by J M Donellan
Even in his sleep, Jack looks tense and anxious. Perhaps, she wonders, that sinister voice is talking to him even when he’s not awake. She touches his bare shoulder, enjoying the warmth that greets her fingers. She casts her eyes over his landscape of bruises, tiny brown and purple islands dotting the map of his chest. It’s strange, she thinks, how his condition manifests so physically, whereas hers is solely within her head.
She rests her head on the pillow, the possibility of sleep sailing sluggishly into her mind. Just before she closes her eyes, she notices something sticking out from under his pillow. She reaches her hand forward slowly, watching his closed eyes flicker behind his eyelids until her fingers meet smooth, soft plastic. She delicately slides the plastic package free and squints to examine it in the half-light. What the fuck?
She clutches it and moves swiftly out of bed, considers examining it in Jack’s en-suite, but fears that even the quiet click of a light switch and the trace of light from underneath the door might wake him from his uneasy slumber. She finds a crumpled T-shirt on the floor and throws it over herself before exiting the room and closing the door as quietly as she can.
Freya hides the object behind her back and makes a dash for the bathroom, the cold marble floor of the dining room chilling her feet as she walks. She sees a shadow step out in front of her and freezes, her body lighting up with adrenaline. She stands motionless as she waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
Neither of them speak. The silhouette stands dark against the slivers of moonlight trickling in through the windows.
“¿Estas bien, chiquita bonita?”
“Maria, you scared the Mary, Jesus, and Joseph outta me! What’re you doing still up?” She steps closer, slapping Maria playfully on the shoulder. Even in the darkness there is a discernible sadness over Maria’s face.
“No se, mi corazón. I feel so tired, but I can’t sleep. I keep having awful nightmares. Like I’m choking, like the life is slipping from my lungs.”
The two stand awkwardly until Freya embraces her in a hug, careful to avoid letting the object in her fingers touch Maria’s skin.
Maria’s arms wrap tightly around her with a fierce and tenacious affection. “Gracias, my dear, you are very kind. Is so nice to have a kind person here, not so crazy like the rest, eh?” She pulls back and wipes at tears welling in her eyes and sniffs loudly. “I’m sorry to scare you, you go back to sleep. I go to my room, listen to music, maybe write letter to my sister. I’ll be okay. Buenas noches.”
“Good night, Maria.”
Maria shuffles back to her room, sniffing.
Freya continues towards the bathroom, flicks on the light and examines the object in her hands. “Fuck me…” Her whisper sounds stentorian in the late night quiet. She switches the light off before she can glimpse her reflection in the mirror and heads back down the hall towards Jack’s room. It’s not until she is about to pass the Danger Room that it occurs to her that returning to his bed might be a mistake.
What kind of fucking creep keeps something like that beneath their pillow? Not the kind of fetish one would list on Match.com. Freya leans against the wall, listening to the sound of nothing.
Everything is still.
Then she picks up what seems like low, quiet whistling. It is not a sound that belongs here. The sound is the first problem. The second is what she sees. After nearly two decades of coloured clouds, Freya has organised and catalogued every possible combination of chords, discords, harmonies, melodies, and rhythms into the various visions they produce. This one is something new.
With each whistle, a thick black storm cloud appears, dense and dark, almost overwhelming. They move like oil through water, filling her vision. Her hands flail at the clouds, a futile action, she knows, yet she can’t resist. The darkness swallows her, the remaining light banished to the outermost periphery of her vision.
Freya knows the feeling of suffocation is psychosomatic. She can even provide a verbatim medical definition of this word and detail several case studies on the nature of this condition. But none of that does anything to lessen the feeling she is slowly going blind and choking. Rasping for air, her throat starts to itch and sting.
The melody is light and playful, but she hates it. Every cell in her body screams as each note trills. She slams her hands over her ears and stumbles away from the door of the Danger Room.
As the black clouds begin to fade Freya hurries past Jack’s door, along the hall and up the stairs. Once she’s inside her bedroom, she closes the door behind her and locks it, checks it is locked, then unlocks it, looks outside, closes it and locks it again. She dives beneath the covers as if she were a toddler escaping the boogieman.
She heaves great, heavy breaths, taking comfort from the familiar, natural darkness in front of her, so completely different from the vile blackness of mere moments ago. It’s quiet now. She hears only her own laboured breathing.
Freya emerges from beneath the warm embrace of the covers and looks out the window at the night sky. It would be so easy to throw her things in a bag, climb out the window, and get in her car. To drive away and never look back.
But now, more than ever, she needs to know what’s in that room.
***
Excerpt from The Sins of Adonis
Sean and I thought it was hilarious when we started literally collecting notches in our belts. Sometimes, I’d be in the middle of thrusting into some airheaded bint and all I’d be thinking about is making that next little mark on the leather.
And now that I’ve got this shiny new game, the only tragedy is there’s no one I can share it with. Telling Sean about sexual conquests is one thing, but I’d hardly entrust him with any knowledge that could see me ending up inside a prison cell. There’s Mum and Dad, of course, but I doubt they’d have the good spirit to appreciate my endeavours. It’s all about business with them. And that only leaves my brother, but he’d never understand either. We’re worlds apart, and sometimes I’m appalled that we even escaped the same womb. He’s basically the human equivalent of a Phil Collins B-side.
Still, I have my trophies. I suppose that’s something.
Section IV
Treatment
***
“Lies, intentional and unintentional,
are much seldomer told in answer to precise
than to leading questions.”
Florence Nightingale,
Notes on Nursing: What it Is and What it Is Not
21
The Goddamn Whales
***
Jack dreams of his brother. Lately the dreams have been darker, denser, more vivid. He wakes up feeling ill and disoriented, as though he’s downed a bottle of tequila and then crash-landed a space shuttle in the Pacific Ocean. He turns to the empty space of his bed and it is not until his head clears that he remembers. His sheets still smell like her.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his aching head, then climbs out of bed, knocking the pillows to the floor. He yawns, stretches, and is about to reach for the nearest shirt on his floor that doesn’t smell like a homeless shelter when he notices there is nothing on the sheet where his pillows had been. Nothing.
“Shit. Shit. Fuck!” He pulls on a pair of jeans and an old Pogues T-shirt and darts along the corridor to the living room, where he finds Maria humming along to a Billie Holiday recording and sitting on the sofa, snacking on cheese and biscuits.
“¡Buenos tardes, Mr Jack!”
“Hi, Maria. Isn’t tardes…isn’t that for afternoon?”
“Si. It is nearly one.”
“Ah, Christ. How did I sleep for that long?”
“Something keeping you up late? Or somebody?” Maria says, her eyes locked on the plate in front of her. Her muscles twitch with the effort of restraining a grin.
“Ah, I don’t know. Listen, have you seen Freya?”
“Si, you just mis
sed her. She leave about ten minutes ago.”
“Right. Okay, that’s, ah…Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but she was in a hurry. Jack, I must say thank you again to you and your wonderful family for my birthday present!”
“Your what?”
Maria holds a bottle of Bollinger, complete with oversized decorative ribbon, proudly aloft.
“Oh, right. I can’t take credit for that, I’m afraid. I didn’t know anything about it. I forgot it was your birthday. I’ll pick you up something later, though. Promise. And ah, complay…complayann…”
“Feliz cumpleaños?”
“Yes. That one. Happy birthday.”
“Gracias. I was going to save it for my birthday dinner tonight, but I’m feeling a little sneaky so I’m having a glass with my lunch.” She treats him to a cheeky wink as she opens the bottle.
“Yeah, I’m sure you deserve it.”
He runs to the front door and flings it open. He grunts as the sun assaults his eyes, and squints through the glare. Freya is out there somewhere, with that little packet of secret trophies, somewhere among that ocean of lost, disconnected souls. He could try and find her, he thinks, but recalls he doesn’t know her number. And there are so many other things out there: shopping centres with crying children, overturned rubbish bins spewing germ-ridden debris down rusty drains, parks with dogs and snakes and spiders, lonely people with narrow, hateful eyes and sad and futile faces, car accidents, traffic lights, viruses, sirens, violence, crowds.
He slams the door and bends forward, taking a series of deep breaths to steady himself. No, it’s best to wait. She’ll come back. She has to. And then he’ll explain everything. But he needs to formulate a plausible explanation. Shouldn’t be too hard, since he makes up lies for a living. He heads back to the comfortable chaos of his bedroom, failing to notice Maria lying limp on the floor as he passes her.
***
Freya and Callum stare at the whales floating above them as Callum says, “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Again.”
“Shhh! Listen to the whales.”
The sound echoes cavernously around them and Freya closes her eyes, letting the whale song envelop her. The clouds of colour drift and swirl around her head.
“You know what the whale song looks like? Bright, beautiful, soft flowing rivers of blue and gold. They float in front of my eyes, right here, where my fingers are. Right…here. It’s so warm, so calm.”
“I wish I could see the world like you do. The way you paint it. Too few of us have the benefit of aural-visual sensory confusion.”
“And not everyone has a pathological fear of pineapple cutters either.”
“Do you think whales listen to recordings of hippies moaning when they want to relax and meditate?”
“Ha! Look at them. So huge and powerful they don’t give a shit about the tiny parasites living right on their chin. Imagine being that gigantic, that invincible. Nothing to fear…”
The whale song drifts over the silence between them, covering it like a veil. Freya laughs and dances her fingers through the kaleidoscope of colours that flow around the life-size humpback replicas suspended in the giant cement corridor outside the museum entrance. Visitors exiting the museum walk past them as quickly as possible. A woman whose face is amusingly similar to the dog she’s walking turns her nose in disapproval.
“Gimme another one of those treats,” demands Freya.
“You’ve already had two.”
“Treats! Gimme.”
Callum sighs and zips open his backpack, pulling out a Tupperware container of freshly baked hash brownies. “God, when was the last time we had these with the whales?”
“Just after Valerie died. Fuck, I was a mess.”
“I remember. Better make this the last one unless you want to spend another six hours giggling at that Queen Street Mall busker who dresses like a statue.”
“Boy, did he hate me! I’ve never seen a statue so mad before.”
Freya bites into the moist brown morsel, imagining the THC working its way through her system like a meme through a social network. Callum selects a brownie and chews thoughtfully. Freya silently watches the colours, and no words are spoken between them for several minutes.
Eventually, Freya says, “I found blood on Elijah. On his legs.”
“He’s only human.”
“Despite them worshipping him like a demigod, sure. But he’s been inert for months, so how did he get blood on him?”
“Maybe someone dropped him?”
“Very funny. I couldn’t see any cuts or wounds.”
“What are you, a forensics expert?”
“No, but I know someone who is. And I’m going to give him this.”
Freya produces a small ziplock bag containing the cotton bud with the blood sample she took from Elijah.
“Fucking hell, Freya. Who are you giving that to?”
“This guy who did first semester nursing with me but moved to forensics. He works for a DNA testing clinic now, and I’m going to give him a sample of Elijah’s hair as well to see if they’re a match.”
“Why wouldn’t they be? Frey, you think the blood is someone else’s?”
“It’s certainly a possibility. Also, I found this.” She holds up the plastic baggie she found in Jack’s room.
“What is that?”
“It looks like a collection of hair samples, eleven different specimens, maybe more from what I’ve counted, and a white feather. I’ll get them DNA matched against the blood, too.”
“Where did you find them?”
“Underneath Jack’s pillow.”
“You were looking under Jack’s—Ohhhhh! Freya, Freya, Freya.”
“Don’t you give me that patronising tone! How many times have you…How much weed did you put in these treats? I feel like everything just went 3D.”
“The real world is 3D, Freya.”
“No, like IMAX 3D. Jesus. Anyway, I made a mistake. I think. But he’s so…you know. Those things I like. I thought it was all going well. We hate the same things, which is always important. He seemed nice. You know how I’m a sucker for introspective arty types.”
“Introspective arty types who keep multiple locks of hair under their pillows?”
“I didn’t know that before I slept with him!”
“Maybe they’re from each of his lovers. Do you think he has a lock of your hair?”
Freya chokes and spits brownie all over herself. “Shit! I hadn’t thought of that. God, that is so creepy! Wow, Callum, I wish you could see these rivers of gold. Hey, remember that show Cities of Gold? How did the theme song go?”
“Freya, focus. You need to get out of there.”
She bites her lip and stares up at the whales. “I can’t. I can’t leave. Not until I find out what’s in that fucking Danger Room, with its whistling and…Argh, you should have seen that colour. It was so awful, it made my face want to divorce my eyes.”
“Once again, for those of us in the back seats?”
“Last night, from the Danger Room, I heard this whistling, and the sound it made was an entirely new colour. It was like someone poured poison into my eyes. I can’t leave until I find out what’s in that room. And someone has to stop their precious Halcyon Corporation from spilling oil all over penguins and gaining control of more than half the world’s pharmaceutical industry.”
“Isn’t this something I suggested in an earlier conversation?”
“Fine, you were right and I was wrong. You know what else? I’m not the only one keeping tabs on them. The housekeeper, Maria, is too. I think she’s going to be able to tell me more—Look! It’s her!”
“Maria?”
“No, Marilyn!”
They scamper past the museum doors and move towards Marilyn halfway between a tiptoe and a g
allop, excitement battling for control of their motor functions.
“Ah, excuse me, Marilyn…um…miss?” The words tumble out of Freya’s mouth like gumballs from a vending machine. Marilyn turns, her face like a geisha, plastered with layers of foundation and lipstick. Her dress is the most remarkable pink, complete with matching parasol, coupled with white gloves and a handbag that blend so perfectly it is almost impossible to tell where her fingers end and the bag begins.
“May…can we sit with you for a minute?”
Marilyn smiles and pats the empty space next to her on the bench. Freya and Callum sit and stare at her in confused awe.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” says Freya eventually.
Marilyn smiles back.
“Um…Marilyn, this might sound like an odd question, but…are you…you?”
She turns to Freya, her perfect smile like a china doll’s. “I’ve never fooled anyone. I let people fool themselves. They didn’t bother to find out who and what I was. Instead they would invent a character for me. I wouldn’t argue with them,” she says, her voice a jar of honey mixed with gravel. She twists her parasol and looks out over the river. “Beneath the makeup and behind the smile I’m just a girl who wishes for the world.” She notices Freya’s gloves and reaches across to touch them.
“Yeah, I like gloves too. It’s an Audrey Hepburn…” Freya trails off as she stares into Marilyn’s wide blue eyes. “You know what? That’s a lie. I wear them because I have these hideous scars on my wrist that I try to hide.”
“If you’re gonna be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty,” Marilyn says with an exaggerated wink.
Freya laughs and says, “Marilyn? I think I’m living in a house filled with psychopaths or sociopaths, whatever, and they run this huge company and one of them is in a coma but somehow has blood on him and another one, his brother, had these weird locks of hair under his pillow, which I know because I slept with him because my judgement really is that bad, and I don’t know what to do, and I ate some hash brownies and tried to ask the whales for advice and they showed me some gold rivers, and now my mouth keeps moving and I can’t stop talking, and the whales didn’t have any answers for me at all.”