by E. M. Reapy
‘Madam, are those people looking for you?’
‘Don’t talk to me. Read your paper. Don’t attract attention.’
You peek out again. Rusty Fletcher shuts his passenger door and walks towards the paint shop. You go behind the counter, bending low beside the stool where the man sits.
‘Just act like normal. Don’t tell on me, please.’
The bell chimes. Footsteps.
‘G’day,’ Rusty says. ‘You see a Sheila? Irish. Blondey. Small. She here?’
The man coughs. ‘Excuse me?’ he asks. He plays up his accent.
‘You. See. A. Woman?’ Rusty asks pronouncing each word loud and slowly.
‘You would like some paint for a woman? Woman paint? Pink is good colour. Peach?’
‘No, you curry muncher, I’m looking for a woman. Did you see her?’
You hold your breath. The pressure of crouching causes your legs to judder.
‘Do you wish to buy some paint, sir?’ the man says in a snotty voice.
‘No,’ Rusty says.
‘I cannot help you, sir.’
Rusty mumbles some racist slurs as he turns around. He punches a tin of paint on the way out, you hear the thump before it clanks off the floor. You’re about to stand when the bell chimes again. He’s back. You duck quickly.
Rusty shouts, ‘Another thing, you’re fucking shit at cricket.’
The door closes.
After a minute, the man speaks.
‘You are safe now.’
‘You sure?’
‘He has gone into a building across the road. The car is outside it.’
You get up slowly and stretch.
‘Will I call the police?’ he asks.
You never, ever, want anyone to know about you going to the Fletchers’ house.
‘No. No. It’ll be grand.’
If you get out of town, you won’t see them again. Go much further away this time. Sydney.
‘I can’t leave the shop until 4.30 p.m. or I risk getting fired. If you want to sit in the kitchen through those doors, you can have a glass of water or tea. There is also a newspaper. I will drive you to your backpackers. That was a bad man, madam. I could sense his deeds. I will aid you.’
You look across the road and thank him.
In the kitchen, the shop assistant tells you his name is Arav. He boils the kettle.
‘You work in the garlic plant?’ he asks and looks at your pinafore and clocking in card.
‘I did.’
He takes two cups down and pours tea leaves into them. The water sighs as it fills the cups. Steam rises.
‘I’m sorry, Arav,’ you say as he hands you a cup. He raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting you. I was just really scared.’
You take a sip. It burns your lips and tongue.
He shakes his head. ‘There is no need for an apology. Have those men maltreated you?’
‘I was really stupid.’
He says nothing but slurps his tea. His fingers interlock around his mug. ‘Are you still scared?’
You nod slowly.
Arav takes another drink of his tea. His lengthy eyelashes cause little shadows on his cheeks. He looks out the window. ‘I find there are places one can never forget but there are also places one will never remember. This one is the latter. I assure you.’
★
Arav locks the shop and twists a key to bring down the shutters. He gives you a lift in a small red car that had a strawberry scented air freshener hanging from the mirror. Some girls come in and out through the front gate of the hostel. You thank him and check around the streets before running inside.
When you get to the dorm room you climb onto your bed and lay for a minute or two, trying to get your mind clear.
You pack. The eighteen-hour bus to Sydney leaves at 7.30 p.m.
★
You have everything ready and Louise hugs you. She’s still in her uniform and smells of garlic.
‘Fiona, my cousin Emma’s in Sydney. Take her number. She’ll put you up when you get there. It might be a couch or a blow-up bed but it’ll help until you get a job. You’ll have to chip in fifty dollars a week. It’s a wee bit of a commune but it’s somewhere.’
‘Cheers,’ you say and fold the paper with her number into your pocket.
‘Do you really have to go?’ Louise asks. ‘I don’t understand. What happened back in the factory?’
‘I—,’ you say and stop. You don’t want to tell her. You don’t want her to think less of you. ‘It’s nothing really. But I do have to go. One of those things.’
She nods and accepts what you’ve said without pressing you. You look at her and know she’s the kind of person you’d like to be.
‘Here.’ She unclasps the chain from around her neck. She takes off the pendant that’s on it and puts it into your palm. ‘St. Christopher. He looks after us people travelling. He’ll mind you.’
It’s warm in your hand from being on her skin. ‘But what about you? I can’t take this.’
‘Whisht. Me mammy sent me over with two of these, a bottle of blessed water from Lourdes and rosary beads that I keep in my rucksack. She lights a candle every other day too for me and me brother Caoimhín in Toronto. I’m grand for the spiritual protection.’
You close your fingers over the holy medal.
★
You get a taxi to the bus station and scan around after paying at the ticket desk. The Fletchers aren’t there. You stand at the coach stop and wait, hopping up and down, willing the driver to open the door and let you board.
You look around again. Come on. Come on.
Come on.
The bus driver lights a cigarette. You roll your eyes and check your watch. Try to relax but can’t. You check your watch and the door again.
‘Can we just get on, please?’ you ask the driver.
He doesn’t reply. He keeps smoking.
A ute pulls into the station. You put on your sunglasses. Someone gets out of it. You hold your breath.
A woman.
You exhale. She walks to the timetable. The ute drives away. The bus driver is nearly finished his smoke and he nods at you.
He lets you on and you get a seat near the back. You take your sunglasses off and check your watch. 7.20 p.m. Ten minutes. You wish he’d just drive. Some other passengers load on. An elderly lady asks the driver questions which he doesn’t know the answer to.
‘I’ll go inside and check for you,’ he said and ups from his seat.
No. Come back. Drive on. Fucking drive.
You give the woman the dirtiest look you can.
A car that looks like Fletchers’ pulls into the station. It drives around slowly. Parks. No movement from it. You put your cardigan over your head, trying to make it look like a headscarf. 7.26 p.m.
The bus driver gets back on and gives the woman some information. She asks more questions. He answers. You put your head low. The woman makes her way to the seat across from you.
A man you can’t see comes to the door and shouts at the bus driver. His voice sends a bolt of cold down your spine. ‘Where’s this bus going?’
‘Sydney,’ the bus driver says. ‘You boarding?’
‘Nah, mate. Fuck would I go there for?’
The bus driver says, ‘Well move away from the doors. We’re departing.’
‘Can I take a look on the bus?’
‘Nah, mate. Next bus to Sydney is at 9 a.m. Move.’
The doors whoosh and the man jumps back. They shut and the driver revs the engine. As the bus exits the station you look back as the man stands, arms folded. You meet his eyes. His head jerks and he spits to the side. He’s some random person, not Jett or Rusty. Your chest expands and you let a big sigh out.
The woman who asked all the questions rustles in a paper bag for nuts. She takes one out, sucks on it, makes a choking noise for a couple of seconds and spits the nut back into the paper bag. She repeats the process.
Sometimes she fills the
cup on the top of her thermos with hot water. She scoops out a spoon of vegemite and mixes it into the liquid. She groans after each mouthful.
When you’re on the road for a few hours, you relax. They aren’t following. They can’t be. You’re free of them. You send a message to Louise’s cousin, Emma, who writes back three hours later saying the address of the apartment and:
‘NO WORRIES MATE, JUST BACK FROM CLUB, WILL STICK SOME BOTTLES N THE FRIDGE 4 U 4 TOMORROW!!’
It makes you laugh a little and the old woman peers over your shoulder to see the text. You smile at her and she offers you a nut from her paper bag. You decline, sit back into your seat and try to sleep.
★
You flew into Sydney when you left Ireland so it isn’t a big deal to work out. The apartment is near Bondi and you’re conscious of how glamorous and fit people are in the city. You wear your sunglasses to hide from them more than the midday sun, which is blocked by the tall buildings.
Emma greets you. She’s a trim, black-haired Nordie. She wears a pastel pink shirt tucked into short brown shorts. Her Rayban sunglasses sit on her head, holding her hair off her face. She gives you a hug and carries one of your bags. She leads you up a side street to a block of apartments.
‘You must be shattered?’
You nod.
‘How was the trip? I don’t know how ye girls do that outback work. Horrendous, I hear.’
You say, ‘Some of it’s okay.’
‘I paid a farmer off for mine. Six hundred bucks to say I worked with him. But it didn’t even matter ’cause I’m on a 457 now.’
You know that’s a sponsored visa but before you can ask, she waves her key over a sensor and the double doors unlock. A pile of ‘Special Offer’ junk mail litters the lobby floor and the car park door is open at the back of the building, you hear an engine and get an oily smell.
The lift is broken so you climb the twelve flights of stairs. With each floor, the place seems to get dirtier. Finally, you get to their flat and you’re panting. House music blares from inside.
‘It’s a dive in here, sorry,’ Emma says and puts the key in the lock.
The music is deafening as she opens it. Some people are dancing, others are by a table doing lines. Two couples are heavy petting. One set of them are down to their underwear and writhing on a couch in the corner. You try not to stare.
‘Still going from last night?’ you ask.
‘Still going from last month,’ she says.
She takes your hand and leads you past. Nobody seems to react to your being there except one lad with fair hair in a tight haircut wearing a plain grey t-shirt and board shorts. He fills his cheeks with air and blows out slowly, his cheeks deflating. You notice his jaw tighten, it causes a vein to throb on his forehead. You’ve seen that gesture on a man’s face before, it used to be a warning sign with Malley, that he was about to lose it. You get goosebumps and rub your arms.
Emma brings you into a room that has two single beds and a green lilo. ‘You can put your stuff, well, anywhere you can find some space. The lilo is yours but if me or the girls aren’t in bed, you’re welcome to kip there.’
‘The girls?’
‘Yeah, Triona, Julie, Yasmin and me are in here. Yasmin’s name is on the lease. She’s a Scouser and the one you’ll have to pay rent to. We couldn’t get a lease being Irish. Do you know how much this place costs a week?’ she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Nine hundred and fifty, not including bills.’
‘Steep.’
‘No,’ she says, ‘Sydney.’
★
The lad who seems pissed off is on the balcony. He smokes quickly. The party is still strong and some of your new housemates are gone to get more booze.
You go out to him. He seems outcasted. Maybe you could be friends.
He turns his head a bit to see who you are. He inhales and exhales the smoke, racing to burn his cigarette down.
‘Like a fucking asylum in there,’ he says. He leans against the balcony rails after he quenches his fag. He reminds you of the country boys, in for Saturday nights in town, wearing their shirts and belted Wranglers. Knocking back pints of porter. Charming and fun lads until they hit and ploughed past their limits. They became generous or dangerous, either buying rounds of drink, or hounding girls for the shift and luring hot heads for a fight.
You see where the pink sunburn of his arm meets the whiteness of his skin under his sleeve.
You say, ‘I’m Fiona.’
He stares straight ahead, at the city. He suddenly turns and puts his hand out. ‘Patrick,’ he pauses, ‘McDevitt. You probably know me. Or my brothers. They’d a huge construction firm. Eighteenth biggest in Ireland.’
‘I don’t think I do,’ you say.
He lights another cigarette. ‘You do. McDevitt Brothers. Redeveloped most of the countryside. They were big news for a while. Big news.’
You scramble your brain but there were too many names of construction companies in the Boom. You watch Patrick smoke and have no idea what he’s thinking about as he looks out over the balcony, but you get an overwhelming sense of loneliness from him. You don’t know how to make small talk with him though and creep back inside before it gets any more uncomfortable.
★
In an internet café around the corner, you get directions for the city libraries. You can’t resist typing their name in the search bar: McDevitts. They were developers from the south-west who went bust owing 345 million euro. The brothers were a lot older than Patrick, maybe ten years or more.
You email your parents, tell them you’ve moved to Sydney and found an apartment with other Irish people. You think that’s a consoling thing to say. They don’t need to know the state of the place.
That evening Emma invites you to go for drinks in her friend’s new apartment for a housewarming.
‘Will it be like this?’ you ask as pleasantly as you can, throbbing dance music soundtracks your conversation. You try to think of a good excuse to get out of it if she says yes.
‘Oh no, this gang are doing really well. Come. Dress nice though.’
★
You change into Dorothy’s purple dress and Emma wears a black playsuit. You tiptoe over the mess and leave the apartment.
Emma chats about the gang who the girl throwing the party belongs to, giving you gossip on them which means little to you. She’s enjoying it though.
‘So she slept with him, he said he was leaving and that was that. But the company offered him a raise so he’s staying,’ she says. She giggles. ‘And now she’s looking at him every day. Morto.’
You step into a bottle shop to buy some drink.
‘How do you know her?’ you ask while you get cider out of the cold room.
‘I work with her in the Financial District.’
You nearly drop a bottle. ‘You – you work in the Financial District?’
‘Yep. I’m an advisor for a big project.’
You are stunned and wonder if many of the important looking people in the city are living in a hellish eternal house party too.
★
Her friend’s apartment has a bay window where Sydney harbour lights up like a bunch of diamonds. You spend a few minutes watching it twinkle after the awkward introductions are made.
The night is close even though they have A/C running. Things are different to Emma’s place. From the scent of cologne to the designer clothes and new leather furniture, the place smells of money.
A tiny mountain of white powder is on a set of food scales.
‘Three grand’s worth,’ a guy in red chinos informs you.
‘Amazoid party,’ another guy says. He’s bulky with muscles. They lump out of his neck, arms, chest, stomach.
People schmooze each other and you know you’re underdressed, ugly. Emma passes you a glass of punch. It’s blue and has bits of fruit bobbing in it.
‘Celtic Tiger’s no way dead, man,’ the red chinos guy says. ‘It’s just on fucking holidays Down Un
der, like. My bank account can totally prove it.’
They hear-hear. You nearly gag.
You think about the misery at home with the redundancies. The evictions. The suicides. Ones in the signing on queue wearing hats and sunglasses.
All the parked-up cars. All the unlived-in property. All the full exile planes.
And someone at the party shouts, ‘To Bertie!’
You take a big gulp of a drink and it stings your throat. It tastes of straight vodka.
‘A toast to the immigrants,’ the bulked up lad says.
‘Keep her fucking lit.’
And you have to raise your glass with everyone else.
★
‘Fiona, I like you, you’re different,’ the red chinos guy says and sniffs. Wipes his nose constantly. ‘Come do a line?’
‘Nah, I’m okay, thanks.’ In one way, you’re glad for company, in another, you wish he’d fuck off.
He looks at you but he isn’t seeing you. ‘It’s free.’
His eyebrow is raised. He has a smug grin.
‘I’m not interested in it. Or you,’ you say in a tone more severe than you mean it to be.
He pulls his t-shirt off with one hand, ruffling his hair and unveiling a sculpted chest. ‘You’re missing out on this and this—’ He pulls his wallet out of his pants and opens it, showing you a roll of notes.
‘I’ll live,’ you say. Again, that tone.
He sighs and leaves, re-joining the big group. They cheer when he dances for them, a male stripper routine. You sit alone and force down more punch. It’s getting easier to drink the more you have.
★
Patrick’s chain-smoking on the balcony when you get back. You told Emma the travel and job hunting had you wrecked so you were going to get an early night. You were afraid you’d be rude to more of her friends. You knew you would be. Especially if you kept drinking.
‘You paying fifty for this place as well?’ Patrick asks.
‘Yeah.’
The city is mesmerizing against the night.
‘You know they make us line up for work in the morning and pick us,’ he says and is silent for a moment. The vein in his temple protrudes. ‘What fucking year is this? The year of No Blacks No Dogs No Irish? I left school after the Junior Cert. I been working ever since. Until – feel my hands.’ He puts his hands in front of you. ‘Soft. My hands are soft.’