by Gary Kemble
Harry had spent all afternoon staring at his screen, watching Twitter status updates, opening and closing documents, not really seeing anything. Replaying the encounter with Brian Swenson, and then with his son. Christine prodded him about the election bios he was meant to be helping with. He opened the list but couldn’t motivate himself to do any more on it.
At some point he snapped out of the trance, aware that the light had faded outside. He vaguely remembered Christine reminding him to pick her up on the way through, but it was like something that had happened to someone else. He checked his watch.
As he headed home the tension started to build. As he dressed, it got worse, despite downing a stubby of VB. If anything, the beer made it worse. And as the taxi weaved its way through the Friday night traffic, his legs were jiggling with it, his hands tapping.
He pulled out his phone, dialled Christine’s number.
‘Hi, Christine, it’s Harry,’ he said.
‘Harry!’ There was music on in the background. Something heavy.
‘Um, I’m not feeling too good. I might. . .’
‘Whoa! You’re not going to pike on me, are you?’
‘Maybe, I. . .’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the cab, but I might just get him to turn around. . .’
‘No! No way, Harry! Come on – you need a night out. You need to let your hair down!’
Outside, a man stood on the side of the road, holding an umbrella. Three of its panels were missing. The man watched the taxi go past, made no effort to cross the road.
‘Harry – at least come over here. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get a taxi at this time of night. Come on! If you still feel crook, you can crash at my place.’
Harry had seen inside Christine’s house once. The thought of crashing on a couch at a normal house, with normal people, with no ghosts, now appealed. He recalled Dave’s plea to take a break.
‘Yeah. Okay then.’
The taxi wove deeper into the suburbs, away from the main road. The rain picked up a bit. The driver’s phone rang and he took the call, speaking a language Harry couldn’t understand. He thought about death. And life after death. And whatever came after that. Peace?
The cab driver pulled up outside a low, brick apartment building.
‘Can you wait here for a sec?’
‘Sure thing, buddy.’
Harry stepped out into the rain, running across the driveway and through the carport. Up the concrete stairwell. The door was ajar. Christine’s iPod was still docked, but the volume was down.
‘Come in,’ she called out.
She emerged from her room, pulled the door shut behind her. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. She wore a deep-blue dress. High neckline. Sleeveless. Harry had no idea what it was made of, but it was sheer, and shiny.
‘Wow,’ Harry said. He cleared his throat.
She smiled. ‘You’re not too bad yourself.’
When she had turned to pull her bedroom door shut, he’d seen the tattoo on her left shoulder. A fairy. On a leaf.
‘I didn’t know you had a tattoo,’ Harry said.
She shrugged. ‘I’m kinda embarrassed about it. Got it when I was drunk. I wanted to get a tattoo, but I always said I’d get something with meaning. You know?’
Harry almost laughed. Tattoos with meaning. Yeah, he could grasp that concept. She had a tattoo without meaning. He had meaningful tattoos he didn’t understand. He self-consciously rubbed his upper arm, where the swallows flew.
‘Right, Harry Hendrick – sit,’ she said.
‘The cab’s outside. . .’
‘It’ll wait. Plant your arse and tell me what’s going on.’
Harry sat. Christine sat down next to him. Her perfume wafted over him. Her knee brushed against his. He didn’t want to go to any awards ceremony. He wanted to stay right here with Christine and drink bourbon. And he didn’t even like bourbon.
‘It’s just. . . there’s going to be a lot of people who I went to uni with, or have crossed paths with over the years,’ he said. ‘You know, people who have done something worthwhile with their lives.’
‘So what? Do any of them have a date as hot as me?’ She turned her head to profile, batted her eyelids.
‘Heh. . . no.’ He stared at the carpet, worried his eyes would betray him. In his peripheral vision he watched as she crossed her legs.
‘Well then, fuck them. Harry, there’s no right or wrong way to live your life.
‘Your life isn’t over, is it? You’re going through a rough patch, but you’ll get through it. And let’s face it, it’s only the Community Media Awards. It’s not the Walkleys. Or the Pulitzers.’
Harry stared at the dark TV screen.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Christine grabbed his hand. She felt warm.
***
They climbed into the back of the taxi. Christine kept his hand, holding it against her thigh.
‘You need to trust me more, okay?’ she said.
The taxi pulled away. The rain came down heavier, and the driver wound his window up. Harry was intoxicated by Christine’s perfume. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Outside, the world passed by in a mish-mash of abstract colours and shapes. People ran for cover under shop awnings and bus shelters. Harry watched for the man with the broken umbrella, but he was gone.
The Chermside RSL was like a beacon in the night, spotlights and gaudy neon. The taxi pulled up under the portico out front. Harry passed his card through, and Christine opened her clutch.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Harry said.
‘You sure?’
‘Trust me. I owe you.’
‘Okay.’
They stepped out onto grimy red carpet, pockmarked with cigarette burns and lumps of blackened chewing gum. People milled around outside smoking. The media award attendees all stood out – the men were in suits, the women in dresses that really had no place at the Chermside RSL. Harry scanned the crowd, half-expecting to see Brian Swenson or Ron Vessel lumbering towards him. Or, at the very least, Terry Redwood. But no. None of them. They were probably waiting inside for him with meat axes and a chainsaw.
‘What are you grinning about?’ Christine asked.
‘Nah. Nothing. I think I may have found my mojo again. Take me to the bar.’
Christine led him inside. They walked through the automatic doors and there was a bearded photographer waiting. He smiled.
‘Hey, Stal,’ Harry said.
‘Quick photo?’
‘Sure,’ Christine said.
Harry stepped to one side. Stal raised an eyebrow. ‘Uh. I meant both of you.’
Christine pulled him towards her, put one hand around his waist, leant her head against his shoulder. The flash went off. Harry could smell her hair.
‘Um, can we try one where you don’t look like you’ve just been poleaxed, Harry?’
‘Ah. Yeah, sure.’
Harry put his arm around Christine. Smiled. The camera flashed. Stal adjusted the settings on his camera, took a few more shots.
‘Luvverly,’ he said. ‘Have a great night.’
They found the conference room. People milled around tables set with cutlery, white linen and bottles of wine. At the front of the room there was a low stage, with a lectern on it. To one side there was a small bar, and this seemed to have attracted the majority of the attendees, despite the wine on the tables and the waiters hovering with drinks on trays.
‘I’m starting to feel better,’ Harry said.
Christine smiled. ‘Good.’
‘Harry Hendrick! Well, I never thought I’d see the day!’
‘Maybe I spoke too soon,’ Harry muttered, and turned to greet Terry Redwood.
Redwood clutched a stubby of XXXX in one hand, grabbed Harry’s hand with the other and shook it vigorously, only letting go when Harry pulled away.
‘You coming out of retirement?’
Harry felt dark clouds gathering.
He forced a smile. ‘Nah, just here to support Christine.’
Redwood’s eyes shifted focus, devoured Christine. When he shook her hand he once again held on too long, but Harry suspected his motives were different.
‘Christine, is it?’
‘Yeah. Christine King. I work with Harry.’
‘Oh well, don’t worry, that won’t last forever.’ He bellowed laughter, gave Harry a playful jab in the upper arm. Then his eyes lit up.
‘Christine King! Right – you’re one of the finalists in my category!’ He took a swig of beer, eyes never leaving her for a second. ‘Oh well, you can’t win ’em all, right?’
‘I only graduated last year, so it’s an honour just to be nominated.’
‘That’s right. That’s right. Plenty of time for you. Unlike Harry here. How’s that scoop coming along, Hazza?’
Every time they met, Redwood asked him about ‘the scoop’. Harry saw himself grabbing Redwood in a headlock, squeezing until he fell unconscious.
‘Yeah, it’s coming. I’m just lulling you into a sense of false security.’
Redwood leant in. The stench of stale sweat and alcohol washed over Harry.
‘Let me know if you want me to help you out. You know, save you from some embarrassment.’
Harry’s throat locked. Redwood grinned. Harry would have liked nothing better than to ram his teeth in. He felt a tug at his elbow.
‘Well, Terry,’ Christine said. ‘We’re going to grab a drink. Nice meeting you.’
‘You too, love. If you ever get bored at the Chronicle, I can help you get a real job, okay.’
Christine ignored him. ‘Arrogant prick.’
Terry turned. ‘What’s that?’
‘I said, “Good luck!”’
‘Yeah. You too.’
Christine led Harry through the crowd. He saw familiar faces. Some he could put names to – he’d seen their photo bylines – others he couldn’t, but was fairly sure he’d studied with some of them at uni. The lights dimmed slightly. As they neared the front of the queue at the bar Christine tapped a young guy on the shoulder. He turned, and his eyes lit up when he saw her.
‘Chris!’ he said.
‘Hi, Darryl! How’s things?’
‘Good. Good. Doing the Brisbane Mail cadetship thing. Hey, congrats on your award nomination!’
‘Thanks.’
She let go of Harry’s arm. He felt a ridiculous burst of jealousy.
‘How’s the cadetship going? We just met one of your colleagues. Terry Redwood.’
‘Ah. He’s a character. It’s okay. Still haven’t worked up the courage to tell Dad I’m working for the Evil Empire.’
He did a quick impersonation of Darth Vader. Harry had to admit, it was pretty good. They chatted some more. Harry moved forward in the queue, leaving them to it. Earlier, he’d had this stupid feeling that Christine was coming onto him. But seeing her with someone her own age set him straight. He ordered two beers and a gin and tonic, brought the drinks back to them.
‘Cheers, everyone,’ Harry said.
‘Thanks, man,’ Darryl replied.
‘You remembered!’ Christine said, gesturing with the glass.
Harry shrugged. ‘It’s a G&T. The galaxy’s universal drink, right?’
By the time the ceremony started, Harry had two drinks under his belt. He and Christine found their table. Harry wasn’t particularly surprised to find Redwood sitting with them, along with a bunch of his Brisbane Mail mates. At first, Harry didn’t really care. He claimed a bottle of red and proceeded to demolish it, occasionally topping up Christine’s glass.
He didn’t hear any of the speeches. He saw they were flashing up headlines and pieces of audio and video. He heard music, and people laughing occasionally. He knew there was meaning behind it all, but couldn’t put it together in his head.
The tattoos burned on his skin. He scratched his back, thinking of Afghanistan. He could almost taste the dust. Rob was pushing, asserting himself. What would happen if Harry let him out? He had a fair idea. He knew what Rob was good at. And it wasn’t writing newspaper articles. Harry didn’t know for sure, but he thought the SAS sniper didn’t lose any sleep over killing. When he woke up screaming, it was to visions of that poor woman, spread-eagled on a cold, bloodstained concrete floor.
The drinks kept coming. Someone put money on the bar so that when the wine was gone, spirits were the go. Harry ordered bourbon and Cokes, even though he’d always hated bourbon. The world lost its focus.
Christine squeezed his leg under the table.
‘I’m up,’ she said.
He looked at her and for the first time since zoning out he saw something real. God, she was beautiful. And young. So full of enthusiasm and hope. And she deserved to be. She had a lot going for her.
On stage, some guy in a tuxedo was reading out the names, the story titles, and a short spiel from the judging panel. On the screen behind the emcee, photographs of the articles popped up. Harry remembered seeing Christine’s face when she got her hands on a copy of it. Her first front-page lead. And it was a doozie. Uncovering incompetence at one of the local hospitals.
The Brisbane Mail crowd cheered when Terry Redwood’s story replaced Christine’s on the screen. He’d gone up north to report on the situation at Palm Island, where residents of the Aboriginal community there were in conflict with police over the death in custody of a young Aboriginal man. It was a good story. But in Harry’s mind it was nothing earth-shattering. It was a colour piece – nothing that new in it other than the fact that a Brisbane-based journo had bothered to make the trek to Palm Island.
‘And the winner is. . . Terry Redwood!’
‘Bullshit!’ Harry said.
He was drowned out by cheers from the other side of the table. Harry didn’t realise he was squeezing his glass until it burst in his grip, showering him in wine and shards of glass. This prompted more laughter from the Brisbane Mail crew. Harry felt Rob pushing. He suppressed it. He focused instead on Christine, who had reached for a serviette and was brushing the worst of the mess off Harry’s shirt and pants.
‘While you’re down there, love. . .’ one of the faceless journos said.
‘Fuck off, dickhead!’ Harry spat.
Terry was on his way to the podium. Harry made to rise out of his chair, but Christine grabbed his arm, holding him.
‘Don’t, Harry,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. I meant what I said earlier. I was honoured just to just nominated. You know how these things go. Ever watched the Oscars?’
Terry climbed up onto the stage and accepted his award. He held it up, looked at it, and approached the microphone.
‘Well, it’s not a Walkley, but still. . .’
Raucous laughter from the table.
‘Seriously. I’d like to thank the judges for the award. You know, it was a hard story to write. . .’
It won’t be long. Redwood’s putting together a few things.
But the story never came out. Because Redwood deep-sixed it.
Harry shrugged out of Christine’s grip and headed for the podium.
‘Harry? Harry!’
She followed him a few steps, grabbed his arm. He pulled away again. Terry saw him coming.
‘I think me old mate Harry Hendrick is coming to give me a kiss,’ Terry said.
More laughter. Harry’s world swum around him. He was striding across the barren flatlands of Afghanistan, striding across the sticky carpet of the Shelter Bar. He staggered slightly, reached out for the back of a chair to steady himself but his hand landed on a woman’s bare shoulder. More laughter.
The light was too bright on stage. He held up one hand to block it out. Headed for Redwood. They grappled. Arms on arms, face to face. A combative waltz.
‘Why did you bury it?’ Harry hissed.
A moment of blankness in Redwood’s eyes, before the anger returned. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Rob. The massacre in Afghanistan. You buried it!’
<
br /> A flash of something – bewilderment? Shock? Disbelief? – then the shutters came down.
‘The only thing I’m going to bury. . . is you.’
With that he shoved. Harry caught his balance and returned with a fist. Terry blocked the clumsy strike and responded in kind. Harry was ready for it but too drunk to move fast enough. He ducked, but Terry’s meaty fist deflected off the top of his head, sending him staggering backwards. If he’d been sober he would have stayed on his feet, but he wasn’t sober. It was a miracle he was standing at all, without trying to dodge punches. He fell on his arse, bounced.
Terry came after him. Harry bunched up his legs, protecting himself. Redwood loomed over him, jabbed a finger down at him.
‘Get yourself a lawyer, you crazy prick,’ he said.
He walked back to the microphone, forcing a laugh. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Harry Hendrick. Former journalist.’
***
Christine and Darryl were waiting outside on the red carpet when he emerged. The top of his head throbbed. He probed with his fingers and felt a lump there. His neck ached. Redwood got more contact on him than he’d initially thought. The adrenaline was still coursing through his system. He didn’t feel drunk anymore.
‘Sorry,’ Harry said.
Christine ignored him, mumbled something to Darryl. Harry touched her arm and she shrugged away from him.
A taxi pulled up. ‘Can I make it up to you?’ Harry said. ‘Buy you a drink?’
‘You really want more to drink?’
‘I’ll drink lemonade.’
‘Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when I see it.’
She climbed into the back of the cab. Harry advanced. Darryl stood at the door of the taxi, blocking him. He looked embarrassed. Harry peered around him. ‘Well, I told you I’d buy you a drink, right?’
Christine peered out of the taxi. She sighed. ‘Fine.’
She shuffled over. Darryl climbed in beside her, leaving Harry to sit in the front next to the driver.
Christine gave the cab driver directions. Red Hill, via the bottle shop. They skirted the city. Even at night, it was hard to miss the cranes everywhere, highlighting Brisbane’s recovery from the global financial crisis. It was hard to believe the Swensons were really struggling to make a buck out of it.