for some work somewhere, maybe in Margaret River, I don’t know.’
‘I’m coming with you. You’re a fucking mess. You can abandon me when you get your shit together. Maybe when you feel like stalling. That’s a promise. You’re not okay. You’re not fit to be alone at the moment. When are we going?’
‘Once I pack, I’m moving,’ I said and she locked her fingers with mine for a moment.
★
As we left the hostel, forty minutes later, there was a nip in the night air. Fiona was on her mobile, trying to arrange a car for us. We went by blocks, by sushi parlours and pie franchises, parks and pubs, past shiny buildings and perfectly gridded streets. My feet were unsteady but I knew I would crawl away, scuttle louselike away if I had to.
The rental car place was making things way too difficult. They wanted an Irish driving licence, an international licence, a credit card, the dates and place we would return the car to. And after all that, they wouldn’t let me book because I was under twenty-five.
Fiona shrugged apologetically, ‘I’m twenty-four still.’
We stopped by an internet café and looked at ads for secondhands up to a grand. We found a dented ’95 black Mondeo sedan and enquired. The guy said he’d give us it for five hundred dollars if we paid in cash, asked for nothing off him and didn’t even dare to complain or attempt to bring it back.
‘Sound.’
Quickest sale ever.
I borrowed four hundred dollars from Fiona.
‘Did you not save anything up there?’ she asked me as she pressed her numbers in the ATM.
All my fucking envelopes of hard cash were now with Henk forever. A pay off for things. For silence. My stomach went weak again. I couldn’t think about it.
The car guy knew we were dodgy, calling him this late at night but he delivered the car over to the park where we said we’d meet him. I handed him the wad of cash and thanked him. Fiona inspected the car, frowning.
‘It’s fine,’ I said.
‘You Irish in a hurry?’ he asked.
‘Nope. Well, yeah. We want to see the coast before our visas run out.’
‘It’s beautiful, the West Coast. Beautiful,’ he said as he pocketed the money and handed me the key.
‘So I hear,’ I said and thought of Shane and the tourist stuff he’d wanted to do.
‘You need to renew the rego on that car,’ the Aussie said.
‘Okay.’ I hadn’t a fucking notion.
The car stank. Dog hairs on the upholstery. Fast food wrappers stuffed anywhere they could be stuffed. Ashes on the ground.
‘It’s fine,’ I repeated to Fiona. ‘You don’t have to worry about the mess.’
She was jumpy and checking everything on the passenger side before she sat and positioned herself.
The Mondeo was grimy but working okay. Wouldn’t get too far but it would get me away. I turned a few corners, respected the traffic lights and one-ways and found the turn to get us back to the hostel. Fiona looked at me puzzled, her hair loose around her fresh face.
‘Why are we here again?’ she asked.
I took a breath and felt like such a piece of shite that I actually looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Just to see if my eyes had changed over the past few weeks.
‘You’ve to get out, Fiona,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I have to go alone. I drag everyone down. I make bad choices. I don’t want you with me for this.’
‘I’m after giving you four-fifths of the cash, don’t fuck me over now,’ she said. I was afraid she’d get girl screechy on me.
‘Fiona, I won’t ask you again, you need to get out. I’m not bringing you with me. I’ll pay you back at some stage, I swear on that.’
‘I’ll ignore this. I’ll ignore you said this. So keep driving. We go to Margy’s, we get some work. Keep going and go now.’ Her face was burning but her voice was calm.
Some backpackers stumbled around the front doors, cigarettes dangling, ready to be lit. Music blared from the nightclub up the road. I was looking at everything except her but once again I could feel her eyes boring a hole through me.
‘I’ll go with you,’ she said.
I sighed deeply. What sort of life lay ahead of us? Scrounging around the Aussie landscape. Me checking my shadow all the time.
How the fuck could I involve her in this if it got real heavy?
How the fuck could I run carrying her along with me?
She took a breath in through her nose and let it out her mouth.
I tapped the steering wheel, a frantic beat. I wanted to say sorry but it wouldn’t come. She opened the car door, kicking it wide and got out. She took her bags from the boot. I rotated my head, hearing my neck crack as I stretched it each side. She didn’t look at me again but she stopped for a second to straighten her posture. She walked towards the entrance. I watched the clouds drift in the vast Australian sky, fogging the night. I said a prayer to no one and grinded the Mondeo into gear.
YOU
You realise that this isn’t backpacking.
This isn’t finding yourself, exploring new cultures, being breathless with wonder. This is 2 Minute Noodles for breakfast and dinner. Smoking butts. Drinking the leftover goon from parties. Hoping it’s white. Red makes you hungover for a day and a half with a plundered stomach and Catholic guilt.
You’ve borrowed less than a tenner off so many backpackers here now. You know they won’t get too angsty about less than a tenner. Makes them look like scabs if they do.
It’s your fourth week not making rent, your sixth with no job. The hostel has you trapped. Too poor to stay, too poor to leave. Antonio, the owner, keeps promising you work.
‘Soon, soon, I told you. You fucking Irish. Always hassling me.’
The hostel is a seventy-bed in a small outback village. You share a dorm with three Asian girls and a Scotsman. The girls are lovely but you’ve already robbed them. You watched the drama unfold in another language. A flurry of incomprehensible sounds as they searched around for the twenty. You bought noodles, deodorant and a big Crunchie with it. You did your laundry with the change.
When Antonio has got you all jobs again, you’ll pay it back. You’ll pay it all back. When.
You’ve sixty-seven days done of your eighty-eight for a second year visa. But you’ve been stuck in this hole for over a hundred days waiting. You’ve picked fruit, broke your back pulling vegetables out of the g
round, thrown pumpkins on a conveyor belt stuck to a moving tractor, trimmed vines, swept the outside of a potato factory, cried, cried, got tougher, cried. You sometimes wonder what life was like before this. Clew Bay sunsets back home or sitting on trams in urban Australia looking out at the skyscrapers. Lazing on the white sand East Coast beaches. No dehydrated earth in sight.
★
On Saturday night, there’s some sex scandals, some scraps, some craic and you unwind. Forget about how miserable it is. But on Sunday, you’re hungover and it’s magnified. You’re going into your fifth week in the red. How did you let this happen? You can’t ask them at home for money. They’ve already sent you a loan that they had to get a loan for. They’ve no money. You were supposed to send some back to them.
You’ve lost half a stone. Your shorts are loose at the waist and baggy at the arse. Your eyes are always raw and stinging.
You go to see Antonio.
‘What is wrong with you stupid fucking backpackers? How many times do I have to say it? The citrus season is bad this year. And everyone’s still paying for the knock-on of Cyclone Yasi. I’m trying my bloody best to get you jobs but I’m not god of the harvest. I don’t know when more work will crop up.’
‘But I don’t have any money left, Antonio,’ you say and try to swallow. ‘I can’t pay rent.’
You’re terrified of being homeless here.
Homeless in Australia. A twenty-six hour thousand-dollar flight away, past the Indian Ocean, South and West Asia, the Middle East, most of Europe to Dublin and a three-and-a-half hour train across the country to the Atlantic coast, to home. You’re not a druggie or a runaway. You’ve had a decent upbringing and a decent standard of life. Of education. When the property market collapsed, you couldn’t find any more work as a letting agent. Landlords were renting places out themselves.
Australia was where everyone was going. Australia would save you.
‘I need a girl to clean the toilets and fridges. If you do them today and tomorrow, I’ll say we’re okay for that first week you owe me.’