by E. M. Reapy
Some of the druggies are awake in the sitting room. Holding their pounding heads. Groaning at how bright it is outside. You wonder if they saw you earlier.
Some of the alcos are awake too, washing out glasses, filling them with the cure.
It’s so much easier to keep going than to face the hangover.
You nod at the ones that acknowledge you. Give them waves goodbye.
‘Good luck,’ you say.
‘Good luck,’ they say.
You grab a burger meal in the chipper and walk to the station. You hold the bag of food, unopened, in your hand and ring Dorothy. You apologise for leaving the factory so abruptly. She says the job isn’t important, it’s you who’s important and she wanted to check with your parents before contacting the police.
It’s good to hear her voice.
‘I didn’t want to scare them, love. If the bloody media caught it, they could broadcast a ‘Missing Persons’ appeal in Ireland. I didn’t want that to be the first time your people heard of it,’ she says.
‘How did you know the Fletchers chased me again?’ you say and cringe. You wonder if they said it around the factory.
‘What?’
‘How did you know they went after me?’
‘Did they?’
‘Yeah. It was okay. I got away. That’s why I came up here. I don’t want to ever meet them again.’
‘Fiona, I didn’t know you’d left because of those yobbos,’ she says. ‘They couldn’t abduct you in broad daylight. In the middle of your work. Did you think they could?’
‘They would, Dorothy. They said they’d hurt me if they ever got me again. I couldn’t risk it.’
She’s quiet. ‘This is getting out of hand. It’s time to call the coppers.’
You stand in front of the train station entrance and people swarm by. You get scraps of their different smells, the aftershave, the coffee, the spices, shower gel. They wear shiny shoes, heavy duty boots, flip flops, trainers. You see a shoeless foot and look up to meet the eye of a homeless man with a scraggy grey beard, a straw hat and a sign saying: At Least You Looked.
You hand him the meal you bought. You can afford another one. He blesses you.
You take a breath. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s too serious. It has to be reported.’
‘No, it’s fine now. I won’t see them again.’
Dorothy sighs. ‘If you don’t do it, I will. I should have done it a long time ago.’
‘What? But it’s done. It’s all over now.’
‘No, it’s not. These mongrels need to be brought to justice. They do what they did and then have the audacity to intimidate you? Force you to leave your job and life? These men think they can do whatever they bloody please.’
Your skin is constricting. ‘Look, I’ve done enough damage.’
‘You haven’t done anything, Fiona.’
‘Christ. It’s like you want me to be humiliated forever. Like you enjoy me dragging around this awful baggage – this guilt.’
‘I can’t know these things and not say them anymore. I’m not having it on my conscience. What if there’s other girls? What if they come after you again? The police need a record of this.’
‘You said it wasn’t your call to make? Fucking hell.’
‘They’ll help. And you could get some closure too.’
‘Dorothy, I don’t need help,’ you sigh, the thunder mood engulfs you again. ‘I don’t need closure. Do you think you’re Mother Teresa or something? Can you not mind your own business?’
‘I’m not saying this to meddle or insult you but this is bigger than you.’
‘I’ve a flight to catch,’ you say and in an icy way add, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my fucking life.’
You thumb the end call button with so much pressure it sticks in and switches the phone off. You’re furious. You swallow past the lump in your throat a few times and raise your head. You’ll meet Tommo. You’ll have the craic. You’ll be fine. You’re fine. Ignore this. Ignore them. Get over it. You’re fucking fine, why can’t everyone see that?
★
Tommo meets you in Arrivals. He gives you such a big hug you think he’ll squish you. His back is damp from sweat. Yours is too. You smile at him and vow to yourself to keep smiling for this whole trip. He takes your bag and leads you out to the car park to his campervan. It’s painted green and blue and has ‘Living the Dream’ written across it in bubble font.
‘Are you starved, are you?’ he asks. ‘I brought a lunchbox of the casserole me cousin made for us earlier if you’re starving. If you’re not, that’s okay. I’ll eat it.’
He rubs his pudgy stomach. ‘I’ll never be full.’
He opens the van and lays your bag on the couch in the back. The campervan is hot, the A/C is on the blink so you drive with the windows down. The wind is dry.
You eat the casserole and Tommo sings along croakily to Gotye on the radio as he drives.
‘It sounds like Baa Baa Black Sheep,’ you say.
‘Ah, Fiona, it’s the catchiest tune I’ve ever heard. This Gotye, he’s got the emotions in him. And Kimbra is a fine thing.’
You admire the views, the craggy beauty of the MacDonnell Ranges as they stretch east and west from the city. The brownish green spinifex in the ground is dry and brittle looking but desert sharp and tough.
When you get to the hostel, you go for a nap. You bury the thoughts of your parents and Dorothy. You’ll start again over here. It’s going well. Tommo is fun. You’ll be fine.
★
Tommo gives you some options of things to do for the evening.
‘Casino? Clubbing? Could go for a walk around if you want? Because they’re awful strict on boozing here. They don’t want the people more gee-eyed. Clubbing might be shite,’ he says and you smirk at the Dublin way he says ‘shy’ instead of shite.
‘What’s that about?’
‘The strictness? They got a drink problem here.’
‘Oh,’ you say.
‘I have my theories on it,’ he says.
You laugh. ‘You do? Go on, I haven’t heard one of those in a while. Enlighten me.’
Tommo clears his throat. ‘Well, you see, if current biochemistry thought is right about this, the Aboriginal people haven’t the same tolerance levels for grog as Europeans, or at least for the alcohol they brought over here. We’ve been pissheads for thousands of years, but they got drink forced on them when the whites arrived.’
You nod.
‘Cook and the Brits landed in 1770. Less than two hundred and fifty years ago. Fecking Guinness is older than that. But, just take a person, right, who is afraid or stressed out, their hormones react and change their physiological state for that moment. But say, for instance, that person gets a shitload of frights, or feels under a lot of pressure constantly, can structural changes occur in their DNA? And in the DNA of their sex cells? Thus making memories a sort of genetic code? And if so, are the Aboriginal people still incredibly shook from within, in their chemical make-up, from the upheaval of their continent in very recent times in their ancestry?’
Tommo isn’t looking at you now. His eyes are glassy and he draws imaginary semi-circles in the air while making his points.
He continues, ‘Like, when you’re upset and go drinking, it’s real easy to go aggressive. To turn gurrier. Did you ever go drinking when you were feeling crap?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Did it make you feel better?’
‘Not really,’ you say quietly. It never did. It deadened some emotion for a while but once sobriety was gone, the emotion you tried to suppress would come back stronger and consume you. You wouldn’t have the inhibitions to stop it anymore. You’d be inconsolable or livid or both. All those times you made a fool of yourself when you were wasted.
Tommo shrugs. ‘I know I’m simplifying but that’s the way I see it. Then throw the socio-economic and disenfranchisement factors to the mix. All the hidden
history. God, it scares me. What I see with these people. With this society. How do you resolve this? How do they resolve this?’
‘Don’t know, Tommo.’
‘If there was less denial of the existence of a problem, would the problem remain as potent?’
‘Don’t really know, Tommo,’ you say and think about the question.
Tommo smacks his forehead with his palm and blinks hard. ‘Ah sorry, Fiona. You should have pulled me in off me rant.’ He clicks his fingers above his head. ‘I know. We could get stoned on the roof of the hostel. You can see the stars out here in the Red Centre. You can nearly touch them.’
‘I don’t want to smoke but I’ll join you.’
‘I promise I won’t be intense,’ he says and laughs. ‘Or at least I’ll try not to be.’
His question about denial replays over and over in your mind.
★
You sit on the roof and Tommo gets a cigarette paper out and pours some tobacco into the middle of it, spreads it evenly across the paper. He takes some weed from a tinfoiled wrap and sprinkles it onto the tobacco in his rollie. He gathers the cigarette paper from its corner and massages it the way across, making it smooth as he licks the edge of the paper and fastens it in shape.
He lights it up and takes a deep inhale.
‘When are we heading to Darwin?’ you ask.
‘Ah, I’d reckon the day after tomorrow,’ Tommo replies and blows smoke out. He picks tobacco off his tongue. ‘Susan and Ollie want to go to some park tomorrow for the day. And I know they’ve booked a fancy steakhouse meal for two before they, quote, slum it, unquote, in the campervan with us.’
‘I’d love to see Uluru,’ you say.
‘The Rock? Why? You’ve seen it. Everywhere. It’ll be like New York, no experience because you’ve already had it second hand.’
‘That’s some twisted logic, Tommo,’ you say.
‘No, it’s just the age old problem of perception.’ He peels a little edge of his plaster and chews at it. He looks at you and says, ‘Oh, alright. Since you’ve come all the way across the country to hang out. You know it’s at least a five-hour drive?’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll hotwire the van so in the morning,’ he says and takes a deep drag. The taste of weed tints the balmy air around you.
★
You hit the road and fill each other in on life since Tommo’s ‘self-amputation protest’. He’d done the East Coast in a whirlwind of booze and romantic rebuffs. He speaks about it merrily.
‘Fiona, you see, rejection’s part of the bigger picture,’ he says and ponders as he drives. ‘I wouldn’t appreciate the ones that say yes to me if all the girls said yes to me. I wouldn’t have to improve my personality. Better myself.’
‘You think people better themselves to get some?’
‘The more interesting you are as a human, even if you got love handles,’ he says and pinches his stomach, ‘you’re attractive. The more self-development you do, the more self-awareness you have and that makes you more comfortable with yourself, which is attractive. Attractive equals action,’ he says and in an English accent adds, ‘Get in.’
You smile at Tommo and look out the window. The sky is electric blue, the sun a dazzling yellow and the clouds are so fluffy and white that it all looks like a child’s drawing.
Uluru is huge, glowing orange-red. It’s the only thing out here in the desert, it doesn’t make any sense after the flatness.
‘Is it a bit like a burning Ben Bulben?’ you ask Tommo.
‘Wha’?’
‘You know, the mountain in Sligo, near Yeats’ grave? Doesn’t Uluru look a bit like it?’
‘Such a culchie, Fiona. Next thing you’ll tell me the red dirt looks like the bog.’
You giggle. ‘But it kinda does, Tommo. Different colour but the same bareness or something. Same loneliness.’
Tommo smiles but shakes his head and parks the van.
As soon as you get out of it, a charged feeling surrounds you.
The rock is weather-beaten up close. It has pitted holes and grooves, ribs and dips but its beauty is in that. The imperfection. The erosion. The strength of it.
You are grateful for everything that had happened to bring you to this exact moment.
You stay in silence until Tommo breaks in, ‘Should we climb it?’ He swats the flies away from his face.
You walk closer. You read part of one of the signs out: ‘What visitors call ‘the climb’ is the traditional route taken by ancestral Mala men upon their arrival in Uluru in the creation time. It has great spiritual significance…’
Tommo rubs his hand through his hair and looks around him. ‘No, forget I said it. Don’t know about you, Fiona, you can do what you want, I’m not the boss of you, but I’m choosing not to touch that big red. I’m not getting any funky juju from old native spirits. I’m bad enough as it is.’
You shake your head. ‘No way.’
Somewhere in the distance comes the rhythmic banging of clapsticks.
★
Back in Alice, you’ve a deep and dark sleep again, you are kneeling on a bridge. The water below is yellow. Sharks circle. Malley is on the bank and he calls you. On the other side of the bridge is a dense fog that looks and sounds like television static. You get up from kneeling. You go back to him. The devil you know.
You wake in a sweat, your body searing with fear that you were tempted to go back, that you’d betray yourself so bad. Even in a dream. You lay motionless until it’s time to get breakfast. You think about ringing your parents, have the number dialled, ready to press call but you don’t. You think about Dorothy, replay what you said, flinch at your hostility to her. You turn your phone off and go eat the free cereal and toast provided by the hostel.
You help load the campervan. Susan and Ollie bring sixty litres of water, three maps and a bottle of Bundy for the trip.
You start the trek north.
The road is straight and there’s not much to look at out the window except the same view, continuously, a landscape isolated and burnt in the white sunshine. The repetitiveness gets interrupted by the odd passing freight lorry. If you see another campervan, Ollie beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeps at them and you give them a thumbs up.
Tommo points at his plastered finger. ‘In case they’d heard.’
Susan and Ollie are pleasant but they exist mostly in their own little world, sharing mundane thoughts with each other that only people comfortable in a couple would share, leaving you and Tommo to arse around. You draw a portrait of him.
‘Whoa,’ he says when you show it to him. ‘This is bleeding deadly, Fiona. You could go live in Paris and sketch people. Jaysus.’
You tut and smile. ‘Stop your shiteing, will ya?’
You pass the Devils Marbles and pull in to take pictures of them but it’s nearly forty degrees outside so you dash back into the van. Even with sunblock on, you can feel the sun burning your skin. Tommo compares his tan by putting his freckled arm against yours.
‘Fiona, how’d you go so fecking dark? You are Irish, yeah?’
You think of the sunshine when you hobbled alongside the river. ‘Don’t know. Sallow skin, maybe.’
You get to a small town and park the campervan for the night. You’ve six hours down of the estimated fifteen it’s going to take to drive to Darwin.
Susan and Ollie suggest a pint across the road at a canopied, wooden bar called Will Lalors. It’s decorated with indigenous paintings on the outside.
‘No fucking apostrophe. Again,’ Tommo says and puts his hands on his hips. ‘How do they expect ownership to be denoted?’
‘Maybe there’s a few people called Will Lalor inside?’
‘No there isn’t. All over this country, apostrophes forgotten, or never known.’
Tommo walks in ahead of you. In a loud, enthusiastic way, he says, ‘First round’s on me.’
The bar goes quiet. Everyone stares. It’s like in a movie, tumbleweed going behind, small to
wn people menacing towards the foreigners. You bite on the skin around your thumb nail. You look at the others who have the same god-help-us faces on.
The people in the bar start laughing.
Nervously, you join in.
‘Pay no mind to these jokers. They do this to our new guests. How ya goin’?’ the barman says. ‘Four schooners of beer?’
Tommo raises his arms and says ‘You know it, mate,’ and the chat resumes in the bar.
You’ve a few rounds but you can’t enjoy them. You think a couple of the locals look or speak a little bit like the Fletchers. Tension makes your body rigid and your thoughts go paranoid.
Any time the locals come over to ask questions about your travels or Ireland, you stay silent.
One guy in particular, wearing knee length grey shorts and a checked black and white shirt keeps trying to make eye contact with you while he talks to the group. You suck on the beer and try to control the shake in your hand. He looks like a leathered version of Hugh Jackman.
‘Dublin, eh?’ he says to the others. ‘Beautiful city, I hear. Great atmosphere. Loved Ulysses, James Joyce was a bloody legend.’
This gets Tommo going, ‘You’re a man after me own heart. Sirens is one of the most perfect pieces of literature imaginable.’
Sometimes you forget how well read Tommo is.
He begins discussing Joyce and his genius and you feel the Aussie stealing looks at you.
It makes your body heat up. All the way to your face, to your scalp, the red creeps.
Susan notices you squirm. ‘Are you okay, Fiona?’
You take a breath to steady yourself. ‘Yep. Yep. Grand. Fine.’ You drink quicker.
The man turns to face you and says, ‘So are you from Dublin too?’ and you watch his tongue lick the corners of his mouth in quick flickers.
‘No,’ you say. Your voice sounds distant. ‘No, I’m from the countryside. You wouldn’t know it.’ Your heart races.
Stop, Fiona, he’s just being nice.
You can see where his nose hair meets his beard, you can see a tiny pimple growing on the side of his temple, you can see some crust deep in the corners of his eyes. His brown eyes, his full lips, his neat haircut, his square shoulders, his broad chest.
‘I might know it,’ he says and smiles big. ‘Try me.’