I walk away, not looking back. I refuse to get involved in a murder. I go about a kilometre before I turn around. I can see him way off in the mist, following me, kicking at cans and shit by the freeway. I stop and wait for him to catch up. We walk in silence through a couple of suburbs, slowly, because of his feet. Then I piggyback him and he feeds me cigarettes.
Eventually we pass this Salvation Army place on the edge of an industrial estate. All these down-and-outs and low-lifes have lined up at the door. Right as we pass, the doors swing open and everyone rushes inside. Reuben jumps off my back, joins the line, and I follow him. They have a huge dining hall in there, like an old factory or something. They serve up soup and steamed grunge to the hungry homeless. We gobble down a few bowls of porridge and drain the coffee pot. We sit there out of the rain, soaking up the air of desperation like bread in soup when this Salvos geezer in one of those repressed-looking uniforms comes and sits at our table.
—Welcome. Haven’t seen you boys here before, he says in a voice balmy from years of soothing pain.
Reuben doesn’t say anything. I shrug.
—You from around here?
—No. Reuben sits up from his slouch: We got stuck.
—Oh?
—Yeah, I say, leaning in: We had jobs at the show … but then on the last day the bosses claimed they didn’t know us and refused to pay up.
—Seriously?
—Yeah. Until now we hadn’t eaten for days, haven’t slept. We don’t have any place to go. I say this with the utmost resignation in my voice, at the heavy truth.
—Where you boys from?
—Townsville, we say in unison.
—I can get you boys bus tickets home, if you like. I can even give you a lift to the station.
——
Waiting for a bus again, the dawn exposing herself like a silver gelatine Man Ray nude descending a sleepless staircase.
I reckon I suffered a bout of narcolepsy or something on the bus back to Townsville. Fitful dreams, like flashing a torch around a cathedral of corpses in grotesque poses. Copulating skeletons. Raped marsupials bleeding on gurneys. Smashed frog. Pickled-looking old-lady vaginas singing Billie Holiday’s ‘That’s Life I Guess’.
——
We hiss into the bus station in Townsville, again. Reuben and I stand around on the pavement out the front, trying to figure out what to do next. Reuben decides he’ll go to a halfway house or something, but it doesn’t sound ideal to me. I’ve had enough of sleeping rough. I call my parents’ house reverse charges. It rings out. I search my pockets and my half-dried mud-covered duffel bag for bus fare, in vain. My journal has swollen up like a dead toadfish. The ink of a whole chapter about Reuben’s grandma has bled into the paper like her pale grey eyes, fading my memories of her jail-warden-hard face, her hands trembling like a fern near a waterfall.
We sit there for a few hours. I tell Reuben I’ll do my best to convince my parents to let him come back and get some sleep in a safe bed. He looks kind of hopeful for a while until my mum finally picks up the phone and the answer comes as a resounding no.
Reuben watches as I drive away with Mum. I see him shuffling there, smoking his cigarette like he always does – without once touching it with his hands. I worry about him; I really do.
4
I lose about ten kilos and feel quite sick for a few days. I drag myself around the house, licking my wounds. My voice doesn’t sound right, like rusted parts of something in a glass of lovejuice. My sisters say I look like I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp and crawled through hell on my face. I don’t disagree.
I call Cali’s house and her dad answers. I don’t feel like getting the speech about how I should treat his daughter like a goddamn princess right now. I say hi and ask if I can speak with Cali. He tells me in a triumphant-sounding voice that Cali went out on a date with Scott. I don’t know any dude named Scott so I say Scott who? And he says, No, not Scott, she went out with Scott last weekend. This bloke goes by the name of Adonis. Real good-looking muscly feller.
I don’t really know what to do. I jump on a bus into the city and wander around the nightclub district, wearing a suit. I don’t know why I dressed in a suit. I throw my tie in a bin. Weaving in and out of the crowds of August revellers, carried along, lost, not feeling myself. I can’t stop thinking about Reuben’s grandma and how afraid and ashamed and helpless she looked as we mopped up her piss. Poor old dame left to live out her final years alone while her family rush about doing important chores. Everyone laughing around me now has a similar fate. All the ones who make it to old age, anyway. Jesus Christ.
Poor Reuben has gone through so much physical and mental tragedy. The look on his face as I drove away from the bus station with my mum, like a puppy about to get adopted from the pound before the kid’s father changes his mind and says no. Love runs out of batteries. Everyone who doesn’t get killed rots as they live. Buried or locked away and forgotten: I can’t figure out the difference. All these pretty girls staggering by: their calves in heels will get flabby before they know it. These tough guys hunching about in their Gold’s Gym singlets reduced to one of those withered old dudes you see with walking frames holding up bus queues. I wish I hadn’t seen his grandma’s vagina. I really do. Maybe Alexandra weakened those handrails by the toilet when she used them like parallel bars as Reuben gave her head.
I watch a dude play guitar for a while. Then, when I turn away from the chords of Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’, I see Cali and some dude hand in hand walking up the steps of a club called The Bank. I get that kicked-in-the-guts feeling for a minute and smoke my cigarette too fast. I might drown myself tonight; it feels pretty logical. Love, and her other name, Despair … they visit in pairs.
But then along comes the little babe Candy I’ve dreamed about for countless nights! She has two hot-looking chicks with her. Everyone stares because you can tell they don’t hail from these parts. To my surprise she walks right up to me, standing there watching the guitar player strum.
—Looking sharp! She tugs my suit lapel.
The other two chicks look me up and down. One has too much kohl around her eyes.
—Thanks!
—Marie and Blyth. She points at the other chicks: My sisters.
—Plans? I say, acting so fucken cool I feel proud of myself.
—Getting hot dogs, then going home to drink all this wine my dad sent for my birthday. Wanna come?
Fuck yes!
—Sure. I shrug, lighting a cigarette and making the mouth shape you make when you decide you may as well do something as no better options exist right now.
As I climb into a cab with these three hot drunk sisters who dress like gothic fashion models, Cali and her new arsehole come out of The Bank and she sees me. A horrified look on her face. She has no idea I’ve returned from Cairns, and now this. I notice her abruptly dropping the new dude’s hand. Enough to make me smile properly for once.
The sisters have their own place not far away. These girls resemble babushka dolls in reverse order: the youngest the most buxom, the eldest a miniature, perfectly formed specimen of a woman, and the middle a cross between. We get out of the cab. The driver gives me a jealous look and winks. We head through the gate of a big shady old Queenslander and up the path, when there comes a blood-curdling growl followed by the deepest, most vicious barking I’ve ever heard. They all laugh as I near shit myself.
—Demeter! Candy shouts, and the growling stops.
—We have a Doberman, Demeter … Do you know the name Demeter? Candy fishes around in her handbag, looking for keys.
—Um … Dracula named his ship Demeter … but I think it comes from the Greek goddess of harvest?
Candy looks impressed. The growling starts up again, goaded by my stranger’s voice.
—Let’s see if she likes you. She doesn’t like males much, for some
reason.
I remember then that Reuben told me about the Doberman; I can’t remember how many mornings ago. He got this far, at least.
Inside, Candy’s sisters disappear and she takes me into her room and we sit on the floorboards. I nervously fish out a cigarette, trying not to look too interested in her bedroom and all the vampire posters. She has this cool movie poster of the original Dracula, Bela Lugosi, and a huge picture of some black-leather-jacket band called The Sisters of Mercy. I light my cigarette. She rises and opens the French doors onto the veranda.
—You don’t smoke?
—Allergic! And she does an adorable little sneeze. She looks so tiny, no more than five feet tall, thin, with curves, though, and really sweet-looking breasts.
—You remind me of Audrey Hepburn … in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I say, standing half out the door, exhaling into the sub-tropical darkness.
—Really!
She looks so pleased I worry for a moment I’ve come home with an underage girl. I pray her height and age have no relation. I’ve seen her showing a bouncer ID, though.
—Yeah, but you dress more like Audrey in Roman Holiday … and you have nicer eyes.
She lunges at me, gives me an impatient borderline-aggressive kiss which takes me by surprise. We fall through the door onto the veranda. To make it worse our teeth clash for a second. Then her sisters come in like wisps. They’ve changed into nighties and washed off their make-up. They look even prettier. The older-looking of the two, Marie, says sarcastically, seeing us embracing half out the door:
—Have we interrupted something?
—Can I bum a cigarette? Blyth asks as Candy flops back down on her bed.
I get out my pack of cigarettes. As I do, Blyth pushes me back onto the veranda. I light her up and she takes a drag, saying as she exhales:
—You scared yet?
—Scared?
—Most males don’t make it this far.
—Why?
—Well, everyone assumes she snuck out of school to go clubbing. She turned twenty-three this year, you know … And the whole goth-punk thing … here, in Townsville.
—Twenty-three!
—Yeah. Also, she has this thing where she thinks … She has body issues.
—What?
About there I smell bullshit, or trouble, or both, and I say, too bluntly:
—You trying to game me for some reason?
She shoots me a quizzical look. I bet I’ve wandered into a coven of witches or a nocturne of vampires or perhaps a gang of serial killers, or kidney thieves.
—What do you mean?
—Nothing, sorry. I just can’t believe … She doesn’t look twenty-three and her beauty stuns me.
—Yeah, but what do you mean by trying to game you?
—I’ve had a crazy time lately – scary crazy. Anyway, why tell me this? You don’t even know anything about me. Pretty personal shit about your sister, and all.
—Candy likes you … a lot.
—Really? We only ever spoke once before tonight.
—Every time we go out, she looks for you. All the other blokes in this town look inbred or something.
—What about my friend Reuben? I thought they made love. I make those annoying quote signs with my fingers people do in motivational speeches when I say made love. I don’t know why.
—Made love? She laughs: He fingered her on the beach but became aggressive and stuff so she pushed him away … Nah, they didn’t fuck.
The Doberman growls under the house.
—She had sex for the first time only recently. He pretty much raped her, though, and afterwards he tried to convince her to sleep with his roommates.
—What?!
The dog stirs again and you can hear her claws on the concrete under the house. Blyth makes a keep your voice down gesture.
—Yeah, trust me, she likes you. I’ll let you in on a secret, to help you not fuck up. She whispers now.
—Okay. Why help me, though?
—You could always pass on her and fuck me instead, and she runs a finger down my midriff. I instinctively move to respond but then it occurs to me she might want to see how I react and I’ll fail her clever test or something.
—What secret?
—Don’t ever call her tiny, or remark on her size, or say stuff like Oh I could break you … She has a thing about her size.
—Okay … noted, thanks!
Blyth mashes her cigarette out on the balcony rail and slaps me on the arse as she goes back inside. I like her. What a cool chick. I follow. Candy and Marie sit on the floor, reading tarot cards. Now I feel in my element. I entertain them, reading cards until the blood of dawn splashes Bela Lugosi’s face and the two sisters go to bed.
Candy and I have strangely familiar sensual sex. Not mad breathless and desperate like recently with Alexandra in Cairns. Candy moves slow and shy and a little wild here and there, but when she comes, she covers her face with a pillow, like real shy girls do. I feel safe with her, a strange, dare I say spiritual connection. We talk awhile, about our lives and stuff, sort of dozing and exploring each other. I tell her some of my adventures. She tells me her mother will get all pissy with her, dating someone younger. She tells me her mother always tries to set her up with older rich men. She tells me she hates her mother. She tells me most men find her too skinny or young-looking, or, because she has A-cup breasts, they don’t even notice her.
——
I awake to the sound of a familiar voice. It takes me a second to get my bearings. Candy fades in beside me. I listen to her breathe, stretching, feeling like I’ve slept better than I have in months. The familiar voice again seeps through the wall. I get up, pull on my jeans and slowly open the door. Gigolo sits in the lounge room with Marie.
—Gigolo!
He looks up and, as he recognises me, a dark expression clouds his face.
—Bro, I’ve called your house about five thousand times. He sure sounds grave.
—Why?
He stands and says:
—Sorry, Marie, secret men’s business. Come outside for a sec, bro.
We move to the backyard and, after the Doberman calms down, he says:
—Bro, bad news, bro … real fucken bad.
—What? Fucken tell me, man. I search his face, guessing the spray-can posse has come to grief, busted after all these years. I feel happy I haven’t tagged in ages.
—Reuben … And he chokes up. I’ve never seen a glimmer of any emotion from Gigolo, so I get real worried now.
—What, bro? Cough it up. Reuben what?
—Bro.
—Fucken what, man? I get a bit angry there, panicky too.
—He came to crash at this place I have a room at.
—Yeah?
—Actin real weird all week. Hardly talked or shit, just read this book on chess moves.
—Yeah.
Impatient, dragging real hard on my cigarette. Some coughing there because I dragged too hard.
—He went to that fucken quack he always goes to … Scored some fucken pills … Hypo … Hyno … Hypno-fucken-something … fucken, some hardcore morphine shit.
—Fuck.
—I dropped a couple with him and we partied a bit. And then … He sobs again and I put my hand on his shoulder.
—Get it out, bro. My voice shakes.
—We ran outta fucken smokes, man. I went to the shops and on my way back ran into some cuzes and I ended up throwing up some pieces before I went back with the cigs.
—Yeah?
—And when I get back to my room, I don’t see Reuben anyplace.
—So … maybe he went out, or something?
—No, bro. I found the pill bottle on the table, empty!
—Fuck!
—So I hunt around a bit and I can’t f
ind the cunt anywhere, and then … He starts crying now and my heart pounds: I hear this real painful sound come from my cupboard and I fucken rip open the fucken door and find him all fucken blue and not moving, with his eyes open and bleeding.
I feel numb-sick. I collapse on the grass. I think I yell or groan or something, because the Doberman starts trying to get from under the house to tear our throats out.
—Dead? I shout above the dog.
—Dunno, bro. Probably brain fucked if not, though.
—What? You called an ambulance, right?
—Yeah, of course, for fuck’s sake! Then I found the nurse who lives in the building. She dragged him out of the cupboard, revived him, I think. They wouldn’t let me go in the ambulance, bro … I went to the hospital but no one would tell me shit. He hugs himself, shakes his head, trying to dislodge the memory.
—When did this happen, man?
—Last night … I’ve just come from the hospital.
—He’ll pull through. He has the constitution of a horse.
—I hope so. Gigolo snivels.
—Remember when we dropped those car-sickness tablets?
—Yeah, the Avils.
—Remember, you and I tripped fucken balls, hallucinated so hard … screaming about monsters and shit.
—Yeah.
—Reuben sat there and grinned all night, smoking calmly while we flailed about, fending off dragons. The fucker took forty pills! You and I only had twenty each.
—Yeah, true …
—He’ll pull through.
——
We spend the whole day at the hospital, hanging around outside the intensive-care unit. Reuben doesn’t regain consciousness. I detest hospitals. I can smell sickness cloy the air. We go out for a smoke, in a small quadrangle with an evaporated fountain. Hunched-looking people shuffling around in pyjamas. A dude with a drip muttering to himself over by the Coke machine. Broken bodies in wheelchairs.
—This scene disgusts me, I mumble.
—What ya mean, bro? Gigolo paces around the edge.
—I might cut it out of the story.
—You on acid, bro?
Scoundrel Days Page 17