by Gary Kemble
‘Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested catching up before the wedding,’ he said.
Harry rubbed his face. The big yellow envelope holding his scans sat wedged between his knees. The guy who did the CT scan told Harry there wouldn’t be any side effects. But he felt weird. Slightly dizzy.
‘I know. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, sitting in a neurology waiting room wasn’t what I had in mind for my day off either.’
‘I was kidding. Any time. You know that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So?’
Harry waved it away. ‘I’m fine. Normal.’
‘It’s normal to get tattoos and not remember it?’ Dave asked. He pulled onto the Inner City Bypass, waving to a driver who had made room to let him in.
‘No. My scan. They can’t see anything abnormal.’
‘Basically, you’re nuts then?’
Harry laughed in spite of himself. ‘You might need to work on your bedside manner.’
‘I call it how I see it. So. . . you don’t remember anything from last night?’
‘Nope. I remember bits of the nightmare. A lot of people drowning. Fuck, it was bleak. But about the actual night, no. I went to bed, woke up with the ink.
‘It’s stupid, but if I’m not going out to get the tattoos, then someone’s coming and giving them to me.’
‘Sounds a bit David Lynch,’ Dave said. ‘To what end? Best prank ever?’
Harry shrugged. They drove on in silence for a while. He squinted through the dusty windscreen of Dave’s sedan. Heat baked the road, turning the tarmac into a shimmering oasis. Harry wished he’d brought his sunglasses. At the top of the hill they passed St Bridget’s, the gothic-style church glowing like a red brick beacon. Then the run-down row of shops that had been a mainstay of uni life until rental prices pushed the students further out of town.
‘If you want me to stay, I will,’ Dave said.
The car dropped down the other side of the hill, into the shadows, following the traffic out of Brisbane.
‘Dave, you’re getting married tomorrow. But I appreciate the offer.’
Dave shrugged. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m fine.’
Dave cocked his eyebrow. ‘Well, not fine. But, you know.’
Dave shook his head. Sighed. Then threw a hand up. ‘Okay. Okay. Just . . . let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
The traffic ground to a halt at the charred remains of the Red Hill Skate Arena. Popular in the ’80s, it went the way of pinball machines in the ’90s, before closing down. The owners wanted to sell it for redevelopment. There was talk of it being heritage listed. Then the place was torched.
Harry had driven past the place hundreds of times. Now, for some reason, in this reddish light, its charred roof beams and rusting fences brought him out in gooseflesh.
‘How’d your interview with Mr Excitement go?’ Dave asked.
‘It was okay.’
Harry was still confused, still angry at Ron for dredging up all that stuff. The story was good. If he knew that, how many others did? How many others kept their mouths shut and let a uni student take the hit rather than have a scandal rock the ALP? He could have vented. But Dave would offer him a slightly bemused expression, make some quip, and that would be the end of it. They’d been friends for fifteen years, would probably be friends for another fifteen, or thirty. If Harry murdered someone, then went down for it, he could see Dave sitting on the other side of the plexiglass window, that same slightly bemused expression on his face, as Harry told him how it came to be. That’s just how it was with Dave.
‘Well, he didn’t bore you to death, so that’s one thing,’ Dave said.
‘So, who are you going to vote for?’
Dave shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? None of them have any real power.’
‘That’s a cop-out.’
‘Point out a politician in recent years who’s actually made a difference. The whole thing is a facade. We’re meant to believe this is real but they do their schtick, we all trudge out on the day, in the stinking hot most likely, tick the box. . .’
‘You number the boxes.’
‘What?’
‘The boxes, you number them.’
‘Oh right, yeah. Whatever. And then the next guy gets in, tells us that he can’t really do anything he said he’d do, because of the state of the economy or the deficit or some bullshit, and then we continue on as before.’
‘Jesus. You’re more cynical than I am.’
Dave shrugged. ‘When you work in a hospital you quickly get a sense of what’s important and what isn’t.’
‘In other words, it’s not you speaking, it’s the old people.’
‘Maybe they’re right. That’s another thing. We think we know better. They’re the ones who have been around longer – sometimes twice as long as we have. And yet we just discount everything they say. Maybe that’s why we never get anywhere.’
Like Fred. Quite true. Most people thought he was just a crazy old man. And sure, there was a touch of the crazies about him, but he also knew a lot. He had a lot of connections.
They wove through the streets. The water tower appeared like a lighthouse in the afternoon sun, looking out over a sea of jacaranda trees and corrugated iron. And then Dave’s car was plunging into the deep, dark waters of Croydon Road. He pulled up outside Harry’s place.
‘Do you want to come in for a coffee? Beer?’ Harry asked.
‘Nah. Gotta push on. The in-laws are doing a dinner thing. You sure you’re going to be okay?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I can look after myself.’
He climbed out. Dave turned the car around, then leant out the window.
‘Oh. If you can avoid getting anything tattooed on your face before tomorrow, that’d be great,’ he said. ‘You know where we’re meeting?’
Harry nodded. ‘Simmo may be a misogynistic prick, but he’s an organised misogynistic prick.’
‘And that’s why he’s my best man. See you tomorrow.’
***
Harry was about to walk up the steps when he remembered the scratching noise. He went under the house. The few packing boxes he’d finished with were folded up at the back, leaning against the wooden slats. Cardboard would make a perfect rat’s nest. He strode across the cracked, oil-stained concrete slab and pulled out the boxes. He checked them out, and they looked okay.
The far side of the under-house area, away from the laundry, was bare dirt. Harry walked over and peered at the ground. He couldn’t see anything that looked like paw prints, but then he wasn’t an expert. Over in the far corner was a rusty possum trap, covered in cobwebs. He much preferred the thought of possums scratching around under the house, but they’d be far more likely to stick to the mango tree, or his roof.
He came out the back and saw the woman from next door, bringing in her washing. She was about his age, but clearly much fitter. Dressed in a singlet and shorts. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to talk to her. But as he was turning to go up the stairs she looked over, and he caught her eye.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
Harry stood there, not sure what to do. Then walked over to the fence. ‘I’m Harry. Just moved in.’
‘Hi. I’m Karen.’ She dropped one of the blue uniforms into the basket and offered her hand. Harry shook it.
‘You’re a nurse?’
‘No, sex worker. I specialise in medical fantasies.’ Beat. ‘That’s a joke.’
Harry laughed, embarrassed.
‘Yeah, I’m an RN. At Royal Alex. You’re clearly a trained observer.’
‘Heh. I am actually. I work for the Chermside Chronicle. A friend of mine is a nurse, over at the Royal. Studying to become a doctor.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Hey, have you had any trouble with rats at your place?’
Karen unpegged another uniform. Shook her head. ‘Nah. We do get bush rats around here though. They come for the man
gos. You got some?’
‘Ah, I don’t know. Scratching under the house at night.’
‘Uh-huh. I’ve got some traps, if you want them.’
Harry considered. Deep down, he didn’t think it was rats. ‘I’ll see how I go, but thanks for the offer. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.’
‘No worries,’ Karen said, and Harry turned back to the house.
CHAPTER 9
Harry sat in front of his laptop, eyes glazed over, barely seeing the screen. His arm throbbed. The sun was long gone, but it was still stinking hot. Sweat beaded on his chest, running down to the waistband of his shorts. The house creaked, expanding with the heat. The tin roof tick, tick, ticked. Distant thunder taunted.
He took another mouthful of beer, went to Google and typed ‘phantom tattoos’. The page loaded and he laughed. The screen filled with links to photos and discussions about tattoos of the Phantom of the Opera and the Ghost Who Walks. He clicked on ‘Images’. Skulls peered out at him, but they were either on the Phantom’s belt buckle (where they should be) or surrounded by blood-red roses. None of them were anything like his drowning man, or the ‘Arabic bingo card’.
He opened a text document and wrote down everything he could remember from the latest nightmare. A soldier called Rob. Men, women and children, drowning. UBAs, Rob had called them. He stared through the screen.
‘They were trying to turn the ship around,’ Harry said to himself.
Shit. Harry sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. Took another slug of VB. He could hear them screaming.
Two tattoos. Two nightmares. Was Rob the guy buried in the shallow grave? Harry thought he was.
He searched for ‘asylum seeker tragedy’. The screen filled with the first page of more than a million hits. Everywhere from Australia to Africa to Afghanistan. He added ‘Christmas Island’.
The top result was a news story from a week earlier: Former minister reflects on Christmas Island tragedy.
During the 2001 federal election campaign, Harry read, Australian forces were sent from Christmas Island to turn around an Indonesian tramp steamer that had strayed into Australian waters. The ship was full of asylum seekers, picked up after the fishing boat they were travelling on sank. The ship’s captain wanted to offload them on Christmas Island.
But when the Australians neared the ship, it exploded. A report into the tragedy found that asylum seekers had tried to sabotage the engines, and accidentally ignited the ship’s fuel supply.
With a storm fast approaching, the vessel sank quickly. Of the more than 400 people on board, only 45 were saved. The SAS troopers involved, who weren’t named, were awarded the Medal for Gallantry.
The former immigration minister, reflecting on the ‘unnecessary’ loss of life, put the blame back firmly on the people smugglers, rather than the government’s decision to turn the boat around. Further down the article, Labor’s immigration spokesperson blamed the government for the asylum seekers’ deaths. But in the next quote she promised even tougher border controls under a Cardinal Labor government.
Harry typed some more notes, then returned to Google. He finished his beer, and rose from his chair to fetch another, then stopped. On a whim, he typed in ‘ghost tattoos’. Again, a heap of links to literal tattoos popped up. But on the side, in the sponsored links, a list of different results. A couple of local tattoo parlours, including West End Tattoo, but also psychics: City Psychics, Australian Psychics, Brisbane Psychics. Harry stared at the links for a long time, but didn’t click.
Instead, he returned to the fridge and pulled out another beer, replacing the empty bottle in his stubby holder. He shouldn’t really be drinking, given his likely psychological problems. But when you’re at the point where you’re going out and getting tattoos done while you’re unconscious, a couple of beers couldn’t hurt.
He stood in the kitchen, looking out at the house next door, and its back garden. Thinking of Karen. Of brain tumours. Of drowning men and buried men and screaming. Lots and lots of screaming.
He took his beer back to the lounge room and stretched out on the couch, watching movies in his mind. How did it all fit together? He felt like he had when he’d been at uni, working on his final assignment. In the early stages. He’d had all these pieces of seemingly unrelated information. And then, one day, they’d clicked together.
Harry sculled the rest of his beer, enjoying the buzz. He lay back and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the wind picked up. Off in the distance thunder boomed. Harry drifted to sleep, goosebumps prickling his flesh.
CHAPTER 10
It was a bad day for suits. But it was a wedding. There wasn’t really a choice. Simmo, eyes slightly glazed, handed out matching ties. They’d spent a couple of hours at the Paddo Tavern, downing schooners of XXXX and eyeing off the barmaids. Simmo had tried to use the fact that it was a wedding day to acquire free beer and phone numbers. When he didn’t get either, he proclaimed that the blond-haired honey behind the bar was either blind, stuck-up or a lesbian. There was toast after toast, bad joke after bad joke, until Dave put his foot down and decided that this was the absolute last round.
They retreated to the B&B Dave had booked. The place had aircon, and a fine view. From the verandah you could look out over the lush jacaranda trees and patchwork of tin roofs to the modest spires of Brisbane’s CBD. Tonight, Dave and his new wife would be spending their first night as husband and wife together. While Dave was out of the room, Simmo had helpfully put a large, black dildo under one of the pillows.
They’d had the suits fitted in the city a couple of weeks before the buck’s night. It was the first time Harry had seen any of the guys, other than Dave, since high school. They had a few beers (at Simmo’s insistence) – it was bizarre seeing them all again. The same faces but fatter, with less hair. There were beer guts and fat arses. Wrinkles. Grey hair. Harry supposed he must look the same to them. When you saw yourself every day it wasn’t such a shock. You knew you were getting older – the calendars and birthdays told you that – but in some ways the mind blocked it as an unpleasant truth.
Harry turned away from the other groomsmen and took off his t-shirt. He was hoping that no-one would notice. If he could just. . .
‘Hey! Haz! Nice ink!’ Simmo said.
Harry tried to pull on his suit shirt but Simmo grabbed it, held it down. He put his arm around Harry’s neck and turned him, so the rest of the group could see. Harry saw himself grabbing Simmo’s hand, just above the wrist, twisting until he heard a satisfying crack, then doubling him over so he could smash his ribcage with his knee and bring him down with a roundhouse to the back of the head.
Harry shook his head, to clear the image. Where did that come from?
The other groomsmen looked on with confusion, half-smiles. They were wondering if it was a wind-up. During high school, Harry’s rebellion stretched no further than growing his hair slightly long. Then he got it cut when his dad, who had other things to worry about – like paying the mortgage – failed to comment. He’d gone on to have a surprisingly uneventful time at uni. There may have been drugs and sex for others, but not for him. And then he moved into a stable, safe, white-collar job.
The drowning man did not match what they knew of Harry. Hell, it didn’t match what he knew of himself.
Simmo licked his finger and tried to rub it off. ‘It’s real!’
‘Yeah. Got it last week.’
Simmo screwed up his face, peered at the picture. ‘Um. . . interesting.’
Harry buttoned up his shirt.
Simmo pointed. ‘Ah, I know what this is about. Mid-life crisis! Early mid-life crisis!’
Dave took a step forward. ‘Hey, Simmo! Why don’t you tell us all about your tattoo?’
Simmo scowled. Dave shrugged.
‘What? Aren’t you going to show everyone the gecko on your arse?’
General laughter.
‘It disturbs me that you’ve seen the gecko on Simmo’s arse,’ Harry sa
id, sensing the opportunity to turn things onto safer territory.
‘Well, we all have our secrets. Don’t we, Simmo?’ Dave blew him a kiss across the room.
Simmo shook his head. ‘Fucking homo.’
***
Harry stood at the altar of the small church in Paddington, looking back out at the family and friends. Suits and sunglasses for the guys. Chiffon and fake tans for the girls. There were no more familiar faces, thank god. All of ‘the boys’ were groomsmen and no-one else from school was there. No-one else to inquire about what he’d been doing these past twenty-odd years. When he got into uni, it was cool telling people he was doing journalism. It was so broad, and while the profession wasn’t well regarded, it still carried an edge. People thought of trashy TV – Today Tonight and A Current Affair – but they also thought of some of the big stories that had been broken. Phil Dickie, staking out brothels in his car and bringing down the Queensland government. Brisbane Mail journo, Hedley Thomas, unveiling the atrocious record of a rogue doctor at a regional hospital. It was cool. Journalists shone a light on the dark places. Even now, when he met people and they asked what he did, their eyebrows went up when he told them. But the follow-up question was always: ‘Oh yeah, where do you work?’. When he told them they invariably felt the need to explain that they didn’t read the local paper. Christine was right when she said the local paper was important to ‘some people’ – but few of those people were under sixty.
The opening strains of U2’s ‘With or Without You’ piped from the speakers. Dave turned as Ellie walked slowly into the church, holding her dad’s arm. She was beautiful. Brides always were. Family and friends turned in their seats and in that moment, everyone forgot that it was boiling hot and the ceiling fans were barely stirring the tepid air. You could see the couples in the room shift closer, clutch each other’s hands. For those who weren’t yet married, it was something to look forward to. For those who weren’t getting on, it was a reminder that sometimes things worked out. And for those who had been married a long time, like Dave’s grandparents sitting up front, it was rejuvenating.