Tom Houghton knows only one way to cope with these mixed emotions and it’s found in any bottle marked with a percentage sign, the higher the better. Everyone was lovely to Eddie, as lovely they would ever be to somebody in sales. He was clearly out of place but he made an effort to talk to as many people as he could and was never sullen that I was rarely by his side. I, on the other hand, was not dealing well with the collision of both worlds, so my elbow was in full swing.
Some time after the end of the party, I found myself at a table across from Victor and Grace. Eddie was sitting next to me. I kept putting my hand on his crotch and he kept removing it, without agitation, but forcefully nonetheless. I kept whispering to him, saying it was time, all the while engaging Grace and Victor in conversation.
‘Can you believe this poor upper-crust loser from London travelled all the way to Edinburgh to see me every Saturday night?’ I asked. Stunned faces met my words, which I interpreted as pity for poor Eddie. ‘Like a dutiful little school boy he came to see me after every show. And to think that actually encouraged me to develop feelings for him. How could I have been so stupid?’
Eddie was making self-deprecating remarks aimed at deflection, attempting to protect me from digging deeper, but I was too far gone to note the strategy.
‘All that travelling and he wouldn’t even put out, can you believe?’ I continued my lecture. ‘Walked around the room naked and I thought to myself, “Good god, look how bony he is, how sickly thin.” Honestly, Grace, tell me. Can you tell me what was I thinking wasting my time like that?’
My hand was still fumbling at the bulge in his pants beneath the table, and Eddie withdrew his cock from the material and let me stroke it. Victor, quick off the mark, took Grace by the hand and led her to the bar.
‘Let’s go and fuck in the toilet . . .’ I said to Eddie. ‘All this fucking teasing when I knew you wanted it all the time.’
‘No, this is what you want Tom. It has nothing to do with what I want.’
‘I’ll tell you what I want right now, Edward. A fucking drink. A quick fuck. Sex on the beach. Dirty cock-sucking fucking cowboy. Be a pet and go fetch?’
Eddie looked at me and I saw the hurt in his eyes, so I averted my gaze. He got up from the table after adjusting himself and walked to join the others at the bar. They engaged in conversation and, while their backs were turned, I headed straight for the door.
Twenty-six
The telephone was ringing. Its shrill bell surprised me, felt out of place for the current circumstances. I considered ignoring it, but its persistence was grating. Somehow I knew it was scripted for me to answer.
‘Hello,’ I heard myself say.
‘Tom?’
‘Yes, this is he.’
‘Tom? It’s Spencer.’
‘Hello, former friend.’
‘You need to come over, Tom. To my house, can you come here straightaway?’
‘I beg your –’
‘Tom, please!’ Spencer pleaded. ‘I need you here right now!’
I replaced the telephone in the receiver. I pulled the cape tight around my shoulders, wrapping myself in it. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, took deep cleansing breaths. Then I sprang into life. It was almost beyond my control, a power overcoming me, a feeling I struggled to harness, coming from somewhere other than within. I leapt from place to place, suddenly as light as air. I bounded towards the front door and in moments I was out into the world, the afternoon sun blinding, the heat stifling, but I was shielded from it all. Barefoot, I ran faster than I ever had, faster than I thought I was capable of. Barely stopping to look at roads as I crossed, ignoring the sharp stabs of the gravel under my bare feet. Perspiration gathered at my brow and slid down my face. I saw no one along the way – no neighbours in their yards, no one peering out from behind net curtains, no cars, no drivers. Seven Hills was a vacant set, the façade of houses two-dimensional, the plants and flowers unreal. My body moved lithely, fluidly, as unencumbered as in dreams.
There was no need for me to catch my breath, so I bounded up the front steps to bash on Spencer’s door. A hastily written note was stuck to it: Tom – in garage. I walked back down the stairs, more rational of movement now, and made my way to the side gate. My heart was pounding, but with excitement or fear I couldn’t tell. I saw the garage roller door was closed as I walked up the incline of the long driveway. I went around the side of the fibro building, knocked on the small wooden door there.
‘Tom?’
I entered. The first thing that struck me was the darkness. Then, the sparseness of the garage, and how it echoed with emptiness. There was not a thing in it. Down near the garage door I made out the silhouettes of three people, boys. Even with the lack of light I could make out who they were. I felt to the side of me for a light switch, moved my hand along the wall until I grasped it. I flicked the switch but nothing happened. Found another, tried again. Three long fluorescent globes buzzed to life. Simon Harlen, Fitz and Spencer were standing there, looking at me with anticipation.
‘Well, here I am,’ I said, daring them.
The boys took a moment to get accustomed to the new bright light. This wasn’t what they’d been expecting. They stood staring, speechless. Eventually, a smirk spread across Simon Harlen’s face.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘a real-life Barbie.’
I walked towards them, defiant. If I got close enough to them, my aura would overwhelm them, force them into submission. Now they would be able to see they had been wrong about me all along. I wasn’t just some school kid to pick on, I was the embodiment of their dreams and, through me, they could soar to greater heights.
‘You’re a freak,’ Fitz said.
‘Tom?’ said Spencer.
‘Go on, Spencer. You know what you have to do,’ Harlen said.
Spencer didn’t move. He was staring at me, his mouth agape. In that split second I knew. Finally I had succeeded! Spencer was amazed by me, humbled by my presence.
‘I knew it,’ Simon Harlen said. ‘What a waste of bloody time. C’mon, Fitz, let’s go.’
Spencer moved then, a slight twitch to his left eye. He approached me, his movement making the other boys stop in their tracks. Spencer circled right up close to me, squinted his eyes, grimaced. I expected him to reach out and touch me, a deity of sorts, too unreal to behold. But instead, his clenched left fist came out of nowhere, smacking me hard and direct on the mouth. I thought to myself how strange that Spencer had such strength in his left hand. I faltered, felt my weight shift beneath me, went crashing to the ground.
‘Yeah, that’s it!’ one of the boys shouted. ‘Again!’
Spencer stood over me then, straddling me, bringing that same clenched fist to connect with my right cheek, my left eye, my ribs. I lay there motionless, stubborn. I would not fight back, nor struggle.
I felt someone kick hard into my legs. The concrete beneath my head was cold and rock hard, bruising my scalp. The silver of my outfit was tearing at the seams, exposing my naked flesh. I heard laughing; Simon Harlen’s distinctive laugh. Someone was pulling the material free from my waist, exposing my genitals. Spencer was off me now, panting, his fist bloodied, his right arm still hanging limp inside its sling. He walked out of the room, shoulders slumped.
I still could not move, didn’t dare. Play dead, that was it, the only way out. I was conscious of my exposure, mortified. I was aflame with humiliation, it crawled its way over my skin and bubbled away, melting flesh. My whole face felt tight, explosive. An ache, a shooting pain, stabbed deep inside my head. There was the taste of blood in my throat, salt-rust, thick and dirty. Fitz’s shoes walking towards the door, out into the yellow light of day. Moisture now. Warm liquid, the stench of ammonia. The pattering of falling spray, soaking my groin, its warmth soothing, encouraging my own bladder to finally let go.
Now I was alone and everything was so quiet I thought I might be at the bottom of a lake. Cool, dark, but difficult to breathe.
Twenty-sev
en
I don’t know how long I was lying on that cold hard floor, wet and stinking, battered and bruised. There was a possibility it had been hours, days even. I wanted to cry but refused to allow myself. I was deeply ashamed, but that felt barely adequate. I do not know of a word that truly captures the intensity of my shame. I felt completely desolate at the lost hours of work put in by Mrs B, as though I had abused her generosity. I wanted to be in that boat again with Mal, to reach over to him and place my hand in his and tell him of my fears, to answer that lingering question of his. Yes, there is something I have to tell you, Mal, yes, please listen to what I have to say. I trust you, Mal, I love you enough to tell you who I really am. And then he would put his arms around me and his strong chest would provide the cushion for my tears.
I wanted my existence to have never happened in the first place.
It hurt to move, but slowly, painstakingly, I brought myself to an upright position. I looked down at the folds of jelly covering my stomach. I loathed them. I could never be like Mal, would never be attractive to anyone. I was not like Harlen or Fitz or even Spencer, I was other, and always would be. There was no escape. There was nothing.
A large slit had been torn in the crotch of my outfit; an arm of it was hanging by a few threads. I saw one of the antennae some metres away, like a stray cockroach leg. The room spun as I carefully forced myself onto all fours. Vomit rose in the back of my throat but I swallowed it back down. I spat some blood from my mouth, tuna flesh red. I winced as I stood, steadying myself against the corrugated metal of the roller door. I’d never felt such pain, never imagined my body could be under such duress. My head continued to thump. You deserved this. You deserved this.
It was difficult to walk but I managed to make it to the side door, fearful the boys would be out there waiting to have another go at me, perhaps sharing a post-bashing cigarette and laughing at how easily beaten I was. But the Michaelses’ yard was a barren landscape with its dead grass and empty garden beds. I stumbled down the slope of the lawn, almost fell. The sun was bright but low, making it difficult to see. The Michaelses had an ancient clothesline – a wooden post either side of the yard, each crossed with T-bars, six lines of metal stretched tightly from one to the other. I did not see it, and the tilt of the T-bars made the lowest wire connect with my neck, pushing my head back to make it jolt again with pain. I almost fell, reached for the silhouetted line, pulled down on it hard and hung there for a moment like a caught fish. Another deep breath and I carried on. The sensation of the wire on my neck was liberating.
The walk back to my house was a marathon. I wove like an actor playing drunk, stumbled regularly but unpredictably. Younger kids pointed and laughed at me. I tried to cover my modesty with my cape, but it too seemed to be torn. I thought how surreal the scene was even as I lived it, appreciated that my vision was blurry, wondered when the director was going to call ‘Cut!’ Grace Kelly dead on impact. James Dean decapitated in his sports car. Thomas Houghton Hepburn hanging from the rafters.
The house was empty. So my mother had managed to drag herself out of bed for something, or someone, other than me. But for once I was thankful. I did everything in my power to ignore the pain, pretended my body was not crying out its objections to my every move. I walked into my bedroom, found it almost impossible to bend down, but somehow managed to reach under my bed for the shoeboxes containing the movie cards. Each felt incredibly heavy. I took the boxes, one by one, into the garage. It took me an eternity to get the task done. I found myself back in my bedroom then, pulling the pathetic dolls from under my bed. I dumped them on top of the pile of movie cards, all out of order, such chaos and beauty. I found my grandfather’s kerosene, knew where the matches were kept. There were flames and smoke within seconds, the liquid fire ran with the fuel I had carelessly poured. It did not take long for the dolls’ clothes to ignite, their skin melting like wax. I stood there watching, transfixed. A funeral pyre. The cards folded in upon themselves, springing to life with blue-yellow flames, then simply faded to black. I caught glimpses of actors’ names before they disappeared, photographs I’d clipped from magazines, all the perfect squares. I knew I should feel a sense of loss, or waste, so many hours spent creating them, so much fastidiousness. But instead I felt a bizarre sense of cleansing, as though I was free of invisible shackles. The fire was small and soon burned itself out against the cement floor. Charred cardboard pieces floated dramatically about the garage.
Behind me, I sensed grey light. The image of Katharine Hepburn freeze-framed on the television was aglow, paused in time. How long would she remain like this, captured by me, the immortal moth? It’s okay, Katharine, I was never good enough to be him.
The rope was coiled neatly, saddling the corner where two rafters met. I slid the shaky stepladder in place beneath the rope. I worked deftly; my hands made decisions for me. I was thinking nothing other than how to complete the task at hand, concentrating on efficiency. The pain stabbed away at me internally, my head was throbbing an unfamiliar rhythm. Everything felt heavier, unclear. I had never tied a rope properly before, did not know how to fashion a noose. I pulled one end of exposed rope and the coil unravelled smoothly. I fastened it about halfway along the thickest rafter overhead. It hurt to lift my arms above my head but this was inconsequential. I tied the end of the rope through a loop, wound it around again and again on the rafter. I pulled down on it, tested it against some of my own weight. It creaked disapprovingly but I was confident it would hold me. I was high on the top step of the ladder, my head pressed against the grain of the wooden rafter. I saw for the first time from this angle the countless boxes and bags of my grandfather’s possessions and I realised finally that it would have been a never-ending task removing all traces of the dead man, making this space my own.
My thoughts then turned to Thomas Houghton Hepburn. A boy forsaken, lost and lonely. I wanted to be with him. I needed to see him, to touch him. We were one and the same.
The rope prickled against my skin when I tied it around my neck. It was thick like a snake, ready to constrict. I tied it two more times, and the knots hung heavily on my chest. My pulse was racing, a thrill coursed through me. Not long now, Tom. Not long.
The garage was no longer. I was in a New York loft; the furniture was of another age. There was a dull sense of foreboding, regret, but I pushed through. My sister is downstairs and I love her more than anything. We are a formidable duo, with the secrets we keep hidden from our parents. I feel some guilt that I am leaving her behind to face the world, but she is bold and confident and she will be much better off without me here to weigh her down, damage her, as I ultimately will. I realise now I am setting us both free. I am edging towards the open air, ever closer. I squeeze my eyes closed more tightly and I step into the unknown, away from the familiar.
It was stupid of me to think that it would be instant. There was no bullet to burst apart my consciousness. The rope’s hands clasped tightly around my neck and did not relent, but they could have been tighter. It felt as though I was still able to breathe, but the ability was reduced, only a fraction of my windpipe could expand for my breaths. I shifted my head to a different angle and the hands gripped tighter still. The weight of me was dead now, impossible for me to turn back. I forced my weight further down still. My face was heating up, my eyes were bulging towards a new level of pain.
Fade out.
Twenty-eight
The last person I expected to see in the dining room of the hotel was Victor. I suspected he was here to nurse me through yet another of my hangovers, fill me in on some of the sketchier details so I at least knew whether an apology was necessary, and to whom to make one. But the way he marched told me things would be different this particular morning.
He plonked himself down heavily in the seat across from me and waved the waitress away impatiently.
‘You’ve really fucking done it this time,’ he spat at me.
‘Oh god, please don’t have a go at me, not now, Vic
tor, I’m barely holding back the vomit as it is.’
He was sweaty despite the snow outside, dark circles rimmed his eyes. ‘I’ve fucking had it. I’ve had you.’
‘It was a little fondle,’ I said defensively, unsure why he felt the need to throw it all out of proportion.
‘Why should I be surprised? You think that’s it? Another fucking blackout? You’ve got a real problem, Tom, did you ever think about that? You’re gonna end up like Lana, you do realise?’
That blow struck hard and I froze as if winded.
‘Wanking Eddie off at the table in front of Grace wasn’t exactly the high point of the evening but it certainly wasn’t the lowest either, you fucking selfish cunt. Doing a back door runner without paying, leaving your boyfriend alone with us, people he barely knew, after all those hurtful, truly gutless things you said about him. What leads you to behave like that? Who the fuck do you think you are that you can do that to other people and then just wake up the next morning and get out of it by being cute and regretful?’
‘Victor, please, I’m sorry, what more can I say?’
‘You don’t even remember, do you?’
I looked at him and felt like crying. The heavy breakfast had done nothing to lessen my nausea but what really scared me was I longed for nothing more at that second than a drink. I didn’t know what to say to him; I had no idea what he was talking about.
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