by E. M. Reapy
‘Clothes, shoes, passport and that?’
‘Have me phone and passport on me,’ Hopper said and tapped his pocket. ‘Don’t care about any of the rest of it.’
He’d left his shite in the squat he was staying in but that wasn’t a problem because he didn’t have much in it. He could pick up bits again. He had never been crazy about fashion or good runners. Clothes were only clothes.
‘Good. Money?’
Hopper shook his head. ‘They were supposed to pay me.’
‘Yer man seems wealthy enough. You’ll be okay,’ she said and gave Hopper a twenty from her bra.
‘Are you safe?’ he asked as he pocketed the cash.
She smirked. ‘I suppose. Better go back though.’
‘Will ya do me one thing?’ Hopper asked. ‘Pull me arm.’
★
Norman indicated into a disabled spot on Gouger Street. He was driving a blue Ford Falcon and honked. Hopper hobbled over to the car. The door was opened from the inside.
‘Well, well,’ he said and Hopper smiled weakly. ‘We meet again.’
‘Yeah,’ Hopper said and introduced himself.
Norman looked younger in the daylight. Mid sixties maybe. He wore a cowboy hat as he drove. The car was cool. Norman didn’t ask any questions, he hummed along to the piano music on the radio. Hopper said little. He just tried to clean himself by spitting on the sleeve of his jersey and wiping the dried blood off. His face was too sore for him to think.
★
‘I’m going to Whyalla first,’ Norman said. ‘Will take a couple of hours. I’ve already booked into a motel. You’re welcome to stay in my room. On the couch or the ground, whatever.’
‘Okay.’ Hopper answered straight away.
‘I shouldn’t think it wise for you to hang about in Whyalla though. It’s too close to Adelaide and the bikers have another big club there.’
‘I’m going to Perth.’
Norman whistled. ‘It’s a good little city, Perth. Plenty of work.’
Hopper wasn’t going for work. He was just going.
His body had been tense and he was getting the sweats in the car. He wasn’t sure if it was from being nervous or if it was a hangover. For the four-hour drive, he kept an eye on the rearview mirror. His heart beat at his chest whenever he saw a motorbike, even if it was some shitty pink auld lady scooter.
He thought about the bushfire. He swore he hadn’t meant for that to happen. It was like the playground he lit back in Ireland but he’d been fizzed and out of his box that time as well. He got too mesmerised by it to stop it before it was too late.
But if he didn’t get out of his box, he’d be stuck in it and it’d play back the memories. The baby’s smiles. The baby’s bouncing around when Hopper changed his nappy. The baby’s warmth as he slept. He was a little hot water bottle.
Hopper shook himself. Tapped his head to try and get it back to the present moment. That sometimes worked. He needed to distract his thoughts.
‘Why you going on this road trip anyway?’ he asked Norman.
‘Can I be honest with you?’ Norman responded.
Hopper shrugged. He didn’t care if Norman was being honest or not.
‘My kids and grandkids are in Nottingham, have their own lives and I’m not essential to them. My third marriage – to a woman from Canberra – is over. She was too young. She left. I’m retired.’ He paused. ‘I just don’t have anything else to do.’
Hopper shrugged again. Good enough reason as any.
★
Norman checked into the motel and Hopper stayed in the car until he showed him where to go. The room was fancy, Hopper thought. A TV in front of the double bed. A couch by the door. A big dressing table with mirrors. A wardrobe. Kettle. Fridge. Ironing board and a bathroom with towels. Red curtains. Red bed spread. No cobwebs or insects. No crusty stuff on the linen.
Hopper had awful sweats, cold one second, overheating the next. His stomach was iffy and he stayed in the bathroom for a long time after his shower.
Norman had stripped off his pants and cowboy hat and was watching TV in his shirt and jocks. Hopper didn’t know where to look.
‘I’ll order a pizza to the room,’ Norman said. ‘What toppings do you want?’
‘Any of them,’ Hopper replied. He had never been able to eat much, his stomach had shrunk over the years.
The pizza came, Norman laid the box open. Hopper sat on the bed to pick a slice. Barbeque chicken. When Hopper was done eating, he felt tired and swollen. He lay back and drifted off into a sleep.
He woke up wet. He had sweated all over his side of the bed. Norman was snoring, facing the other wall. They were nowhere near touching. The room was lit by the lamp Hopper’s side. He switched it off and the darkness made his eyes relax. He hadn’t slept beside someone since his old girlfriend. And that was fucking ages ago. Jesus, he thought about it, he hadn’t had the ride since. It was going six months now. He had barely thought about the ride since. That must be some sort of world record.
★
The air conditioning in the room did nothing to cool Hopper down in the morning. Norman had left but his bag was still there. Hopper opened it and had a ruffle through it for cash but found none. He looked for pills but found none. What kind of old fella was he?
He sprayed some of Norman’s deodorant under his arms and down his jocks and sat on the couch wondering what to do.
Could go for a box of goon. Drink the day away.
He was sitting for a while, watching the dust dance in the sunlight, when Norman came back, full of energy and plastic bags.
‘Got some brekkie, mate. Here,’ Norman said and handed Hopper a beef pie. He shook the bags. ‘Supplies until we get to the next motel.’
We.
Norman mustn’t have thought Hopper was leaving yet. That suited him.
★
Hopper had the dark over him in the car. He felt dark about Ireland but he felt dark about Australia too. He only wanted to have a good time here but he wasn’t, not really.
The car drove on through nothing. Barely any trees. Barely any hills or anything. Only a bit of scrub plants, dust and roadkill animals.
Hopper wondered what Ger would make of this. Being in Oz but being with an English person. Ger had been his best mate. His only mate, maybe.
He met Ger in a foster home for a load of fuck up kids like them. Their foster mother was an awful soft one. She’d be giving out twenty euros if they pretended to cry and told her about their real parents and the stuff they’d be at.
Ger used to love stealing cars and Hopper’d burn them out after. They’d hang around the town late in the evening. They’d nothing else to do. Ger loved to see what speed he could get to and when the Boom started, the cars got a lot faster because they were span new.
Ger knew history, especially Irish history. He told Hopper about the British and all they done in Ireland. With land and food and language and women. But mostly, with Catholics. They’d a serious problem with the Catholics because Henry the Eighth was a horndog. He wanted to have loads of wives but the priests wouldn’t let him so he told the pope to fuck off and made his own religion. When the Irish didn’t go with it, the British got really fucking thick. The Irish knew this so they kept it up for years and years, even though some people in the church were fiddling with the kids or beating the heads off them so Hopper didn’t know if they should have stuck with them at all.
Ger told him how the Brits don’t even know much of what they done in the history of Ireland because of all they done around the world, Ireland doesn’t even get brought in to anything. It’s ‘insignificant’ to them, he’d say.
He was the first person who ever said he’d go to Australia. This was miles before the recession or any of that shite. Ger wanted to go to surf because of Home and Away. But Hopper thought he wanted to get the furthest part of the world away from home. That maybe he’d feel different being himself in another place. Kind of like why Hopper came here.
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Ger went down when he got caught after crashing a nice looking Passat. Should have burnt it. Should always burn them. No trace. Start new.
The fizz began to prickle. He rubbed his neck, massaged the lump down. ‘Don’t want this to happen,’ he said.
Norman turned to him, ‘Are you okay?’
Hopper nodded and tried to change his thoughts by tapping his head. It didn’t work. He made a fist and hit his temple harder.
Ger hung himself in Oberstown. Hopper never went to visit him until he was laid in this plain coffin in the funeral home.
Another young lad buried in wet Irish ground.
‘Why’d he do it?’ Hopper asked but he knew why.
‘What?’ Norman said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘How could someone like me stay in Ireland? Ireland’s only sad when the brainboxes leave. Ireland never gave a fuck about people like us,’ Hopper said.
Norman’s eyebrows were almost touching. ‘Us?’
‘Me and Ger.’
Norman looked on at the road. ‘Do you want me to stop so you can take a little walk or something?’
‘I only want to have a good time here,’ Hopper said. He’d goosebumps all over.
‘Do you need medical attention?’ Norman said.
‘No.’ Hopper dabbed the back of his neck where the sweat was going cold.
‘Alright mate, your call.’
Hopper stared out the window and slumped. His mouth began to water furiously and his chest heaved. ‘Shit. Shit. Pull in,’ he said to Norman. ‘Pull in.’
He vomited.
His limbs were weak and heavy.
‘You’ve had a stressful time,’ Norman said and patted Hopper’s back as he leant out the door. ‘In Ceduna, I can bring you to a hospital.’
‘No,’ Hopper said. He didn’t deserve a hospital. He didn’t have the money for it either. ‘It’ll be sound.’
Hopper washed his face with bottled water from the car. He took mouthfuls to rinse his teeth, his tongue, and spat on the sandy ground.
★
Hopper could see shadows of people in the corner of his eyes but when he turned to check, they weren’t there. The landscape was bright and stony outside. He sat back in his seat and waited for the dread to pass. Because that’s what those shadows were. His lost love, his fuck ups, his broken friends, his stupid fucking life. The dread.
★
‘We could go and do something this evening, if you’d fancy that?’ Norman asked as he unlocked the motel room door.
Hopper stayed silent.
‘The cinema? I’ll pay,’ Norman said.
‘Grand,’ Hopper said but he didn’t want to go. He just wanted to lie down. Let his body slump to the dark. Dream of the dark. Be the dark.
His parents would be laughing at him if they saw him now. They’d have told him he was worthless in Ireland, he’s still worthless in Oz.
‘I’m not them,’ Hopper said. ‘Am I them?’
‘What?’ Norman asked. ‘You don’t want to go with me?’ He was changing his shirt. Hopper noticed a stitches scar from his neck down to under his breastbone. Like he’d been slashhooked.
‘How’d you get that?’ Hopper pointed.
‘Triple bypass. Dodgy ticker.’
‘The pain,’ Hopper said.
‘It looks worse than it is.’
‘Like me.’
‘Come on, cheer up. Put on some fresh clothes and join me. You can pick the movie.’
Hopper shook his head. ‘I got no other clothes.’
‘Well wear this,’ Norman said and threw over a white t-shirt from his bag.
It hung off Hopper’s body and made him seem thinner than he was.
‘It’s a date then,’ Norman said and clapped.
Hopper rubbed his face and down his neck. He hoped that Norman was having a joke as he followed.
★
There was no cinema. There wasn’t much of anything open. It was small town Australia.
‘Fancy a walk on the beach?’ Norman asked. He was grinning.
‘Not really,’ Hopper said. It was too hot outside even though it was evening. The seagulls and waves would drive him mad. Sand would get all over his trainers. Norman might try and hold his hand.
‘A restaurant? This place is famous for oysters.’
Fuck off with your oysters.
‘An ice cream?’
Hopper wouldn’t say no to a 99.
They got cones and walked the pier. The sun was setting and the sky was glowing pink as sunburn.
‘Why is it so fucking hot?’ Hopper asked. ‘It’s nearly time for the Angelus.’
‘This is nothing, it rises to the forties for most the year. Desert climate,’ Norman said. He had white on his mouth from the ice cream. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’
Hopper stopped. ‘What’s tomorrow?’
‘We start to cross the Nullarbor.’
We again.
Norman was bringing him still. Hopper allowed himself to smile for the first time that day.
★
Norman said Hopper could sleep on the other half of the bed if he wanted to. There was enough room for the two of them to sleep on opposing sides.
‘I’ll lie down here, sound,’ Hopper said and unrolled a blanket over the couch.
Norman turned the lights out and was snoring gently within seconds. The couch was lumpy and hard. Hopper kept picturing cobwebs being made over his face. He wiped his head and ears and cheeks but he could still feel the pricks spinning their flytraps on him. The shadows were surfacing too. The dread and the dark. Hopper wiped his face again. Maybe he’d sleep in the bed for one more night. Remember to get spider repellent next time they passed a roadhouse.
He crept over to the bed but it creaked when he got in. Norman stirred. He gave Hopper’s shoulder a squeeze and turned away.
‘Night then,’ he said.
Even in the darkness, Hopper could see tingles from being touched.
★
Hopper had some shakes the next morning. In his hands. In his eyes.
‘What the fuck is happening to me?’
Norman was reading the paper. Again he’d snuck out in the morning without waking Hopper and returned with some food and fizzy drinks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m dying here. I feel panics. I’m sweating and shitting all the time. I’m boking. I can’t breathe.’
Hopper was topless and wobbled as he stood.
Norman chewed down on an apple. ‘When did you have a drink last? Or a smoke? Or any,’ he said and mimed throwing something into his mouth.
‘What?’
‘It seems to me, you’re on a comedown. Crashing. Cold turkey, mate.’
‘What?’ Hopper wiped the sweat on his forehead.
‘Moons ago, I went to the driers. You wouldn’t have even been born when I got sober.’
Hopper’s chest was tightening. Sure, how the fuck, what, he wasn’t on anything or addicted to anything. He just took whatever was going but nothing bad. Never with any consistency. And in Oz, it was mostly the goon.
Or the MDMA with the buckos.
Or the lithium he got off the Chinese lad in the Adelaide hostel or the codeine painkillers from the chemist for the hangovers.
Nothing bad at all.
He wasn’t ever addicted to anything. Not even drink. He hadn’t touched heroin or cocaine here. It was too expensive and he had promised himself he wouldn’t. He didn’t go near the ice they had in the squat even though it was new to him. Tempting to try. But the ones on the crystals were ravaged. He was being healthy as a trout in Australia.
‘Really?’ Hopper said and took a deep breath.
‘It’ll pass, mate,’ Norman said. He ate the full apple, seeds and core and all. ‘Trust me.’
Hopper’s legs were buckling so he lay on the floor. It was cooler there.
‘I don’t want to go in the car today,’ he said.
‘No worries.’
‘We can hang around here if you want, I’ll pay for another night?’
Hopper nodded and Norman left.
On the floor, Hopper thought about it. If he got through this, he’d be sober in Perth. Completely sober going about life. A new chance.
All the beatings he’d got were connected to drugging or drinking. All the summons.
Did she go off with yer man on the sly because of Hopper? Because of him getting so out of it? Her waiting in their flat at night for him to come home. Waiting the next morning and afternoon for him. Texting him and Hopper never bothered replying. Sure why would he, he knew where she was and he didn’t want to be at home when he was partying. Would kill his buzz.
When she got pregnant, he went spare.
‘Get the boat,’ he said to her.
‘No way,’ she said.
‘We can’t have a baby.’
‘I’m keeping it.’
And Hopper gave her hell for a while but the way her belly grew and the idea of a child – his child – gave him the hope. He wouldn’t make a dog’s dinner of it the way his parents had done with him. His father shuffling around looking for money and his mother always downing stuff to get away from the depression. Hopper and his half brothers and sisters being turfed between houses. Aunties, neighbours, fosters, them fucking institutions.
Hopper smartened his act up. He went on a FÁS course. He applied for a house off the council. He didn’t know she had rode someone else.
Hopper wept in the motel room. The carpet smelt of cats and he could see a stain in the shape of a puddle in its fibres.
Norman opened the door and Hopper tried to get himself together but couldn’t. Norman lifted him off the ground and lay him on the bed.
‘It’ll pass, mate. It will. That’s how life goes. It passes. The good and the bad.’ Norman nodded for a few seconds and wouldn’t stop until Hopper nodded back.
★
Norman sat on the couch and told Hopper about the collapse of his first two marriages from drinking. The TV was on mute. Sometimes Hopper had to look at the colours on screen to get the uncomfortable out of him while Norman was talking. Norman told him about pissed beds, broken bones, nights in cells, in alleyways, droop-cock, hazes, hangovers, all the hate from his kids, from his wives, from himself. His low point was trying to molest one of his interns, a graduate called Greg, at a work party. He didn’t quite remember it, just sketches – hands, skin, Greg’s pale blue eyes – but he was given the choice between his P45 or a sexual harassment suit. He cleared his desk and sought help.