Earworm

by Colin Varney

  I rushed back into Spencer’s head the next day as he climbed the stairs to his office. The dust-speckled windows gave the stairwell a murky, mottled atmosphere that made him feel submerged. He pictured the submarine swimmers from my film clip. They circled him as he clambered upwards. The girl blurred and became Rosemary.

  The first time he saw her, she was riding a surfboard on the east coast of Tasmania, red hair flaring against the mauve sea. He hadn’t been in Hobart for long, moving down from Launceston for work experience at the Mercury. Everything was an adventure. He felt the electric blue bubbling out and dyeing the water around him. When he saw Rosemary topple from the board he ducked under and watched the distant blob of her curving gracefully through the soup.

  It was easy to bump into her later on the sand and engage in a conversation about surfing. Her boyfriend was playing guitar in a self-absorbed gathering near the rocks. Spencer dusted off his best jokes and invented an article he was writing about Tasmanian surf culture. He asked about the best beaches in the area and elicited a phone number from her for further research. He suspected it was a dummy and so was delighted and slightly thrown when he rang it a few days later and she answered.

  In the stairwell, Spencer heard footsteps beneath him, reverbs of his own. He halted to listen. He’d been feeling uneasy since he left his car, throwing glances over his shoulder. The stairwell fell silent. He peered down and thought he saw a figure duck out of sight. He had an impression of stick-like limbs and a flapping T-shirt.

  In his office, he daydreamed, tapping me on the pile of essays he should have been marking. He saw himself and Rosemary in her messy unit, just prior to the moment where he took the imaginary photograph. They are settled on the carpet, entwined, quaffing wine. The light flaring at the window suggests golden dusk. Strummy, summer sunset. Their distended shadows are gilt edged. The carcinogenic wallpaper parades its tan. Spencer spouts about his prospects, yammering on about a possible cadetship in Adelaide. His youthful features are alive, a-writhe. His arms signal wildly. He raises his glass to his lips but pauses before he sips, as though studying some indistinct horizon where fog coalesces into almost discernible shapes before dissolving again. He reminds me of somebody enduring the interminable introduction of a tune because they know the good bit’s coming. He sucks and sweet booze blasts across his tongue, returning him to Rosemary.

  Their elongated shadow says it all: an inextricable oneness, amorphous and amorous, with an auric aura. Mass of romance. This is Love. True Love. Not house-sharing. Not sitting in the sickly light of an over-tidy kitchen locked in separate worlds. Gotta hear what I say now.

  Spencer broke from his daydream. His office felt stuffy. He sighed at the piled essays and turned to his dolls. They stared back with resigned empathy. He nodded. They knew when his concentration was addled.

  “Maybe a cup of coffee will put a rocket up my arse.” He winced at his own expression and stood to confront them. “‘Arse’ is a bad word,” he told them contritely.

  He kissed two fingers and touched the forehead of the baby in the framed photograph.

  In the refectory he clutched his coffee as if it were a life-giving elixir. It wasn’t strong enough: he’d hoped his lips would purse at every sip. I wafted through his thoughts, glancing against his past. Those few weeks he’d spent with Rosemary: was it a month or longer? She was willing to risk her relationship for him. That made him special, surely? Or was it just broiling hormones? He shoved his cup away from his nose and closed his eyes, trying to resurrect her smell.

  The best fragrances are the ones generated within the nose. Memory aroma. Reminis-scent. The urge was to draw air deep into his flaring nostrils but Spencer knew this would dispel the smell. It’s a complex concoction. There’s a nutty, tannin base, like almonds soaking in tea. A sharp, dark vinegar tang, almost but not quite Balsamic. A whiff of sea salt. The ingredients were measured and blended just so, like fine cookery. Delicate, precious and elusive. Spencer inhaled lightly, trying to rouse but not rout the memory molecules playing around his nasal hairs.

  He trudged back up the submarine staircase. Rosemary sliced around him, adept as a seal, having just come off her board. He ambled along the corridor and stalled. His breathing accelerando. He’d shut his office door but now it was gaping. He half turned, cowering a little, as if expecting an assault from behind. He edged to the threshold.

  A small cry escaped him. G sharp with a minor fall.

  The dolls had been tampered with. Several were arranged in suggestive poses on his desk. One was bent over with another braced behind. Dolls had their mouths pressed to groins on his carpet.

  He launched forwards, grasping the plastic and raggy bodies in tender fingers, stroking them as he eased the jutting angles of their limbs. He cooed to them as he set them back on the shelf. The beads of their eyes were troubled.

  He noticed a small bare patch on his otherwise cluttered desk.

  The framed photograph was missing.

  A sonic squall blew me out of his head.

  In Broken Hill, a broken-hearted woman dances to me to forget the anniversary of her mother’s death and an untuned orchestra honks in her head. In Newcastle, a mother turns me up loud to drown out her knowledge of a son’s hatred but the volume can’t compete with a skewed symphony. In Melbourne, the student doing her PhD on me sings me loudly to distract herself from her father’s disappointment that she’s pursuing an arts rather than a science doctorate and I grate against an awry aria. Zorn everywhere.

  Why do you humans invest so much in this unchosen affection between parents and offspring? Why do you let it eat you from within, like wormed fruit? True Love is the cure. Romance is the remedy. It’s all you need to medicate your misery, crank up your creativity. Spread your species.

  “Is he dangerous?” asked Spencer.

  Marla’s laughter was intended to ridicule the notion, but it trailed into a sough. It was this that reinstated me. Spencer recalled a similar falling laugh from Rosemary when she’d suddenly think of Terry in the midst of a stolen moment. Morendo mirth. When he ruminated over Rosemary, I’d stow away in the memory. I was fixing up a comfy nook in the back of his brain, plumping up the lobes like big fat cushions.

  “’Course not. He just gets carried away and acts stupid. Thinking isn’t his strong point.”

  “Then why are you in hiding, Marla? Why do you disguise yourself?”

  They sat in the university refectory amid the lunchtime buzz. Spencer sucked burnt coffee, while Marla speared a spoon into an unnameable dessert. Her wig was long and dark, contrasting with her wan complexion. A dab of turquoise paint rode alongside one wing of her nose, looking like an inverted tear. Spencer imagined her sucking it back up into her eye.

  “It took me a long time to leave him. He’s so needy. Money, money, money. I was trapped in a dead end job, supporting him and his kids. Then I find out he’s sending cash to his exing fuck.” She paused, gathering herself. “His fucking ex.”

  Spencer was haggard. He imagined the weight of his cheeks pulling at his lower lids, revealing the red rind of their glistening inner edge. But wait, I can check. I was in Marla’s head too. Since the afternoon before, in the quadrangle when she’d plugged Spencer’s ears with turmoil, she’d been listening to Anal Probe. The supercharged snare and shredding guitar made me barge around her brain, elbowing neurons aside and using ganglion as punching bags. So, let’s see. In her mind, Spencer had a paternal aura. Who’s your daddy? Tiredness caused his left side to sag, shattering the symmetry of his face. Monster man. Yet he had a distinguished, almost dashing charm. His clothes were old and faded. Dog fur bristled his borders, giving the impression that he was in a constant state of dissolution. In acid. Ssszzz.

  “Can’t believe he nicked it,” she said. “That beautiful baby. So angelic when they’re asleep. Demons when they wake up.”

  “As I said, I’m not absolutely sure it was him. Thought I saw him, that’s all.”

  “It’s the k
ind of dumbfuck thing he’d do. Thanks for not calling the cops. That wouldn’t be good for him or his kids. You’re like me. You believe in second chances.”

  Spencer didn’t tell her the first thing he’d done after he’d set his violated dolls back on their shelves was ring university security. He’d called Marla as an afterthought. She’d asked to meet, claiming she could fix everything. When the security woman sauntered in, Spencer told her he’d just remembered taking the baby photograph home. He’d brimmed with embarrassment.

  “Do you have any?” Spencer asked. “Children?”

  “No. Griff came with two. ‘Here’re some I prepared earlier.’ Actually, they’re great kids. You have just the one?”

  Spencer supped his coffee. Stewed brew. It made him wince. “This is a daggy place,” he said. “No wonder I avoid it.”

  There was a moment akin to the pause as a song is counted in, the band tense. Marla tilted her chair and angled her head towards the bank of windows behind her. “You can smell spring.” She inhaled deeply. “Renewal. Glorious.”

  All Spencer could smell was the inedible refectory food. He peered beyond Marla’s head. The windows were closed. Marla called later that afternoon. “He’s got the photograph. He wants to meet. All three of us.”

  “Not a good idea.” Terse Spence.

  “He insisted. Everything’s arranged. Jesus, it was worse than Middle East peace talks. We meet on neutral turf. He brings his kids. He’s less likely to do something moronic with them in tow. We go in and out quickly and get it over with. Everyone gets what they want. You get the photo, I see the kids and Griff gets to fuck with my head.” She broke off suddenly, breathing harshly.

  “Marla, why don’t I just call the police?”

  “He can’t afford any more trouble with the cops. We do it my way. I’m in control. He wanted to meet at my place—can you believe that? No way. No fucking way.”

  “I’m sorry I’m putting you through this. It’s just … I have to get the picture back. It’s important to me.”

  “Yeah, obviously. I just wish one day someone would do something important for me.” She broke off again. “Look, it’s my fault he stole the photo.”

  “That’s nonsense …”

  “He did it to contact me. He thinks we’re falling for his trap but I’m in control. I’ll get it back for you Nister Micholson.”

  Spencer chewed his lower lip. His need for the photo- graph grappled with compunction. He wondered if he should posit the police again. Or contact them without telling Marla. The silence was becoming uncomfortable.

  “I’m in control,” Marla said.

  Griff entered the coffee shop, flanked by his children. He looked guarded. A threadbare Free Nelson Mandela T-shirt draped off him like a downed parachute. The children were solemn but broke ranks when they saw Marla, rushing her. Spencer had expected half-starved urchins, but they were rosy and wiry, nattily dressed in what looked like well-selected op-shop attire. The girl was about ten, the boy perhaps two years younger. As Marla hugged them, Griff tousled his daughter’s hair and she beamed up at him. Spencer jangled with jealousy.

  With children hanging off her like saddlebags, Marla moved to a distant table, as far from Griff as possible. Griff watched her go with voracious eyes. Spencer stood, stomach keening with feedback. He cleared his throat and Griff swivelled back to him, a cocky tilt to his chin.

  “Oh, yeah. I suppose you’ll be wanting this.” Griff dug into the grey canvas bag hanging off his bony shoulder and pulled out the frame. He thrust it forwards so Spencer was forced to clutch it to his chest. “I’ll grab you another coffee.”

  “No need,” said Spencer, but Griff was already heading for the counter.

  Spencer’s tension eased. When he glanced down his relief dissolved. The frame was empty.

  Helplessness overcame him. Did Griff somehow know there was only a single picture of Bethany, snapped at the hospital by a professional photographer? Spencer had only ever wanted one: something unique and precious he could pour his pain into. The thought occurred to him that, to remove it, Griff’s fingers must have touched the photo, and this made him queasy. Legs buckling, he sat, humiliated. At Griff’s mercy. Waiting for the delivery of the ransom note: the demands.

  Griff sauntered back and placed a coffee in front of Spencer. He felt he could fall into the black meniscus shimmying in the cup. Griff sat opposite, tucking into a custard slice. A yellow secretion burst from the wafers across his upper lip. He studied Spencer, suppressing amusement.

  “Something wrong, Mr Marla’s Tutor? Is something …” Griff reached for the right word with an incipient sneer “… amiss?”

  Spencer closed his eyes and let bated breath issue through his nostrils. “Do you have the photograph?”

  “Photograph?” Griff’s exaggerated frown crimped his mantis mug. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He plunged his free hand into the canvas bag and pulled the print out. Spencer noticed with a quailing heart that it was bent. Griff plonked the half-eaten slice on the table. “Mmmm. Too delicious. But messy.” He waggled the custard-coated fingers of his right hand, then moved them closer to the photograph. Spencer almost whimpered.

  “Give him the fuckin’ photo, Dad,” shouted the girl from across the cafe.

  Griff blew an exasperated gale between gritted teeth. “Wash your mouth out!” He turned to Spencer. “Honestly, her pocket money goes straight into the swear jar these days.”

  With a resigned wheeze, he handed the picture over. Spencer snatched it gratefully, holding it by its edges. He set it in his lap and began dismantling the back of the frame.

  “I would’ve returned it anyway; you have to know that.” Griff’s voice whined like someone trying to tune a recalcitrant pedal steel guitar. “And not just to shut Marla up. I knew I’d done wrong as soon as I did it.” He wiped his fingers on his shirt, smearing Mandela with custard, then turned to scrutinise Marla.

  As Spencer slid the photo back into its holder, he glanced across to where Marla and the children were dancing to innocuous pop issuing from a hidden speaker. Empty, juvenile drivel: nothing with the mystery and mastery of me. The kids barged against her, hungry for attention. The girl banged into some chairs and Marla scooped her into a protective embrace. Spencer’s heart contracted. He found it hard to recognise Marla. She’d abandoned her baggy jacket for a hugging short-sleeved top that made her look slender and tensile. Her nap of dark stubble bristled. She mugged at the children, her face lively and elastic.

  “She’s so good with those kids.” When Griff turned back to Spencer, his bulbous orbs were glistening. “They miss her bad. That’s one of the reasons she’ll come back to me.” He nodded with slow certainty. He had a stillness about him now, as if preparing to pounce.

  Leaving the coffee shop was Wagnerian.

  Marla placed a steaming macchiato before Griff and jumbo colas in front of the children. She asked that they linger over their beverages to give her and Spencer time to get clear. Griff’s gaze was steady as a marksman, pinpointing Spencer. The children wept. Spencer had to pry the boy’s grip free of Marla’s elbow. Marla’s face was a drum skin tuned too high: pale, taut. As Spencer seized her wrist he felt her trembling. He pulled her outside.

  They looked back to see the boy and girl geckoed to the cafe’s window. Marla gulped up an audible expulsion as if she’d been punched. She hauled Spencer headlong down the city street, despair chugging out of her. Hold on, honey, hold on. They weaved down laneways and scurried down shopping arcades, crossing roads and ducking back before zipping up a side street. Marla shot glances over her shoulder. Cue twangy spy theme. They shouldered into a bar and sequestered themselves in the relative privacy of a booth. Marla was quietly weeping when Spencer returned with drinks. He checked the entrance. No sign of pursuit.

  He sat angled away from her, giving her time to compose herself. He set the baby picture up beside his beer, but it seemed wrong having it in the bar so he laid it on the bench beside him.


  “What’s her name?” he heard Marla say.

  “Bethany.”

  Marla held her hand out and he hesitated before passing her the frame. She set it up on the table in front of her.

  “How old is she now?”

  “Same age.” Spencer lifted the glass halfway to his mouth. A scum of foam bobbed on the amber surface. “She’s not asleep, Marla.”

  Her silent sobs made her head jerk. Spencer swilled the bitter brew. He swallowed too hard and it pulsed down his gullet.

  “Life sucking fucks,” she said in a small voice.

  “Fucking sucks,” Spencer corrected.

  “That too.” She held her glass out to him. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

  Spencer clinked. They drank without talking. The video jukebox cranked out eighties white soul. Marla tugged her pageboy wig from her bag and jammed it on. She leant from the booth, scanning the street that glared beyond the windows.

  “He couldn’t have followed us,” said Spencer, but he was uncertain. He prickled with paranoia.

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Marla. “He’s unusually resourceful when he wants to be.”

  “What does he do?” asked Spencer. “For a living?”

  “Social security.”

  “He’s a public servant?”

  Marla harrumphed. “Public liability. Unemployable. But an evil drummer.”

  Spencer gently retrieved the photograph of Bethany from the far side of the table and laid it protectively on the bench again. His touch lingered.

  “Have you ever wanted children?” he asked.

  “Yes. No. Not now. Too much to do. Journalism. Art.”

  “Yes, you’re a painter. You wear the proof all over you.” Spencer pointed to a splotch of aqua beneath her ear. “What do you paint?”

  “Inner landscapes,” said Marla. “Mindscapes. Sometimes I put on music and paint what it does to me. Look at this.” She rolled up her shirt. On her ribs was a small tattoo of yellow and black lines converging to one side of a black dot. Yellow billows blew out the other side. “This is a Diet of Worms’ song. That’s how it makes me feel, in the precise spot it hits me. It pulverises my gut.”